October 29, 2021 • 9 mins
Part One of our adaptation of one of American's literature's most famous ghost stories - a chilling tale from Ambrose Bierce detailing a murder from three perspectives, including the victim herself.
Part One, STATEMENT OF JOEL HETMAN, JR.
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"The Moonlit Road, Part One" was told by John Gentile
Audio Production: Henry Howard
Music: Michael Thomas Roe
The Moonlit Road Podcast is a production of The Moonlit Road, LLC.
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Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
(00:05):
(Transcribed by TurboScribe.ai. Go Unlimited to remove this message.) For a period extending over some years, a
notice appeared, periodically, in various daily papers.
It read, To let furnished, for a term
of years, at a very low rental, a
large old-fashioned family residence, comprising eleven bedrooms,
four reception rooms, dressing rooms, two staircases, complete
(00:29):
servants' offices, ample accommodation for a gentleman's establishment,
including six-stall stable, coach house, etc.
This advertisement referred to No.
90.
Occasionally, you saw it running a week or
a fortnight at a stretch, as if it
(00:49):
were resolved to force itself into consideration by
sheer persistency.
Sometimes, for months, I looked for it in
vain.
Other folk might possibly fancy that the effort
of the house agent had been crowned at
last with success, that it was let, and
no longer in the market.
(01:12):
I knew better.
I knew that it would never, never find
a tenant.
I knew that it was passed on as
a hopeless case.
From house agent to house agent, I knew
that it would never be occupied, save by
rats.
And more than this, I knew the reason
(01:34):
why.
I will not say in what square, street,
or road No.
90 may be found, nor will I divulge
to human being its precise and exact locality.
But this, I'm prepared to state, that it
is positively in existence, is in Charleston, and
(01:54):
is still empty.
Twenty years ago, this very Christmas, I was
down from New York visiting my friend, John
Holyoke, a civil engineer, in Charleston.
We were guests at a little dinner party.
In the neighborhood of the South Battery.
Conversation became very brisk as the champagne circulated,
(02:18):
and many topics were started, discussed, and dismissed.
We talked on an extraordinary variety of subjects.
I distinctly recollect a long argument on mushrooms.
Mushrooms, murders, racing, cholera.
From cholera, we came to sudden death.
From sudden death, to churchyards.
(02:38):
And from churchyards, it was naturally but a
step to ghosts.
John Holyoke, who was the most vehement, the
most incredulous, the most jocular, and the most
derisive of the anti-ghost faction, brought matters
to a climax by declaring that nothing would
give him greater pleasure than to pass a
(03:01):
night in a haunted house.
And that the worse its character, the better
he would be pleased.
His challenge was instantly taken up by our
somewhat ruffled host, who warmly assured him that
his wishes could easily be satisfied, and that
he would be accommodated with a night's lodging
(03:22):
in a haunted house within twenty-four hours.
In fact, in a house of such a
desperate reputation, that even the adjoining mansions stood
vacant.
He then proceeded to give a brief outline
of the history of Number Ninety.
It had once been the residence of a
well-known county family.
(03:44):
But what evil events had happened therein, tradition
did not relate.
On the death of the last owner, a
diabolical-looking aged person, much resembling the typical
wizard, it had passed into the hands of
a kinsman, resident abroad, who had no wish
to return to Charleston, and who desired his
(04:05):
agents to let it, if they could, a
most significant condition.
Year by year went by, and still this
highly desirable family mansion could find no tenant,
although the rent was reduced, and reduced, and
again reduced, to almost zero.
(04:29):
The most ghastly whispers were afloat, the most
terrible experiences were actually proclaimed on the housetops.
No tenant would remain, not even gratis, and
for the last ten years this handsome, desirable
town family residence had been the abode of
rats by day and something else.
(04:50):
By night, so said the neighbors.
Of course, it was the very thing for
John, and he snatched up the gauntlet on
the spot.
He scoffed at its evil repute and solemnly
promised to rehabilitate its character within a week.
I was charged by our host to serve
(05:11):
as a witness, to verify that John Holyoake
did indeed spend the night at number 90.
The next night, at ten o'clock, I
found myself standing, with John, on the steps
of the notorious mansion, but I was not
going to remain.
(05:32):
The carriage that brought us was going to
take me back to my respectable chambers.
This ill-fated house was large, solemn-looking,
and gloomy.
