Dead Men's Bones and Two Other Strange Stories | Podcast - Nightshade Diary

Episode Transcript
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Speaker 1 (00:00):
Do you feel a shiver up your spine from fear. Yes,
it's another story from the Night's Shade diary. You know
what that means. Check under the bed and make sure
no one or nothing is there. Is the closet door
securely shut. Then leave your disbelief behind, amp up your
imagination and hang on tight for another ride into terror

(00:22):
and mystery. And like all good horror stories, just imagine
it's a dark and stormy night, and remember screaming like
a little girl is permitted the upturned face by Stephen Crane.
What will we do now, said the adjutant. Troubled and

(00:45):
excited bury him, said Timothy Lene. The two officers looked
down close to their toes or lay the body of
their comrade. The face was chalked blue, gleaming eyes stared
at the sky. Over the two upright figures was a
windy sound of bullets, and on the top of the
hill Lean's prostrate company of Spitzberg and infantry was firing

(01:09):
measured volleys. Don't you think it would be better, began
the adjutant. We might leave him until tomorrow. No, said Len,
I can't hold that post an hour longer. I've got
to fall back, and we've got to bury old bill,
of course, said the adjutant. At once your men got
entrenching tools. Ning shouted back to his little line, and

(01:32):
two men came slowly, one with a pick, one with
a shovel. They started in the direction of the Rostina's sharpshooters.
Bullets cracked near their ears. Dig here, said Lean gruffly.
The men, thus caused to lower their glances to the turf,
became hurried and frightened, merely because they could not look
to see. Whence the bullets came. The dull beat of

(01:54):
the pick striking the earth sounded amid the swift snap
of close bullets. Presently, the other private began to shovel,
I suppose, said the adjutant slowly. We'd better search his
clothes for things. Lee nodded together in curious abstraction. They
looked at the body. Then Lean stirred his shoulders, suddenly
arousing himself. Yes, he said, we'd better see what he's got.

(02:17):
He dropped to his knees, and his hands approached the
body of the dead officer, but his hands wavered over
the buttons of the tunic. The first button was brick
red with drying blood, and he did not seem to
dare touch it. Go on, said the adjutant hoarsely. Len
stretched his wooden hand and his fingers fumbled the blood
stained buttons at Lassie rose with ghastly face. He had

(02:40):
gathered a watch, a whistle, a pipe, a tobacco pouch,
a handkerchief, a little case of cards and papers. He
looked at the adjutant. There was a silence. The adjutant
was feeling that he had been a coward to make
Lean do all the grisly business. Well, said Lean, that's
all I think. Have his sword and revolver. Yes, said

(03:02):
the adjutant, his face working, And then he burst out
and a sudden strange fury at the two privates. Why
don't you hurry up with that grave? What are you
doing anyhow? Hurry? D'ye hear? I never saw such stupid
Even as he cried out and his passion, the two
men were laboring for their lives. Ever overhead, the bullets

(03:23):
were spitting. The grave was finished. It was not a masterpiece,
a poor, little shallow thing. Len and the adjutant again
looked at each other in a curious, silent communication. Suddenly
the adjutant croaked out a weird laugh. It was a
terrible laugh which had its origin in that part of
the mine which is first moved by the singing of

(03:44):
the nerves. Well, he said humorously to Lene, I suppose
we had best tumble him in, Yes, said Len. The
two privates stood waiting, bent over their implements. I suppose,
said Leen. It would be better if we laid him
in ourselves. Yes, said the adjutant. Then, apparently remembering that
he had made Lean search the body, he stooped with

(04:06):
great fortitude and took hold of the dead officer's clothing.
Lean joined them both with particular that their fingers should
not feel the corpse. They tugged away, the corpse lifted,
he toppled, flopped into the grave, and the two officers, draightening,
looked again at each other. They were always looking at

(04:26):
each other. They sighed with relief. The adjutant said, I
suppose we should we should say something. Do you know
the service to him? They don't read the service until
the grave is filled in, said Leen, pressing his lips
to an academic expression. Don't they said the adjutant, shocked
that he had made a mistake. Oh, well, he cried, suddenly,

