The Science-Fantasy Megapack: 25 Classic Tales from Fantasy Adventures

THE HOUSE ON THE MOORS, by John Glasby

“You say you’re the last of the Ingham family?” The innkeeper leaned his elbows on the bar and spoke in a low whisper, evidently not wanting to be overheard by his other customers.

“That’s right.” Charles Ingham nodded. “My uncle, Henry Ingham, died in London last week leaving everything to me.”

“And that’s why you’ve come to Exborough?”

Picking up his change, Charles said, “I understand my family came from this part of Yorkshire some two centuries ago. I believe they lived some distance from the village, out on the moors yonder. I’m sure I caught a glimpse of the Manor on my way here.”

The other rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Reckon you might just have seen the ruins of the west wing,” he remarked. “There’s not much else left to see.”

Charles paused with his glass halfway to his lips. “Ruins?” He looked bewildered. “Nothing like that. This seemed to be quite a splendid building. Very old, of course, but I’d say it was in quite good condition considering its age.”

He was suddenly aware that one of the regulars had approached the bar and was standing beside him, an odd expression on his lined features.

“You say you saw the Manor on your way here?” The man looked to be well into his eighties but his eyes were bright and alert.

Charles nodded, controlling his irritation at this unexpected interruption.

“Then you either imagined it — or you’re one o’ that accursed family. We all thought the Inghams had died out a hundred years ago.”

Charles’ irritation turned into anger at this remark. Brusquely, he retorted, “Certainly my name is Ingham but I don’t see—”

“Now let’s have none of your wild tales, Seb,” the innkeeper interrupted sharply. “Mister Ingham is merely staying here for a few days and I’m sure he’s not interested in any of your fancies.”

“On the contrary, if he’s anything to say against my family, I’d prefer it if he’d say it to my face.”

“All right, mister, I will. It’s all true, even though it did happen nearly two hundred years ago. The Inghams were a wild lot who lived in the Manor in those times and Sir Roger Ingham was the worst of ’em all. Folk swore he’d sold his soul to the Devil.

“All the Lords and Ladies attended his devilish parties and most o’ the local gentry. He were a man o’ the most violent temper. They do say that if one o’ his servants angered him, he’d turn the man out on the moors and set the dogs after him. Nobody dared say a word against him.”

The octogenarian took a swallow of his beer, then set the glass down on the counter. “But even then, the Devil took care of his own. Seems that one night some o’ the drapes caught fire. Within five minutes the whole o’ the house was ablaze, flames shootin’ up into the sky from one end o’ the Manor to the other.”

Charles uttered a derisive laugh. “So now you’re telling me they were all burned in the fire and their ghosts still haunt the Manor. Utter rubbish.”

“Nay, mister. Nothing like that. Somehow, they all got out alive but it were impossible to save the building. There was talk that one body was found inside the ruins the next day but there weren’t enough left to identify him. Bat since it were none o’ the party that night, they reckoned it must’ve been one o’ the servants they hired from York.”

“Or some poor devil Sir Roger had killed after having sport with him,” put in the innkeeper.

“All very interesting,” Charles said with a note of derision in his voice. “But since I’m certain of what I saw, I think I’ll go out there myself and see what’s really there.”

“Then on your own head be it,” muttered the old man. “But you won’t find anything. Trouble with you city folk is that you reckon you know it all.”

Charles felt a stab of anger rise up in him again but he managed to choke it down. Checking his watch, he estimated there were still two hours of daylight left.

“How do I get to the Manor?” he asked.

He sensed the hesitation on the innkeeper’s part, then the other said, “Go to the end of the village. There’s a narrow lane on the left. Follow it for about two miles and you’ll come upon a track leading onto the moors. It’s quite a long walk but I wouldn’t advise you to take the car. And I can assure you, you’ll find nothing but ruins.”

Thanking him, Charles set off, soon leaving the village behind. The sun was still quite high above the western horizon as he reached the lane.