A heavy portico frowned down on neighboring bare
-faced hall doors.
The elderly caretaker was prudently awaiting us outside
(05:53):
with a key, which, said key, he turned
in the lock and admitted us into a
great echoing hall, black as night, saying as
he did so, My missus has made the
bed and stoked up a good fire in
the front room, sir.
Your things is all laid out, and I
hope you'll have a comfortable night, sir.
(06:13):
No, sir.
Thank you, sir.
Excuse me, I'll not come in.
Good night.
And with the words still on his lips,
he clattered down the steps with most indecent
haste and vanished.
And of course, you will not come in
either, said John.
It is not in the bond, and I
prefer to face them alone.
(06:35):
And he laughed contemptuously, a laugh that had
a curious echo, it struck me at the
time.
A laugh strangely repeated, with an unpleasant mocking
emphasis.
Call for me alive or dead at eight
o'clock tomorrow morning, he added, pushing me
forcibly out into the porch and closing the
(06:57):
door with a heavy reverberating clang that sounded
halfway down the street.
I did call for him the next morning
as desired, with the caretaker, who stared at
John's commonplace, self-possessed appearance with an expression
of respectful astonishment.
(07:20):
So it was all humbug, of course, I
said, as he took my arm and we
set off for our club.
You shall have the whole story, whenever we
have had something to eat, he replied somewhat
impatiently.
It won't keep till after breakfast.
I'm famishing.
I remarked that he looked unusually grave as
(07:42):
we chatted over our broiled fish and omelet,
and that occasionally his attention seemed wandering, to
say the least.
The moment he had brought out his cigar
case and lit up, he turned to me
and said, I see that you are just
quivering to know my experience, and I won't
keep you in suspense any longer.
(08:04):
In four words, I have seen them.
I merely looked at him with widely parted
mouth and staring interrogative eyes.
I believe I had best endeavor to give
the narrative without comment, and in John Holyoake's
own way.
(08:25):
This is, as well as I can recollect,
his experience, word for word.
I proceeded upstairs, after I had shut you
out lighting my way by match, and found
the front room easily, as the door was
ajar and was lit up by a roaring
and most cheerful looking fire and two white
(08:48):
candles.
It was a comfortable apartment, furnished with old
-fashioned chairs and tables and the traditional four
-poster bed.
There were numerous doors which proved to be
cupboards, and when I had executed a rigorous
search in each of these closets and locked
them and investigated the bed above and beneath,
(09:10):
sounded the walls and bolted the door, I
sat down before the fire, lit a cigar,
opened a book, and felt that I was
going to be master of the situation, and
was thoroughly and comfortably at home.
My novel proved absorbing.
I read greedily chapter after chapter, and so
(09:31):
interested was I, and amused, for it was
a lively book, that I positively lost sight
of my whereabouts, and fancied myself reading in
my own chamber.
There was not a sound.
The coals dropping from the grate occasionally broke
the silence, till a neighboring church clock slowly
boomed twelve.
(09:52):
The hour, I said to myself with a
laugh, as I gave the fire a rousing
poke, and commenced a new chapter.
But ere I had read three pages, I
had occasion to pause to listen.
What was that distinct sound now coming nearer
(10:12):
and nearer?
Rats, of course, said common sense.
It was just the house for vermin.
Then a longish silence.
Again a stir, sounds approaching, if apparently caused
by many feet passing down the corridor.
High-heeled shoes, the sweeping switch of silken
trains.
(10:34):
Of course it was imagination, I assured myself,
or rats.
Rats were capable of making such curious, improbable
noises.
Then another silence.
No sound but cinders, and the ticking of
my watch, which I had laid upon the
table.
I resumed my book, rather ashamed and a
(10:55):
little indignant with myself for having neglected it,
and calmly dismissed my late interruption as, rats,
nothing but rats.
I had been reading and smoking for some
time in a placid and highly incredulous frame
of mind, when I was somewhat rudely startled
(11:17):
by a loud single knock at my room
door.
I took no notice of it, but merely
laid down my novel and sat tight.
Another knock, more imperious this time.
After a moment's mental deliberation, I rose, armed
myself with the poker prepared to brain any
(11:39):
number of rats, and threw the door open
with a violent swing that strained its very
hinges, and beheld, to my amazement, a tall,
powdered butler in a laced scarlet uniform, who,
making formal inclination of his head, astonished me
(12:00):
still further by saying, Dinner is ready.
