The Mammoth Book of Modern Ghost Stories

“Before the French Revolution the château was owned by a really bad example of the French aristocracy of that time. Cruel, avaricious, and inordinately proud, the Vicomte de Cheterau treated his serfs worse than animals, beating, imprisoning, and torturing them at his pleasure. One day he devised the sadistic idea of adding yet another thong to his whip by placing a local tax on nails. As you know, it’s practically impossible to build anything without them, so the poorest peasants had to revert to the ancient, laborious practice of carving their own from the odd pieces of wood they could gather from the hedge-rows.”

“He must have been a swine.”

“Perhaps,” Neils agreed. “But no man, however cruel, deserved such a frightful death.”

“How did he die?”

Orsen stared at his reflection in the polished table. “One dark night, soon after the Revolution broke loose, his serfs crept into the chateau and pulled him out of bed. They dragged him to his business room and there they crucified him with their wooden nails. It took him three days to die; and they came each night to mock him in his agony with tantalizing jars of water and bowls of food.”

Bruce shuddered. “Horrible – did anyone ever live in the chateau again?”

“I believe so; but no tenant has ever stayed for long in recent years. Of course, the villagers won’t go near it. They are convinced that it’s haunted, as the story of the Vicomte de Cheterau has been handed down from father to son for generations.”

Hemmingway leaned forward. “Do you think these stabs the victims feel in their hands and feet are some sort of psychic repetition of the pains the Vicomte felt when the mob drove their wooden nails through his palms and insteps?”

“Quite possibly,” replied Orsen slowly. “There are many well-authenticated cases of monks and nuns who have developed stigmata from too intensive a contemplation of the agony suffered by Jesus Christ at His crucifixion.”

“It sounds a pretty tough proposition, then. When do we leave?”

“The day after tomorrow.” Neils gently stroked the back of his Siamese cat and his big pale eyes were glowing. “I may be able to show you a real Saati manifestation this time, Bruce; but we must take nothing for granted. You can leave all arrangements to me.”

A watery sun was shining through the avenue of lime trees, throwing chequered patterns on the wet gravel below, as the two friends were driven towards the chateau by a cheerful young captain into whose charge they had been given at the local H.Q.

“General Hayes told me about you, Mr Orsen,” he was saying. “I find it difficult to believe in spooks myself, but there’s certainly something devilish going on in the old place, and we shall be jolly grateful if you can find it for us. Those cottages in the village are damned uncomfortable.”

Neils leaned forwards to peer through the window at the rearing pile of grey stone just ahead of them, and the captain added: “Gloomy sort of place, isn’t it?”

As Bruce stepped out of the car he thoroughly agreed. The silence was eerie, broken only by a monotonous sound of water dripping from the rain-sodden trees that surrounded the chateau and almost shut out the sky. A dank, musty smell greeted them as they entered; a rat scurried away into the dark shadows of the hall.

“Well, Neils, old man,” he said with a wry grin. “This place certainly seems to have the right atmosphere.”

The little Swede did not appear to hear him. He was standing quite still, his large head thrown back and his eyes closed as if he were listening. Their guide gave an embarrassed cough, Unlike Bruce, he was not accustomed to Orsen’s peculiarities, and he felt that ghost-hunting was at the best an unhealthy form of amusement.

“Shall we get a move on?” he asked abruptly. “I mean, if you want me to show you round; it’s quite a big place, and the light will be gone in less than an hour.”

Neils blinked, then fluttered one slender hand apologetically. “Forgive me; please lead the way.”

They mounted the twisting stairs and as they passed the windows the evening light threw their shadows, elongated and grotesque, against the damp-sodden walls; no one spoke and the emptiness seemed to close in on them like a fog. As they wandered from room to room Neils followed behind the other two men humming a quaint old-fashioned tune to himself.

After an hour they made their way back to the hall and as they walked out towards the car their guide turned towards Orsen. “Well, now you’ve seen it. Are you really going to spend the night here?”

The little man smiled. “Certainly we are.”

Mentally shrugging his shoulders the captain helped Bruce to carry the luggage upstairs, then ironically wished them good night. When the sound of the car was lost in the distance Bruce returned to the ballroom and found Neils standing by one of the long bow-windows.