(04:50):
let us let us say something. Well, he can hear us,
all right, said Lene. Do you know the service? I
can't remember a line of it, said the adjutant. Lean
was extremely dubious. I can repeat two lines. But well,
do it, said the adjutant. Go as far as you can.
That's better than nothing. And the beasts have got our

(05:12):
range exactly. Len looked at his two men attention. He barked.
The privates came to attention with a click. Looking much aggrieved,
the adjutant lowered his helmet to his knee, Lean bareheaded,
he stood over the grave. The Rastina sharpshooters fired briskly.
Our father, our friend has sunk in the deep waters

(05:32):
of death, but his spirit has sleaped toward thee. As
the bubble rises from the lips of the drowning, perceive
we beseech your fallow a little flying bubble, and lean.
Although husky and ashamed, had suffered no hesitation up to
this point, but he stopped with a hopeless feeling and
looked at the corpse. The adjutant moved uneasily, and from

(05:55):
thy superb heights he began, and then he too, came
to an end, and from thy superb height, said Len.
The adjutant suddenly remembered a phrase in the back part
of the Spitsberg and burial service, and he exploited it
with a triumphant man, or a man who has recalled
everything and can go on. O God have mercy, O
God have mercy, said Len. Mercy, repeated the adjutant in

(06:18):
quick failure. Mercy, said Len. And then he was moved
by some violence of feeling, for he turned suddenly upon
his two men and tigrishly said, throw the dirt in
the fire of the Ristina sharpshooters was accurate and continuous.
One of the aggrieved privates came forward with his shovel.
He lifted his first shovel load of earth, and for

(06:40):
a moment of inexplicable hesitation, it was held poised above
this corpse, which, from its chalk blue face, lookedingly out
from the grave, and the soldier emptied his shovel on
on the feet. Timothy Lene felt as if tuns had
been swiftly lifted from off his forehead. It felt that
perhaps the private might empty the shovel aunt on the

(07:04):
face had been emptied on the feet, there was a
great point gained. There Ah, the first shovelful had been
emptied on the feet. All satisfactory. The adjutant began to babble, Well,
of course, a man we've messed with all these years. Impossible.
You can't, you know, leave your intimate friends riding on

(07:25):
the field. Go on, for God's sake and shovel you.
The man with a shovel suddenly ducked, grabbed his left
arm with his right hand, and looked at his officer
for orders. Lean picked up the shovel from the ground.
Go to the rear, he said to the wounded man.
He also addressed the other private. You get under cover two,
I'll finish his business. The wounded man scrambled hard still

(07:48):
for the top of the ridge, without devoting any glances
to the direction. Whence the bullets came, and the other
man followed at an equal pace, But he was different.
And then he looked back anxiously three times. This is
merely the way often of the hit and unhit. Timothy
Lean filled the shovel, hesitated, and then in a movement

(08:09):
which was like a gesture of a born's, he flung
the dirt into the grave, and as it landed and
made a sound PLoP. Lean suddenly stopped and mopped his
brow a tired laborer. Perhaps we have been wrong, said
the adjutant. His glance wavered stupidly. It might have been
better if we hadn't buried him just at this time.

(08:31):
Of course, if we advanced to morrow, the body would
have been damn, you said, Lean, shut your mouth. He
was not the senior officer. He again filled the shovel
and flung the earth always the earth made that sound PLoP.
For a space, Lean worked frantically, like a man digging
himself out of danger. Soon there was nothing to be

(08:54):
seen but the chalk blue face. Lean filled the shovel.
Good God, he cried to the adjutant. Why didn't you
turn him sa how when you put him in this?
Then Len began to stutter. The adjutant understood he was
pale to the lips. Go on, Mannie cried, beseechingly, almost

(09:14):
in a shout. Lean sun backed a shovel and went
forward in a pendulum curve. When the earth landed, it
made a sound PLoP. Florinda by shameless Fraser, Did you
miss Reeve, have a lovely walk, Darling Claire, asked to
the child in the tarnished depth of glass before her. Well,