I'm not coming, I replied without a moment's
hesitation, and thereupon I slammed the door in
his face, locked it, and resumed my seat.
Also my book, but reading was a farce.
My ears were aching for the next sound.
(12:20):
It came soon, rapid steps running up the
stairs, and again a single knock.
I went over to the door, and once
more discovered the tall butler who repeated with
a studied courtesy, Dinner is ready, and the
company are waiting.
I told you I was not coming.
(12:41):
Be off and be hanged, I cried again,
shutting the door violently.
This time I did not make even a
pretense at reading.
I merely sat and waited for the next
move.
I had not long to sit.
In ten minutes I heard a third loud
summons.
I rose, went to the door, and tore
(13:01):
it open.
There, as I expected, was the servant again
with his parrot speech, Dinner is ready, the
company are waiting, and the master says you
must come.
All right then, I'll come, I replied, wearied
by reason of his importunity and feeling suddenly
(13:22):
fired with a desire to see the end
of the adventure.
He accordingly led the way downstairs, and I
followed him, noting as I went the gold
buttons on his coat.
Also that the hall and passages were now
brilliantly illuminated by glowing candles and hung with
(13:43):
living green, the crisp leaves of holly, mistletoe,
and ivy reflecting back the light.
There were several uniformed servants passing to and
fro, and from the dining room there issued
a buzz of tongues, loud volleys of laughter,
many hilarious voices, and a clatter of knives
and forks.
(14:05):
I was not left much time for speculation,
as in another second I found myself inside
the door, and my escort announced me in
a loud voice as, Mr. Holyoak.
I could hardly credit my senses as I
looked round and saw about two dozen people,
(14:30):
dressed in a fashion of the eighteenth century,
sitting at the table set for a sumptuous
Christmas dinner, and lighted by a blaze of
wax candles and massive candelabra.
A swarthy elderly gentleman, who presided at the
head of the board, rose deliberately as I
(14:52):
entered.
He was dressed in a crimson coat braided
with silver.
He wore a white wig, had the most
piercing black eyes I ever encountered, made the
finest bow I ever received in all my
life, and with a polite wave of his
hand indicated my seat.
(15:13):
A vacant chair between two powdered and embroidered
beauties, with overflowing white shoulders and necks sparkling
with diamonds.
At first I was fully convinced that the
whole affair was a superbly matured practical joke.
Everything looked so real, so truly flesh and
(15:33):
blood, so complete in every detail.
But I gazed around in vain for one
familiar face.
I saw young, old, and elderly, handsome, and
the reverse.
On all the faces there was a similar
expression, reckless, hardened, defiance, and something else that
(16:01):
made me shudder.
But that I could not classify or define.
Were they a secret community?
Burglars or counterfeiters?
No.
In one rapid glance I noticed that they
belonged exclusively to the upper stratum of society,
(16:26):
bygone society.
The jabber of talking had momentarily ceased, and
the host, imperiously hammering the table with knife
handle, said in a singularly harsh grating voice,
Ladies and gentlemen, permit me to give you
a toast.
(16:46):
Our guest, looking straight at me with his
glittering coal-black eyes.
Every glass was immediately raised.
Twenty faces were turned towards mine when, happily,
a sudden impulse seized me.
I sprang to my feet and said, Ladies
and gentlemen, I beg to thank you for
(17:09):
your kind hospitality, but before I accept it,
allow me to say grace.
I did not wait for permission, but horridly
repeated a Latin benediction.
Ere the last syllable was uttered, in an
instant there was a violent crash, an uproar,
a sound of running, of screams, groans, and
(17:31):
curses, and then utter darkness.
I found myself standing alone by a big,
plain mahogany table, which I could just dimly
discern by the aid of a street lamp
that threw its meager rays into the great
empty dining room from two deep and narrow
(17:54):
windows.
I must confess that I felt my nerves
a little shaken by the instantaneous change from
light to darkness, from a crowd of gay
and noisy companions to utter solitude and silence.
I stood for a moment, trying to recover
(18:15):
my mental balance.
I rubbed my eyes hard to assure myself
that I was wide awake, and then I
placed this very cigar case in the middle
of the table as a sign and token
that I had been downstairs, which cigar case
I found exactly where I left it this
(18:37):
morning, and then went and groped my way
into the hall and regained my room.
