The Room Above the Study
by Laurence MacDonald
Genre: Horror/Supernatural
Swearwords: None.
Description: Set in Caithness some time in the late 19th century, a young man is called upon to settle his grandfather's estate and finds himself spending a stormy night in a terrifying house.
Swearwords: None.
Description: Set in Caithness some time in the late 19th century, a young man is called upon to settle his grandfather's estate and finds himself spending a stormy night in a terrifying house.
It was on a cold afternoon in late November when Douglas Munro alighted from the brougham that had conveyed him from the railway station in Thurso and, looking down from the moorland's cliff edge to the village below, he shrugged and sighed. He instructed the driver to return at the same time the following day and the young gentleman, well-dressed in a country tweed, shouldered his knapsack and picked careful footsteps upon the perilous path that led down to it. Garnsby, for that is the little settlement's name, lies secluded in a deeply cut ravine in the bluff headlands of Scotland's north coast and serves as home and harbour to a community sustained, chiefly, by a small fleet of lug-sailed fishing yawls. He was there on important family business: his grandfather - Garnsby's doctor - had died and, with his own father posted in India, it fell upon him to sell the house and settle the estate. He had hardly known his grandfather, not even in childhood, and it was a considerable inconvenience for him to have had to travel so far from Edinburgh to attend to these matters. In short, he was anxious to complete his obligations forthwith and return to the city.
When, at last, he arrived in the village, he was struck by how still the place was. It seemed to him that, but for the curling peat smoke rising from the chimney pots, it might be thought deserted. There was a gentle murmur where the placid sea touched the dark rocks of the rugged shore, and from above came the mournful cries and screeches of gulls and terns; but in every other respect the village was silent. Hoping to find someone who might give directions, he walked further - to the harbour itself - yet, all there too was lonely and quiet. A collection of carefully stacked lobster creels rested on the stone pier and three empty boats stirred lazily at their tethers but there was nobody to be seen. He was not much surprised to find it so, for he knew that on any fair day, that was not the Sabbath, the fishing boats would set out at daybreak for the treacherous waters of the Pentland Firth and would not come home until much later in the day - not until their catches had been landed and sold at Scrabster fish market. Munro turned away and walked towards a group of white-walled cottages and, as he approached, the door of one creaked open and an elderly man appeared on the step. Munro announced himself as grandson of the recently deceased village doctor and, after some amiable discourse, obtained directions to the home of the woman who had kept house for the doctor on three mornings of each week.
Elspeth Mowatt was genial by nature but she opened her door to the city stranger with some hesitation and, seeing the look of suspicion, Munro produced from his pocket the telegram that, she herself, had sent from Thurso to give notice of the doctor's passing. His credentials thus established, Munro was immediately offered condolences and invited within for tea. He, though, explained his purpose in Garnsby; that he would depart on the morrow and that he should go to the house at once, and so he remained at the doorstep while Mrs Mowatt fetched the doctor's keys which she had retained for safekeeping. When she returned he thanked her and was about to leave when she grasped his arm and said:
“You'll not stay at that house tonight though. Come here after your work and have supper with us, I have a fold-away bed I'll make up in the front room and Archie won't mind a bit. Come down about nine and there will be a warm plate for you, and a dram and a yarn with Archie too.”
This was said in such a way that Munro understood the woman not to be merely offering some courtesy or duty out of respect to the late doctor; there was a gravity in her voice and manner that puzzled him. Could it be that the roof was unsound? Was the old place not wind and water tight? If that be so, he thought, he could easily tolerate some discomfort for one night. He replied:
“Most kind Mrs Mowatt, but I won't need to trouble you and your husband. Grandfather's house will serve for tonight and I'll be on my way there now to light a fire. I have brought provisions, so you see, I have all that I need.”
The woman's expression evinced disapproval and she said:
“Mr Munro, there is a storm from the north east coming this night and you must leave the place before ten at the latest. If you'll not bide here then lodge at the Sinclair's if that would please you better - they keep a clean room for travellers above the shop. Go there now and make the arrangement or come here before ten, but on no account should you bed in that house.”
There could be no doubt about it; the woman was adamant that he should not overnight in the house now belonging to his family and he felt some irritation. However, deciding to mollify rather than contend, he gathered his Inverness cloak about him, affected a shudder in the chill air and he said in a well-calculated, soothingly mild voice:
“Aye well, perhaps you are right,” and looking upward he continued, “the sky is beginning to look threatening. I'll light a fire now and then I shall find Mrs Sinclair's shop. Good day to you Mrs Mowatt and thank you. Thank you too, for all that you did for my grandfather. If I may, I shall visit you tomorrow before I leave.”