(09:38):
it was lovely for me, but not for miss Reeve,
because she tore her stockings on a bramble and it
bled the stocking. No, that ran a beautiful ladder, said Jane,
very solemnly. But there were two long tears on her leg,
as if a cat had scratched her. We were going
along by the path by the lake when the brambles
caught her. She almost fell in. She did look, mummy,

(10:01):
hopping on the bank like a hand blackbird a cat's
playing with and squawking. Poor miss Reeve. Your father's going
to have that path cleared soon. It's quite overgrown. Oh
I hope not soon, mummy. I love the bramley places
and what the birds and rabbits will do if they're
cut down. I can't imagine. The thickety bushes are all

(10:23):
hopping and fluttering with them when you walk, and the
path wiggles as if it were living too, So you
must lift your feet high and stamp on it the
way Florinda does. But Claire was not listening anymore. Chad
had drawn her glance from Jane's grave elfin features in
the shadowed recees of the glass to fix it on
her own image, spread as elegantly upon its surface as

(10:47):
a swan. And if Daddy has the bushes cut down,
Jane went on, what will poor Florinda do? Where will
she play? There will be no place at all for
little traps and snares, she said, no place for her
to creep and whistle in and tinkle into laughter when
something funny happens, like miss Reeve caught by the leg

(11:08):
and hopping. This was the time, when her mother was
not listening that Jane could talk most easily about Florinda.
She looked at her mother's image, wrapped in the dull
mysteries of grown up thought within the oval Chippendale glass,
and thence to the Rococo frame of gilded wood, in
whose interlacing designed two birds of faded gilt about with

(11:30):
a chipped wing, and flowers whose golden petals and leaves
showed here in their little spots and tips of white plaster,
like a disease or all caught forever. That's how I
met Florinda. She was chattering, quite confidently, now that she
knew that it was only to herself. I had been
down to the edge of the lake where there were

(11:51):
no brambles, you know, the lawn side. And I knelt
down to look at myself in the water, and there
were two of me. That's what I thought at first,
two of me, and then I saw one was someone else.
It was Florinda, smiling at me. But I couldn't smile back,
not for anything. There we were like you and me

(12:12):
in the glass, one smiling and one very solemn. Then
Miss Reeve called and Florinda just went. My face was
alone and astonished in the water. She's shy, Florinda is
and sly, too, shy and sly. That's Florinda for you.
The repeated name stirred Claire to a vague consciousness. She

(12:35):
had heard it on Jane's lips before. Who is Florinda,
she asked, Mummy. I've told you. She's a doll. I
think only large, large as me. And she never talks,
not with words anyway, and her eyes can't shut even
when she lies down. I thought she was called Arabella.

(12:57):
That's the doll Uncle Richard gave me last Christmas. Arabella
does close her eyes when she lies down, and she
says good night, Mamma. Two because of the Gramophone record insider.
But Florinda's different. She's not a house doll. She belongs outside.
Though I've asked her to come to tea on Christmas Eve. Well, Darling,

(13:19):
I've lots of letters to write, so just you run
along to the nursery and have a lovely tea. So
Florinda was a doll, an idea doll. It seemed that
Jane had invented an anticipation of Christmas nine in the
new year, Jane was growing perhaps a little old for dolls,
A strange child, thought Claire difficult to understand, and that

(13:42):
she took after her mother, though in looks it was
her father, as she resembled with a side. Claire slid
out the drawer of the mahogany riding desk. She distributed
writing paper and envelopes, the Christmas cards, reproductions of Alcan prints,
and eat piles over the red leather, and opening her
dress book, set herself to right. Roger came in with

(14:05):
the early December dusk. He had been tramping round the
estate with Wakefield, the agent, and the cold had painted
his cheeks blue and nipped his nose red, so he
looked like a large clumsy gnome. He kissed Claire on
the nape, and the icy touch of his nose spread
goose flush over her shoulders. You go and poor it
yourself some whisky, she said, and thow yourself up by

(14:27):
the fire. I'll be with you in a minute. She
had dressed two more envelopes in a large clear hand,
and then, without looking round, said, have we bitten off
rather more than we can chew? There's an awful lot
to be done, said her husband, from the fire. So
much one hardly knows where to begin. The woods are shambles,
knisten huts, nastiness and barbed wire. One would have thought

(14:50):
Uncle Eustace would have made some effort to clear up
the mess after the army moved out. But Darling, he
never came back to live here. He was too wise,
too ill, and too old. Any neighbor give a thought
to those who'd inherit the place. I suppose he never
thought we'd be foolish enough to come and live here anyway.