Twenty minutes later, he found the track. It was only just discernible, a rough trail that led him through patches of tangled briar and clusters of stunted trees before topping a low rise.

Below him, in a shallow valley, stood a large, stately building. The track continued, passing between tall metal gates, still standing after all those years since it was last occupied two centuries earlier.

The extensive grounds were a jungle of riotous growth but it was comparatively easy to visualize how magnificent they had once been and to feel some of the old-worldly charm which had once existed here.

Pushing his way through the entangling growths, Charles walked up to the magnificent door. Above it was a stone lintel and on it was the ancient crest of the Inghams, only just visible in the smooth stone.

He stood absolutely still, taking in every detail of the building, wondering why a sudden chill had descended upon him. Somehow, he had the impression there was something more here than mere neglect amiss with this place. Something dead, yet still terribly alive, was watching him with unseen eyes.

Quickly, he shrugged the sensation away. He did not believe in ghosts haunting old buildings such as this. Certainly, if he decided to take it and live here there was a lot needing to be done to make it habitable again.

On impulse, he grasped the heavy brass handle, twisted it, and pushed.

He had expected the door to be locked. Instead, it opened noisily and, after a momentary pause, he stepped inside. It was cool and dark inside the long hallway with its oak paneled walls.

At the end, he found himself in the huge banqueting hall with a massive table along the center and some twenty ornate chairs ranged neatly around it. Woven tapestries hung along the walls, their long drapes interspersed with large portraits.

He gave a little shudder. It was startling but everything looked as though the occupants had just stepped outside into the gardens a few moments before. There was not a speck of dust anywhere. There were no cobwebs festooning the walls and high corners, nothing out of place.

Yet this was utterly impossible. The solicitors had told him there was nothing but ruins after that fire two hundred years earlier. Evidently those old stories of a fire had been nothing more than that; old stories. Certainly it was a mystery why Sir Roger had left so abruptly and no one seemed to have been here since.

He had to admit there was an eerie atmosphere about it but he put this down to having been untenanted for so long. After exploring the rooms on the ground floor, he made his way up the wide stairway to the upper stories. Here, everything was as though it had been in use only the day before. There were eight bedrooms, all with clean sheets and covers on the beds.

In the last one at the end of a long corridor, he walked over to the window and looked out over the grounds. Once the rank weeds were dug up and burned it would not take long to get the gardens back into shape.

To his left was what had once been the orchard. Several fruit trees hung with blossom with the previous year’s leaves lying in thick carpets beneath them. He stood there for several minutes with the light of the setting sun shining directly into his eyes.

It was just as he turned away that he noticed something distinctly odd. For a split second he had the impression that the scene outside changed. Everything happened so suddenly and unexpectedly that he couldn’t be absolutely sure of what he saw. It was as if another scene had been abruptly superimposed upon the unkempt gardens outside.

Almost, he decided, as if they had been subtly altered in some way. He shook his head angrily. Nothing more than a thin cloud passing across the sun, he told himself fiercely.

Going outside, he closed the heavy door and walked back to the village.

By now, he had made up his mind. He was determined to take occupancy of the Manor. From what he had seen, very little needed to be done inside. He could move in right away. A few external repairs and a couple of gardeners to put the grounds into shape, and it would be fully habitable.

That evening, after supper in the dining room of the inn, he mentioned his intentions to the innkeeper. There were now several of the locals in the bar and the air was thick with tobacco smoke.

“Surely you’re not serious, sir?” The other eyed him with a blend of puzzlement and concern on his ruddy features. “I don’t know what you think you saw at that accursed place. But if you saw anything at all, you’ll put that foolish idea out of your mind completely.”

“Why? There’s absolutely nothing wrong with the house. It’s in perfect condition. I won’t even have to buy any furniture.”

“You’ve actually seen it — you’ve been inside?”

“Of course I have. Why shouldn’t I? After all, it is my property now. I can do exactly as I like with it.”