I met no obstacle en route.
I saw no one.
But as I closed and double-locked my
door, I distinctly heard a low laugh outside
the keyhole, a sort of suppressed, malicious titter
(19:02):
that made me furious.
I opened the door at once.
There was nothing to be seen.
I waited and listened.
Dead silence.
Then I undressed and went to bed, resolved
that a whole army of butlers would fail
(19:25):
to allure me once more into that Christmas
feast.
I was determined not to lose my night's
rest, ghosts or no ghosts.
Just as I was dozing off, I remember
hearing the neighboring clock chime too.
It was the last sound I was aware
of.
The house was now as silent as a
(19:48):
vault.
My fire burnt away cheerfully.
I was no longer in the least degree
inclined for reading, and I fell fast asleep
and slept soundly till I heard the cabs
and milk carts beginning their morning career.
I then rose, dressed at my leisure, and
(20:08):
found you, my good, faithful friend, awaiting me,
rather anxiously, on the hall door steps.
I have not done with that house yet.
I'm determined to find out who these people
are and where they come from.
I shall sleep there again, tonight, along with
my bulldog, and you will see that I
(20:29):
shall have news for you tomorrow morning, if
I am still alive to tell the tale,
he added with a laugh.
In vain I would have dissuaded him.
I protested, argued, implored.
I declared that rashness was not courage, that
he had seen enough, that I, who had
seen nothing and only listened to his experiences,
(20:52):
was convinced that number 90 was a house
to be avoided.
I might just as well have talked to
my umbrella.
So, once more, I reluctantly accompanied him to
his previous night's lodgings.
Once more, I saw him swallowed up inside
the gloomy, forbidden looking, re-echoing hall.
(21:15):
And then I went home, in an unusually
anxious, semi-excited, nervous state of mind.
I lay awake, tumbling and tossing, hour after
hour, a prey to the most foolish ideas,
ideas.
I would have laughed to scorn in daylight.
More than once I was certain that I
(21:37):
heard John Holyoake distractedly calling me, and I
sat up in bed and listened intently.
Of course, it was fancy.
For the instant I did so, there was
no sound.
At the first gleam of winter dawn, I
rose, dressed, swallowed a cup of good strong
(21:59):
hot coffee to clear my brain from the
misty notions I had harbored during the night.
And then I invested myself in my warmest
top coat and set off for number 90.
Early as it was, it was but half
past seven, I found the caretaker was before
me, pacing the pavement, his face drawn with
(22:22):
a melancholy expression.
I was not disposed to wait for eight
o'clock.
I was too uneasy and too impatient for
further particulars of the Christmas dinner party.
And so I rang with all my might
and knocked with all my strength.
No sound within.
No answer.
(22:42):
But John was always a heavy sleeper, and
I was resolved to arouse him all the
same, and knocked and rang and rang and
knocked incessantly for fully ten minutes.
And then I stooped down and applied my
eye to the keyhole.
(23:03):
I looked steadily into the aperture, till I
became accustomed to the darkness.
And then it seemed to me that another
eye, a very strange, fiery eye, was glaring
into mine from the other side of the
(23:25):
door.
I removed my eye and applied my mouth
instead, and shouted with all the power of
my lungs, John!
John!
John Holyoake!
How his name echoed and re-echoed up
through that dark and empty house.
He must hear that, I said to myself
(23:47):
as I pressed my ear closely against the
lock, and listened with throbbing suspense.
The echo of Holyoake had hardly died away
when I swear that I distinctly heard a
low, snickering, mocking laugh.
(24:10):
That was my only answer.
That and a vast, unresponsive silence.
I was now quite desperate.
I shook the door frantically, and with all
my strength I broke the bell in short.
My behavior was such that it excited the
(24:32):
curiosity of a police officer who crossed the
road to know what was up.
I want to get in, I panted, breathless
with my exertions.
You'd better stay where you are, said the
police officer.
The outside of this house is the best
of it.
There are terrible stories, but there's a gentleman
inside it.
I interrupted impatiently.
He slept there last night, and I can't
(24:53):
wake him.
He has the key.
Oh, you can't wake him, returned the police
officer gravely.
Then we must get a locksmith.
But already the thoughtful caretaker had procured one,
and already a considerable and curious crowd surrounded
the steps.