The woman smiled and nodded and Munro set off quickly. Following her directions, he soon came upon the doctor's house which was situated well back, above and behind the rows of white fishing cottages. For nearest company there was the manse, some two hundred yards distant, and beyond that stood the small kirk and its graveyard where his grandfather now lay. He supposed that he would visit there briefly the following morning: if for no reason other than to tell his father, in truth, that he had done so. The house stood in bleak surroundings and the air all around hung damp and cold. Two-storied, grey and substantial, the east-facing building was of stone construction and at the front were four windows and a double-doored entrance between the lower two of those. Close behind the house, a dark and brooding cliff of bare rock towered, almost vertically, to something like three hundred feet, perhaps more. He found the place gloomy and imposing and calculated that even in mid-summer it would be mostly cast in shadow from early in the afternoon. Stepping off the path, he crossed the unkempt square of grass at the front and pulled the heavy storm doors which swung out from a small vestibule. He unlocked the inner door and stepped into the dim and silent hallway. Although there was little need for it, he took out his watch and set the correct time on long-case clock that stood near the door; he wound it and swung the pendulum, and it comforted him to hear the deep 'tick' begin to mark the passing of seconds. Standing back for a moment, he admired the clock's yellowed, porcelain face and then he found matches and lit the table lamp which rested nearby. Taking up the lamp, he began a preliminary inspection of the place and it seemed to him that his grandfather had led a simple, if not frugal, life. The rooms had not been decorated in many years and in places the wall paper - all of it in the dark and muted shades of the old style - peeled away from mouldering plaster. A dank, musty smell tainted much of the air inside but this was ameliorated, somewhat, by the pleasing aroma of peat smoke which pervaded the kitchen and study where the doctor, it could be assumed, had spent most of his time. Upstairs, he discovered a closet and two bed chambers and each of those large, austere, and furnished with only a wardrobe, chest of drawers, chair and, at the wall opposing the window, a single bed. He was pleased to find the beds already stripped of linen and that Mrs Mowatt had removed all articles of clothing and other linen from the wardrobes and drawers and had placed them in neatly folded piles on each bed. Though there was nothing remarkable about the house he did experience a curious and unpleasant sensation in these upper apartments: there was something forlorn about them, and that, most distinctly felt in the room above the study. There seemed to be little comfort to be had upstairs and, although Munro had no intention of taking a room in the village he, equally, had no wish to sleep in either of the sombre bed chambers. He decided, therefore, that he would bring a mattress down to the study later. After this short inspection of the interior he went outside by the kitchen's back door and found a ready supply of kindling and peat in one of the outbuildings. Returning to the house he set a fire in the study and put a match to it, then he lit three lamps and one of these he placed in the hallway. With light and flame, some of the despondency of the place lifted a little and Munro settled into the old and worn-out leather chair by the fireplace and enumerated his tasks. Firstly, he would deal with the doctor's papers and write any necessary letters to banks and insurers etc. That done, he would bundle up books, for there was a large collection, and place any of interest in trunks to be stored until uplift could be arranged - most likely by boat - and those remaining would be donated to a worthy county charity or school. Attending to bank and business affairs and preparing the books for disposal would sufficiently occupy him for the evening, he thought, and he elected to defer the proper inspection of the roof and structure of the house until late morning when the daylight would be strongest.
After some passage of time in which he was engaged and engrossed with many and varied papers, Munro was brought alert to his surroundings by clamorous banging from upstairs. He lifted a lamp, went into the hall, and then up the first few steps of the staircase where he paused and listened closely. The strengthening wind whistled about the eaves and rippling slates rattled across the roof so that it occurred to him that he might find a window shaking in its frame. He continued up and found the higher reaches of the double-back staircase - dimly lit by a small and cobwebbed skylight - to be a very unappealing passageway to the gloomy space beyond. The banging came from the bed chamber above the study and when he entered the cheerless room he looked, at once, to the window. There he observed the lower sash slightly opened and the shutters swinging to and fro against their casings - each strike giving rise to a loud thud. It surprised him that Mrs Mowatt had neglected to secure the window but he was, all the same, relieved to find such a commonplace explanation for the trouble. He set down his lamp and fastened the window and, as he did so, he peered toward the village. The yawls had come home while he had been working downstairs and men were now securing their boats for the night. Beyond the harbour, ominous clouds piled high and ranged wide in the sky and the horizon had disappeared - obscured, as it was, by the dark-grey smearing of an approaching rainstorm. The waters of the little bay had become choppy too, and foaming waves broke against the rocky shore below the severe black cliffs. Munro closed the shutters, removed the mattress from the bed and dragged it downstairs where he set it near the study door, and when he again descended the darkening stairs after retrieving his lamp, he hoped and believed that he need not return there before morning.
Before he could continue his work proper, he was obliged to bring in supplies from the outbuilding and then, with a good and ready supply of paraffin for the lamps and peat for the fire, he returned to his task and worked ceaselessly until the clock announced eight. The sounding of the hour called Munro from the very last bundle of unsorted papers and he put them to one side and then he closed the shutters to lessen the howling of the storm outside. Suddenly aware that he was quite ravenous, he brought out sandwiches and wine from his knapsack and settled back in the armchair to eat. As he did so, he looked around the room with some satisfaction at his progress: the papers were almost all in order and notifications of the death had been written and lay sealed and ready for despatch from Thurso. Certainly, there were a great many books to be got through, but he would take delight in that particular endeavour as it had been clear from first glance at the bookcases that his grandfather's reading tastes accorded with his own and he had already spied several volumes which would merit uplift and transport to Edinburgh. Furthermore, among the collection were tomes devoted to anatomy and medical practice and he fancied that these might fetch a good price at auction. The hall clock was excellent and would go to the city but the other personal effects - amounting to little more than crockery, silverware and old furnishings - would be given away in the village. Admiring the warmth of the fire, Munro poured more wine and his thoughts turned from the furnishings to his fiancée back home in Edinburgh. But he was shaken from this reverie when a strange sound came from upstairs. A little discomfited, he laid down the glass, took up the lamp and crept quietly into the hall where he waited for a few moments. A quiet moan came from above - from the room above the study. He climbed the dark stairs but upon reaching the chamber he did not proceed immediately within - instead, he turned his ear to the door and waited. Presently, the mournful sound came again and angered by this further disturbance - and also, perhaps, at his fearful reluctance - he mustered the courage and resolve to enter. Inside, he held his lamp out towards each dark and dingy corner in turn, but there was nothing unexpected to be seen, and when he opened the wardrobe he found it to be as it should be: empty. The moaning then sounded behind him and he turned to the gaping black fireplace; but there was neither sooty cat nor stricken bird injured upon the grate. So is that all? He thought, wind in the chimney? He laughed a little and said aloud, “Damn this accursed room,” and went, at once, back down to the study. He believed then that there could be no further interruptions to his work. Certainly, he thought, there would be none from above.