“But—” the innkeeper began. He was on the point of saying something more but at that moment, the old man Charles had met earlier, now seated in the far corner, said,

“You’re a danged fool, mister. Either that or you’ve been seeing things.”

“Just what do you mean by that?” Charles demanded. “I know precisely what I saw.”

The other shook his head, almost pityingly. “I’ve no doubt you saw something. A few folk have but nobody from this village. Ain’t one of us who’d go near that Devil’s place.”

“Suit yourselves,” Charles said shortly. He was beginning to lose his patience with these locals and their fanciful, spectral tales.

The next day, after paying the innkeeper, he thrust his bags into the boot of the car and drove out of the village. The weather had taken a turn for the worse with a high wind and towering clouds threatening rain. As he turned onto the narrow track he eased his foot off the accelerator. A thin mist shrouded the moors and he had no wish to damage the car as it swayed and bumped over the treacherous, rugged terrain.

Topping the low hill, he drove carefully through the gates and parked immediately in front of the Manor. In the dismal gray light it held a strangely forbidding look, quite different from how it had appeared in the bright sunlight.

Taking his bags inside, he set them down in the hall. He had already ascertained there was no electricity laid onto the house but in the kitchen he found three paraffin lamps and several large candles. Having brought with him a plentiful supply of food and drink, he settled in, checking every room for any evidence of a drip with would suggest a leak where rain was getting in. He made himself something to eat, then went into the well-stocked library. Taking down a couple of books, he spent the afternoon reading.

That night, he retired early. It was already dark outside with rain lashing against the windows and the wind howling around the ancient eaves.

Lying in the large bed with the candle flame flickering on the mahogany dresser beside him, he suddenly realized that ever since entering the house, he had been listening intently for sounds that might be lurking behind those normal to old buildings.

There had been nothing.

No ghostly voices murmuring in the dark shadows; no clanking of chains in the long, gloomy corridors. As he had suspected, the spectral stories spoken of by the villagers were nothing more than that — idle gossip handed down from one generation to another and undoubtedly suitably embellished over the years.

He fell asleep almost at once. When he woke, an indeterminate time later, it was still dark. The candle had burned down only a little way. Clearly, he had not slept for long.

He lay quite still for a moment, struggling to identify what had woken him. Then the sound came again. It was quite distinct and unmistakable and it came, not from inside the house, but from outside; horses’ hooves and the creak of carriage wheels.

Puzzled, Charles swung his feet to the floor and padded to the window overlooking the front of the house. Some time while he had slept, the sky had cleared and now the grounds were flooded with yellow moonlight. Details were clearly visible but there was no sign of anything that could have produced the sounds he was still hearing. It was as if invisible carriages were moving away from the house towards the distant gates.

He picked out faint voices and occasional raucous laughter before the last echoes atrophied into silence.

He also noticed another odd effect, one that he had witnessed before during his previous visit.

The entire scene outside shimmered briefly. Details wavered in a curious manner for which he could find no rational explanation, unless it was a distortion produced by the glass.

Somehow, he found his way back to the bed and sat with the covers pulled up to his chest, staring into the darkness. Had he simply imagined those sounds? After all, this was his first night in a strange, old house and perhaps those stories told him at the inn might have affected him more than he had thought.

In the morning, he tried to put the event down to some strange, but extremely vivid, nightmare, telling himself it had not really happened. There were no such things as ghosts. The dead remained dead.

Besides, even if there had been any truth in the old man’s utterance, everyone had escaped the fire, which had supposedly gutted this building. Even that made no sense when there was absolutely no evidence that the Manor had been rebuilt, certainly not within the last century.

To take his mind off the morbid thoughts that raced chaotically through his mind, Charles spent most of the day in the garden close to the house, setting to work with his usual vigor to put the grounds in order again. It was hard work digging up tangled roots, clearing the choking weeds from around thorny rose bushes and apple trees.

