The Mammoth Book of Terror

RONALD CHETWYND-HAYES DIED in 2001. He started writing fiction in the early 1950s, and his first published book was the science fiction novel The Man from the Bomb in 1959. His second novel, The Dark Man (aka And Love Survived), appeared five years later.

While looking on a bookstall in the early 1970s, Chetwynd-Hayes noticed the profusion of horror titles and submitted a collection of his own stories, which eventually appeared in paperback as The Unbidden. Becoming a full-time writer, he began producing a prolific number of ghost stories and sedate tales of terror, many tinged with his disarming sense of humour.

Known as “Britain’s Prince of Chill”, his stories were widely anthologized and collected in such volumes as Cold Terror, Terror by Night, The Elemental, The Night Ghouls and Other Grisly Tales, The Monster Club, The Cradle Demon and Other Stories of Fantasy and Horror, The Fantastic World of Kamtellar: A Book of Vampires and Ghouls, A Quiver of Ghosts, Tales from the Dark Lands, Ghosts from the Mist of Time, Tales from the Haunted House, Dracula’s Children, The House of Dracula and Shudders and Shivers. More recently his work has been compiled in The Vampire Stories ofR. Chetwynd-Hayes (aka Looking for Something to Suck and Other Vampire Stories), Phantoms and Fiends, Frights and Fancies and Ghosts and Ghouls: The Best Short Stories of R. Chetwynd-Hayes, while the anthology Great Ghost Stories is edited by Chetwynd-Hayes and Stephen Jones.

The movies From Beyond the Grave (1973) and The Monster Club (1980) were both adapted from his work. In the latter, based on probably his most successful book, the author himself was portrayed by veteran horror actor John Carradine.

In 1989 he was presented with Life Achievement Awards by both the Horror Writers of America and the British Fantasy Society, and he was the Special Guest of Honour at The 1997 World Fantasy Convention in London.

As the author once remarked: “I like to think I write stories for the future. There’s just a chance that someone putting an anthology together will find one of my old stories and slip it in. And so I shall live again. In that respect, I suppose being a writer is very much like being a vampire.”

WILFRED FRAZER HAD BEEN feature editor of The Daily Reporter for more years than I had lived and stated that he hated his job with a hatred that passed all understanding; but he was very good at it. He had the knack of spotting a potential human interest story from the morass of rumour, conjecture and wishful thinking that was dumped on his desk each morning. He motioned me to a chair, then pushed a pair of hornrimmed spectacles up over his thinning grey hair.

“Young Radcliffe, you’re a clever, well educated lad, tell me what you know about Caroline Fortescue.”

I shrugged and rummaged around in that mental lumber room that we all have tucked away at the back of our brains.

“A late Victorian lady novelist. Is ranked a little lower than Dickens, but is possibly on equal terms with Thackeray. She rocketed to fame with Camden’s Ridge in 1888; a three-volume novel that has been the bane of every schoolboy’s life ever since. This was followed by eleven more books of equal length, the last being Moorland Master published in 1911. Her style is a bit heavy going, but most critics regard her as a literary genius.”

Frazer nodded. “Fine. Proper little know-all, aren’t you? What about the woman herself?”

“Ah! That’s another matter entirely. She seems to have gone to a lot of trouble to keep herself out of the limelight. No one seems to know anything about her. Her real name, when she was born – when she died. Complete mystery.”

Frazer permitted himself a pale smile.

“She didn’t.”

“Didn’t what?”

“Die. According to my informant, a female who was employed around the house, Caroline Fortescue is still alive.”

I sat upright and gave a passable imitation of William the Conqueror being told that a man with an arrow in his eye was banging on the front door. I did some complicated arithmetic. “It’s now 1975 – if she was twenty in 1888 – Good God! – she’d be a hundred and seven!”

“Not impossible,” Frazer pointed out. “But my ex-employee says she’s much older than that. She puts her at around a hundred and seventeen. Again I say – not impossible. Isn’t there a chap in America who’s still belting around at a hundred and thirty-five?”

I communed with my soul before nurturing a germ of hope.

“God! Suppose it’s true!”

“Precisely. Imagine finding a live and kicking Charles Dickens and getting the dope from the great man’s mouth as to how Edwin Drood was intended to end.” He pushed a scrap of paper across the desk. “Here’s the address. Ye olde manor house down in a place called Bramfield. Get your body down there and if the old girl is still with us and if she can still talk, bring me back an interview that will set the Thames on fire. Take as long as you like. I want a series that’ll run for three weeks. Afterwards we’ll think about a book.”

“Suppose it’s all moonshine?” I asked.

“Then you’ve had a nice day in the country. Do you good. But I’ve got a hunch about this one. I think we may have something.”

“But a hundred and seventeen!” I objected. “It must take all her time merely to breathe.”

“Moses was doing all right at a hundred and twenty. If she can’t talk use your imagination. Just bring back her mark on a blank sheet of paper.”

I arrived at Bramfield Station the following afternoon and went straight to the village post office, that being if my experience was any criterion, the fount of all local gossip. I pushed open a narrow door and entered a shop equipped with an L-shaped counter; the smaller portion protected by a grill which had an oval opening in the lower centre. A smallish woman with red hair and inquisitive eyes shuffled forward and asked:

“Yes, sir, was there something?”

I gave her the full effect of a crooked, rakish smile which I had borrowed from Errol Flynn.

“Yes, can you kindly direct me to Bramfield Manor?”

She frowned and appeared to give the question more consideration than it deserved. Finally she nodded.

“Ain’t heard it called that for many a year. Never have any mail you see and the rightful name has sort of got lost. The Old House we calls it in these parts. The property of old Lady Bramfield. Although whether she’s still around, I wouldn’t like to say. Certainly she ain’t been buried to my knowledge.”

I assumed a slightly worried expression.

“Surely there can’t be any doubt that the – old lady – is still alive? I’ve been sent down to investigate the claim of a former maid who says she’s owed a week’s wages.”

The pale blue eyes were suddenly alight with an almost evil gleam of curiosity and the head jerked as though issuing an invitation for me to clamber over the counter. The voice sank to a loud whisper.

