The 7th Ghost Story Read online

  I hastily rang for my maid, and, to give myself an excuse for detaining her, I insisted upon having my hair thoroughly washed and brushed. But, keep her as long as I could, the time went slowly, and it was not yet midnight when she left me, and I knew now I was alone for the night, to face it as best I could.

  I noticed the blinds had been left up, and the curtains were not drawn—the housemaid, I suppose, having thought I liked this; and I left it so, preferring even the ghostly moonlight to the utter loneliness of darkness. I determined to keep awake, to listen and to watch; but gradually my eyelids drooped over my tired eyes, and sleep stole over me, and being, I suppose, exhausted by the events of the night before, I fell into a troubled, restless slumber. Again I was awaked, and I opened my eyes. I knew what they would fall on. For a moment the room was in slight shadow, caused by a cloud passing over the moon; but as it cleared away, and left it in brilliant light again, it revealed the figure of Eleanor, Lady Glencoine, standing there with the same dress, jewels, and expression of the night before, still with her finger upraised, beckoning, almost entreating. There was no doubt in my mind as to what I should do: an irresistible force compelled me to follow her. Did we open the door, or did we go through it? I never knew, but in a moment we were in the gallery. Here, even in spite of the terror which possessed me, I could not help noticing the strange beauty of the scene.

  The gallery was flooded almost from one end to the other with the moonlight, imparting to the pictures a lifelike appearance, making them into a living audience watching us as we flitted by; I with my strange guide always going on, sometimes passing into the deep shadows that were cast here and there, and then emerging again into the light which lit up the radiant jewels she was wearing, and I felt as if I were in a dream that had no awakening, or maybe had passed into another world of silence and spirits.

  Quite at the far end she paused, and I noticed her hand with the ring on it felt up and down the last panel but one, and then she pushed back what seemed a bolt, it looked so easy, and I felt sure I had seen how she did it: the panel opened, and she went through a small stone archway, I still following, into a vaulted passage, and then for a moment I lost sight of her, but only for a moment, and as I turned what seemed to be a corner, I came upon a room, a small vaulted chamber, and as I looked into it, the certainty flashed across me that it was the room I had seen in my crystal. I held my breath: the lady was on her knees, almost tearing off her jewels, and throwing them into what seemed to be an aperture in the floor. When she had done, she took a stone which was lying by, and covered them with it; and then she stood for a moment wringing her hands over the spot, and I saw the ring, the only ornament that she had not divested herself of, slip off her finger on to the floor, and then, without appearing to notice it, she left the room. I stooped for one second, picked up the ring, and followed her.

  As we came, so we returned—along the passage, through the still open panel, which closed behind me—into the gallery. I saw her face for one moment after this, and then throwing up her arms she vanished—vanished completely, as if she had never been there. I went to the window: nothing, nothing to be seen but the moon looking down in full beauty on the terrace garden, and no sound but the gentle moaning of the wind, which had risen during the night. Trembling in every limb, I stumbled back into my room, but more I cannot tell: I suppose I fainted; but the next thing I was conscious of was finding myself lying on my bed, the room in darkness, and still tightly grasped in my hand was the ring. I lit the candles, and kept them burning by me till the morning, when I fell into a sleep, and did not open my eyes till my maid stood by my bedside, and told me it was nearly breakfast time; “And, ma’am, you do look bad!” was her sympathetic remark.

  I dismissed her, and, jumping from my bed, ran to the looking-glass. I really think I expected my hair was grey—but it was still its own natural brown, I was thankful to see; but there were great black rings under my eyes, and my lips and face had lost all their colour. I opened the drawer, and there, lying in all its beauty, was the ring. I think the stones were the most wonderful I had ever seen; and as I slipped it on to my finger it covered quite three parts of it. I hastily dressed, and, opening the door, passed downstairs. It is a curious fact, but that consciousness of another presence had gone, completely gone, and I realised this with a sense of freedom and release as I hurried on. I opened the dining-room door: I was evidently very late, and all eyes were turned upon me.