(15:11):
Roger's uncle had died in a nursing home in Bournemouth
earlier in the year, and Roger had come into these
acres of Darkshire Park and woodland and the somber Pealing
House Fowling Hall set among them. At Clare's urging, he
had tried to sell the place, but there were no offers.
Now Roger had the obstinate notion of settling here and

(15:33):
trying to make pigs and chickens pay for the upkeep
of the estate. Of course, Claire knew there was something
else behind this recent interest in the country life. Nothing
had been said, but she knew what Roger wanted, and
she knew too that he would hint at it again
before long, the forbidden subject. She stacked her letters on

(15:53):
the desk and went to join him by the fire.
There's one thing you can do, she said, clear that
path that goes round the lake. Poor miss Reeve tore
herself quite nastily on a brambles afternoon walking there. I'll
remind Wakefield to get the men on the job tomorrow.
And what was Jane doing down by the lake? Just
now as I came in. I called her, and she

(16:15):
ran off into the bushes. My dear, Jane's been up
in the nursery for the last hour or more. Miss
Reeve's reading to her. You know, she's not allowed out
this raw weather except when the sun's up. The doctor said, well,
I wondered, I only glimpsed her, a little girl in
the dusk. She ran off when I called one of

(16:37):
the workmen's children. I expect, perhaps strange, I didn't think
of that. He took a gulp of whiskey and changed
the subject. Clear, it's going to cost the earth to
put this place properly in order. It would be worth
it if if he added with an effort, I mean,
if one thought it was leading anywhere, said had come

(16:59):
out the first hint. You mean if we had a son,
don't you don't you Roger, She spoke accusingly. I merely meant, well, yes,
though of course she didn't let him finish. But you
know what the doctor said after Jane, you know how
delicate she is. You can't want if she had a brother,

(17:19):
Roger began. Claire laughed a sudden shiver of laughter, and
held her hands to the fire. Roger, what an open
hypocrite you are if she had a brother, when all
the time, you mean, if I had a son, and
how could you be certain it wouldn't be a sister. No, Roger,
We've had this out a thousand times in the past.

(17:40):
It can't be done. She shook her head and blinked
at the fire. It wouldn't work out. Roger went into
the nursery, as was his too irregular custom, to say
good night to Jane. She was in a pink, fleecy
dressing gown, slippered toes, resting on the wire fender, a
bowl emptied of bread and milk on her knees. Miss

(18:01):
Reeve was reading her story about her princess who was
turned by enchantment into a fox. Don't let me interrupt,
miss Reeve. I'll look in again later. Oh, do come in,
mister Wayley. We're almost ready for bed. I was sorry
to hear about your accident this afternoon. It was such
a silly thing, really. I caught my foot in a
slipness of bramble. It was as if somebody had set

(18:22):
it on the path on purpose. Only that would be
too ridiculous for words. But it was a shock, and
I tore myself painfully trying to get free. There was
still the ghost of that panic, Roger noticed in Miss
Reeves's pasty, pudgy features and signaling behind the round lesnss
of ReSpectacle. It's not a very nice path. For a walk,

(18:44):
she added, But one can't keep Jane away from the lake.
I'm having all the undergrowth cleared away from the bank,
said Roger. That should make it easier walking. Oh, that'll
ever be so much nicer, mister Wayley. Florinda won't like it,
thought Jane, sitting stiffly in her wicker chair by the fire.

