only slightly tinged with a Swedish accent. “He has always been interested in psychical research and is now on leave from France. It seems that an old chateau which had been taken over by the British had to be abandoned as a billet because it is so badly haunted that even the officers refuse to stay in it.”
The big American lit a cigarette. “Then it must be the grandfather of all hauntings. What form does it take?”
“As usual, it does not affect everyone, but at least one or two out of each group of men that has been stationed there have felt its influence, and the manifestations always occur at night. The wretched victim is apparently always taken by surprise, lets out a piercing yell, and throws some sort of fit. Afterwards they state that they heard nothing, saw nothing, but were stabbed through the hands or feet and paralysed, rooted to the spot, transfixed by an agonizing pain which racked their whole bodies. The curious thing is that these attacks have taken place in nearly every room in the house. However, the worst cases have occurred in the one and only bathroom and it was there, about ten days ago, that one victim died – presumably as the result of a heart attack. It was that which finally decided the authorities to evacuate the chateau.”
“How long has the haunting been going on?”
The Swede blinked his large pale-blue eyes, so curiously like those of his Siamese cat, Past. “I’m not sure. You see, the chateau was empty and in a very dilapidated condition when the Army took over. I gather that it was untenanted for some considerable time before war started.”
“Was your friend able to find out the history of the place from the villagers?”
“Yes, and a most unpleasant story it is. But they seemed vague as to when the haunting began.”
“What was the story?”
“Before the French Revolution the chateau was owned by a really bad example of the French aristocracy of that time. Cruel, avaricious, and inordinately proud, the Vicomte de Cheterau treated his serfs worse than animals, beating, imprisoning, and torturing them at his pleasure. One day he devised the sadistic idea of adding yet another thong to his whip by placing a local tax on nails. As you know, it’s practically impossible to build anything without them, so the poorest peasants had to revert to the ancient, laborious practice of carving their own from the odd pieces of wood they could gather from the hedge-rows.”
“He must have been a swine.”
“Perhaps,” Neils agreed. “But no man, however cruel, deserved such a frightful death.”
“How did he die?”
Orsen stared at his reflection in the polished table. “One dark night, soon after the Revolution broke loose, his serfs crept into the chateau and pulled him out of bed. They dragged him to his business room and there they crucified him with their wooden nails. It took him three days to die; and they came each night to mock him in his agony with tantalizing jars of water and bowls of food.”
Bruce shuddered. “Horrible – did anyone ever live in the chateau again?”
“I believe so; but no tenant has ever stayed for long in recent years. Of course, the villagers won’t go near it. They are convinced that it’s haunted, as the story of the Vicomte de Cheterau has been handed down from father to son for generations.”
Hemmingway leaned forward. “Do you think these stabs the victims feel in their hands and feet are some sort of psychic repetition of the pains the Vicomte felt when the mob drove their wooden nails through his palms and insteps?”
“Quite possibly,” replied Orsen slowly. “There are many well-authenticated cases of monks and nuns who have developed stigmata from too intensive a contemplation of the agony suffered by Jesus Christ at His crucifixion.”
“It sounds a pretty tough proposition, then. When do we leave?”
“The day after tomorrow.” Neils gently stroked the back of his Siamese cat and his big pale eyes were glowing. “I may be able to show you a real Saati manifestation this time, Bruce; but we must take nothing for granted. You can leave all arrangements to me.”
A watery sun was shining through the avenue of lime trees, throwing chequered patterns on the wet gravel below, as the two friends were driven towards the chateau by a cheerful young captain into whose charge they had been given at the local H.Q.
“General Hayes told me about you, Mr Orsen,” he was saying. “I find it difficult to believe in spooks myself, but there’s certainly something devilish going on in the old place, and we shall be jolly grateful if you can find it for us. Those cottages in the village are damned uncomfortable.”
Neils leaned forwards to peer through the window at the rearing pile of grey stone just ahead of them, and the captain added: “Gloomy sort of place, isn’t it?”
As Bruce stepped out of the car he thoroughly agreed. The silence was eerie, broken only by a monotonous sound of water dripping from the rain-sodden trees that surrounded the chateau and almost shut out the sky. A dank, musty smell greeted them as they entered; a rat scurried away into the dark shadows of the hall.
“Well, Neils, old man,” he said with a wry grin. “This place certainly seems to have the right atmosphere.”
The little Swede did not appear to hear him. He was standing quite still, his large head thrown back and his eyes closed as if he were listening. Their guide gave an embarrassed cough, Unlike Bruce, he was not accustomed to Orsen’s peculiarities, and he felt that ghost-hunting was at the best an unhealthy form of amusement.
“Shall we get a move on?” he asked abruptly. “I mean, if you want me to show you round; it’s quite a big place, and the light will be gone in less than an hour.”
Neils blinked, then fluttered one slender hand apologetically. “Forgive me; please lead the way.”
They mounted the twisting stairs and as they passed the windows the evening light threw their shadows, elongated and grotesque, against the damp-sodden walls; no one spoke and the emptiness seemed to close in on them like a fog. As they wandered from room to room Neils followed behind the other two men humming a quaint old-fashioned tune to himself.
After an hour they made their way back to the hall and as they walked out towards the car their guide turned towards Orsen. “Well, now you’ve seen it. Are you really going to spend the night here?”
The little man smiled. “Certainly we are.”
Mentally shrugging his shoulders the captain helped Bruce to carry the luggage upstairs, then ironically wished them good night. When the sound of the car was lost in the distance Bruce returned to the ballroom and found Neils standing by one of the long bow-windows.
“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,
