In Ghostly Company (Tales of Mystery & The Supernatural) (16 page)

A few weeks passed, when again one day Mr Fowke detected the odour of burning herbs and again learnt that his wife was on the point of starting for I. She again declined his proffered company and left the house as before.

Mr Fowke had never been to I., which is a remote hamlet, not distant as far as mileage is concerned from G., but only approachable by a branch line of railway with an infrequent service of trains. He was, however, acquainted with its vicar, to whom he presently wrote to enquire as to the standing of the Three Magpies, since he was not over-pleased that his wife, a foreigner ignorant of our ways, should elect to stay alone at an absolutely unknown inn. The reply he received was not at all reassuring, for the vicar of I. wrote that the Three Magpies was a public house of poor repute, kept by an old couple of more than doubtful respectability.

This letter decided Mr Fowke and, when for the third time his wife announced her intention of proceeding to I. and for the third time refused his company, he determined to follow her there secretly and observe her movements and surroundings. It was not difficult for him to arrange to do this, since he could easily reach I. on his motor-cycle long before her slow train could land her there, even if he did not start until after she had left the parsonage. He carried out his programme and in due course reached I. and made his way to the Three Magpies. Here he found that the old man was very nearly bedridden and quite senile, whilst his wife regarded her clerical visitor with almost open hostility. However, the gift of a sovereign and the promise of another effected a great change and unlocked the old woman’s tongue, so that she poured forth volubly all she knew.

Yes, she knew the lady quite well. She had been in the habit of coming to I. once every few weeks for a long time. No; she always came alone and had never spoken to anyone except herself, to her knowledge.

‘What does she do?’

‘Oh, she always goes straight up to her room and shuts herself in, then she sings to herself something I cannot make out and burns something that smells sweet and strong. About dark like, sometimes sooner, sometimes later, she comes down and goes out towards the Fells.’

‘Have you ever followed her?’

‘No, never, nor anybody else as I know of. A shepherd once saw her walking all alone in a wild part of the moor but he did not follow her or speak to her.’

‘How long is she out?’

‘Well, that depends, but generally till near morning. She takes the key of the house with her and lets herself in, but I hear her come in once in a while.’

‘What does she do then?’

‘Why, goes up to her room and stays there quietly and has breakfast and then goes to the train.’

This was about all that Mr Fowke could find out, except the curious detail that his wife never wore a hat on her nocturnal rambles, but went draped in a hooded grey cloak.

By the time this catechism was finished it was nearly time for Mrs Fowke to arrive, and the Reverend Barnabas accordingly ensconced himself in a room into which he was ushered by the old woman, which commanded the front door of the inn. In a short time he saw his wife arrive. After exchanging a few words with the old woman she went upstairs, and husband and wife remained in their respective seclusions till dusk fell.

Then Mr Fowke heard Stella descending the stairs and in a few moments he saw her emerge from the house clad, as described, in a long hooded grey cloak, and walking swiftly and resolutely. Giving her a short start, he followed, and as he left the inn the well-known smell of burning, aromatic herbs was in his nostrils. His wife was by now a few hundred yards away and had nearly cleared the little hamlet, heading for the open moor. As she proceeded a singular episode occurred. Mr Fowke thought little of it at the time, but much, later.

A sheep-dog was lying asleep by the roadside and as Mrs Fowke drew near it suddenly started up and, with back upraised and tail depressed, uttered a melancholy howl and darted through the hedge.

Mrs Fowke paid not the least attention to the dog, but pursued her way steadily through the rapidly falling dusk. Her husband followed as steadily, and thus for a long time they wound their way upwards towards the loneliest and wildest part of the Fells. It was by now night, but the moon had risen and flooded the landscape with her rays. The couple, one about two hundred yards behind the other, were now mounting the side of a steep hill, and hitherto Mr Fowke had remained in the pleasant belief that his presence was unsuspected by his wife. He was to be undeceived. The lady passed round a corner of the hill, thereby disappearing from sight; Mr Fowke hastened after her and on passing the corner in his turn found himself confronted by his wife, who stood watching for his appearance with a sarcastic smile.