The storm gathered around the house and increasingly violent gusts of wind began to thunder and roar in his own fireplace. From time to time, great billows of peat smoke blew into the room, and outside, torrents of rain battered hard upon the window panes. But the room remained warm and well-enough lit so that Munro was able to continue his labours in comfort and, when the clock struck ten, he had already bundled most of the books into three good-sized trunks. He had begun to arrange floor-space to accommodate the bed mattress when there came yet another disruption upstairs. And again, it was the sound of a low moaning; but this time the note was much more human in character and, moreover, it was insistent. He sighed with displeasure that he should have to climb that dreary stairway, for a third time, to discover the cause of some trifling nuisance. He considered ignoring the thing, but he was sufficiently curious and irritated that he felt compelled to investigate. Besides, the noise had become almost continuous and could hardly be ignored.
As before, there was no light - however dismal - from the skylight to aid his steps, but now the darkness seemed thicker to him, and where the meagre illumination from his lamp did touch the damp walls it seemed to do little but soak into them. The way ahead was nothing but inky blackness and a fearful apprehension enveloped him and gathered weight as he mounted the creaking old stairs. When he reached the upper steps the awful noise stopped but there followed, immediately, something like a scream though, of course, he persuaded himself that it could only have been the wind in the eaves. But he was perplexed, and more than a little dismayed, to see a thin and flickering glow beneath the door of the beleaguered room. The room was lit, somehow, and he thought there must be a chimney fire from the study - a raging fire that had cracked and breached the interior wall of the gable. He rushed up to the door and, flinging it wide open in alarm, he stepped into the icy-cold chamber. The scene that confronted him was utterly bewildering and for a long moment he gaped in frozen terror. At first, he apprehended only that the fireplace - inexplicably - blazed with peat; but then, a vision more monstrous and repugnant arrested his senses. On the bed, he saw, a well-built man of about five and twenty years, and the spectre - for it could be nothing else - lay sprawled in a sickening attitude of death and its head, twisted at a grotesque angle, pressed hard against the headboard. Its face was pale and waxy and wore an expression disfigured by pain and fear. Firelight danced upon the phantasm's watery eyes, and they bulged and stared, lifeless, directly at him. He reeled back in detestation of the spectacle but, as he grasped the door to slam it and shut the horror from his sight, a movement near the window stayed his flight. There, stood another ghost - that of a slender young woman - but this one was 'alive' and it turned to face him. Briefly, its tearful red eyes - deeply sunk in a ghastly white face that must have been pretty in life - met his, but the figure turned away from him abruptly, and then, violently, it thrust the window upward. The inrush of storm into the room stimulated the spectral fire and it roared up and spat sparks and red-glowing motes amid billowing smoke which gathered and swirled around Munro as he stood, stupefied, staring at the ghost of the girl. Then, the figure leaned forward at the open window and flung itself into the gaping black opening with a terrible scream. Munro, who for a moment had felt himself unable to move, suddenly yelled in terror and fled the room. He rushed to the study, pulled open the shutters and held the lamp to the panes, but he could see nothing other than the dancing reflections from fire and lamps upon the dark glass. He ran to the vestibule and opened the storm doors and the light from his lamp went out in the blustery blast of wind, but he could see the better for it, and when he turned at the doorstep he saw in the dim light from the study window, that below it there lay the still and silent figure of a broken and crumpled young woman.
Munro dropped the lamp and ran, frantic and without cloak, into the storm and down to the village. Despite the dark and unfamiliar surroundings he soon found the housekeeper's cottage and he beat the door until it was answered. Elspeth Mowatt drew him quickly into the front room where her husband was already pouring whiskies. He declined the offer of soup and dry clothes but he did allow himself to be seated in the chair closest to the fire and when Archie Mowatt handed him a large whisky he accepted it without protest. Elspeth Mowatt sat between them and admonished Munro, though not unkindly:
“I had a notion you might stay up there this night. I wish you had listened to me and had come down here at nine. It would have spared you that awful sight.”
Munro nodded: “You know all of what goes on up there?”
“Aye,” replied Archie, “we know alright, the whole village knows. On every winter's night when there was a gale blowing in from the north the doctor would come down here and bide with us and we knew why …. he could make no secret of that. After the second night it happened he had a cot bed sent here from Thurso, and I can tell you, it was well used until last week.”
Munro turned to the housekeeper and pleaded: “What's behind this Mrs Mowatt? You must tell me, what in God's name happened up there?”
