Curious Warnings - The Great Ghost Stories Of M.R. James by M.R. James
Authors: M.R. James
Tags: Literature & Fiction, Horror, Short Stories, Genre Fiction, Ghosts, Occult, Single Author, Single Authors
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of these beings to wreak their vengeance on him. I contemplate with the liveliest satisfaction the enlarged and emancipated existence which the experiment, if successful, will confer on me; not only placing me beyond the reach of human justice (so-called) but eliminating to a great extent the prospect of death itself.
Mr. Abney was found in his chair, his head thrown back, his face stamped with an expression of rage, fright and mortal pain.
In his left side was a terrible lacerated wound, exposing the heart. There was no blood on his hands, and a long knife that lay on the table was perfectly clean. A savage wildcat might have inflicted the injuries.
The window of the study was open, and it was the opinion of the coroner that Mr. Abney had met his death by the agency of some wild creature.
But Stephen Elliot’s study of the papers I have quoted led him to a very different conclusion.
The Ash-tree
E VERYONE WHO HAS traveled over Eastern England knows the smaller country-houses with which it is studded—the rather dank little buildings, usually in the Italian style, surrounded with parks of some eighty to a hundred acres.
For me they have always had a very strong attraction: with the gray paling of split oak, the noble trees, the meres with their reed-beds, and the line of distant woods. Then, I like the pillared portico—perhaps stuck on to a redbrick Queen Anne house which has been faced with stucco to bring it into line with the “Grecian” taste of the end of the 18th century; the hall inside, going up to the roof, which hall ought always to be provided with a gallery and a small organ. I like the library, too, where you may find anything from a Psalter of the 13th century to a Shakespeare quarto.
I like the pictures, of course; and perhaps most of all I like fancying what life in such a house was when it was first built, and in the piping times of landlords’ prosperity, and not least now, when, if money is not so plentiful, taste is more varied and life quite as interesting. I wish to have one of these houses, and enough money to keep it together and entertain my friends in it modestly.
But this is a digression. I have to tell you of a curious series of events which happened in such a house as I have tried to describe.
It is Castringham Hall in Suffolk. I think a good deal has been done to the building since the period of my story, but the essential features I have sketched are still there—Italian portico, square block of white house, olderinside than out, park with fringe of woods, and mere. The one feature that marked out the house from a score of others is gone.
As you looked at it from the park, you saw on the right a great old ash-tree growing within half-a-dozen yards of the wall, and almost or quite touching the building with its branches.
I suppose it had stood there ever since Castringham ceased to be a fortified place, and since the moat was filled in and the Elizabethan dwelling-house built. At any rate, it had well nigh attained its full dimensions in the year 1690.
In that year the district in which the Hall is situated was the scene of a number of witch-trials. It will be long, I think, before we arrive at a just estimate of the amount of solid reason—if there was any—which lay at the root of the universal fear of witches in old times. Whether the persons accused of this offense really did imagine that they were possessed of unusual powers of any kind; or whether they had the will at least, if not the power, of doing mischief to their neighbors; or whether all the confessions, of which there are so many, were extorted by the mere cruelty of the witch-finders—these are questions which are not, I fancy, yet solved.
And the present narrative gives me pause. I cannot altogether sweep it away as mere invention. The reader must judge for himself.
Castringham contributed a victim to the
auto-da-fé
. Mrs. Mothersole was her name, and she differed from the ordinary run of village witches
Mr. Abney was found in his chair, his head thrown back, his face stamped with an expression of rage, fright and mortal pain.
In his left side was a terrible lacerated wound, exposing the heart. There was no blood on his hands, and a long knife that lay on the table was perfectly clean. A savage wildcat might have inflicted the injuries.
The window of the study was open, and it was the opinion of the coroner that Mr. Abney had met his death by the agency of some wild creature.
But Stephen Elliot’s study of the papers I have quoted led him to a very different conclusion.
The Ash-tree
E VERYONE WHO HAS traveled over Eastern England knows the smaller country-houses with which it is studded—the rather dank little buildings, usually in the Italian style, surrounded with parks of some eighty to a hundred acres.
For me they have always had a very strong attraction: with the gray paling of split oak, the noble trees, the meres with their reed-beds, and the line of distant woods. Then, I like the pillared portico—perhaps stuck on to a redbrick Queen Anne house which has been faced with stucco to bring it into line with the “Grecian” taste of the end of the 18th century; the hall inside, going up to the roof, which hall ought always to be provided with a gallery and a small organ. I like the library, too, where you may find anything from a Psalter of the 13th century to a Shakespeare quarto.
I like the pictures, of course; and perhaps most of all I like fancying what life in such a house was when it was first built, and in the piping times of landlords’ prosperity, and not least now, when, if money is not so plentiful, taste is more varied and life quite as interesting. I wish to have one of these houses, and enough money to keep it together and entertain my friends in it modestly.
But this is a digression. I have to tell you of a curious series of events which happened in such a house as I have tried to describe.
It is Castringham Hall in Suffolk. I think a good deal has been done to the building since the period of my story, but the essential features I have sketched are still there—Italian portico, square block of white house, olderinside than out, park with fringe of woods, and mere. The one feature that marked out the house from a score of others is gone.
As you looked at it from the park, you saw on the right a great old ash-tree growing within half-a-dozen yards of the wall, and almost or quite touching the building with its branches.
I suppose it had stood there ever since Castringham ceased to be a fortified place, and since the moat was filled in and the Elizabethan dwelling-house built. At any rate, it had well nigh attained its full dimensions in the year 1690.
In that year the district in which the Hall is situated was the scene of a number of witch-trials. It will be long, I think, before we arrive at a just estimate of the amount of solid reason—if there was any—which lay at the root of the universal fear of witches in old times. Whether the persons accused of this offense really did imagine that they were possessed of unusual powers of any kind; or whether they had the will at least, if not the power, of doing mischief to their neighbors; or whether all the confessions, of which there are so many, were extorted by the mere cruelty of the witch-finders—these are questions which are not, I fancy, yet solved.
And the present narrative gives me pause. I cannot altogether sweep it away as mere invention. The reader must judge for himself.
Castringham contributed a victim to the
auto-da-fé
. Mrs. Mothersole was her name, and she differed from the ordinary run of village witches
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