“That must have been that blonde huzzy who Jenkins drove to the station, with her packed bag on the front seat. When he came in for the provisions and suchlike, I managed to get out of him, that she’d been caught going through some private papers. That’s all he’d tell me. Very close is Jenkins.”

“This . . . Jenkins . . . ?”

“Used to be butler donkeys’ years ago. Now he’s all there is. Except when that woman was there. Lordy, I’d give anything to know the rights of it. The old place is falling to bits. Young man, if you ever get past the front door, it would be a mercy if you’d pop back in here and tell me what’s what.”

“But first,” I prompted, “I must get there. Now if you’ll kindly tell . . .”

“Ah! Turn right and walk down the main street, then turn left, cross the stile and cut across Five Acre Field until you reach Miles Lane. Turn left and two miles further on you’ll come to Manford Bridge which you can’t miss because it’s got a broken wall on one side. A mile or so on and you’ll reach Bramfield Walk. A hundred yards to the left are the Old House iron gates. One’s fallen down. The house is at the end of the drive.”

“A taxi . . . ?”

“Young man you appear to have a stout pair of legs. It’s a nice walk so long as you keep clear of Mr Masterton’s bull. Now heed me. Even if you don’t get into the house, keep your eyes open and let me know what you see. If the old lady is still about, she might be looking out of a window or something.”

I admitted that was a remote possibility, then asked:

“When did you last see Lady Bramfield?”

One not over clean hand went up and began to scratch her head.

“Now you have me! Must have been when I was a child. Over thirty years ago. And I remember she looked old then. She can’t still be alive.”

The sun was setting when I finally reached the tree lined road that was presumably Bramfield Walk. In fact it was little more than a narrow lane that ran straight as an arrow’s flight from the distant main road to the rusty, reeling iron gates. One had not quite fallen down, having been saved from this ultimate indignity by a bottom hinge that somehow kept the top bars from touching the ground. To the right crouched the ruins of a once handsome lodge; beyond a meandering drive, its unpaved surface covered with a profusion of tall grass and wild flowers, flowed like a wind teased river, between tall slender poplars that reached up green clad arms, as though begging alms from the sun.

I passed the ruined lodge and entered a land where poets commune with long forgotten gods and lovely dark-eyed nymphs ride in on the night wind. Not a leaf stirred, although the grass rippled beneath my feet: the total silence suggested it might be masking a phantasmagoria of subtle sounds that would be meaningless to anyone not versed in their tonality. Presently the drive emerged into a vast semi-circular space that lay before a large, grey-stoned house.

Two storeys high. Twin rows of deep set mullioned windows. A flight of steps leading up to a double, weather-stained oak, iron-studded door. A tapering steeple reared up from imitation turrets on either side. The windows did not – or so it seemed – reflect the sunlight: the house – or so it seemed – did not cast a shadow. A familiar house – yet so strange and sinister.

I ascended the steps and entered a large, marble columned portico, then rapped on one door, there being so far as I could see, neither knocker, bell-pull nor exterior handle. Almost at once the left door opened and a tall, lean old man with a sad, lined face bowed his white head and asked:

“How can I help you, sir?”

I said – words flowing from my tongue in an unruly stream:

“I am looking for Caroline Fortescue . . . the Caroline Fortescue . . . who I believe is Lady Bramfield. Will you kindly ask Lady Bramfield if she will receive me?”

The deep-set, dark eyes, glittered and after an interval the strangely husky voice manufactured a reply.

“It is to be regretted, sir, that her ladyship cannot entertain visitors. She is well advanced in years, you understand. Beyond the frontiers of normal human existence.”

“So I have been given to understand. Around one hundred and seventeen.”

Even then I was prepared for an emphatic denial, but the old man merely bowed his head and said: “We are all as old as time permits, sir. But age consumes – burns up the essential essence. It is to be hoped you have not travelled far.”

I was being given the polite brush-off, but I had to get into that house and come face to face with the incredible. Bribery was out of the question, but a veiled threat might be an answer.

“You discharged a maid – a woman who told my editor an astounding story. If it is true she will be paid not to disclose the whereabouts of this house to anyone. Always supposing I get exclusive rights for publication. But if she is allowed to approach the popular press . . .” I shrugged my shoulders. “Half of Fleet Street will be pounding on this door and screaming their questions to high heaven.”

The frail mask of imperturbability trembled and I caught a brief glimpse of naked fear.

“We have nothing to hide. That women – creature – was an inveterate liar.”

“Then you deny that Lady Bramfield is Caroline Fortescue?”

The man was incapable of telling a direct lie; could only give an evasive answer that was more revealing than a straightforward admission.

“I can only repeat, sir – this is the home of Lady Bramfield.”

God forgive me for I told a deliberate lie; made a promise that I had no means – or intention – of keeping.

“If you will let me in, let me interview Caroline Fortescue, I will make certain that the story is not published while she lives.”

He shook his head several times, then reluctantly retreated a few steps, a move that I interpreted as an invitation to enter. The hall looked like something from a horror film; age darkened panelling lined the walls, the high windows were so covered with grime and cobwebs, the few items of furniture – an oak settle, two or three massive armchairs and a large credence table – could barely be seen through the ensuing gloom. A wide staircase curved its way up to a landing that surrounded the hall on three sides, part of which had most probably once served as a musicians’ gallery.

The old man led me past the staircase and through a doorway situated in the far right hand corner and into a room that was an oasis in that place of dust, neglect and gloom. It was comfortably, even luxuriously furnished; fitted carpet, a settee that looked as if it might be transformed into a spacious bed, deep armchairs and a drop leaf table, not to mention several gilt framed paintings that hung on plush-wallpaper covered walls.

The old man lowered himself into a chair and after motioning me to one opposite, emitted a deep sigh. “We have retreated over the years. Closed up most of the house and concentrated our forces into three rooms. This one, the kitchen and her ladyship’s bedroom. Not counting the bathroom of course. I was trained to keep clean. But her ladyship had not bathed for sometime. There are many intimate duties that I am called upon to perform, but . . . That is why I engaged that woman.” He again shook his head. “A serious mistake. But it never occurred to me that – that creature would pry into her ladyship’s private papers.”