Elspeth Mowatt looked at him, her countenance desolate and grave, and she began to relate the sad history behind the abhorrent occurrence he had just witnessed.
“One afternoon, two winters ago, a wild storm came in from the north and the boats came home early to escape it. They all made it safely home except one, the 'Maggie Ann' …. they say her rigging had fouled. Well, anyway, the poor 'Maggie Ann' was blown hard onto those high, jaggy rocks just along the shore, not more than fifty yards from the harbour. The men got out the boat well enough but, as they came up the shore, a laddie named John Henderson fell and clattered down the rocks. When they went to pull him up they found that he was almost unconscious and had hardly any strength in his arms and legs. So, someone fetched the floor boards from a rowing boat and they rigged up a stretcher with that and a wee sail wound tight about him, Then they carried young John to the doctor's house as fast as they could. Someone else had run to find Mary, John's young wife, and she'd been away up on the moor cutting peat. The say she tore down that path like the devil himself was behind her. When she arrived at the doctor's house she was in a terrible state with worry and the poor girl was half dead with exhaustion. She begged your grandfather to let her see her husband, and of course, she was allowed in.”
Elspeth Mowatt took some whiskey and shook her head sadly before continuing:
“By the time I got to the house to help, Mary was already sitting upstairs by her man and as I lit the fire I heard the doctor tell her that she might bide there until John could be taken away to Thurso. You see, it was out of the question to carry John up that path - you know how rough and steep it is - so the doctor said he must be moved to hospital by boat; but only after the sea had calmed. Well, the doctor had been able to get John to take a draught of something strong by spoon and he lay quiet enough in that bed, and when he fell asleep, your grandfather used long bandages to bind him to the bed frame. He fixed heavy bolsters around John's head too and after that he went downstairs to mix up some medicines for the boat journey to Scrabster. A wee while later, I went back upstairs with enough peat to last the night and took some water for Mary and, after I cuddled her, I left her alone with John; sobbing she was too the poor lass! Back in the study your grandfather made me close the door tight and he whispered to me that John's neck was badly injured and some of the bones in it might be cracked.
Elspeth Mowatt paused while her husband, who had been listening quietly, rose up from his chair and refilled the three whisky glasses. After dabbing her eyes for a moment, - for the good woman had become tearful at the recollection - she pressed on:
“With John in a deep sleep and Mary by his side, your grandfather sent me home; he said I might have to help the next day and I'd need a good rest if that were to be so. He was a very thoughtful man your grandfather, isn't that so Archie?” She looked to her husband who nodded and said quietly, “Aye, he was that right enough.”
Then, turning back to Munro she said:
“There wasn't much more your grandfather could do, but before I left the house he told me that he would stay up for the night and keep an eye on them both. Now, somewhere before seven o'clock, Roddy McCallum arrived at the doctor's door. He'd been sent up by his wife because their baby was coming early. So, your grandfather left John under Mary's watch and went away with Roddy to see to the birthing. It was a difficult one but quite quick and it ended just fine, but all the same, it was getting on for ten o'clock when your grandfather packed up his Gladstone and returned home.”
Here she halted her narrative and looked to the whisky in her hand. Then she said quietly, “I need hardly tell you what he found when he got back .... I have a feeling you know the details only too well.”
“I do Mrs Mowatt. I know what he saw when he opened the door in that room, and I know too, what he found in the garden a few moments later. Did he have any explanation for it?”
She nodded and replied:
“He told me that John must have woken up and become distressed; maybe calling out and trying to move and suchlike. Then, in a panic, poor wee Mary had loosed off the bandages that held him to the bed …....” and her voice gave way to silence. After a long pause she said. “Your grandfather was never the same after that night, but what could he have done? It wouldn't have done for Mary to know that John's neck was broken now would it? Not until he was safe in the hospital anyway. Och no, there was nobody at fault at all: not Mary, not Jeannie McCallum or her baby, and certainly not your grandfather. Isn't that so Archie?” The fisherman nodded dolefully and murmured: “Aye Elspeth, you are correct. It is a terrible, terrible thing but nobody's fault at all.”
In the early afternoon of the following day, Munro returned to the house and the purpose of his visit was very easily and quickly accomplished. From the study he gathered the bundle of missives for despatch, the collection of important papers that had been set aside and, in addition to these things, he took a small tin box from the mantelpiece and a paperweight from a desk. He visited no other room in the house and after placing these few items in his knapsack he put on his cloak, carefully locked the doors and walked the short distance to the kirkyard. There he spent several minutes, in turn and in quiet contemplation, at each of three graves, and to his surprise, he found it necessary to pull the handkerchief from his cloak. His emotion was more than just sorrow at the tragic events: there was, too, some regret in his tears - it seemed to him then that he should have visited his grandfather while he had been in life.
Later, somewhere along the coastal track between Garnsby and Thurso, Munro had his driver stop, and he produced from his knapsack the tin box that he had taken from the house that morning. It contained keys, a folded title deed and a paperweight and he held the box firmly as he walked to the very edge of the land. He stood at the precipice; below him, gannets and gulls circled and cried, and beneath them, the blue sea crashed against the black cliffs. He admired the spiralling birds for a few moments and, suddenly, threw the box towards the Pentland Firth. He watched its arc and fall; he watched it all the way to the sea. Then he strode back to his carriage: impatient to be on his way. As the driver roused the horse, Douglas Munro took out a notebook and pencil, and began to draft a letter to his father.