By evening, there was a large bonfire burning on a patch of clear ground, the dense white smoke spiraling lazily into the still air.

Satisfied with what he had achieved, he left the fire smoldering and went inside. For some reason, he was feeling tensed and decided to take a couple of the tablets his doctor had prescribed. The doctor had warned him not to take alcohol with the tablets but, as he settled himself in front of the fire in the wide hearth, he thought, “What the hell—”

As he sipped his third brandy, he considered several questions that were still puzzling him. Why was there no sign of dust anywhere? He doubted if anyone from the village would come daily to keep it clean even if his uncle had made provision for that before his death. It was almost as if the house had been waiting for him to move in.

After the fourth brandy, an odd drowsiness came over him. He felt his eyelids drooping, his head sinking towards the table. He had the feeling that someone, or something, was watching him closely. Once he opened his eyes to assure himself it was only his imagination playing tricks with him. The only eyes staring down at him were those in the large portraits on the walls.

His eyes closed again and a moment later he was asleep, the half-empty glass falling from his hand onto the floor. When he came awake, he was shivering violently. The two candles he had placed on the table had burned very low and were flickering on the point of extinction. Then, with a sudden cry, he jerked himself from his chair.

The unmistakable sound of voices and laughter reached him quite clearly from outside. His first thought was that some of the more adventurous youths from the village had made their way across the moors intent on making trouble.

If that were the case, he’d soon chase them away. With a grim determination, he strode to the door and threw it open. The sudden shock of what he saw froze him instantly.

Everything was changed. Where he had left the smoldering bonfire was a wide grassy lawn sloping towards the gates. Light suddenly spilled through every window on the lower floor, clearly illuminating the long line of carriages drawn up in front of the house. The men and women alighting from them were dressed oddly in the style of two centuries earlier.

In twos and threes, they brushed past him. Not one so much as glanced in his direction or gave any sign they saw him. It was as if he didn’t exist. Behind him, in the banqueting hall, there was a sudden riot of noise. Tall wax candles suddenly appeared on the table.

As he watched, every seat was occupied. A ceaseless chatter dinned in his ears as he sagged against the door.

At the head of the table he saw a tall, arrogant man in his mid-fifties whom Charles instantly recognized from the portraits around the walls as the infamous Sir Roger Ingham. His face was flushed with drink and something in his close-set eyes sent a shiver of ice along Charles’ spine. The man was the embodiment of pure, sadistic evil.

Immobile, Charles struggled to pull himself together. The one thought in his mind was that the drug he had taken with the brandy was affecting him to the point where he was hallucinating. Once he slept it off, everything would return to normal.

A harsh, angry shout from the head of the table jerked Charles’ head around. His ancestor had lurched drunkenly to his feet, a silver goblet in his hand. “More wine!” he yelled.

One of the liveried servants hurried over. The man’s hands were shaking violently as he poured more wine into the goblet. Some spilled onto the table but more fell upon Sir Roger’s richly-embroidered coat.

With a roar of rage, he flung the goblet into the servant’s face, sending him reeling back. Whirling, Sir Roger motioned to two other footmen standing nearby.

“I’ll teach ye to spill drink on your master!” Swaying a little, he tore at the servant’s jacket and shirt, ripping them away until the man was naked to the waist. With a gesture, Ingham ordered the footmen to pin the man to the wall.

Another lackey crossed to the wall and took down a long, heavy whip, which Sir Roger snatched from him. Motioning the footmen away, he drew back the whip and then proceeded to flog the unfortunate servant mercilessly. Within minutes, the man’s back was a mass of lacerated, bleeding flesh.

But worse was to come. Dragging the servant from the wall, he flung him to the floor. Then, reaching up, he pulled one of a pair of axes from the wall. Charles could barely suppress a scream as his ancestor raised the axe high above his head and brought the blade down on the moaning man’s outstretched wrist.