  “Good gracious, Mrs. Haywood!” exclaimed Lord Glencoine, “what has happened to you? You look as if you had seen a ghost.”

  I did not answer; I walked across the room to where he was standing, and in a voice trembling so that I could hardly frame my words, I handed him the ring. “Lord Glencoine,” I said, “is this the ring?”

  He took it, and he too looked as if he had seen a ghost. Silence fell on them all for a moment, while they remained looking at me.

  “Good Heavens!” he said at last, “where have you been to find this? Am I mad, or is it real?”

  Here they all crowded round him. Lady Glencoine became quite pale, and I thought she would have fainted; and I could see they all shrank a little from me, as if they thought I had been too near the supernatural world.

  “I have been,” I answered, sinking into a chair, “into the room my crystal showed me; I have seen your jewels there massed, heaped into a hole in the stone floor.”

  And then, slowly and with many pauses, I told them word for word what had happened—where I had been and what I had seen. I think if it had not been for the ring, which lay on the table a tangible proof of my story, they would one and all have declared me mad. But even Captain Shelvey, who had treated the crystal-gazing with contempt and ridicule, sat silenced. No more breakfast was eaten; nothing else was thought of: one and all declared that I must go and take them there at once. Here Lady Glencoine interposed. Excited as she was, she would not have me do this now. Seeing my state of mental and physical exhaustion, she insisted upon my lying down in her sitting-room and plying me with beef tea and brandy.

  Although it was Sunday, all idea of church was abandoned, and an air of excitement and mystery pervaded the entire household.

  However, after an hour’s rest and some food, I declared myself fit to go; and the whole party, led by me, proceeded upstairs. It struck me forcibly, as we passed along the gallery, the wonderful contrast of myself and my phantom guide of last night flitting along in the moonlight, in silence, with the dead of many years looking at us from the walls—and now ten chattering human beings tumbling over one another in their eagerness each to be the first to make the discovery. I walked straight to the panel—the last but one; and then I paused—paused, because suddenly and completely the knowledge and power of opening it had passed from me. My hands dropped to my sides, and I turned round and faced the anxious and expectant people.

  “I have forgotten it,” I cried; “it has suddenly gone from me; I cannot tell you how to open it.”

  “What do you mean?” said Lord Glencoine anxiously: “you told me it slid. Push it—let us try.”

  He approached the panel, and he tried—we all tried—but nothing would do. For more than an hour we went on pushing, feeling for a bolt, trying by every means we could think of to effect an opening, but all in vain; at last we gave it up in despair, and went downstairs bitterly disappointed, and I sat hour after hour in the drawing-room, going through last night’s scene again—trying to recall the lady’s movements as she passed her hand along it: all in vain—the knowledge had gone from me, and it was useless. I could see, too, Lord and Lady Glencoine were terribly disappointed, though they did their best not to let me see it, and talked of having the panelling broken open the next day.

  In the afternoon several of the party went for a walk, but Lady Glencoine and I remained by the fire, carrying on a spasmodic conversation. Suddenly a thought came to me, and I rose hastily and hurried to my room.

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p; When there, I took the crystal from the drawer, and sitting down with it in my hand, I gazed into it, breathless with excitement. Should I, or should I not, see what I wished? I watched the usual mist rising in it; and then—yes—the lady again appeared; this time, though, her hand was not upraised, she was standing there. I longed, I almost prayed, that she might open the panel to me; and then, to my intense delight, I saw her hand slowly move towards the wall behind her, and, placing the back of her hand on the panel, she let her fingernails just pass under the framework, and it sprang open.

  I waited for a moment till the picture faded away, and then, throwing down the crystal, I ran downstairs, almost falling down the steps in my haste. Into the drawing-room I flew, where my hostess was still sitting dreaming idly before the fire in the fading light.