Being remote, Garnsby is not often favoured with visitors; occasionally, however, a stranger can be found wandering the place and coming upon the neglected grey house that stands a little way back from the rows of white cottages. And when they do, they may wonder why such a solid and well-proportioned dwelling would be left vacant and likely to fall to ruin. And, though it happens very rarely indeed, it is not unknown for a villager to be asked if the place would be for sale. But the answer given to such enquiries is always the same - the owner lives in India and the house is never to be sold.
When, at last, he arrived in the village, he was struck by how still the place was. It seemed to him that, but for the curling peat smoke rising from the chimney pots, it might be thought deserted. There was a gentle murmur where the placid sea touched the dark rocks of the rugged shore, and from above came the mournful cries and screeches of gulls and terns; but in every other respect the village was silent. Hoping to find someone who might give directions, he walked further - to the harbour itself - yet, all there too was lonely and quiet. A collection of carefully stacked lobster creels rested on the stone pier and three empty boats stirred lazily at their tethers but there was nobody to be seen. He was not much surprised to find it so, for he knew that on any fair day, that was not the Sabbath, the fishing boats would set out at daybreak for the treacherous waters of the Pentland Firth and would not come home until much later in the day - not until their catches had been landed and sold at Scrabster fish market. Munro turned away and walked towards a group of white-walled cottages and, as he approached, the door of one creaked open and an elderly man appeared on the step. Munro announced himself as grandson of the recently deceased village doctor and, after some amiable discourse, obtained directions to the home of the woman who had kept house for the doctor on three mornings of each week.
Elspeth Mowatt was genial by nature but she opened her door to the city stranger with some hesitation and, seeing the look of suspicion, Munro produced from his pocket the telegram that, she herself, had sent from Thurso to give notice of the doctor's passing. His credentials thus established, Munro was immediately offered condolences and invited within for tea. He, though, explained his purpose in Garnsby; that he would depart on the morrow and that he should go to the house at once, and so he remained at the doorstep while Mrs Mowatt fetched the doctor's keys which she had retained for safekeeping. When she returned he thanked her and was about to leave when she grasped his arm and said:
“You'll not stay at that house tonight though. Come here after your work and have supper with us, I have a fold-away bed I'll make up in the front room and Archie won't mind a bit. Come down about nine and there will be a warm plate for you, and a dram and a yarn with Archie too.”
This was said in such a way that Munro understood the woman not to be merely offering some courtesy or duty out of respect to the late doctor; there was a gravity in her voice and manner that puzzled him. Could it be that the roof was unsound? Was the old place not wind and water tight? If that be so, he thought, he could easily tolerate some discomfort for one night. He replied:
“Most kind Mrs Mowatt, but I won't need to trouble you and your husband. Grandfather's house will serve for tonight and I'll be on my way there now to light a fire. I have brought provisions, so you see, I have all that I need.”
The woman's expression evinced disapproval and she said:
“Mr Munro, there is a storm from the north east coming this night and you must leave the place before ten at the latest. If you'll not bide here then lodge at the Sinclair's if that would please you better - they keep a clean room for travellers above the shop. Go there now and make the arrangement or come here before ten, but on no account should you bed in that house.”
There could be no doubt about it; the woman was adamant that he should not overnight in the house now belonging to his family and he felt some irritation. However, deciding to mollify rather than contend, he gathered his Inverness cloak about him, affected a shudder in the chill air and he said in a well-calculated, soothingly mild voice:
“Aye well, perhaps you are right,” and looking upward he continued, “the sky is beginning to look threatening. I'll light a fire now and then I shall find Mrs Sinclair's shop. Good day to you Mrs Mowatt and thank you. Thank you too, for all that you did for my grandfather. If I may, I shall visit you tomorrow before I leave.”
