But talk of believing—we shall put the reader's faith to the test, by inviting him to take a peep into a "haunted house" which we have fitted up for his reception. Hark!
We remember two of papa's friends who were "regular story tellers." Mr. O'Brien had a store of Irish legends (of these hereafter); Mr. T. Smith had a variety of ghost stories. Of one of these a haunted house was the scene—a whole family of ghosts the dramatis personæ. We must premise, that at the time referred to, it was the fashion to wear "pigtails," and Mr. Smith, who had eschewed "pig-tail" and patronised "short cut," or crop, used to say when asked what he had done with his pig-tail, that "thereby hangs a tale," which joke he retailed at every opportunity. We may also intimate that a good "ghost story" was in those days a valuable little property. Mr. Smith seldom dined at home, and always passed his evenings at other people's firesides. In truth, for more than three parts of the year, his "ghost story" procured him "bed, board, and lodging," gratis, including "coals and candles." Now then, let the reader imagine a small family party seated round the fire, on a winter's evening, and let Mr. Smith tell his own story in his own way.——
I was staying (he began) some years back at Squire Calf's, at Danglewitch-Hall, near Nantwich, in Cheshire: my friend, O'Brien here, was also a visitor. ("Sure I was," says Mr. O'B. with a grin—he was a merry fellow that O'B.) One evening the conversation turned upon Clay-hall, an old deserted mansion, that was reported to be haunted. Strange sights, strange sounds, and strange stories, filled the neighbourhood with alarm; and what surprised me at that time was, that all the Danglewitch people seemed firmly to believe in them. Being a little elevated, I bantered the family upon their ridiculous fears—I have since learned to pay more attention to other people's opinions—and so enraged the squire, that he offered to bet fifty guineas to one, that I would not dare to sleep in that house for one night. No sooner said than "Done," cried I, and proposed to go immediately. The squire instantly ordered the servant to get the key from the old women at Clay-park lodge, to light a fire in the blue-room, and to provide, besides a pipe and tobacco, a good bottle of brandy. The whole party, in a merry mood, sallied forth to conduct me to my quarters. Soon after I wished them all good night, and fastened the door. I had a brace of pistols and a good sword-stick. I drew my sword and went over the house at once, to see that the fastenings were secure—for though not afraid of ghosts, I objected to being surprised by robbers.
Everything was in a dilapidated state, but I ascertained that the locks and bolts, although rusty, were sufficiently strong to resist an intruder. I was also certain, that no one was concealed. I then proceeded to my apartment, which was on the first floor at the back of the house. I slowly ascended the large staircase. The sound of my footsteps echoed through the empty mansion. As I approached the landing I was startled by a sudden noise, like the slamming of a door, and recollected that one of the upper rooms was without a fastening. All was silent again. I could hear myself breathe. I then held up the light, and looked first up, and then down, the well staircase, and began to feel that I had done a rather foolish thing—there might be after all a secret inlet—I might be robbed, murdered. But it was too late to recede; and the fear of being laughed at overcame every other fear.
I now entered my chamber and secured the door. The bright fire and the candles gave a cheering look to a room otherwise dreary enough; for it was of large dimensions, and its colour was a deep dingy blue. At one end stood a huge four-post bedstead, hung with dark blue tattered damask curtains, edged with black; the head of each post was ornamented with a ragged plume of dark-blue feathers, which gave to it rather a funereal appearance. I examined every part, and beneath the bed perceived a large chest, which I found to be firmly locked. Pushing it aside, I proceeded to explore the two closets that flanked the fire-place. Amongst a quantity of loose lumber, wig boxes, hat boxes, and odd slippers, I discovered an old black letter volume (a good deal nibbled), but, as Sir Walter Scott says, "worth its weight in gold for all that;" it was "God's Revenge against Murther." I just gave it a bang upon the table to knock out the dust. The blow produced a most tremendous noise that nearly stunned me, and was echoed apparently from every corner of the building, followed by the rattling of falling mortar behind the wainscot, and a scampering as if ten thousand rats were flying in all directions. The cloud of dust almost stifled me; but not quite overcome, I applied myself to my brandy, and filled my pipe, stirred the fire, snuffed the candles, opened my book, and began to read. I read on in silence, broken only by the regular puffing of smoke, the ticking of my watch, and the singing, or rather sighing, of the kettle. The book absorbed my whole attention. I was insensibly moved by its revelations. I was so worked upon by it that I felt a kind of lifting of the chair beneath me, and a peeping shadow appeared evermore between the candle and the page. Suddenly, at a most exciting point, I heard a gentle rustling of the bed-curtains. On looking round—horror! never to be forgotten!——