After five minutes of maddening delay, the great,
(25:14):
heavy door was opened and swung slowly back,
and I instantly rushed in, followed less frantically
by the police officer and the caretaker.
I had not far to seek John Holyoake.
He and his dog were lying at the
(25:38):
foot of the stairs, both stone dead.
(Transcribed by TurboScribe.ai. Go Unlimited to remove this message.) For a period extending over some years, a
notice appeared, periodically, in various daily papers.
It read, To let furnished, for a term
of years, at a very low rental, a
large old-fashioned family residence, comprising eleven bedrooms,
four reception rooms, dressing rooms, two staircases, complete
(00:29):
servants' offices, ample accommodation for a gentleman's establishment,
including six-stall stable, coach house, etc.
This advertisement referred to No.
90.
Occasionally, you saw it running a week or
a fortnight at a stretch, as if it
(00:49):
were resolved to force itself into consideration by
sheer persistency.
Sometimes, for months, I looked for it in
vain.
Other folk might possibly fancy that the effort
of the house agent had been crowned at
last with success, that it was let, and
no longer in the market.
(01:12):
I knew better.
I knew that it would never, never find
a tenant.
I knew that it was passed on as
a hopeless case.
From house agent to house agent, I knew
that it would never be occupied, save by
rats.
And more than this, I knew the reason
(01:34):
why.
I will not say in what square, street,
or road No.
90 may be found, nor will I divulge
to human being its precise and exact locality.
But this, I'm prepared to state, that it
is positively in existence, is in Charleston, and
(01:54):
is still empty.
Twenty years ago, this very Christmas, I was
down from New York visiting my friend, John
Holyoke, a civil engineer, in Charleston.
We were guests at a little dinner party.
In the neighborhood of the South Battery.
Conversation became very brisk as the champagne circulated,
(02:18):
and many topics were started, discussed, and dismissed.
We talked on an extraordinary variety of subjects.
I distinctly recollect a long argument on mushrooms.
Mushrooms, murders, racing, cholera.
From cholera, we came to sudden death.
From sudden death, to churchyards.
(02:38):
And from churchyards, it was naturally but a
step to ghosts.
John Holyoke, who was the most vehement, the
most incredulous, the most jocular, and the most
derisive of the anti-ghost faction, brought matters
to a climax by declaring that nothing would
give him greater pleasure than to pass a
(03:01):
night in a haunted house.
And that the worse its character, the better
he would be pleased.
His challenge was instantly taken up by our
somewhat ruffled host, who warmly assured him that
his wishes could easily be satisfied, and that
he would be accommodated with a night's lodging
(03:22):
in a haunted house within twenty-four hours.
In fact, in a house of such a
desperate reputation, that even the adjoining mansions stood
vacant.
He then proceeded to give a brief outline
of the history of Number Ninety.
It had once been the residence of a
well-known county family.
(03:44):
But what evil events had happened therein, tradition
did not relate.
On the death of the last owner, a
diabolical-looking aged person, much resembling the typical
wizard, it had passed into the hands of
a kinsman, resident abroad, who had no wish
to return to Charleston, and who desired his
(04:05):
agents to let it, if they could, a
most significant condition.
Year by year went by, and still this
highly desirable family mansion could find no tenant,
although the rent was reduced, and reduced, and
again reduced, to almost zero.
(04:29):
The most ghastly whispers were afloat, the most
terrible experiences were actually proclaimed on the housetops.
No tenant would remain, not even gratis, and
for the last ten years this handsome, desirable
town family residence had been the abode of
rats by day and something else.
(04:50):
By night, so said the neighbors.
Of course, it was the very thing for
John, and he snatched up the gauntlet on
the spot.
He scoffed at its evil repute and solemnly
promised to rehabilitate its character within a week.
I was charged by our host to serve
(05:11):
as a witness, to verify that John Holyoake
did indeed spend the night at number 90.
The next night, at ten o'clock, I
found myself standing, with John, on the steps
of the notorious mansion, but I was not
going to remain.
(05:32):
The carriage that brought us was going to
take me back to my respectable chambers.
This ill-fated house was large, solemn-looking,
and gloomy.
A heavy portico frowned down on neighboring bare
-faced hall doors.
The elderly caretaker was prudently awaiting us outside
(05:53):
with a key, which, said key, he turned
in the lock and admitted us into a
great echoing hall, black as night, saying as
he did so, My missus has made the
bed and stoked up a good fire in
the front room, sir.