The woman smiled and nodded and Munro set off quickly. Following her directions, he soon came upon the doctor's house which was situated well back, above and behind the rows of white fishing cottages. For nearest company there was the manse, some two hundred yards distant, and beyond that stood the small kirk and its graveyard where his grandfather now lay. He supposed that he would visit there briefly the following morning: if for no reason other than to tell his father, in truth, that he had done so. The house stood in bleak surroundings and the air all around hung damp and cold. Two-storied, grey and substantial, the east-facing building was of stone construction and at the front were four windows and a double-doored entrance between the lower two of those. Close behind the house, a dark and brooding cliff of bare rock towered, almost vertically, to something like three hundred feet, perhaps more. He found the place gloomy and imposing and calculated that even in mid-summer it would be mostly cast in shadow from early in the afternoon. Stepping off the path, he crossed the unkempt square of grass at the front and pulled the heavy storm doors which swung out from a small vestibule. He unlocked the inner door and stepped into the dim and silent hallway. Although there was little need for it, he took out his watch and set the correct time on long-case clock that stood near the door; he wound it and swung the pendulum, and it comforted him to hear the deep 'tick' begin to mark the passing of seconds. Standing back for a moment, he admired the clock's yellowed, porcelain face and then he found matches and lit the table lamp which rested nearby. Taking up the lamp, he began a preliminary inspection of the place and it seemed to him that his grandfather had led a simple, if not frugal, life. The rooms had not been decorated in many years and in places the wall paper - all of it in the dark and muted shades of the old style - peeled away from mouldering plaster. A dank, musty smell tainted much of the air inside but this was ameliorated, somewhat, by the pleasing aroma of peat smoke which pervaded the kitchen and study where the doctor, it could be assumed, had spent most of his time. Upstairs, he discovered a closet and two bed chambers and each of those large, austere, and furnished with only a wardrobe, chest of drawers, chair and, at the wall opposing the window, a single bed. He was pleased to find the beds already stripped of linen and that Mrs Mowatt had removed all articles of clothing and other linen from the wardrobes and drawers and had placed them in neatly folded piles on each bed. Though there was nothing remarkable about the house he did experience a curious and unpleasant sensation in these upper apartments: there was something forlorn about them, and that, most distinctly felt in the room above the study. There seemed to be little comfort to be had upstairs and, although Munro had no intention of taking a room in the village he, equally, had no wish to sleep in either of the sombre bed chambers. He decided, therefore, that he would bring a mattress down to the study later. After this short inspection of the interior he went outside by the kitchen's back door and found a ready supply of kindling and peat in one of the outbuildings. Returning to the house he set a fire in the study and put a match to it, then he lit three lamps and one of these he placed in the hallway. With light and flame, some of the despondency of the place lifted a little and Munro settled into the old and worn-out leather chair by the fireplace and enumerated his tasks. Firstly, he would deal with the doctor's papers and write any necessary letters to banks and insurers etc. That done, he would bundle up books, for there was a large collection, and place any of interest in trunks to be stored until uplift could be arranged - most likely by boat - and those remaining would be donated to a worthy county charity or school. Attending to bank and business affairs and preparing the books for disposal would sufficiently occupy him for the evening, he thought, and he elected to defer the proper inspection of the roof and structure of the house until late morning when the daylight would be strongest.
After some passage of time in which he was engaged and engrossed with many and varied papers, Munro was brought alert to his surroundings by clamorous banging from upstairs. He lifted a lamp, went into the hall, and then up the first few steps of the staircase where he paused and listened closely. The strengthening wind whistled about the eaves and rippling slates rattled across the roof so that it occurred to him that he might find a window shaking in its frame. He continued up and found the higher reaches of the double-back staircase - dimly lit by a small and cobwebbed skylight - to be a very unappealing passageway to the gloomy space beyond. The banging came from the bed chamber above the study and when he entered the cheerless room he looked, at once, to the window. There he observed the lower sash slightly opened and the shutters swinging to and fro against their casings - each strike giving rise to a loud thud. It surprised him that Mrs Mowatt had neglected to secure the window but he was, all the same, relieved to find such a commonplace explanation for the trouble. He set down his lamp and fastened the window and, as he did so, he peered toward the village. The yawls had come home while he had been working downstairs and men were now securing their boats for the night. Beyond the harbour, ominous clouds piled high and ranged wide in the sky and the horizon had disappeared - obscured, as it was, by the dark-grey smearing of an approaching rainstorm. The waters of the little bay had become choppy too, and foaming waves broke against the rocky shore below the severe black cliffs. Munro closed the shutters, removed the mattress from the bed and dragged it downstairs where he set it near the study door, and when he again descended the darkening stairs after retrieving his lamp, he hoped and believed that he need not return there before morning.
Before he could continue his work proper, he was obliged to bring in supplies from the outbuilding and then, with a good and ready supply of paraffin for the lamps and peat for the fire, he returned to his task and worked ceaselessly until the clock announced eight. The sounding of the hour called Munro from the very last bundle of unsorted papers and he put them to one side and then he closed the shutters to lessen the howling of the storm outside. Suddenly aware that he was quite ravenous, he brought out sandwiches and wine from his knapsack and settled back in the armchair to eat. As he did so, he looked around the room with some satisfaction at his progress: the papers were almost all in order and notifications of the death had been written and lay sealed and ready for despatch from Thurso. Certainly, there were a great many books to be got through, but he would take delight in that particular endeavour as it had been clear from first glance at the bookcases that his grandfather's reading tastes accorded with his own and he had already spied several volumes which would merit uplift and transport to Edinburgh. Furthermore, among the collection were tomes devoted to anatomy and medical practice and he fancied that these might fetch a good price at auction. The hall clock was excellent and would go to the city but the other personal effects - amounting to little more than crockery, silverware and old furnishings - would be given away in the village. Admiring the warmth of the fire, Munro poured more wine and his thoughts turned from the furnishings to his fiancée back home in Edinburgh. But he was shaken from this reverie when a strange sound came from upstairs. A little discomfited, he laid down the glass, took up the lamp and crept quietly into the hall where he waited for a few moments. A quiet moan came from above - from the room above the study. He climbed the dark stairs but upon reaching the chamber he did not proceed immediately within - instead, he turned his ear to the door and waited. Presently, the mournful sound came again and angered by this further disturbance - and also, perhaps, at his fearful reluctance - he mustered the courage and resolve to enter. Inside, he held his lamp out towards each dark and dingy corner in turn, but there was nothing unexpected to be seen, and when he opened the wardrobe he found it to be as it should be: empty. The moaning then sounded behind him and he turned to the gaping black fireplace; but there was neither sooty cat nor stricken bird injured upon the grate. So is that all? He thought, wind in the chimney? He laughed a little and said aloud, “Damn this accursed room,” and went, at once, back down to the study. He believed then that there could be no further interruptions to his work. Certainly, he thought, there would be none from above.