  “Come, come,” I cried, “I have found how to open it”. And startled, and I imagine rather thinking I had gone mad, Lady Glencoine followed me, calling to her husband, as she saw him passing through the hall, to come with us. I again went into the gallery and approached the panel. Trembling with excitement, my knees shaking beneath me, I placed the back of my hand on it, passing my finger-nails under the framework, and immediately it flew open. Almost faint with my discovery, I leant against the wall, and Lord and Lady Glencoine and their son remained staring at the open doorway.

  I was the first to recover myself.

  “A light—a light!” I cried; and ran to my room, returning with a candle and a box of matches.

  “Lady Glencoine,” I said, lighting them, “either you or your son must wait here, as we cannot risk the door being shut upon us. Come, who will stay?”

  “I had better do so,” she answered, “as I shall be of no use, and I am not quite sure I should like to venture into it.”

  “But first,” I said (so certain was I that we should discover the jewels), “first we must get a crowbar, or something, which will remove the stone; because, although it is loose, it is a large one, and would be too heavy for our hands, I think.”

  We touched the gallery bell; and the butler, who had lived many years in the family, answered it, and I think he was nearly overcome when he saw the open door, but he too was filled with excitement, and hurried off for an implement.

  Then we started. I have often wondered since that we had the courage. I led the way, followed by Lord Glencoine, his son, and the butler.

  “How very extraordinary we should have never found this passage!” exclaimed my host; “and no steps too—so curious—just a level passage.”

  In a moment, when we got into the room, we gazed in silence and awe. Lord Glencoine took the candle from me, and kneeling down on the floor examined it. There, scattered about, were bits of old stuff—rags, they might be called—and amongst them was a skull and some bones.

  “It is what I suspected,” he said, in a low, hushed tone: “bones—human bones. It means that that poor lady must have come here to hide the jewels, and the door must have been shut upon her, and she died an awful death. Even after these hundreds of years, how terrible it seems!”

  The horror of what he said was upon us, and for a moment we stood solemnly gazing at the human tragedy of many years ago. Then, recovering himself, he turned to the butler.

  “Come,” he said—“the crowbar.”

  I pointed to the stone, and in a moment they had lifted it; and there, lying in scattered and careless profusion, were the celebrated jewels of Eleanor, Lady Glencoine, for the sake of which she had gone to meet this terrible death.

  In silence we lifted them out—diamonds, rubies, the pearls, the girdle of the picture—none were missing; together with heaps of smaller necklaces and other ornaments. We carried them into the daylight and the gallery, where Lady Glencoine was anxiously awaiting us.

  “Far beyond our wildest hopes,” said her husband, in a low voice. “Taverndale is saved, and to you,” turning to me, “we are indebted for this.”

  I shook my head. It was not I. I was only the instrument—the medium. But it was no use saying this now, and I had had enough. Mind and body alike both craved for rest, and I left them and went to my room. That night I slept without a waking thought. If the Phantom Lady came to me, my sleep was far too deep to be disturbed; but I think her work was done, and that she too was taking her rest.

  My story is over.

  Perhaps some will like to hear that the Glencoines, saved by the many thousands their jewels realised, still live on at Taverndale.

  The day after the discovery they reverently gathered up the remains of Eleanor, Lady Glencoine, and placed them in a corner of the churchyard; and, often as I have been to Taverndale since that time, and inhabited again and again that same room, I have never once felt that strange presence. My own belief is, that her weary steps will nevermore tread that long gallery, and that she has gone to her rest, for which she had sought so long.

  But the mysteries, to us, of these things always remain. The spirit world is so near us, and we are mostly so unconscious of it, so slow to believe it; and, although bordering on it, we have so little faith and so little insight. Many break their hearts or go mad in seeking to unravel it. Some day, somehow, it will come to us, and we shall know it. Till then, let us wait—wait—wait.

  THE WATER GHOST OF HARROWBY HALL, by John Kendrick Bangs

  Originally published in Harper’s Weekly Magazine, June 27th 1891.

  The trouble with Harrowby Hall was that it was haunted, and, what was worse, the ghost did not merely appear at the bedside of a person, but remained there for one mortal hour before it disappeared.

