The Third Macabre Megapack (30 page)

“Let me go,” Maisie moaned, trying to raise herself again, but feeling too faint and ill to make the necessary effort to recover the power of motion. “I
want
to go with them! I
want
to join them!”

“Some of the others will be up before long,” the undergraduate said, supporting her head in his hands; “and they’ll help me to get you down again. Mr. Yates is in the belfry. Meanwhile, if I were you, I’d lie quite still, and take a drop or two of this brandy.”

He held it to her lips. Maisie drank a mouthful, hardly knowing what she did. Then she lay quiet where he placed her for some minutes. How they lifted her down and conveyed her to her bed she scarcely knew. She was dazed and terrified. She could only remember afterward that three or four gentlemen in roughly huddled clothes had carried or handed her down the ladder between them. The spiral stair and all the rest were a blank to her.

VI

When she next awoke she was lying in her bed in the same room at the Hall, with Mrs. West by her side, leaning over her tenderly.

Maisie looked up through her closed eyes and just saw the motherly face and grey hair bending above her. Then voices came to her from the mist, vaguely: “Yesterday was so hot for the time of year, you see!” “Very unusual weather, of course, for Christmas.” “But a thunderstorm! So strange! I put it down to that. The electrical disturbance must have affected the poor child’s head.” Then it dawned upon her that the conversation she heard was passing between Mrs. West and a doctor.

She raised herself suddenly and wildly on her arms. The bed faced the windows. She looked out and beheld—the tower of Wolverden church, rent from top to bottom with a mighty rent, while half its height lay tossed in fragments on the ground in the churchyard.

“What is it?” she cried wildly, with a flush as of shame.

“Hush, hush!” the doctor said. “Don’t trouble! Don’t look at it!”

“Was it—after I came down?” Maisie moaned in vague terror.

The doctor nodded. “An hour after you were brought down,” he said, “a thunderstorm broke over it. The lightning struck and shattered the tower. They had not yet put up the lightning-conductor. It was to have been done on Boxing Day.”

A weird remorse possessed Maisie’s soul. “My fault!” she cried, starting up. “My fault, my fault! I have neglected my duty!”

“Don’t talk,” the doctor answered, looking hard at her. “It is always dangerous to be too suddenly aroused from these curious overwrought sleeps and trances.”

“And old Bessie?” Maisie exclaimed, trembling with an eerie presentiment.

The doctor glanced at Mrs. West. “How did she know?” he whispered. Then he turned to Maisie. “You may as well be told the truth as suspect it,” he said slowly. “Old Bessie must have been watching there. She was crushed and half buried beneath the falling tower.”

“One more question, Mrs. West,” Maisie murmured, growing faint with an access of supernatural fear. “Those two nice girls who sat on the chairs at each side of me through the tableaux—are they hurt? Were they in it?”

Mrs. West soothed her hand. “My dear child,” she said gravely, with quiet emphasis, “there were no other girls. This is mere hallucination. You sat alone by yourself through the whole of the evening.”

THE MAGIC PHIAL, by J. Y. Ayerman

or, An Evening at Delft

“Now,” said the portly Peter Van Voorst, as he buttoned up his money in the pockets of his capacious breeches—“Now I’ll home to my farm, and tomorrow I’ll buy neighbour Jan Hagen’s two cows, which are the best in Holland.”

He crossed the market-place of Delft as he spoke, with an elated and swaggering air, and turned down one of the streets which led out of the city, when a goodly tavern met his eye. Thinking a dram would be beneficial in counter-acting the effects of a fog which was just rising, he entered, and called for a glass of Schiedam. This was brought, and drank by Peter, who liked the flavour so much, that he resolved to try the liquor diluted. Accordingly, a glass of a capacious size was set before him. After a few sips of the pleasing spirit, our farmer took a view of the apartment in which he was sitting, and, for the first time, perceived that the only person in the room, besides himself, was a young man of melancholy aspect, who sat near the fire-place, apparently half asleep. Now, Peter was of a loquacious turn, and nothing rendered a room more disagreeable to him than the absence of company. He therefore took the first opportunity of engaging the stranger in conversation.

“A dull evening, Mynheer,” said the farmer.

“Yaw,” replied the stranger, stretching himself, and yawning loudly, “very foggy, I take it;” and he rose, and looked into the street.