The storm gathered around the house and increasingly violent gusts of wind began to thunder and roar in his own fireplace. From time to time, great billows of peat smoke blew into the room, and outside, torrents of rain battered hard upon the window panes. But the room remained warm and well-enough lit so that Munro was able to continue his labours in comfort and, when the clock struck ten, he had already bundled most of the books into three good-sized trunks. He had begun to arrange floor-space to accommodate the bed mattress when there came yet another disruption upstairs. And again, it was the sound of a low moaning; but this time the note was much more human in character and, moreover, it was insistent. He sighed with displeasure that he should have to climb that dreary stairway, for a third time, to discover the cause of some trifling nuisance. He considered ignoring the thing, but he was sufficiently curious and irritated that he felt compelled to investigate. Besides, the noise had become almost continuous and could hardly be ignored.
As before, there was no light - however dismal - from the skylight to aid his steps, but now the darkness seemed thicker to him, and where the meagre illumination from his lamp did touch the damp walls it seemed to do little but soak into them. The way ahead was nothing but inky blackness and a fearful apprehension enveloped him and gathered weight as he mounted the creaking old stairs. When he reached the upper steps the awful noise stopped but there followed, immediately, something like a scream though, of course, he persuaded himself that it could only have been the wind in the eaves. But he was perplexed, and more than a little dismayed, to see a thin and flickering glow beneath the door of the beleaguered room. The room was lit, somehow, and he thought there must be a chimney fire from the study - a raging fire that had cracked and breached the interior wall of the gable. He rushed up to the door and, flinging it wide open in alarm, he stepped into the icy-cold chamber. The scene that confronted him was utterly bewildering and for a long moment he gaped in frozen terror. At first, he apprehended only that the fireplace - inexplicably - blazed with peat; but then, a vision more monstrous and repugnant arrested his senses. On the bed, he saw, a well-built man of about five and twenty years, and the spectre - for it could be nothing else - lay sprawled in a sickening attitude of death and its head, twisted at a grotesque angle, pressed hard against the headboard. Its face was pale and waxy and wore an expression disfigured by pain and fear. Firelight danced upon the phantasm's watery eyes, and they bulged and stared, lifeless, directly at him. He reeled back in detestation of the spectacle but, as he grasped the door to slam it and shut the horror from his sight, a movement near the window stayed his flight. There, stood another ghost - that of a slender young woman - but this one was 'alive' and it turned to face him. Briefly, its tearful red eyes - deeply sunk in a ghastly white face that must have been pretty in life - met his, but the figure turned away from him abruptly, and then, violently, it thrust the window upward. The inrush of storm into the room stimulated the spectral fire and it roared up and spat sparks and red-glowing motes amid billowing smoke which gathered and swirled around Munro as he stood, stupefied, staring at the ghost of the girl. Then, the figure leaned forward at the open window and flung itself into the gaping black opening with a terrible scream. Munro, who for a moment had felt himself unable to move, suddenly yelled in terror and fled the room. He rushed to the study, pulled open the shutters and held the lamp to the panes, but he could see nothing other than the dancing reflections from fire and lamps upon the dark glass. He ran to the vestibule and opened the storm doors and the light from his lamp went out in the blustery blast of wind, but he could see the better for it, and when he turned at the doorstep he saw in the dim light from the study window, that below it there lay the still and silent figure of a broken and crumpled young woman.
Munro dropped the lamp and ran, frantic and without cloak, into the storm and down to the village. Despite the dark and unfamiliar surroundings he soon found the housekeeper's cottage and he beat the door until it was answered. Elspeth Mowatt drew him quickly into the front room where her husband was already pouring whiskies. He declined the offer of soup and dry clothes but he did allow himself to be seated in the chair closest to the fire and when Archie Mowatt handed him a large whisky he accepted it without protest. Elspeth Mowatt sat between them and admonished Munro, though not unkindly:
“I had a notion you might stay up there this night. I wish you had listened to me and had come down here at nine. It would have spared you that awful sight.”
Munro nodded: “You know all of what goes on up there?”
“Aye,” replied Archie, “we know alright, the whole village knows. On every winter's night when there was a gale blowing in from the north the doctor would come down here and bide with us and we knew why …. he could make no secret of that. After the second night it happened he had a cot bed sent here from Thurso, and I can tell you, it was well used until last week.”
Munro turned to the housekeeper and pleaded: “What's behind this Mrs Mowatt? You must tell me, what in God's name happened up there?”
Elspeth Mowatt looked at him, her countenance desolate and grave, and she began to relate the sad history behind the abhorrent occurrence he had just witnessed.
“One afternoon, two winters ago, a wild storm came in from the north and the boats came home early to escape it. They all made it safely home except one, the 'Maggie Ann' …. they say her rigging had fouled. Well, anyway, the poor 'Maggie Ann' was blown hard onto those high, jaggy rocks just along the shore, not more than fifty yards from the harbour. The men got out the boat well enough but, as they came up the shore, a laddie named John Henderson fell and clattered down the rocks. When they went to pull him up they found that he was almost unconscious and had hardly any strength in his arms and legs. So, someone fetched the floor boards from a rowing boat and they rigged up a stretcher with that and a wee sail wound tight about him, Then they carried young John to the doctor's house as fast as they could. Someone else had run to find Mary, John's young wife, and she'd been away up on the moor cutting peat. The say she tore down that path like the devil himself was behind her. When she arrived at the doctor's house she was in a terrible state with worry and the poor girl was half dead with exhaustion. She begged your grandfather to let her see her husband, and of course, she was allowed in.”