“Integrity is dead,” I murmured.

“You may well say so, sir.”

I edged my chair forward. “You are Mr Jenkins?”

“Just Jenkins, sir. Only the lower servants called me Mr Jenkins in the old days. And then only when I was elevated to the post of butler. Even my late wife called me Jenkins for the entire of our married life. No disrespect was intended, in fact you might say it was a kind of title. When her ladyship was young – or younger than she is now, – she used to say: Jenkins, you’re one of nature’s noblemen. “‘He chuckled, a low rasping sound that threatened to disintegrate into a cough. “She liked her little joke.”

He lapsed into a thoughtful silence and I waited patiently for the floodgates of memory to open. I tried to imagine what it was like living in this great barn of a house, with no one to talk to, but that old-old woman – and shuddered. Presently that harsh, cultivated voice spoke again.

“I did not know she was Caroline Fortescue until after his old lordship died. Her father you understand. In the Bramfield family, when there is no heir, the title descends through the female line. Her ladyship never married. Perhaps no man could possibly measure up to those heroes she invented. After long and deep reflection I think that was more than possible. She was a great writer, wasn’t she, sir?”

“Almost if not quite,” I answered as truthfully as I could.

“Most of the critics thought so. Did you know that some thought she was a man? True. The trouble she went to making certain no one found out who Caroline Fortescue really was. Used to ride ten miles once a week to Tuppleton to collect correspondence from her publishers and such like.”

“Did her publishers know?” I enquired.

He shook his head. “No, sir. She used another name for her correspondence. Cookham, I believe it was. It was part of her agreement with them that no one would ever try to find out her true identity.”

“But why the secrecy? Most women would revel in being a world-famous authoress.”

Jenkins actually grinned. Bared his discoloured teeth and crinkled his face into an almost impish grin.

“Why indeed, sir. I think it was this way. She wanted to share her make believe world, but she didn’t want it invaded. I’m no hand in expressing myself and that’s the best way I can describe it. For her writing a novel was a very personal business, for imagination will only go so far and she had to put a lot of herself into it. Sometimes all of herself – if you follow me. Her ladyship was every man, woman and child who walked through those dozen books.”

“The soul bared and sent forth into the world, sliced and packed?” I suggested.

“Nicely put, sir, although I’m not all that sure what it means. But I know there’s a question you’re dying to ask. How old am I? Am I right?”

Although I had not given the matter any thought, I nodded.

“Yes, if you don’t mind telling me.”

He laughed, his former reticence now replaced by a kind of senile gaiety. “Bless you I don’t mind at all, sir. I’m eighty-five. Coming up to eighty-six. Her ladyship was thirty-two when I was born. In this very house.”

“You don’t look it,” I said with all sincerity. “I would have placed you in the early seventies.”

The compliment (if such it was) pleased him and he expanded, began to regard me with an expression that suggested growing approval. Presently he leaned forward and asked in a harsh whisper:

“Would you like to have a little peep at her ladyship?”

I nodded vigorously. “I would indeed. Will . . . will it be all right?”

“So long as we’re quiet. Time for me to look in on her anyway. But it’s not one of her good days. I could tell that this morning. Not a movement – not so much as an eye flicker.”

Jenkins got up and together we went back into the hall, then up the great staircase and on to the landing. He stopped at the first door, the one facing the stairs, and tapped gently on the top left panel. He looked back over one shoulder.

“She can’t hear of course, but I couldn’t enter her room without first knocking. It wouldn’t be respectful.”

He had worn a deep groove in his life that made certain his route to the grave was straight and narrow. After placing a slightly tremulous forefinger to his lips, he opened the door and preceded me into the room beyond. The smell was stomach heaving. The sweet, cloying stench of body decay. It was well established as though the walls, items of furniture had become deeply impregnated, before being heated up by the coal fire that spluttered and roared from an ornate iron grate. Jenkins handed me a large red handkerchief and whispered:

“Keep that pressed to your nose, sir. You’ll become acclimatized to the smell after a bit.”

I greatly doubted if that were possible, but curiosity made me advance a few steps further into the room, for there was a distinct feeling I had slipped back in time and was now in an ill-smelling pocket of history that must be explored even if I choked in the process. I gave the room a quick glance. A large fourposter bed that rightfully belonged to a museum; ancient padded chairs with faded brocade covering; shelves that hid two walls, packed with books – and any number of bound manuscripts. The bed was neatly made – and empty. My head jerked from left to right, my eyes seeking that which my brain did not wish to see.

A chaise-longue was situated in front of the fire with its raised back towards us, concealing whosoever or whatever it supported. Jenkins tiptoed across the room and peered downwards, a gentle smile transforming his face into that of a benign male nurse. His loud whisper drew me reluctantly forward.

“As I thought, sir, she’s asleep. You can come and have a little peep, but quietly if you’d be so kind.”

I imitated his tiptoe approach, feeling like a frightened child who is trying not to awake a sleeping cobra. I kept my eyes firmly riveted on Jenkins and did not look down until I had all but bumped into him. All that remained of Caroline Fortescue was dreadful. A tiny skeleton covered with wrinkled, grey skin. At least that was the first impression. Later when I had found the courage to examine her more thoroughly I realized that ingrained dirt was responsible for the greyish hue and the skin resembled crumpled parchment that had been draped over the bones by a careless taxidermist. There must have been a veneer of flesh beneath, but one had to accept such a supposition on trust.

A few white hairs clung to an obscenely gleaming skull, a few more sprouted from the sunken chin; dark eyes were half covered by lids that appeared to have lost the ability to open or close. The hands were hideous claws, the backs ridged by black swollen veins. I could not detect the slightest sign of life. She was attired in a rusty black gown that covered her from neck to ankles, while her feet were encased in grey woollen stockings.

When I was in a condition to speak I whispered: “Do you have to attend to all of her needs? Feeding, toilet requirements . . .? You know what I mean.”

He sighed gently. “As much as possible. Her intake is very small. A little warm milk laced with glucose. Poured slowly from a feeding cup. There’s little discharge. Moving her is a very delicate business.”

I had to ask the question. “Wouldn’t she be better off dead? That . . . that is nothing more than a slowly rotting corpse.”