Peter perceived that his companion wore a dress of dark brown, of the cut of the last century. A thick row of brass buttons ornamented his doublet; so thickly, indeed, were they placed, that they appeared one stripe of metal. His shoes were high-heeled and square-toed, like those worn by a company of maskers, represented in a picture which hung in Peter’s parlour at Voorbooch. The stranger was of a spare figure, and his countenance was, as before stated, pale; but there was a wild brightness in his eye, which inspired the farmer with a feeling of awe.

After taking a few turns up and down the apartment, the stranger drew a chair near to Peter, and sat down.

“Are you a burgher of Delft?” he inquired.

“No,” was the reply; “I am a small farmer, and live in the village of Voorbooch.”

“Umph!” said the stranger, “you have a dull road to travel. See, your glass is out. How like ye mine host’s Schiedam?”

“’Tis right excellent.”

“You say truly,” rejoined the stranger, with a smile, which the farmer thought greatly improved his countenance; “but here is a liquor which no burgomaster in Holland can procure. ’Tis fit for a prince.”

He drew forth a phial from the breast of his doublet, and, mixing a small quantity of the red liquid it contained, with some water that stood on the table, he poured it into Peter’s empty glass. The farmer tasted it, and found it to excel every liquid he had ever drank. Its effect was soon visible: he pressed the hand of the stranger with great warmth, and swore he would not leave Delft that night.

“You are perfectly right,” said his companion, “these fogs are unusually heavy: they are trying, even to the constitution of a Hollander. As for me, I am nearly choked with them. How different is the sunny clime of Spain, which I have just left.”

“You have travelled, then?” said Peter, inquiringly.

“Travelled! Aye, to the remotest corner of the Indies, amongst Turks, Jews, and Tartars.”

“Eh, but does it please ye to travel always in that garb, Mynheer?”

“Even so,” replied the stranger; “it has descended from father to son, through more than three generations. See you this hole on the left breast of my doublet?”

The farmer stretched out his neck, and by the dim light, perceived a small perforation on the breast of the stranger’s doublet, who continued:

“Ah! the bullet that passed through it lodged in the heart of my great-graridsire, at the sack of Zutphen.”

“I have heard of the bloody doings at that place from my grandfather, Heaven rest his soul!”

Peter was startled on perceiving the unearthly smile which played over the countenance of the stranger, on his hearing this pious ejaculation. He muttered to himself, in an inaudible tone, the word
Duyvel!
but was interrupted by the loud laugh of his companion, who slapped him on the shoulder, and cried— “Come, come, Mynheer, you look sad; does not my liquor sit well on your stomach?”

“’Tis excellent!” replied Peter, ashamed to think that the stranger had observed his confusion: “will you sell me your phial?”

“I had it from a dear friend, who has been long since dead,” replied the stranger; “he strictly enjoined me never to sell it, for, d’ye see, no sooner is it emptied, than, at the wish of the possessor, it is immediately re-filled: but, harkee, as you seem a man of spirit, it shall be left to chance to decide who shall possess it.” He took from his bosom a bale of dice: “I will stake it against a guilder.”

“Good,” said Peter, “but I fear there is some devilry in the phial.”

“Pshaw!” cried his companion, with a bitter smile, “those who have travelled understand these things better. Devilry, forsooth!”

“I crave your pardon,” said Peter, “I will throw for it;” and he placed a guilder on the table.

The farmer met with ill luck, and lost. He took a draught of his companion’s liquor, and determined to stake another guilder; but he lost that also! Much enraged at his want of success, he drew forth the canvass bag which contained the produce of the sale of his corn, and resolved either to win the phial (the contents of which had gone far to fuddle his senses,) or lose all. He threw again with better luck; but, elated at this, he played with less caution, and in a few minutes was left pennyless. The stranger gathered up the money, and placed it in his pocket.

* * * *

You are unlucky tonight, Mynheer,” said he, with provoking indifference, which greatly increased the farmer’s chagrin; “but come, you have a goodly ring on your finger; will you not venture that against my phial?”

The farmer paused for a moment it was the gift of an old friend yet he could not stomach the idea of being cleared of his money in such a manner; what would Jan Brower, the host of the Van Tromp, and little Rip Winkelaar, the schoolmaster, say to it? It was the first time he had ever been a loser in any game, for he was reckoned the best hand at nine pins in his village; he therefore took the ring from his finger—threw again—and lost it!