Your things is all laid out, and I
hope you'll have a comfortable night, sir.
(06:13):
No, sir.
Thank you, sir.
Excuse me, I'll not come in.
Good night.
And with the words still on his lips,
he clattered down the steps with most indecent
haste and vanished.
And of course, you will not come in
either, said John.
It is not in the bond, and I
prefer to face them alone.
(06:35):
And he laughed contemptuously, a laugh that had
a curious echo, it struck me at the
time.
A laugh strangely repeated, with an unpleasant mocking
emphasis.
Call for me alive or dead at eight
o'clock tomorrow morning, he added, pushing me
forcibly out into the porch and closing the
(06:57):
door with a heavy reverberating clang that sounded
halfway down the street.
I did call for him the next morning
as desired, with the caretaker, who stared at
John's commonplace, self-possessed appearance with an expression
of respectful astonishment.
(07:20):
So it was all humbug, of course, I
said, as he took my arm and we
set off for our club.
You shall have the whole story, whenever we
have had something to eat, he replied somewhat
impatiently.
It won't keep till after breakfast.
I'm famishing.
I remarked that he looked unusually grave as
(07:42):
we chatted over our broiled fish and omelet,
and that occasionally his attention seemed wandering, to
say the least.
The moment he had brought out his cigar
case and lit up, he turned to me
and said, I see that you are just
quivering to know my experience, and I won't
keep you in suspense any longer.
(08:04):
In four words, I have seen them.
I merely looked at him with widely parted
mouth and staring interrogative eyes.
I believe I had best endeavor to give
the narrative without comment, and in John Holyoake's
own way.
(08:25):
This is, as well as I can recollect,
his experience, word for word.
I proceeded upstairs, after I had shut you
out lighting my way by match, and found
the front room easily, as the door was
ajar and was lit up by a roaring
and most cheerful looking fire and two white
(08:48):
candles.
It was a comfortable apartment, furnished with old
-fashioned chairs and tables and the traditional four
-poster bed.
There were numerous doors which proved to be
cupboards, and when I had executed a rigorous
search in each of these closets and locked
them and investigated the bed above and beneath,
(09:10):
sounded the walls and bolted the door, I
sat down before the fire, lit a cigar,
opened a book, and felt that I was
going to be master of the situation, and
was thoroughly and comfortably at home.
My novel proved absorbing.
I read greedily chapter after chapter, and so
(09:31):
interested was I, and amused, for it was
a lively book, that I positively lost sight
of my whereabouts, and fancied myself reading in
my own chamber.
There was not a sound.
The coals dropping from the grate occasionally broke
the silence, till a neighboring church clock slowly
boomed twelve.
(09:52):
The hour, I said to myself with a
laugh, as I gave the fire a rousing
poke, and commenced a new chapter.
But ere I had read three pages, I
had occasion to pause to listen.
What was that distinct sound now coming nearer
(10:12):
and nearer?
Rats, of course, said common sense.
It was just the house for vermin.
Then a longish silence.
Again a stir, sounds approaching, if apparently caused
by many feet passing down the corridor.
High-heeled shoes, the sweeping switch of silken
trains.
(10:34):
Of course it was imagination, I assured myself,
or rats.
Rats were capable of making such curious, improbable
noises.
Then another silence.
No sound but cinders, and the ticking of
my watch, which I had laid upon the
table.
I resumed my book, rather ashamed and a
(10:55):
little indignant with myself for having neglected it,
and calmly dismissed my late interruption as, rats,
nothing but rats.
I had been reading and smoking for some
time in a placid and highly incredulous frame
of mind, when I was somewhat rudely startled
(11:17):
by a loud single knock at my room
door.
I took no notice of it, but merely
laid down my novel and sat tight.
Another knock, more imperious this time.
After a moment's mental deliberation, I rose, armed
myself with the poker prepared to brain any
(11:39):
number of rats, and threw the door open
with a violent swing that strained its very
hinges, and beheld, to my amazement, a tall,
powdered butler in a laced scarlet uniform, who,
making formal inclination of his head, astonished me
(12:00):
still further by saying, Dinner is ready.
I'm not coming, I replied without a moment's
hesitation, and thereupon I slammed the door in
his face, locked it, and resumed my seat.
Also my book, but reading was a farce.