(19:04):
She won't like it at all. She'll be no wicked temper,
will Florinda. But she said aloud, in a voice of
small protest, for what was the use of speaking about
Florinda to grown ups? It won't be nice at all.
It would be quite horribly beastly. The men didn't care
for the work they had been set to do. It
was the skeletons, they said, And they prodded suspiciously with

(19:27):
their implements at the little lumps of bone and feather
and fur that their cutting and scything had revealed. There
was a killer somewhere in the woods, owl, said one, stoats,
said another. But Old Renshaw said glumly it was neither
bird nor beast. There was something that walk that shouldn't.
And this infected the others with a derisive disquiet. All

(19:49):
the same fifty yards of pathway cleared during the morning,
which took them beyond the small dork pavilion. That one
served as boat house and was reflected by a stone
twin house the lock mechanism on the eastern side of
the lake. Miss Reeves took Jane out in the afternoon
to watch the men's progress. Jane ran ahead down the

(20:10):
cleared path, paused at the pavilion to hang over the
flaking ball strade, and gazed down into the water. Whispered
something shook her head, and ran on, Hello, mister Renshaw alone,
she cried, as rounding a sudden twist in the path,
she came upon the old man hacking at the undergrowth.
Renshaw started and cut short and a blade hidden to

(20:32):
his foot. This accident stopped work for the day. It
wasn't ripe, Miss Jane to come on me like that,
he said, as they were helping up to the house.
You gave me a real turn, I thought, I know,
said Jane, fixing him with her serious, puzzled eyes. And
she was there too, watching all the time. Whatever the
killer was, it moved its hunting ground. That night, two

(20:54):
white orpingtons were found dead beside the arcs next morning,
their feathers scattered like snow over the bare ground. And
it's not an animal neither, said Ron, the boy who
carried the mash into the runs and had discovered to kill.
What do you mean it's not an animal, asked Wakefield.
I mean that their next is wrungs, mister Wakefield. Oh, getaway,

(21:16):
said Wakefield. But the following morning another hen was found
lying in a mess of feathers and blood, and Wakefield
reported to his master, it can't be. It's a fox, sir,
that has not been bitten off. It's been pulled off, sir.
And there was this, Sir, was found by the arks.

(21:38):
It was a child's bracelet of black and silver. The
path was cleared, but on the farther side of the lake,
the shrubberies that melted imperceptibly into the tall woods bordered
it closely. Here Jane dawdled on her afternoon walk at
the bend in the path near the boat house. She
waited until her governess was out of sight, and then
called softly into the gloom of you and rods and Laurel.

(22:01):
I think you're a beast, a beast, and I'm not
going to be your friend. Any more, do you hear?
And you're not to come on Christmas Eve, even if
you're starving. There was movement in the shadows as she
glimpsed the staring blue eyes and pinched face and the
tattered satin finery. It's no use following us, so there.

(22:21):
Jane stuck her tongue out as a gesture of defiance,
and ran away along the path. Are you all right,
asked Miss Reeve, who had turned back to look at her.
I thought I heard someone crying. Oh it's only Florinda,
said Jane. And she can sob her eyes out now
for all I care, Jane said miss Reeve severely. How
many more times have I to tell you that Florinda

(22:44):
is a naughty fib and we shouldn't tell naughty FIBs
even in fun. It's no fun, said Jane, so low
that Miss Reeve could hardly catch a word. No fun
at all. Being Florinda a hard frost, said an overnight.
It made own landscape of the park and woods, and
engraved on the nursery window panes sharply, as with the

(23:04):
diamond intricate traceries of silver fern. The bark of the
trees was patterned with frost like chain mail, and from
the gaunt branches, icicle daggers glinted in the sun. Each
twig of the bare shrubs had butted its teardrops of ice.
The fur surface of the lake was wrinkled and gray,
like the face of an old woman. And Wakefield sees,

(23:26):
if it keeps up, we may be able to skate
on a boxing day. But by midday the temperature rose,
and all out of doors was filled with a mournful
pattering and dripping. Towards evening, a dirty yellow glow showed
in the sky, and furry black clouds moved up over
the woods, ringing snow. It snowed after that for two days,

(23:46):
and then it was Christmas Eve. You look like the
snow queen, but you smell like the queen of Sheba.
Must she go out to night? Mummy darling, it's a boar,
we promise, Lady Graves, so we have to. You should
have kept your fingers crossed. But you'll be back soon,
in time to catch Father Christmas climbing down the chimney.

