The Mammoth Book of Modern Ghost Stories

“Can you hear the sh-sh-sh of panniered dresses, the brittle laughter of powdered ladies with their gallants, and the tapping of their heels as they dance a minuet to the tinkle of the harpsichord?” he said softly. His eyes stared blindly, and their pupils contracted. “Or do you hear the hoarse cries of those ragged, half-starved creatures as they stumble through these rooms smashing everything in sight, their mouths slobbering with frantic desire for revenge? Can you hear the shrieks, hardly human in their terror, of the wretched Vicomte as he is dragged to his death by those who were once his slaves?”

“No,” said Bruce uneasily, “but I’ll believe you that these walls would have a tale to tell if they could only talk.”

“My friend, they have no need when the seventh child of a seventh child is listening.”

Bruce shivered, as an icy chill seemed to rise up from the bare floor. “I’m hungry,” he said as brightly as he could. “What about unpacking and having a little light on the scene?”

Neils smiled. “Yes, we will eat and sleep here. We shall have to shade the candles though, as there aren’t any black-out precautions. I suppose the Army thought this room too big to bother about. I see they’ve done the bedrooms and everywhere else downstairs.”

“What made you choose the ballroom?”

“Because Hayes told that it is one of the few rooms in which no one has yet been attacked; so we shall be able to see if the Force possesses harmful powers against humans anywhere in the house, or whether it can only become an evil manifestation in certain spots.”

While Bruce set out an appetizing array of food from the hamper on the floor, Neils unpacked his cameras. The American had seen them keep him company on more than one thrilling adventure, but their process, Orsen’s invention, was a mystery to him. Neils explained them only by saying that their plates were abnormally sensitive. He said the same thing of his sound-recorder, an instrument like a miniature dictaphone.

Having finished their dinner with some excellent coffee, cooked on a primus stove, they went along to the big, old-fashioned bathroom to fix Orsen’s first camera and his sound machine. As they entered the room Bruce wrinkled his nose. “What a filthy smell! The drainage must be terrible.”

Neils agreed as he placed one instrument on the window-sill and one on the broad mahogany ledge that surrounded the old-fashioned bath. He sealed the windows with fine silken threads and did the same to the door. Then, with their footsteps echoing behind them, they made a tour of the silent chateau, leaving the Swede’s cameras in carefully selected places, till they came to the front hall, where Orsen left his last camera, and sealed the door leading to the back stairs with the remains of the reel of silk. Their job done they returned to the ballroom, and having made themselves as comfortable as possible with the rugs and cushions, settled down for the night.

Bruce could not sleep. They had lit a fire with some dry logs found in the kitchen and its dying flames sent a cavalcade of writhing shapes racing across the walls and ceiling.

Presently a moon shone through the uncurtained windows; propping himself on his elbow Bruce started at the unfamiliar lines it etched on Neils’s face as he lay on his back, breathing gently. Orsen’s enormous domed forehead shone like some beautiful Chinese ivory as the cold white light glanced across it, and his heavy blue-veined lids and sensitive mouth were curiously like those of a woman. He was sound asleep, yet Bruce knew that if there were the slightest sound or if an evil presence approached, he would be alert and fully in command of all his faculties in a fraction of a second.

Bruce lay back reassured. He could hear the muffled scuffling of rats behind the wainscoting. At length he dozed off.

Suddenly a shrill scream rent the silence, tearing it apart with devastating hands of terror. Bruce sprang to his feet and rushed to the window. The driveway was brilliantly illuminated by the glare of the moon, but he could see nothing. Orsen sat up slowly. “It’s all right,” he murmured; “only an owl.”

Nodding dumbly, Bruce returned to his couch, his heart thudding against his ribs.

Morning came at last, and after breakfast Orsen went off to examine his cameras. He found their plates negative and his seals all undisturbed, whilst the sound-machine recorded only the scrambling noise of rats. Re-setting his apparatus, he returned to the ballroom. Bruce was staring gloomily out of the window at the steady downpour of rain now falling from a leaden sky. He wheeled round as Neils came in. “Well?”

“Nothing. I think we’ll go down to the village now. We might get a hot bath and you can have a drink. You look pretty done in.”

“Yes,” Bruce agreed laconically.