My ears were aching for the next sound.
(12:20):
It came soon, rapid steps running up the
stairs, and again a single knock.
I went over to the door, and once
more discovered the tall butler who repeated with
a studied courtesy, Dinner is ready, and the
company are waiting.
I told you I was not coming.
(12:41):
Be off and be hanged, I cried again,
shutting the door violently.
This time I did not make even a
pretense at reading.
I merely sat and waited for the next
move.
I had not long to sit.
In ten minutes I heard a third loud
summons.
I rose, went to the door, and tore
(13:01):
it open.
There, as I expected, was the servant again
with his parrot speech, Dinner is ready, the
company are waiting, and the master says you
must come.
All right then, I'll come, I replied, wearied
by reason of his importunity and feeling suddenly
(13:22):
fired with a desire to see the end
of the adventure.
He accordingly led the way downstairs, and I
followed him, noting as I went the gold
buttons on his coat.
Also that the hall and passages were now
brilliantly illuminated by glowing candles and hung with
(13:43):
living green, the crisp leaves of holly, mistletoe,
and ivy reflecting back the light.
There were several uniformed servants passing to and
fro, and from the dining room there issued
a buzz of tongues, loud volleys of laughter,
many hilarious voices, and a clatter of knives
and forks.
(14:05):
I was not left much time for speculation,
as in another second I found myself inside
the door, and my escort announced me in
a loud voice as, Mr. Holyoak.
I could hardly credit my senses as I
looked round and saw about two dozen people,
(14:30):
dressed in a fashion of the eighteenth century,
sitting at the table set for a sumptuous
Christmas dinner, and lighted by a blaze of
wax candles and massive candelabra.
A swarthy elderly gentleman, who presided at the
head of the board, rose deliberately as I
(14:52):
entered.
He was dressed in a crimson coat braided
with silver.
He wore a white wig, had the most
piercing black eyes I ever encountered, made the
finest bow I ever received in all my
life, and with a polite wave of his
hand indicated my seat.
(15:13):
A vacant chair between two powdered and embroidered
beauties, with overflowing white shoulders and necks sparkling
with diamonds.
At first I was fully convinced that the
whole affair was a superbly matured practical joke.
Everything looked so real, so truly flesh and
(15:33):
blood, so complete in every detail.
But I gazed around in vain for one
familiar face.
I saw young, old, and elderly, handsome, and
the reverse.
On all the faces there was a similar
expression, reckless, hardened, defiance, and something else that
(16:01):
made me shudder.
But that I could not classify or define.
Were they a secret community?
Burglars or counterfeiters?
No.
In one rapid glance I noticed that they
belonged exclusively to the upper stratum of society,
(16:26):
bygone society.
The jabber of talking had momentarily ceased, and
the host, imperiously hammering the table with knife
handle, said in a singularly harsh grating voice,
Ladies and gentlemen, permit me to give you
a toast.
(16:46):
Our guest, looking straight at me with his
glittering coal-black eyes.
Every glass was immediately raised.
Twenty faces were turned towards mine when, happily,
a sudden impulse seized me.
I sprang to my feet and said, Ladies
and gentlemen, I beg to thank you for
(17:09):
your kind hospitality, but before I accept it,
allow me to say grace.
I did not wait for permission, but horridly
repeated a Latin benediction.
Ere the last syllable was uttered, in an
instant there was a violent crash, an uproar,
a sound of running, of screams, groans, and
(17:31):
curses, and then utter darkness.
I found myself standing alone by a big,
plain mahogany table, which I could just dimly
discern by the aid of a street lamp
that threw its meager rays into the great
empty dining room from two deep and narrow
(17:54):
windows.
I must confess that I felt my nerves
a little shaken by the instantaneous change from
light to darkness, from a crowd of gay
and noisy companions to utter solitude and silence.
I stood for a moment, trying to recover
(18:15):
my mental balance.
I rubbed my eyes hard to assure myself
that I was wide awake, and then I
placed this very cigar case in the middle
of the table as a sign and token
that I had been downstairs, which cigar case
I found exactly where I left it this
(18:37):
morning, and then went and groped my way
into the hall and regained my room.
I met no obstacle en route.
I saw no one.
But as I closed and double-locked my
door, I distinctly heard a low laugh outside
the keyhole, a sort of suppressed, malicious titter
(19:02):
that made me furious.
I opened the door at once.