Jenkins slowly turned his head and I stared into eyes that glittered with sullen, old man’s rage. His harsh voice seared my brain.

“How dare you suggest such a thing, sir? Her ladyship is very much alive – possibly more than you or I. There may be a slow decay, but it has been going on for a very long time. On her good days she’s lively enough. That she is.”

A wave of excitement drove the repulsion, the body-numbing horror into temporary retirement – and I gasped:

“You mean that . . . she can hold an intelligent conversation?”

“When she so wishes. So mind your tongue, sir, and be respectful when you talk of her ladyship.” His anger went as quickly as it had come and he once again became the model servant, the solicitous nurse, displaying a kind of coy tenderness that was slightly nauseating. He addressed the bundle of skin-wrapped bones.

“I will come back, my lady, in about an hour. In time to serve dinner. Just finish your little snooze.”

Having delivered this final instruction he again laid a finger on his lips, then began to tiptoe back towards the door, while I followed with my normal flat-footed steps. I could see no reason for these elaborate anti-noise precautions; it was doubtful if the explosion of a ten ton bomb would awaken Caroline Fortescue before she was ready. Always supposing she ever woke at all.

We returned to Jenkins’s room, where I ventured to make a request that I had no reason to suppose would be granted.

“Would it be possible for me to stay here for a few days?”

Jenkins screwed up his face into an expression of deep concentration, before nodding slowly.

“I cannot believe her ladyship would object, sir. After all you have given your word not to reveal anything you see or hear during her lifetime. And to be frank, I will not be sorry to have some company. Lately I’ve got into the habit of talking to myself: and that’s a bad sign.”

I hastened to express gratitude. “That’s very kind of you and I promise not to be a nuisance in any way. And of course, I’m quite willing to pay . . .”

He raised an admonishing forefinger. “That’s out of the question, sir. You are her ladyship’s guest. I will open up one of the smaller rooms and do my best to make you comfortable. If you would care to sit with her ladyship for a few hours, I will be grateful.”

That was the entire purpose of the exercise, although how long I could stand that infernal stench was a matter for conjecture.

Jenkins insisted I share his dinner and I must say he did himself well. Roast lamb, succulent baked potatoes and Brussels sprouts, followed by an excellent college pudding. We also shared a bottle of excellent claret, a smooth gentle vintage that sent a golden glow coursing through my veins and enabled me to view the grim prospect of spending several hours in that stinking room with something akin to equanimity. Jenkins did not stop talking for the entire of the meal, his brain releasing little snippets of information, the importance of which did not register until long afterwards.

“A sheltered life,” he said, sipping from his glass. “Never went out into the world. Private tutors, a select circle of friends that was never enlarged. As each one died, no one came to replace them. His old lordship was the same. Content to vegetate here and between them they invented a wonderful country where all problems could be solved by arranging words in a certain way. By the time she was a grown woman, she could no more face the real world, than pigs can fly. Do you follow me, sir?”

I nodded happily and refilled my glass.

“Absolutely. Another Emily Bronte.”

He smiled benignly. “I am glad to learn you are a well read gentleman, sir. But whereas Miss Bronte – a rather coarse writer in my opinion – portrayed Gondal in one novel, her ladyship spread her kingdom over twelve. That’s what made them so successful. Readers without thinking much about it, recognized a familiar country. That place, sir, that we all dream about, where we can control our destinies, correct awful mistakes by a mere effort of will.” He leaned across the table and stared at me with a strange intensity. “You must understand, sir. No matter what you see or hear – you must understand. Understanding smothers fear.”

I tried to reassure him, although the effect of three glasses of that fine old wine was beginning to bemuse my senses.

“I understand. Shut up here for a lifetime, it stands to reason that the seed of genius would blossom into a flourishing flower.” I felt quite proud of this piece of imagery and repeated the last two words. “Flourishing flower.”

“You have a mastery ofwords, sir,” Jenkins stated. “As befits a writing gentleman. But do you appreciate the situation? The gentlemen callers never made the grade, if I make myself clear. The heroes in those books, sir, they always measured up to expectations. Any little faults could always be ironed out. Erased by a well-turned sentence, glossed over by a flow of polished adjectives. The same could be said for the rest of us. Servants are only perfect in fiction and truly loving parents can only be found in well written books. Reality is studded with nasty little rocks, fantasy is as smooth as a well mown lawn.”

“True.” I nodded. “You are a veritable well of profundity, Jenkins. But books are merely the depository of crystalised thoughts, while reality is a seething cauldron of disgusting facts. He who faces facts goes mad; he who takes refuge in the twilight of fantasy is insane. You can’t win. What about another glass of claret?”

Jenkins rose rather unsteadily to his feet and suppressed a hiccup. “Thank you, sir, but it’s time for her ladyship’s dinner. Will you do me the honour of your company?”

Her ladyship’s dinner consisted of warm milk and glucose and was served from a vessel with a long spout. This Jenkins carried, with suitable gravity, on a silver tray up the staircase and into Lady Bramfield’s room. By now I was at a loss as to how to designate the bundle of skin wrapped bones that lay on the chaise longue: Lady Bramfield, Caroline Fortescue or that horrible thing I would rather not look at. Jenkins appeared not to be bothered by any such doubts, for he bowed and announced:

“Dinner is served, my lady,” and placed spout to feeding hole. The immediate result was electrifying. Without actually waking up all that remained of Caroline Fortescue, writer of genius, peer of Dickens, Thackeray, Hardy and Emily Bronte, took on a kind of grotesque life. Greedy, sucking, gasping life. What served for lips clamped round the spout, and I witnessed a sucking, bubbling, body writhing absorption of nourishment. Although a lot seemed to me wasted as the white liquid dribbled down her ladyship’s chin and formed a little pool in the hollow below her throat.

Jenkins kept dabbing her with a red handkerchief.

I watched Caroline Fortescue dine for perhaps a full minute before running out on to the landing, where I was violently sick on the doubtlessly priceless, but faded carpet.

Jenkins prepared a room – made up the bed and opened the windows – that was two doors from Lady Bramfield’s own.