He sank back in his chair with a suppressed groan, at which his companion smiled. The loss of his money, together with this ring, had nearly sobered him, and he gazed on the stranger with a countenance indicative of anything but good will; while the latter drew from his bosom a scroll of parchment.

“You grieve,” said he, “for the loss of a few paltry guilders; but know, that I have the power to make you amends for your ill-luck—to make you rich—aye, richer than the Stadtholder!”

“Ha! the fiend!” thought Peter, growing still soberer, while he drank in every word, and glanced at the legs of the stranger, expecting, of course, to see them, as usual, terminate with a cloven foot; but he beheld no such unsightly spectacle; the feet of the stranger were as perfect as his own, or even more so.

* * * *

“Here, said his companion, “read over this, and if the terms suit you, subscribe your name at foot.” The farmer took the parchment, which he perceived was closely written, and contained many signatures at the bottom. His eye glanced hastily over the first few lines, but they sufficed.

“Ha! now I know thee, fiend!” screamed the affrighted Peter, as he dashed the scroll in the face of the stranger, and rushed wildly out of the room. He gained the street, down which he fled with the swiftness of the wind, and turned quickly, thinking he was safe from the vengeance of him, whom he now supposed to be no other than the foul fiend himself, when the stranger met him on the opposite side, his eyes dilated to a monstrous size, and glowing like red-hot coals. A deep groan burst from the surcharged breast of the unfortunate farmer, as he staggered back several paces.

“Avaunt! Avaunt!” he cried, “Sathan, I deify thee! I have not signed that cursed parchment!” He turned and fled in an opposite direction; but, though he exerted his utmost speed, the stranger, without any apparent exertion, kept by his side. At length he arrived at the bank of the canal, and leaped into a boat which was moored alongside. Still his pursuer followed, arid Peter felt the iron grasp of his hand on the nape of his neck. He turned round, and struggled hard to free himself from the gripe of his companion, roaring out in agony, “Oh, Mynheer Duyvel! have pity, for the sake of my wife and my boy Karel!” But, when was the devil ever known to pity? The stranger held him tightly, and, spite of his struggles, dragged him ashore. He felt the grasp of his pursuer like the clutch of a bird of prey, while his hot breath almost scorched him; but, disengaging himself, with a sudden bound, he sprung from his enemy, and—pitched headlong from his elbow-chair on to the floor of his own room at Voorbooch.

The noise occasioned by the fall of the burly Hollander, aroused his affrighted helpmate from the sound slumber she had been wrapped in for more than two hours: during which time, her husband had been indulging in potations deep and strong, until, overpowered with the potency of his beloved liquor, he had sunk to sleep in his elbow-chair, and dreamed the hellish dream we have endeavoured to relate. The noise of his fall aroused his
vrow
from her slumbers. Trembling in every limb on hearing the unruly sound below, she descended by a short flight of steps, screaming loudly for help, into the room where she had left her spouse when she retired to rest, and beheld Peter, her dear husband, prostrate on the stone floor, the table overturned, his glass broken, and the remainder of the accursed liquor flowing in a stream from the stone bottle, which lay upset on the ground.

THE HAUNTED MILL, by Jerome K. Jerome

OR, THE RUINED HOME

Well, you all know my brother-in-law, Mr. Parkins (began Mr. Coombes, taking the long clay pipe from his mouth, and putting it behind his ear: we did not know his brother-in-law, but we said we did, so as to save time), and you know of course that he once took a lease of an old Mill in Surrey, and went to live there.

Now you must know that, years ago, this very mill had been occupied by a wicked old miser, who died there, leaving—so it was rumoured—all his money hidden somewhere about the place. Naturally enough, every one who had since come to live at the mill had tried to find the treasure; but none had ever succeeded, and the local wiseacres said that nobody ever would, unless the ghost of the miserly miller should, one day, take a fancy to one of the tenants, and disclose to him the secret of the hiding-place.

My brother-in-law did not attach much importance to the story, regarding it as an old woman’s tale, and, unlike his predecessors, made no attempt whatever to discover the hidden gold.

“Unless business was very different then from what it is now,” said my brother-in-law, “I don’t see how a miller could very well have saved anything, however much of a miser he might have been: at all events, not enough to make it worth the trouble of looking for it.”