(24:07):
I expect, but earlier than that promise, much earlier than that.
Daddy wants to get back early anyway, He and Wakefield
had a tiring day sitting up with a gun to
guard their precious hands. But she and never came, did
it not last night? And now you go to lovely sleeps?

(24:28):
And when you wake, perhaps Father Christmas will have brought
you Florinda. And is no cried the child, Not Florinda. Mummy? Please,
what a funny thing you are, said Claire, stooping to
kiss her. You were quite silly about her a few
days ago. Jane shivered and struggled down on the warm bed.
I've changed, she said, We're not friends any more. After
the lights went out, Jane imagined she was walking in

(24:51):
the snow. The snowflakes fell as lightly as kisses, and
soon they had covered her with a white, soft down.
Now she knew herself to be a swan, and she
tucked her head under a wing as so fell asleep
on the dark, rocking water. But in the next room,
Miss Reeve, who had gone to bed early, could not
sleep because of the wind that sobbed so disquietly around

(25:12):
the angles of the house. At last, she put out
a hand to the bedside table, poured a soft water,
groped for the aspurn bottle and swallowed down three tablets
at a gulp. It was as she rescrewed the top
she noticed that it was not the aspern bottle she
was holding. She could have sworn that the sleeping tablets
had been in her dressing table drawer. Her first thought

(25:33):
was that someone had changed the bottles on purpose, but that,
she told herself, would be too absurd. There was nothing
she could do about it. The crying of the wind
mounted to shrill, broken fluting that sounded oddly like children's laughter.
The first thing they noticed when the car drew up,
its chain tires grinding and clanking under the dark porch,

(25:54):
was that the front door was ajar. Wait here, said
Roger to the chauffeur. There seems to have been visitors.
We were away. Claire switched down the drawing room lights
and screamed at the demonic havoc. They revealed the chairs
and tables, overturned, the carpet, a litter of broken porcelain,
feathers from the torn cushions and melting snow. Some one

(26:14):
had thrown the heavy silver inkwell at the wall, glass
which hung askew, its surface cracked and starred, and a
delicate frame broken. No sane person, Roger began, but already
Clara was running up the stairs to the nursery and
screaming Jane Jane. As she ran, the nursery was wrecked
to the sheets, clawed in strips, the floor drift of

(26:35):
feathers from the ribbed pillows. Only the dull arabella, with
a shattered head, was propped up in the empty bed.
When Claire touched her, she fell backwards and began to
repeat good night, Mamma, as a mechanism inside her worked.
They found Jane's footsteps in the snow, leading over the
dawn lawn in the direction of the lake. Once they

(26:55):
thought they saw her ahead of them, but it was
only the snow man Roger had helped her to build.
During the afternoon, there was a misty moon, and by
its light they followed the small, naked footprints to the
edge of the lake, but their eyes could make out
nothing beyond the snow fringed ice. Roger had sent on
the chauffeur to abandon the drive where the car headlights
could illuminate the farther bank, and now in the sudden

(27:18):
glare they saw in the dark center of ice the
two small figures Jane in her night dress, and beside
her a little girl in old fashioned blue satin, who
walked oddly and jerkily, lifting her feet and stamping them
on the ice. They called together, Jane, Jane, come back,
she seemed to have heard, and she turned, groping towards
the light. Neither caught her by her arm, and the

(27:41):
two struggled together on the black glastic surface. There from
the stars, it seemed, and into their cold hearts fell
a sound like the snapping of a giant lute string.
The two tiny interlocked figures had disappeared in the ice,
moaned and tinkled at the edges of the lake. Dead

(28:02):
Men's Bones by Edith Olivier. I knew that my grandmother
was dying, and I, who had never seen death, sat
fearfully by her bed, wondering when the end would come,
Would it be to night? Could she live till tomorrow?
I could not say. All I knew was that I
had heard my parents say to each other that she
could never recover, and that she must not be left alone.