I fell into an uneasy sleep in complete darkness and awoke in full moonlight. There were no curtains to the windows, for this was a room – according to Jenkins – that had not been used for half a century. Every item of furniture stood out in stark relief; the massive mahogany wardrobes, their long mirrors slabs of blazing light; the dressing table that crouched like some ill-shaped beast in the far corner; a tallboy that reared up against a side wall, creating an oblique shadow that tapered to a sharp point on the dust-infested carpet.

There was a complete absence of sound. It was as though the universe had yet to be born and my tiny atom of awareness was floating on an unlimited sea of nothing. The room, the furniture, even the moon, were only reflections of what would be in some far off time. Then I was rocketed into the present. Sound was reborn.

Running footsteps in the corridor that lay beyond the closed door, accompanied by a trill of laughter. I did not move for a long while, trying to analyse the sounds. Swift, light foot treads, girlish laughter. A running girl that laughed.

I climbed out of bed and put on a thick satin dressing gown that had been supplied by Jenkins, then – not without some trepidation – went out into the corridor. Here the moonlight was only permitted entry through a solitary window situated at the far end; three quarters of the passage mocked a low wattage bulb that created a tiny oasis of yellow light in a desert of writhing shadows. A long way off a door groaned the protest of oil starved hinges, suggesting that someone had pushed it stealthily open – and I, fired by that damnable curiosity that has reputedly killed many cats, stepped fearfully forward – on naked feet – to investigate.

I came to the landing and looked down into the darkened hall. Not there. The lower part of the house slept the sleep of centuries. I turned left and roamed through the shadow congested bowels of Bramfield Manor, seeking a rational explanation. Presently I was rewarded by seeing a wedge of light that sliced through an eternity of darkness and revealed a partly open door.

As I crept nearer I again heard that trill of girlish laughter, a sound that brought some measure of reassurance and a promise of an exciting adventure. Why should I be frightened of a girl, even if she was mad enough to go running through an old, darkened house? When I reached the door I pushed it fully open and attempted to record the entire contents of the room in one swift glance.

Sheet shrouded furniture basking in brilliant moonlight. Dust-carpeted floor, cobweb-festooned windows – and a young girl standing by a white marble fireplace.

She alone merited my entire attention. Tall for a girl, perhaps five foot nine, slender, attired in a flowing white dress, long black hair framing a pale oval face. A face that had a beauty that one sometimes dreams about, but rarely sees. Large, dark blue eyes fringed by long lashes, a straight nose and a full-lipped mouth that was now parted in a mischievous smile. When she moved the gown slid off one creamy shoulder – and the vision of virginal beauty was complete. Her voice was captivating, enhanced by a slight lilting tone.

“Hello, who are you?”

It took some little while for my voice to rediscover its normal function. “I might ask the same question. I’m a guest- well sort of. But unless old Jenkins has been singularly remiss, you must be an intruder.”

She stopped in front of one window looking so young, appealing and unattainable in the moonlight. “I am – in a way. It’s fun to roam through old houses at night, don’t you think? Chase your shadow by moonlight. Listen to the voices of those who were once and are no more. One has to be slightly mad to enjoy night running.”

“But where do you come from?” I asked.

She jerked her head back in a most enchanting fashion.

“Back there – in the woods. I live with my parents in a sweet little cottage. You must come and see us. In the daytime when the sun sends golden spears down through the whispering leaves.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Nothing dies there, you know. How can if? Nature is eternal. Is and ever will be.”

Despite the ambiguity of her words, her demeanour was flirtatious, tantalizing as though she were deliberately trying to draw me into a meaningless, but purposeful argument. I said:

“You are most certainly mad. What would your parents say if they knew you were talking to a strange man in an old house?”

She giggled. “They’d have a fit. Mother in particular would take me to task most severely, but be most understanding afterwards. But when you meet them don’t mention where we became acquainted. What the ear doesn’t hear, the heart won’t grieve over. Has anyone told you that you are very handsome?”

“No one,” I replied. “But I’m telling you that you are very beautiful.”

She nodded with evident satisfaction. “I’m so glad you think so. That means we’re both beautiful people. Wonderful. I don’t like ugly men. As for that matter I don’t like ugly women either. I always say – if you have a face that frightens horses, then stay at home. My word, but you have a most wonderful smile!”

I bared my teeth into an even wider grin and wondered why I had not been long ago enraptured by my reflection in the shaving mirror. “You are a lovely liar. Now I must see you home. How did you get in anyway?”

She shrugged. “Oh, there’s always an unlocked door, an unlatched window. But you can’t see me home because you’re not wearing shoes. But you may see me to the front door.”

Side by side we went out into the dark passage, only it did not seem so dark anymore, then wended our way back to the landing, while she talked in that enchanting lilting tone that sent a tingling tremor along my nerve grid and aroused sleeping memories of something that had happened long ago. In another lifetime.

“I think we’d better say we met in the lane and you had hurt your ankle and I tied it up for you with my handkerchief. And being a perfect gentleman – which of course you are – you are calling to thank me for my kindness. That sounds nice, doesn’t it?”

“But it’s not true,” I protested.

“Nonsense. Truth is what the majority believe and the minority cannot disprove. A little while ago you said I was mad . . .”

“But delightfully so,” I interrupted.

“Of course. But surely you realise that madness is the sanity granted to the selected few. To really enjoy life you must turn the world upside down and not be in the least worried if people are shocked at what you say and do. Do you think I’m a genius?”

I nodded gravely. “No doubt of it.”

“I think so too. That’s why I talk sideways and only those who have a sense of the ridiculous understand me. Have you a sense of the ridiculous?”

“Maybe. But I still don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

She looked up at me and her eyes glittered in the gloom.

“Think about it. You will.”

We descended the stairs and into the hall; I saw the front door was slightly ajar, allowing a sliver of moonlight to paint a stripe of silver light across the floor. When I opened the door to its fullest extent and stood to one side, she went out on to the top step; became glimmering white and faintly disturbing. But her dazzling smile and above all that enchanting voice, succeeded in reestablishing a measure of reassurance.

