Ghost of Farley Grange (The)

I am most ordinary. I am in no way unconventional of eccentric, from
my bowler hat to my black socks and shoes. No-one could be more sober
and practical. I say this with pride, having cultivated the art of
respectability for many years. I am the last person to be the victim of
hallucinations.

The experience began when I was a child. I was on holiday at my Aunt
Flora's house, Farley Grange. It seemed a warm, friendly old house.
Many hours of happiness I had exploring its corners and treasures
which, of course, I never found. But one bright morning I clambered to
the third floor and discovered another room. I at once made for its
heavy, white panelled door and had my hand raised to open it. Suddenly
my Aunt's voice, unusually strident, even frightened, called out:
"James - stop! What are you doing, you naughty boy?" She swept me up
and angrily bundled me downstairs. Then, with an effort, she calmed
herself.
"I'm sorry, James. But I thought I had told you never - never to go up
to the third floor, and never go into that room - please, for my sake."
She wavered between commanding and pleading. Nothing could have whetted
my curiosity more.
My aunt presumed that I would do what she asked, but I had not
promised.
With several weeks of holiday remaining, no boy could have resisted
such a temptation.

One evening, after being put to bed, I crept again to the third floor
and again confronted the heavy white door. Faint rays of light bathed
it. Was it locked? Mentally mustering all my heroes around me, I turned
the handle and pushed.

The door swung away into darkness. I tip-toed forward, putting my head
around it to pierce the mystery. With a dark notion of old furniture,
silver, cobwebs, a gilt-framed figure I could not discern over the
fireplace, and an overpowering mustiness, I froze. Waves of hate like
the hissing of snakes swept over me. I stifled a scream and fled
downstairs into the arms of my Aunt.

I had had punishment enough. Thongs of metalled leather would not have
forced me back to that room.
"Whose was it?"
"Over one hundred years ago the then Master of the house died there. He
poisoned himself after a life of crime hereabouts. He had been a
Justice of the Peace, too. But his conscience, you see - he couldn't
deceive that, it seems. The legend says he will return on the same
night as he died - on a Christmas Eve - after one hundred and fifty
years."
"How long ago was that, Aunt Flora?"
"Well, James, there must still be forty years to go, so we're quite
safe, I suppose. But there's evil there, I know it. The legend says the
ghost must return. Til it finds the love of a good woman."

I never went near the room again, but that childhood memory persisted.
Poor Aunt Flora's death, some ten years later, only intensified it. My
curiosity strengthened. The presence there had been so strong.
Meanwhile, the years passed and I entered manhood, the city, and the
full regalia of my respectibility.

Farley Grange went to Aunt Flora's daughter, Elizabeth, who later
occupied it with her husband and children. We met from time to time.
She knew about the ghost and his room, which was never disturbed. In
fact the floor was barred off.
"You know, I have a feeling that at the appointed time that ghost will
return. He'll sit in his chair by the table as the legend says. I'll
swear that room has a presence."
"All right, Jimmy, why don't you come over and see for yourself? It's
only two years to go now. Bring Katherine and have a few days'
rest."
I felt I had the chance to solve the problem of a lifetime and,
perhaps, to rid my nights of a recurrent nightmare. It was a challenge
and, in daylight, in London, it was easy enough to accept it.
Consequently, on Christmas Eve two years later, we drove fast and
comfortably - oh yes, I'd done quite well, you know, in the City -
through the bare, black trees to Farley Grange.
Elizabeth, John and their family met us.
"Now, Jim, thrown off the cares of office to lay the old ghost,
eh?"
"That's about it, John. You haven't been up to that room! You don't
know the emanation. It's indescribably horrible; the misery and
wickedness of ages is there, pent up, corrosive, and rotten. I think it
will return. We'll know soon enough."
"Tell us all about it - once again," said Katherine, sitting down
beside me in front of the fire after lunch. She crossed her legs and
smiled. She's a good wife - what I call sensible without being
stodgy.
But the hour of midnight had to come. The children were in bed and all
was quiet.
"Forget about it, Jim. It's only an old wives' tale."
"No, after all these years, I'm going to watch, You can wait down here
if you like. But don't go to bed. If I see anything I'll flash this
torch down."
"I won't have anything to do with it. Are you going into the
room?"
"I don't know, Elizabeth. The legend says it will sit down in the
chair, but I suppose it will go in through the door? Anyway, I'll watch
from outside first."
"Jim," added Elizabeth, "There is something in it, you know. I've
sensed it. Be careful."
"All right, old girl - my, you remind me of Aunt Flora's
warning!"
John lolled by the fire, Christmas tree aglow behind him and cigar
before.
"If anything should come of it, old man - just give a yell and I'll be
right there. But I don't think you have any need to worry. Don't be too
long that's all, there's a good chap."

Katherine came upstairs and waited. I opened the stairway to the third
floor. Then, with my torch, I went up alone. I felt this was just
something I had to do.
There, after all those years, was that door again. I could almost see
my childhood self reaching for it. My watch, ticking as loudly as my
heart-beats, said just after twelve. It was cold and damp. A draught
placed icy hands on my spine. I watched. Then I knew that I would have
to go into the room itself - there was no sign of it on the small
landing.

Once more, after some forty years, I reached for the door knob and
turned it. The door, as before, swung slowly inwards. I went forward.
The stench again almost overwhelmed me. I crossed towards the table and
the chair. A cold moon placed a small finger through a small window
upon the framed figure over the fireplace. Then - I could simply not
help it - I was racked by a shuddering sob. I groped for the chair and
sat down in it before I collapsed. For now, seated in the chair,
surrounded by death and the venomous hiss of a thousand scorpions, I
understood.

The man in the picture, though dressed in black, silver and lace, was -
Myself!