Still, he could not altogether get rid of the idea of that treasure.

One night he went to bed. There was nothing very extraordinary about that, I admit. He often did go to bed of a night. What
was
remarkable, however, was that exactly as the clock of the village church chimed the last stroke of twelve, my brother-in-law woke up with a start, and felt himself quite unable to go to sleep again.

Joe (his Christian name was Joe) sat up in bed, and looked around.

At the foot of the bed something stood very still, wrapped in shadow.

It moved into the moonlight, and then my brother-in-law saw that it was the figure of a wizened little old man, in knee-breeches and a pig-tail.

In an instant the story of the hidden treasure and the old miser flashed across his mind.

“He’s come to show me where it’s hid,” thought my brother-in-law; and he resolved that he would not spend all this money on himself, but would devote a small percentage of it towards doing good to others.

The apparition moved towards the door: my brother-in-law put on his trousers and followed it. The ghost went downstairs into the kitchen, glided over and stood in front of the hearth, sighed and disappeared.

Next morning, Joe had a couple of bricklayers in, and made them haul out the stove and pull down the chimney, while he stood behind with a potato-sack in which to put the gold.

They knocked down half the wall, and never found so much as a four-penny bit. My brother-in-law did not know what to think.

The next night the old man appeared again, and again led the way into the kitchen. This time, however, instead of going to the fireplace, it stood more in the middle of the room, and sighed there.

“Oh, I see what he means now,” said my brother-in-law to himself; “it’s under the floor. Why did the old idiot go and stand up against the stove, so as to make me think it was up the chimney?”

They spent the next day in taking up the kitchen floor; but the only thing they found was a three-pronged fork, and the handle of that was broken.

On the third night, the ghost reappeared, quite unabashed, and for a third time made for the kitchen. Arrived there, it looked up at the ceiling and vanished.

“Umph! he don’t seem to have learned much sense where he’s been to,” muttered Joe, as he trotted back to bed; “I should have thought he might have done that at first.”

Still, there seemed no doubt now where the treasure lay, and the first thing after breakfast they started pulling down the ceiling. They got every inch of the ceiling down, and they took up the boards of the room above.

They discovered about as much treasure as you would expect to find in an empty quart-pot.

On the fourth night, when the ghost appeared, as usual, my brother-in-law was so wild that he threw his boots at it; and the boots passed through the body, and broke a looking-glass.

On the fifth night, when Joe awoke, as he always did now at twelve, the ghost was standing in a dejected attitude, looking very miserable. There was an appealing look in its large sad eyes that quite touched my brother-in-law.

“After all,” he thought, “perhaps the silly chap’s doing his best. Maybe he has forgotten where he really did put it, and is trying to remember. I’ll give him another chance.”

The ghost appeared grateful and delighted at seeing Joe prepare to follow him, and led the way into the attic, pointed to the ceiling, and vanished.

“Well, he’s hit it this time, I do hope,” said my brother-in-law; and next day they set to work to take the roof off the place.

It took them three days to get the roof thoroughly off, and all they found was a bird’s nest; after securing which they covered up the house with tarpaulins, to keep it dry.

You might have thought that would have cured the poor fellow of looking for treasure. But it didn’t.

He said there must be something in it all, or the ghost would never keep on coming as it did; and that, having gone so far, he would go on to the end, and solve the mystery, cost what it might.

Night after night, he would get out of his bed and follow that spectral old fraud about the house. Each night, the old man would indicate a different place; and, on each following day, my brother-in-law would proceed to break up the mill at the point indicated, and look for the treasure. At the end of three weeks, there was not a room in the mill fit to live in. Every wall had been pulled down, every floor had been taken up, every ceiling had had a hole knocked in it. And then, as suddenly as they had begun, the ghost’s visits ceased; and my brother-in-law was left in peace, to rebuild the place at his leisure.

What induced the old image to play such a silly trick upon a family man and a ratepayer? Ah! that’s just what I cannot tell you.

Some said that the ghost of the wicked old man had done it to punish my brother-in-law for not believing in him at first; while others held that the apparition was probably that of some deceased local plumber and glazier, who would naturally take an interest in seeing a house knocked about and spoilt. But nobody knew anything for certain.