(28:24):
She had always been fond of me, and she wanted
me to stay with her. And yet this silent watch
filled me with restless terrors. I dared not move for
fear of disturbing her, although I wish that she would
rouse herself and say some word to break the silence
of the room. The light tried her eyes, and so
we had no lamp. But the fire light shone fitfully,

(28:45):
now flaming up and then dying down. As the flames
came up, they threw grotesque shadows on the walls. Grannie
was propped up against her pillows, and her face had
grown terribly thin. Not and again as shadows was thrown,
mag to fight, and emaciated on to the wall behind
her bed. Her cap seemed all peaks, and her face

(29:06):
was hawklike. Those shadows fascinated me, but they frightened me also,
and filled the room with uneasy fears. It was a
rough night, too, and I had always felt frightened by
the sound of wind howling round the house. It reminded
me of something terrible which had once happened, something which
I had remembered when I was surely too young to

(29:27):
have had any memories of my own, a memory of
her previous existence. Perhaps. Suddenly, Grandmother spoke, I don't like that,
when she said, reminds me of a terrible thing which
once happened. Come and sit by me and listen. I
don't want to die without telling someone about the most
unforgettable experience of my life. She lay silent. How old

(29:50):
are you, she asked sixteen, I said I was only twelve.
And south Over a church had not long been built.
People used to come from far near to see it,
for it was unlike any other church in the countryside.
Lord Southover had always been a great collector, bringing home
treasures from every country in Europe. When he built this

(30:11):
church for his native village, he filled it with rare
and curious things which seemed almost out of place in
the little village. There were curious carved columns of porphyry,
which he had brought from a Baroque palace in Spain.
The twisted pillars of black marble had once stood in
a Florentine church, and the deep dead colors of mosaic

(30:33):
pavement had shone on the floor of a house in
ancient Rome. The font was roughly carved from a huge
piece of red marble, and was said to have held
libations in some strange heathen right. The thirteenth century glass
in the window had glowed like jewels in the walls
of a chapel dedicated in the little province south Town
by a company of returning crusaders. Grotesque episodes in the

(30:55):
lives of the saints were carved in deep relief on
the doors, which he had found in a far off
town in Silesia. The church itself was like one of
those Baroque buildings that one finds in South Bavaria, and
it was set among lines of quiet gray poplars, while
close beside it a thicket of ancient use suggested the
sight of an earlier burial ground. That had always been

(31:18):
a tradition that an ancient church had stood among those ewes.
And sure enough, as they dug the foundations, the builders
came upon a large quantity of human bones. This seemed
to prove that the new church was being placed on
ground which had already been consecrated, and these bones were
now carefully collected and placed in a stone sarcophagus or casket.

(31:40):
A crypt had been built under the altar as a
mausoleum for the south lower family. It had a low
doorway leading into the churchyard, and oh this was now
placed as sarcophagus containing the ancient bones as you came
down the formal path which led to this door, walking
between two stiff victorians flower borders, ye could read the

(32:02):
elaborate inscription which told of the finding of these nameless bones,
yet ended with the words and he said, unto me,
son of man, can these bones live? And I answered, O, Lord, God,
thou knowest. My grandmother stopped. I wished she would not
go on, and yet I longed to know the end
of her story. I sat breathless, and after a moment,

(32:24):
the thin old voice began again. My father went on,
was the first rector of the new church, And well
I remembered its dedication. That was a great day in
our childish lives, a day of pealing bells, of rogue bishops,
and of public luncheons. For the whole neighborhood came to
see the church, which was already something of a legend.

(32:45):
South Over never seemed to be a new church. Indeed
it was not, for the outer walls alone had been
newly built. Its interior was crowded with the creations of
men of varying minds and differing faiths. How the memories
of a hundred generations far fetched. Was indeed the word
to describe it, and many people called it out of
place in the little English village. And yet it was

(33:09):
a strangeness which gave it beauty and mystery. That was
what Lord Southover had sought for and found. Yet I
remember my own grandmother saying to my father, she was
older than I am, now such things should not be mixed.
They don't meet well, they look wrong, and they bring evil.
You cannot tell what you have, let loosen your church.