“Now ye’ll not spill any of my fine wine again.” Sir Roger straightened, his face like a demon’s as he stared around the guests gathered at the table.

Charles had expected to see shock and horror mirrored on their faces. But, without exception, he saw broad smiles of approval, their very attitudes applauding his actions and lusting for more. Clearly, these folk were just as evil as Sir Roger. The footmen hauled the servant to his feet and took him from the room while a third entered and sprinkled sawdust on the pool of blood near the table.

Shaking uncontrollably, Charles pushed himself hard against the wall. Dear God, had such scenes as this really happened two hundred years ago? If so, he could clearly understand how the villagers felt about his family even after all this time.

Sir Roger had returned to his seat, an expression of malicious amusement on his coarse features. For a moment, he sat there, his gaze roving over the faces of his guests.

Then, suddenly, he turned his head and stared directly at the spot where Charles stood. His gaze locked with Charles’ and there was a look of growing amazement blended with anger on his bloated features.

Starting up, he pointed directly at Charles. “An interloper in our midst!” he bellowed. “How did yon knave gain entry into my house? Seize him!”

Somehow, Charles galvanized himself into action. Several of the guests were on their feet. Together with the servants, they came towards him.

His first thought was the front door directly behind him. Frantically, he twisted the handle but it stubbornly refused to open. There was no escape that way.

Turning, he ran for the far wall. His only chance lay in getting back upstairs, into his bedroom, and locking the thick wooden door. A dark, menacing figure suddenly blocked his way.

Without thinking, he swung a clenched fist at the leering face, expecting his hand to pass right through it. Instead, his knuckles contacted solid flesh.

With a grunt, the man staggered and fell to his knees. Desperately, Charles kicked out as the servant attempted to grab him around the knees. Then, acutely aware of the pandemonium all around him, he managed to free himself.

Moments later, he reached the bottom of the wide stairway and took the stairs two at a time, almost falling in his frantic haste to reach the top. Behind him, Sir Roger was shouting at the top of his voice, urging his guests on.

Throwing open the door of the bedroom, he slammed it shut behind him, sliding the thick metal bolts into place. He was shaking convulsively as he dragged the heavy dressed across the floor, thrusting it hard against the door.

His mind whirling, he threw himself down on the bed. If this was an hallucination induced by that drug he’d taken, it was too damned real for his liking. Even now, the hallucination continued. Dimly, he heard the sound of heavy footsteps in the corridor outside the door.

The handle turned, accompanied by several loud blows. Harsh voices sounded. Then these ceased. But from downstairs, there was still the sound of coarse, raucous laughter.

Steadying himself, he tried to think clearly. This had to be a delusion. There was no other rational explanation. From all he knew, it was a fact that none of these people had died here and there was no reason for them to haunt this place.

He clung desperately to that one thought, still struggling to compose himself. How long he lay there, still trembling all over, he couldn’t tell. Then, abruptly, there came a change in the sounds from below. The harsh merriment gave way to shrieks of terror. There came the crash of dishes, the unmistakable sound of running feet.

For a moment, Charles remained where he was, fingers clutching convulsively at the bed covers. Then he stumbled from the bed and walked unsteadily to the window.

There was still light spilling onto the lawn from the lower floor but now it was different, tinged with an angry red. It was not candlelight but something far more frightening and deadly.

The house was ablaze. He could not understand how it had happened but he knew he had to get out of there, and quickly. Pulling the dresser from the doorway, he tugged urgently at the handle. It refused to open.

There was the faint sound of carriage wheels diminishing into the distance, followed by the insidious crackle of flames eating into the woodwork, spreading swiftly through the lower half of the house.

As he pulled futilely at the door, Charles Ingham now saw it all. With the possible exception of one, there were no ghosts here. It was the house itself which was the ghost, taking him back to that far-off time of Sir Roger and his cronies — and in a single soul-searing instant, he knew the identity of that body which had been found in the burnt-out ruins all those years ago!