“I am going straight home now, but you must visit us tomorrow. I will tell Mummy and Daddy to expect you, which I am sure will cheer them up a great deal. They don’t have many visitors.”

“How far away is your house?” I enquired.

“Not far. Just cross the drive and follow the path through the woods. You’ll find our cottage in a clearing.”

She descended the steps, then walked slowly across the drive while my bemused brain tried to determine why I should be suddenly attacked by a fit of violent trembling. There was something wrong about that graceful, receding figure, but I could not at that time decide what it could be. Then she entered the shadow cast by the first tree and after turning and giving me a parting wave, disappeared from my sight.

I closed the door and went back to my room, there to lie sleepless on that vast bed, racked by both fear and excitement. I was somewhat relieved to discover that the eerie silence had been dispelled by any number of normal sounds; the distant hoot of an owl, the murmur of breeze-teased leaves, the occasional creak of contracting floorboards.

Presently a black cloud bank obliterated the revealing moonlight and the ensuing darkness did little to comfort, but in the space which separates one thought from the next, I slipped into the pit of oblivion and knew no more until Jenkins roused me. He placed a silver tray on the bedside cabinet and inclined his head.

“Good morning, sir. I trust you slept well. I have taken the liberty of bringing a light breakfast to your room. I remember from the old days that gentlemen appreciate these little attentions.”

I sat up and sensed the day was already well advanced.

“There was really no need for you to go to all this trouble.”

“No trouble at all, sir. On the contrary. It is a positive pleasure to have a guest in the old place again. It is a beautiful day and I am delighted to say her ladyship is more like her old self. I do think this is going to be one of her good days. She’s quite lively.”

I found this hard to believe but could do no less than crease my face into an inane grin and express counterfeit delight.

“That’s marvellous! Absolutely marvellous! When will it be convenient for me to see her?”

Jenkins hesitated before replying. “I was wondering, sir, if you would be so kind as to sit with her later on this morning. When it’s one of her good days I don’t like leaving her alone and it is necessary for me to go down to the village. This will be an excellent opportunity for you to have a little chat – hold an interview, I believe you call it.”

Hope raised a tiny head and I said: “She really can talk then?”

“Did I not say so, sir? How remiss of me. When you have finished breakfast you’ll find the bathroom down the corridor. Razors, toothbrushes and such like are in the wall cabinet. I will await your pleasure, sir.”

The bathroom was lined with teak, the bath tub encased in rosewood; but hot water came from a comparatively new wall heater that looked very much out of place. In a cabinet I found several bone-handled toothbrushes, ajar of pink tooth powder and a leather case that contained seven cut-throat razors, each one embossed with a day of the week on its ebony handle. A shaving mug, brush and cylinder of soap completed this collection of Victorian toiletry. Having shaved (with difficulty) and bathed I returned to the bedroom and found my suit had been sponged and pressed, my shirt washed and my shoes cleaned.

When I entered Jenkins’ room I found him sitting in an armchair, wearing a black overcoat and bowler hat, nursing a voluminous shopping bag on his lap. He rose and smiled bleakly.

“Ah, there you are, sir. Now you are here I’ll pop down to the village. Look in on her ladyship whenever it’s convenient. She is expecting you.”

“Right. Will you be long?”

“Not more than an hour, sir. But there’s no need for you to be concerned: her ladyship has been attended to.”

I quickly decided not to think about that statement, then – just as he reached the doorway – asked the question that demanded a satisfactory answer.

“Jenkins, are you aware that a young girl roams this house at night?”

He became as a man who has been robbed of all movement by a certain combination of words. I heard his voice; low – tremulous.

“Indeed, sir! Would she have been a young person in a white dress?”

“Yes. A very beautiful girl. Apparently she lives in a cottage in the woods. With her parents.”

He turned his head and spoke slowly, seemingly jerking each word out with great difficulty.

“I know of . . . this . . . young person, sir. It might be well . . . if you . . . did not encourage her. Make no contact . . . whatsoever. Above all . . . I beg of you . . . do not touch her. Never . . . never touch her.”

I tried to laugh, but the effort all but choked me. Instead I managed to ask:

“Why not? Who is she?”

“Please don’t ask questions, sir. Don’t make me regret allowing you to enter this house. Just ignore . . . forget and never touch. Do what I do . . . turn your back and walk away.” His voice rose to a near scream. “Shut your eyes, block up your ears and try hard to understand.”

He went into the hall, shoulders squared, bag gripped firmly in his right hand, frozen fear expressed in every line of his upright figure. I waited for the sound of the front door closing, before making my way to Caroline Fortescue’s bedroom.

I steeled myself to endure that awful stench, but found it less pungent than the day before. The creature on the chaise longue looked much the same; motionless, eyes partly open and betraying no sign of life. So much for Jenkins’ assertion that she was awake and expecting me. After watching her for a few minutes, I went over to the book shelves and began to examine the bound manuscripts.

Without doubt they were priceless. Written in a clear, round hand, with a space between each line so as to leave room for corrections, here were the original manuscripts of the literary masterpieces that had enthralled three generations. I turned over the pages of Moorland Master and marvelled at the concentration and sheer energy that writing something like a quarter of a million words with a pen and ink, must have involved. But of one thing I was certain. Every book had been a labour of love. The faultless penmanship, the neatly ruled out words of lines, with the substituted prose written above, testified to the masochistic pleasure that is the reward for arduous work well done. A sheet of faded blue notepaper had been pinned on page one and on this was written in the same clear style:

Life is what you make it

A simple philosophy and one easy to follow for a rich young lady in the nineteenth century. I closed Moorland Master and was reaching for the next manuscript when a low, almost masculine voice made me jerk round in sudden alarm.

“Young man, come here.”

It took courage to approach the chaise longue, then look down at Caroline Fortescue. She had not moved, the eyes were still half closed, but the mouth was wide open, as though the lower jaw had dropped. I managed to say:

“I’m Brian Radcliffe . . . a . . . a guest in your house.”

The rasping voice spoke again, but I could detect no movement either of the mouth or tongue. I could only suppose she had taught herself to speak with the stomach muscles, but each word was pronounced with precision.