  It never appeared except on Christmas Eve, and then as the clock was striking twelve. The owners of Harrowby Hall had tried their hardest to rid themselves of the damp and dewy lady who rose up out of the best bedroom floor at midnight, but they had failed. They had tried stopping the clock, so that the ghost would not know when it was midnight; but she made her appearance just the same, and there she would stand until everything about her was thoroughly soaked.

  Then the owners of Harrowby Hall closed up every crack in the floor with hemp, and over this were placed layers of tar and canvas; the walls were made waterproof, and the doors and windows likewise, in the hope that the lady would find it difficult to leak into the room, but even this did no good.

  The following Christmas Eve she appeared as promptly as before, and frightened the guest of the room quite out of his senses by sitting down beside him, and gazing with her cavernous blue eyes into his. In her long, bony fingers bits of dripping seaweed were entwined, the ends hanging down, and these ends she drew across his forehead until he fainted away. He was found unconscious in his bed the next morning, simply saturated with seawater and fright.

  The next year the master of Harrowby Hall decided not to have the best spare bedroom opened at all, but the ghost appeared as usual in the room—that is, it was supposed she did, for the hangings were dripping wet the next morning. Finding no-one there, she immediately set out to haunt the owner of Harrowby himself. She found him in his own cozy room, congratulating himself upon having outwitted her.

  All of a sudden the curl went out of his hair, and he was as wet as if he had fallen into a rain barrel. When he saw before him the lady of the cavernous eyes and seaweed fingers he too fainted, but immediately came to, because the vast amount of water in his hair, trickling down over his face, revived him.

  Now it so happened that the master of Harrowby was a brave man. He intended to find out a few things he felt he had a right to know. He would have liked to put on a dry suit of clothes first, but the ghost refused to leave him for an instant until her hour was up. In an effort to warm himself up he turned to the fire; it was an unfortunate move, because it brought the ghost directly over the fire, which immediately was extinguished.

  At this he turned angrily to her, and said: “Far be it from me to be impolite to a woman, madam, but I wish you’d stop you
r infernal visits to this house. Go sit out on the lake, if you like that sort of thing; soak the rain barrel, if you wish; but do not come into a gentleman’s house and soak him and his possessions in this way, I beg of you!”

  “Henry Hartwick Oglethorpe,” said the ghost, in a gurgling voice, “you don’t know what you are talking about. You do not know that I am compelled to haunt this place year after year by my terrible fate. It is no pleasure for me to enter this house, and ruin everything I touch. I never aspired to be a shower bath, but it is my doom. Do you know who I am?”

  “No, I don’t,” returned the master of Harrowby. “I should say you were the Lady of the Lake!”

  “No, I am the Water Ghost of Harrowby Hall, and I have held this highly unpleasant office for two hundred years tonight.”

  “How the deuce did you ever come to get elected?” asked the master.

  “Through a mistake,” replied the specter. “I am the ghost of that fair maiden whose picture hangs over the mantelpiece in the drawing-room.”

  “But what made you get the house into such a spot?”

  “I was not to blame, sir,” returned the lady. “It was my father’s fault. He built Harrowby Hall, and the room I haunt was to have been mine. My father had it furnished in pink and yellow, knowing well that blue and gray was the only combination of colors I could bear. He did it to spite me, and I refused to live in the room. Then my father said that I could live there or on the lawn, he didn’t care which. That night I ran from the house and jumped over the cliff into the sea.”

  “That was foolish,” said the master of Harrowby.

  “So I’ve heard,” returned the ghost, “but I really never realized what I was doing until after I was drowned. I had been drowned a week when a sea nymph came to me. She informed me that I was to be one of her followers, and that my doom was to haunt Harrowby Hall for one hour every Christmas Eve throughout the rest of eternity. I was to haunt that room on such Christmas Eves as I found it occupied; and if it should turn out not to be occupied, I was to spend that hour with the head of the house.”