Elspeth Mowatt took some whiskey and shook her head sadly before continuing:
“By the time I got to the house to help, Mary was already sitting upstairs by her man and as I lit the fire I heard the doctor tell her that she might bide there until John could be taken away to Thurso. You see, it was out of the question to carry John up that path - you know how rough and steep it is - so the doctor said he must be moved to hospital by boat; but only after the sea had calmed. Well, the doctor had been able to get John to take a draught of something strong by spoon and he lay quiet enough in that bed, and when he fell asleep, your grandfather used long bandages to bind him to the bed frame. He fixed heavy bolsters around John's head too and after that he went downstairs to mix up some medicines for the boat journey to Scrabster. A wee while later, I went back upstairs with enough peat to last the night and took some water for Mary and, after I cuddled her, I left her alone with John; sobbing she was too the poor lass! Back in the study your grandfather made me close the door tight and he whispered to me that John's neck was badly injured and some of the bones in it might be cracked.
Elspeth Mowatt paused while her husband, who had been listening quietly, rose up from his chair and refilled the three whisky glasses. After dabbing her eyes for a moment, - for the good woman had become tearful at the recollection - she pressed on:
“With John in a deep sleep and Mary by his side, your grandfather sent me home; he said I might have to help the next day and I'd need a good rest if that were to be so. He was a very thoughtful man your grandfather, isn't that so Archie?” She looked to her husband who nodded and said quietly, “Aye, he was that right enough.”
Then, turning back to Munro she said:
“There wasn't much more your grandfather could do, but before I left the house he told me that he would stay up for the night and keep an eye on them both. Now, somewhere before seven o'clock, Roddy McCallum arrived at the doctor's door. He'd been sent up by his wife because their baby was coming early. So, your grandfather left John under Mary's watch and went away with Roddy to see to the birthing. It was a difficult one but quite quick and it ended just fine, but all the same, it was getting on for ten o'clock when your grandfather packed up his Gladstone and returned home.”
Here she halted her narrative and looked to the whisky in her hand. Then she said quietly, “I need hardly tell you what he found when he got back .... I have a feeling you know the details only too well.”
“I do Mrs Mowatt. I know what he saw when he opened the door in that room, and I know too, what he found in the garden a few moments later. Did he have any explanation for it?”
She nodded and replied:
“He told me that John must have woken up and become distressed; maybe calling out and trying to move and suchlike. Then, in a panic, poor wee Mary had loosed off the bandages that held him to the bed …....” and her voice gave way to silence. After a long pause she said. “Your grandfather was never the same after that night, but what could he have done? It wouldn't have done for Mary to know that John's neck was broken now would it? Not until he was safe in the hospital anyway. Och no, there was nobody at fault at all: not Mary, not Jeannie McCallum or her baby, and certainly not your grandfather. Isn't that so Archie?” The fisherman nodded dolefully and murmured: “Aye Elspeth, you are correct. It is a terrible, terrible thing but nobody's fault at all.”
In the early afternoon of the following day, Munro returned to the house and the purpose of his visit was very easily and quickly accomplished. From the study he gathered the bundle of missives for despatch, the collection of important papers that had been set aside and, in addition to these things, he took a small tin box from the mantelpiece and a paperweight from a desk. He visited no other room in the house and after placing these few items in his knapsack he put on his cloak, carefully locked the doors and walked the short distance to the kirkyard. There he spent several minutes, in turn and in quiet contemplation, at each of three graves, and to his surprise, he found it necessary to pull the handkerchief from his cloak. His emotion was more than just sorrow at the tragic events: there was, too, some regret in his tears - it seemed to him then that he should have visited his grandfather while he had been in life.
Later, somewhere along the coastal track between Garnsby and Thurso, Munro had his driver stop, and he produced from his knapsack the tin box that he had taken from the house that morning. It contained keys, a folded title deed and a paperweight and he held the box firmly as he walked to the very edge of the land. He stood at the precipice; below him, gannets and gulls circled and cried, and beneath them, the blue sea crashed against the black cliffs. He admired the spiralling birds for a few moments and, suddenly, threw the box towards the Pentland Firth. He watched its arc and fall; he watched it all the way to the sea. Then he strode back to his carriage: impatient to be on his way. As the driver roused the horse, Douglas Munro took out a notebook and pencil, and began to draft a letter to his father.
Being remote, Garnsby is not often favoured with visitors; occasionally, however, a stranger can be found wandering the place and coming upon the neglected grey house that stands a little way back from the rows of white cottages. And when they do, they may wonder why such a solid and well-proportioned dwelling would be left vacant and likely to fall to ruin. And, though it happens very rarely indeed, it is not unknown for a villager to be asked if the place would be for sale. But the answer given to such enquiries is always the same - the owner lives in India and the house is never to be sold.
About the Author
Born in Edinburgh and now living in Fife, Laurence MacDonald only began writing short stories in 2016, but has already had two of his stories published in anthologies and another featured in a podcast in the USA. He intends to complete a collection of supernatural short fiction set in the 19th century.