“Of course, I had forgotten. I am inclined to be absent-minded these days. Time has become fluid, it ebbs and flows so that today often merges with yesterday. More, it sometimes recedes beyond yesterday. I daresay you are confused.”

I shook my head. “No . . . that is to say I am trying to understand.”

“That is fortunate. Poor Jenkins only thinks he understands. But our time is short for I shall soon drift away and next time we meet . . .” She paused and I heard a ghost of a chuckle. “I’ll not be entirely myself. There is a question you wish to ask me.”

I swallowed and tried to select one question from an entire army. “Yes, why did you stop writing after 1911?”

“Because there no longer existed the need to write books. I was able to live them. If that is an unsatisfactory reply, I can only add – think on what you have already seen and heard. Then you will . . . There is I believe a feeding cup nearby.”

I looked around and saw the china vessel with a long spout standing on the mantel shelf and on taking it down found it contained a small amount of the white liquid.

“Yes, I have it here.”

“Then be so kind as to pour liquid nourishment into my mouth. I am conscious of a drying up, purely illusory no doubt, but no less real.”

With an unsteady hand I poured enriched milk into that gaping hole, then withdrew the cup when the mouth filled. Little riverlets of white moisture spilled over and ran down the chin, but the remainder gradually disappeared, although I could not detect any sign of swallowing. The stuff seemed to be merely sinking down her throat. The harsh voice spoke again.

“Thank you. But I fear the result is not satisfactory. I am slipping away again . . . slipping away. Remember not to . . . to . . . or all will be . . . lost . . . lost . . .”

I waited for a long time, hoping (but dreading) she might speak again, but although the mouth remained open, no further sound came from it. Presently the door opened and Jenkins came tip-toeing across the room, his face lit by a gentle smile.

“Did you have a chat with her ladyship, sir?”

I nodded. “Yes, we had a brief but interesting conversation. But, Jenkins, how does she talk? Her mouth . . .”

“No questions if you please, sir. Now I see her ladyship has gone back to sleep. Splendid. I’ve prepared a light lunch, so if you would care to come downstairs, we’ll leave her to rest.”

I did not encourage the old man to speak during lunch for there was a distinct feeling that if I pressed him too hard, he would tell me something I did not want to hear. In this I was aided by his built-in compulsion not to speak when a superior displayed signs of wishing to remain silent, and this I did by frowning when he so much as cleared his throat. At last the meal ended and I volunteered to help him wash up, a suggestion he dismissed with something akin to horror.

“I’ll take a little walk,” I said quietly, almost daring him to make any objection. “Just a stroll round the grounds.”

His head was averted when he answered. “An excellent idea, sir. But it might be well if you kept to the drive. The woods are dangerous at this time of year. The undergrowth conceals boggy patches that can trap the unwary. I entreat you, sir. Keep out in the open.”

“I will not take any unnecessary risks,” I promised.

As I walked across the drive I knew he was watching, darting from window to window and possibly sighing with relief when I turned right and skirted the woods, wading through knee high grass until I came to an overgrown hedge that was breached by an old stile. This I climbed, then after making certain that I could not be seen from the house, entered the woods.

Dense undergrowth impeded progress, whippy twigs stung my groping hands as though some rustic deity were trying to protect its gloomy retreat from invasion. I veered left looking for the path my nocturnal visitor had taken the night before. Eventually I stumbled on to it; a barely perceptible parting that ran through stunted ferns and crumbling leaf mould; a ghost path which had died long, long ago.

To this day I am not certain how long I followed that narrow, almost non-existent trail, but suddenly I found myself facing a large clearing in which stood a snug, red-bricked cottage. It was familiar, yet more than a little disturbing. I tried to remember where I had seen such a cottage before, but could only conjure up mental pictures torn from brightly illustrated books, last seen before cosy nursery fires. Woodland cottage, elderly loving parents, a beautiful daughter who held intimate conversations with loquacious rabbits and other members of the animal kingdom.

A sloping red-tiled roof, two windows up and two down, a green door in the centre; a crazy paved path that divided a flower-rich garden; all protected by a white picket fence broken by a green gate. Dazzling white curtains masked the windows, flaming red geraniums enhanced the lower window sills, while blue smoke drifted up from two squat chimney pots.

Fear – apprehension – flowed back before a feeling of supreme contentment, creating the ridiculous impression that I – a wanderer on the vast plains of time – had at last come home. But below the surface, under the crust of self-deception, unwelcome knowledge seethed and threatened to manifest as indisputable fact. But I also knew with an unquestionable certainty, that in this place fantasy and reality were but two meaningless words man had created for his convenience. The truth was much more complicated.

I opened the gate, closed it carefully behind me, then walked slowly up the path and mounted the single, hearth-stoned step. I tapped on the green door and waited with keen expectancy for someone to welcome me. The door drifted open and I looked upon the model parents; those that we, when young and misunderstood, always wished for but rarely, if ever had. The woman could have been a youthful fifty or a mature forty; auburn hair, gentle dark eyes and a smiling mouth – the eternal mother for a perpetual child. The man! Those who can, think of Ronald Colman – handsome, grey-haired, urbane, neither young or old; a man of the world who had the ability to dismiss fear with a single word, banish doubt with a charming smile.

It was he who stretched out a long-fingered hand and said:

“Why, it must be the young man who is staying at the big house! Cathy has been on tenderhooks all day. Come in, my dear fellow. I am so pleased to see your ankle is better.”

Mother blushed and appeared quite willing to kiss me if given the least encouragement; and both made me feel like the prodigal son arriving home for his share of the fatted calf.

I was drawn into a narrow passage, then ushered into a comfortable parlour (that definition came most easily to mind) that smelt faintly of warm damp and the cloying aroma of decay. But there the bright red wallpaper looked as if it had been recently put up, the furniture newly purchased from a Victorian store, the patterned carpet delivered that morning from the factory.

Mother gave me a wonderful smile and motioned me to a deep fat armchair, while Father stood in the doorway and called out:

“Cathy, come down, dear. Your friend has arrived.”