There was nothing to be seen.
I waited and listened.
Dead silence.
Then I undressed and went to bed, resolved
that a whole army of butlers would fail
(19:25):
to allure me once more into that Christmas
feast.
I was determined not to lose my night's
rest, ghosts or no ghosts.
Just as I was dozing off, I remember
hearing the neighboring clock chime too.
It was the last sound I was aware
of.
The house was now as silent as a
(19:48):
vault.
My fire burnt away cheerfully.
I was no longer in the least degree
inclined for reading, and I fell fast asleep
and slept soundly till I heard the cabs
and milk carts beginning their morning career.
I then rose, dressed at my leisure, and
(20:08):
found you, my good, faithful friend, awaiting me,
rather anxiously, on the hall door steps.
I have not done with that house yet.
I'm determined to find out who these people
are and where they come from.
I shall sleep there again, tonight, along with
my bulldog, and you will see that I
(20:29):
shall have news for you tomorrow morning, if
I am still alive to tell the tale,
he added with a laugh.
In vain I would have dissuaded him.
I protested, argued, implored.
I declared that rashness was not courage, that
he had seen enough, that I, who had
seen nothing and only listened to his experiences,
(20:52):
was convinced that number 90 was a house
to be avoided.
I might just as well have talked to
my umbrella.
So, once more, I reluctantly accompanied him to
his previous night's lodgings.
Once more, I saw him swallowed up inside
the gloomy, forbidden looking, re-echoing hall.
(21:15):
And then I went home, in an unusually
anxious, semi-excited, nervous state of mind.
I lay awake, tumbling and tossing, hour after
hour, a prey to the most foolish ideas,
ideas.
I would have laughed to scorn in daylight.
More than once I was certain that I
(21:37):
heard John Holyoake distractedly calling me, and I
sat up in bed and listened intently.
Of course, it was fancy.
For the instant I did so, there was
no sound.
At the first gleam of winter dawn, I
rose, dressed, swallowed a cup of good strong
(21:59):
hot coffee to clear my brain from the
misty notions I had harbored during the night.
And then I invested myself in my warmest
top coat and set off for number 90.
Early as it was, it was but half
past seven, I found the caretaker was before
me, pacing the pavement, his face drawn with
(22:22):
a melancholy expression.
I was not disposed to wait for eight
o'clock.
I was too uneasy and too impatient for
further particulars of the Christmas dinner party.
And so I rang with all my might
and knocked with all my strength.
No sound within.
No answer.
(22:42):
But John was always a heavy sleeper, and
I was resolved to arouse him all the
same, and knocked and rang and rang and
knocked incessantly for fully ten minutes.
And then I stooped down and applied my
eye to the keyhole.
(23:03):
I looked steadily into the aperture, till I
became accustomed to the darkness.
And then it seemed to me that another
eye, a very strange, fiery eye, was glaring
into mine from the other side of the
(23:25):
door.
I removed my eye and applied my mouth
instead, and shouted with all the power of
my lungs, John!
John!
John Holyoake!
How his name echoed and re-echoed up
through that dark and empty house.
He must hear that, I said to myself
(23:47):
as I pressed my ear closely against the
lock, and listened with throbbing suspense.
The echo of Holyoake had hardly died away
when I swear that I distinctly heard a
low, snickering, mocking laugh.
(24:10):
That was my only answer.
That and a vast, unresponsive silence.
I was now quite desperate.
I shook the door frantically, and with all
my strength I broke the bell in short.
My behavior was such that it excited the
(24:32):
curiosity of a police officer who crossed the
road to know what was up.
I want to get in, I panted, breathless
with my exertions.
You'd better stay where you are, said the
police officer.
The outside of this house is the best
of it.
There are terrible stories, but there's a gentleman
inside it.
I interrupted impatiently.
He slept there last night, and I can't
(24:53):
wake him.
He has the key.
Oh, you can't wake him, returned the police
officer gravely.
Then we must get a locksmith.
But already the thoughtful caretaker had procured one,
and already a considerable and curious crowd surrounded
the steps.
After five minutes of maddening delay, the great,
(25:14):
heavy door was opened and swung slowly back,
and I instantly rushed in, followed less frantically
by the police officer and the caretaker.
I had not far to seek John Holyoake.
He and his dog were lying at the
(25:38):
foot of the stairs, both stone dead.
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