I distinctly saw a tall figure enveloped in a long night-dress, which touched the ground. It was standing sideways towards me, so that the face was hidden by a large feminine cap, which, however, it removed and threw upon the bed, discovering a most fearful and ghastly profile. It went through the operation of making its toilet before a small glass, then looked towards the trunk, and then to the bed. After a moment's hesitation, the trunk was opened, and it proceeded to put on an old-fashioned brocade dress. The figure then, after surveying itself in the mirror, slowly turned round, and moved towards me. I felt my blood curdle, my flesh crawl. It passed the foot of the bed, and advanced towards the door. The eyes were cast down; the hand was upon the fastenings. At this instant the village clock struck, or rather tolled out twelve—and as the last stroke of the bell floated on the breeze, the figure gradually raised its head, and fixed upon me a pair of horrible glaring eyes that turned my heart to ice. A sharp sliding noise on the wall opposite made me turn to look, and the two portraits, a lady, and an officer in a blue uniform, appeared to be leaning out of their frames, and watching me intently. The figure then hastily passed out of the room, uttering a screaming note, wilder than the moaning wind. This was answered seemingly from the cellars by a most hideous long-drawn howl, followed by the rattling of locks, bolts, and chains, and a confusion of strange unearthly sounds. I sprang up and seized my pistols. There was a dead silence. I could distinctly hear a whispering, not only on the stairs, but in the closets, the doors of which were slowly pushed open, and more than one pair of eyes flashed upon me from the dark; in an instant the door of the room creaked slowly, and I beheld two or three parchment faces, with fiery eyes, gazing at me. I made now a desperate effort, and levelling a pistol either way, uttered a fierce menace, threatening to fire, if they advanced. This threat was answered by a queer sort of tittering and snuffling; in desperation I pulled the triggers; the result was a double flash in the pan, which overspread the room like a sheet of blue lightning. Then broke forth—a laugh—ten times more horrible than the laughter of a herd of hyenas—I could endure no longer, and sank into the chair, the pistols dropping from my hands.
There was a dead pause, and I heard something like the mewing of a cat, yet seemed it like the voice of a child in distress; and my attention was attracted by the appearance of a black skeleton of a cat, who was setting up its back, growling and spitting. It then slowly advanced and prowled round the fire-place, and sitting down opposite to the fire with its back towards me, turned its head, and its fearful green eyes met mine. I next heard the whelping of a cur, and the distant, hollow, wolf-like baying of a watch-dog. The sounds approached; the dog-chain rattled up the stairs. I tried to seize my sword, but was paralysed. I could just glance towards the door, whence came a strange, shuffling sound, and the next moment I saw an extraordinary figure enter, with a large carving-knife in his hand. He was dressed in blue livery, with tags—a round paunch—high bony shoulders, and spindle-shanks—he wore a blue Welsh wig—and his nose, which was of enormous size and hooked, was of a deep blue also: it was like burning brimstone. He was followed by a skeleton-like figure; also in livery, and armed like his fellow. These stood and stared at me. They were followed by a figure, marching into the room with an air of consequence. He was not prepossessing: dimly-glaring saucer-eyes, with a decided cast in them; a small, pinched bit of blue nose; a spacious mouth, with a tooth or two exposed; the look of age diffused over all. He was wrapped in a blue dressing-gown, and wore a large curled blue wig. As he entered, all appeared blue—the candles, and the fire, whose flames curled themselves into the likeness of some ghastly thing. The whole company, for there were now many intruders, seemed covered with blue mould; they were the children of Mildew and Decay; they looked damp and slippery. The veteran in the dressing-gown advanced to the fireside with dignity, and looked at me with a withering scowl. I guessed at once that he was, or had been, the master of the mansion, and politeness prompted me to rise. He motioned me to be seated, and then took a chair. A little boy was at his side, and the stately figure of a lady also stood near him—other faces peered over his chair. My venerable host then bent forwards, and placing his hands upon his knees, looked sternly in my face and said, in sepulchral tones,—"Pray, sir, did you ever hear that this house is haunted?" * * * *
I was thunderstruck! What answer could I make? Not a moment was allowed me for reflection, for I instantly felt a violent tug at my pigtail behind, and the brimstoned-nose butler, leering in my upturned face, exclaimed, "And you don't believe in ghosts!" My terror was at its height. I heard no more; but I saw—I saw the knife flashing, and felt that, though my head was not off, my pigtail was gone! Shouts of exulting malice rent the air——
But here Mr. Smith was interrupted by a shout of exulting laughter from one of his listeners. It was Mr. O'Brien. "O, ho!" screamed that gentleman; "I'll be kilt intirely. A mighty ingenious tale you've made of it, Mr. Smith. And sure I must tell the thruth, if you bate me for it. Sure and wasn't it the day after we had the stag-hunt, and didn't you get so over head and ears in liquor that you went sleep-walking about the house all night, disturbing the people that were fast asleep: and the night after, sure didn't we tie your pigtail to the bell-rope at the head of the bed, to keep you still, or give us notice of your rambles—and a pretty good notice we got, by the powers! for what wid the bell ringing and your bawling, we thought the house was on fire. I'll never forget seeing you pulling one way and the bell pull pulling the other—and all we could do, we could not keep you aisy, till we undid your tail; so faith it was Betty, the cook, I remember, who whipt out her scissors, and cut the knot. Oh! oh! och!—and that's the thrue way you lost your pigtail, Mr. Smith."