I did not hear her descend the stairs, neither did it seem possible she had time to do so, for almost at once my moonlight girl was following her father into the room, her face enhanced by a faint blush. She said: “Hello, how is your ankle?” and promptly sat down in a chair opposite mine. Without hesitation I replied: “Much better thank you. It was so kind of you to help me,” and actually seemed to remember having my swollen ankle bound with a large silk handkerchief. But from then on I began to experience great concern about what I had done and said since entering the house, and what I might do in the immediate future. For example: I could remember Father stretching out his hand, but I could not remember if I had shaken it or not. For some reason this seemed to be very important. Maybe because Jenkins’ instruction kept crashing across my brain. “Make no contact . . . whatsoever.”

Was sitting on a chair making contact? I gently pounded the arm of my chair with a clenched fist. It seemed solid enough, and that which the senses record must be real. Three pairs of eyes watched me; Mother kindly, father expectantly, Cathy lovingly. Father spoke:

“We are so glad you came. It is very lonely sometimes.”

Mother expelled a deep sigh. “We could not live without Cathy, but she needs new material. I think that’s what I mean.”

Cathy’s lilting voice made me start.

“What is the use of a book unless it has printed pages? Would you like to stay with us forever?”

Truth wore a shroud as she hammered on the door of my brain, but I refused to admit her; face the grotesque dream. That lilting voice went on and on.

“Fiction can only flourish in the garden of fact. Even my genius cannot snatch fantasy out of the air. And there must be romance. A beautiful young man who comes walking down the lane. He’s lost I think and is limping. Or maybe he’s escaped from a prison in which he was unjustly confined, or jilted by a girl in that cruel outside world. But here – in this refuge from ugly reality – he will find his true love. They will make unsullied love in the melancholy purple twilight and send beautifully composed dialogue drifting up to the dark dome of heaven. They will never grow old, not even when the sun reaches out and consumes its children.”

Mother and Father had become as two wax statues that sat perfectly still with kindly smiles etched on their flawless faces. But Cathy moved. She stood up and stretched out slender arms. I did not surrender immediately for were there not three words blazoned across my brain in letters of fire? do not touch. But why? Could it be that long ago the original Cathy used to torment those gentlemen callers; flirt, tantalize, promise with her eyes, then draw back in pretended or real fear when they stepped over the line which separates reality from make believe? “Don’t touch me. Don’t ruin the dream.”

Sex creates. Frustrated sex still creates.

Fear made the hair of the back of my neck bristle; anger, unreasoning rage drove me forward – straight into those outstretched arms.

That lovely face was transformed into a mask of naked terror and my God how she screamed. For a brief moment I clasped a slender body in my arms, gazed into wide, wide open eyes and tried to smother that unending scream with my mouth. Then suddenly it seemed as if a mighty cold wind came roaring through the woods; it blew away the cottage walls, turned the furniture into scattered rocks; and sent me hurtling down into a bottomless pit.

When I recovered consciousness and had climbed up onto a strangely shaped boulder that had been so recently, a fat, deep chair, I was at last able to gaze upon the naked face of truth. I will be haunted by that ghastly knowledge until the day I die and it is one of the reasons why Wilfred Frazer never got his world-shattering story and why I am writing it now. Perhaps when it is once committed to paper I will be granted some peace of mind.

The old house basked in the afternoon sun, its upper windows gleaming slabs of light, that to the fanciful might have resembled the eyes of a mythological monster newly awakened from a century-long sleep. When I emerged from the woods and began to cross the drive, my shadow elongated and went streaking out before me, as though it could not wait for me to enter the house. It was then that I realized what had been so dreadfully wrong with Cathy when she crossed the drive in moonlight.

She had not cast a shadow.

Even from the hall I could hear the harsh sobbing, punctuated by an occasional wailing cry. I walked slowly up the stairs, then entered the room where the remains of Caroline Fortescue, Lady Bramfield lay upon the great four-poster bed. Jenkins was on his knees beside it, mourning his dead.

I said quietly: “When did she really die, Jenkins?”

He looked at me reproachfully with tear filled eyes.

“When you broke the dream, sir. When you touched. I warned you, sir. Do not touch, I said. Do not touch. You killed a living legend.”

I went over to the bed and looked down at the thing attired in a rusty black gown. Where the eyes had been there were now two gaping holes. A wave of anger made me shout:

“You lie, Jenkins. Lie to me – lie to yourself. She died long ago.”

He shook his head violently and pounded the bed with clenched fists. “No . . . no . . . you’re wrong. She was more alive than you or I, or anyone who walks the earth today. She created her own world . . .”

I grabbed his coat collar and pulled him to his feet. I placed my mouth within a few inches of his ear and whispered the awful truth. “Listen to me . . . don’t pull away, shut your eyes or plug your ears. That lovely creature that roamed this house at night, ran laughing along the passages, lived with make believe parents in a woodland cottage – that wasn’t the real ghost. Was it, Jenkins? Eh? That was how Caroline Fortescue saw herself-as maybe she once was. No, the real ghost was somewhere else. Where was that, Jenkins? Tell me.”

When he struggled and cried out I released him and he fell across the bed. Suddenly I was very tired and wanted to be far away from this house of death. I spoke quietly.

“Her dream world was so real she could not leave it, not even after death. So . . . so . . . she haunted her own corpse. Some personality fragment was able to delay decomposition, simulate the need for nourishment and dominate you, the necessary attendant. I don’t know how much longer this pretence could have gone on. Until you died possibly, for only you could maintain the great illusion. But before I go, satisfy my curiosity. How long has she been dead?”

Jenkins got up and wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his jacket. “Thirty years, I think. Her decline was gradual, but I have not detected a heart beat for at least twenty years. But I never really admitted that, sir. I couldn’t.”

I left Bramfield Manor and made my way towards the main gates without so much as a backward glance. I did not pay a visit to the inquisitive post mistress, but caught the first train to town. I told Frazer the truth: Caroline Fortescue had been dead for years and there was no story worth writing.

A week later Bramfield Manor burnt to the ground. Whether this was the result of an accident, or Jenkins had decided to turn the house into one vast pyre, including himself as a funerary sacrifice, is a matter for interesting conjecture. Certainly two charred skeletons were laid side by side in Bramfield churchyard.

I sometimes wonder if Jenkins would have considered this arrangement disrespectful.