She greeted him: ‘Well, Mr Spy, are you very much puzzled?’

He remained silent, dumb with astonishment and chagrin, and she went on: ‘I have been wondering what to do with you ever since you left home, but I have decided at last. You shall see all there is to see; I don’t think you can do any harm and you may be useful by and by. Follow me.’ And she turned and went on again.

Mr Fowke followed silently and abashed. Presently he became aware of a rosy light shining in front of them, and after walking a few yards more he found himself standing by the side of his wife on the edge of a small, cup-shaped hollow in the hills. In the centre of this hollow a large fire was burning and near the fire Mr Fowke could make out a pile of stones shaped like a rough altar. A group of about half a dozen people, all clad in the same grey, hooded cloaks, were sitting silently near the fire; and towards these his wife now began to descend, first telling him in a low, imperious voice to stay where he was. As Stella advanced down the declivity the group by the fire became aware of her approach, and rising, moved to meet her with gestures of greeting and respect. Stella passed through them, haughtily returning their salutations and slowly ascending the stone altar seated herself on a rock near its summit. As soon as she had taken up her position, she gave a signal, and the others forming round the fire commenced a slow and stately dance to the accompaniment of their own low chanting.

Mr Fowke watched absorbed. Gradually the dance grew quicker and wilder and the chanting louder, the whirling forms flung themselves into grotesque attitudes and shrieked ejaculations, the meaning of which Mr Fowke began dimly to divine though the words were strange. Suddenly they were silent and still and at the same moment Stella rose from her seat and, throwing back her hood and turning towards the summit of the altar, began in her turn to take up the chant. As she sang and bowed towards the topmost stone, her face and figure seemed transformed. In the flickering firelight and pale moonshine she seemed to grow weirdly and horribly beautiful and to grow statelier and taller in her person. Slowly, too, as the song progressed the horrified watcher saw another change. A grey cloud formed on the summit of the altar, diminishing, thickening and turning into a Shape, a Shape of evil and fear. The silent group by the fire once more broke forth into wild gesticulations and cries, Stella prostrated herself, the Form on the altar grew clearer and with a cry of horror Mr Fowke turned away and rushed madly across the moor.

He never knew where he went or what he did. When he once more recovered his senses it was broad day and he was alone and lost on the moors. It was late afternoon before, broken and exhausted, he reached his own home, where the first person to greet him was his wife, cool and collected as ever. She led him into his study.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘and what are you going to do now? Are you going to go about telling a cock-and-bull story of the moors, or are you going to be a good little man and hold your tongue? Don’t imagine I care,’ she went on. ‘The Great One can protect his servants and destroy his enemies.’

Mr Fowke groaned. ‘It was true then,’ he said, ‘not a horrid dream.’

‘You had better call it that,’ she answered with a laugh and left him. Mr Fowke was utterly perplexed and, like many men of weak character, could decide on nothing. So matters drifted on: he had little or no communication with his wife, who was, however, invariably civil and pleasant when they met with a kind of mocking courtesy, which maddened him. At last came the day when she announced her intention of again going to I.

‘And perhaps you would like to go with me,’ she said.
‘You
will be ready for the grey robe soon.’

She went and he spent the night in an agony of prayer.

The next day Stella returned and came immediately to his study. This time, however, she had no look of exhilaration on her face, she was troubled and angry. ‘How dare you interfere with us,’ she began, ‘with your paltry little prayers and tears? You disturbed us last night. The Great One was angry – ’ She stopped and then went on, ‘I shall have to find a means of silencing you; it was a mistake to show you what I did.’

He looked at her. ‘So it is not too late, is it?’ he said. ‘I can perhaps save you and drag you away from –’

She interrupted him. ‘Silence,’ she cried violently, ‘or I will take steps to quiet you; I will blast you; I will call upon the Powers of the Air. I will – ’ she was going on madly in her excitement when suddenly she became rigid, her face blanched and she fell senseless to the floor in a fit.

Mr Fowke raised the prostrate body, laid it on a sofa and summoned help. The unfortunate woman was carried to her bedroom, still unconscious, and the doctor sent for. He was an ordinary country practitioner and the case seemed to be clearly beyond his powers to deal with, but he emphasised the need of a trained nurse; and, one being fortunately available in the village, she was presently duly installed at the Parsonage.

After having seen all done that was possible, Mr Fowke, utterly worn out, retired to rest. Towards midnight he was awakened by a knocking at his door and opening it found the nurse pale and trembling on the threshold. She instantly assured him that she must throw up the case and leave the house at once. She could or would give no clear reasons for her action, but repeated again and again that she would sacrifice her whole professional career rather than remain in that sick room. Things had happened there, she said, things she could not tell of, but the place was accursed. In vain Mr Fowke tried to reassure her; she would not remain and so, bidding her go to her room till morning without disturbing the household, Mr Fowke went to his wife’s room to take up the vigil himself.

When he entered the sick room all was still. Stella was lying motionless, breathing gently and at intervals murmuring a few words in her native tongue. Mr Fowke settled himself down in an armchair and gradually fell into a doze.

He woke suddenly as the clock struck three and glanced around him. The lamp had burnt low and the room was very cold. His wife still lay quietly in her bed, muttering softly to herself, but as Mr Fowke watched her, by the dim light, he fancied he noticed a horrible change in her. Gone were the full rounded outlines of a woman’s form, the figure on the bed had become angular and misshaped. Her hand and arm, which lay outside the coverlet, were also changed and looked like a claw. Her face, too, was changing. As he watched, her beauty faded, the features altered, they ran together, became distorted, misplaced and, with a shudder, he found himself gazing on the lineaments of an unknown, hideous beast. Paralysed with horror he could not stir.

All at once there was a movement. The figure on the bed shivered violently, lifted itself up and sat gazing out beyond the foot of the bed. Mr Fowke followed the direction of its eyes and saw growing up slowly at the end of the room a grey, shapeless form, of which the burning eyes alone were distinct.

The creature on the bed moved and slipping back the bedclothes stepped suddenly to the floor. Mr Fowke saw that the lower limbs and, in fact, every part of it save the face that he could see were covered with a thick, grey fur. It moved again and passed swiftly across the room towards the grim shape in the corner; he heard its hoofs tap on the bare floor as it passed. It reached the motionless watcher, whose eyes seemed to blaze as it approached, and with a swift movement the two forms met, intermingled and – Mr Fowke could bear no more; he fainted.

It was daylight when he regained his senses. He glanced towards the bed; Mrs Fowke lay there calm, beautiful and dead.

The Picture

A superstition still exists in a certain part of Hungary that if a girl on New Year’s Eve, after the performance of some simple ceremonies, looks into a darkened looking-glass, she will see reflected in it the face of her future husband, provided always that matrimony is destined to be her fate during the ensuing twelve months.

On a certain New Year’s Eve not so very many years ago a group of village girls, who had assembled at the house of the farmer Ivan in company with their elders to welcome the New Year, were indulging in this ceremony amid peals of laughter and with apparently varying success. Amongst them was one Anna Pavlinski; when it came to her turn and she had looked in the glass she uttered a slight exclamation and laid the mirror down in some haste. No questioning by her companions elicited any information, but after the party had broken up she confided to her grandmother that she had distinctly seen the face of a man in the glass whom she did not know, but of whom she gave a very clear description.

When she had finished her grandmother sat for a short time in silence and then said: ‘I do not understand it, Anna, but I charge you most earnestly to forget what you have seen. You have described clearly a man whom I have known; it was many years ago and if he is indeed still alive he must be absolutely different now from this vision you have seen. But I believe him to be dead and that his evil soul is where he can no longer work mischief. Never speak or think of him again. No good can come of it.’