(33:32):
My father laughed at her at that time, but sure enough,
within two months of the consecration of the church, Lord
Southover was dead, and his was the first coffin to
be placed in the crypt under the altar. It was
a long, narrow chamber with at the very end of
very grotesque representation of the Good Shepherd found in one
of the catacombs. A series of shallow recesses down the

(33:53):
sides of the crypt awaited the coffins, and loud Southover's
was now placed in the innermost of these, in no
way enclosed, but visible to anyone entering the crypt. Lady
Southover was a beautiful creature, and to this day I
can remember the impression made on me by the sight
of her tragic beauty and the heavy morning clothes which

(34:14):
were worn in those days. She could not bear to
leave her husband's coffin, and she insisted on spending hours
in the crypt every day, kneeling beside it. Every morning,
my father himself unlocked the crypt and left the vault
open for her to enter when she would. She always
came and went by the private way which led from
the great House to the church, and no one saw

(34:35):
her pass. Everyone kept out of the way. In the evening,
my father locked the door for the night. Some little
time had passed, one of my parents had both to
be away for a few days. I was always proud that,
as the eldest of the family, I was already looked
upon as able to shoulder a good deal of responsibility.
And now I felt it befitted me that it was

(34:57):
to me, rather than to the old sexton that my
father committed the key of the vault. Unlock the door
at eight in the morning, he said, and lock it
at seven every night. Lady south Over wont come later
than that, for it will be dark. Do not give
the key to any one else, and keep out of
the way when lady south overcomes. Two days passed, I

(35:19):
unlocked and locked the door with conscientious punctuality. Then came
an evening when I went out fishing with my brother,
and we stayed so long away that we returned to
find ourselves in dire disgrace with our very severe old nurse.
To bed at once and without supper was a sentence.
And I was so mortified at being thus punished before

(35:40):
the little ones that I forgot the crypt. Awoke in
the middle of the night, and there swept over me
the memory of that open door. The crypt had not
been locked. It was my fault. I don't think you
can realize in these easy going days, the overwhelming sense
of guilt with which I then looked upon a failure
to do my heart in a family undertaking. For a

(36:02):
few moments, I was completely overcome with despair at the
knowledge that had failed in my trust. But as I
grew more awake, I realized that it was not yet
too late. I still could lock the door. The key
was on my table, and the church near by. I
sprang out of bed, threw on a few clothes, and
crept quietly downstairs into the garden. It was not dark.

(36:23):
The moon was a few days after the full and
I never saw her shape so uncannily, no beauty in her.
She looked deformed and wicked. It was a windy sky,
and the clouds fled one after another, crossed the moon,
so that her light came uncertainly broken by patches of darkness.
Went quickly along the garden path which led to the churchyard.

(36:45):
The three old Ewes, their bows spreading into the ground,
stood like vast, motionless presences, the shadows moving beneath them.
As the moon came out or disappeared behind the cloud,
the words the shadow of death came into my mind
as I said, all those dark, terrible trees, the poplars
behind them. More on the contrary, very thin and transparent,

(37:06):
they were full of movement. Little frightening breaths went through them,
as though something invisible were passing. As I ran up
the walk to the crypt, a horrid swarm of bats
rushed out, their twinkling flight, making them seem like dark
stars thrown up from the fretful little universe, to flutter
purposeless beneath the majestic march of the distant heavens. I

(37:29):
tucked my head, covering it with my hands, and dived
to the door of the crypt. As I put my
hand upon it, I saw for one second in the
darkness a light. It was close beside the coffin. As
I looked and went, the darkness closed over it, and
all was still. My heart, too, stood still. Terror seized me,

(37:49):
and I realized that Lady south Oer might still be there.
Perhaps it was earlier than I thought, for I had
not looked at the clock before coming downstairs. It might
be an hour when grown up people were still about.
Pulling myself together for supreme effort, I held open the
door and called, as loudly as I could, is anybody there?
The sound of my voice completed my panic. The vault

(38:13):
echoed with the words, the echo coming so close upon
them that they were magnified and distorted. A chilled silence
followed them. But now I could wait no longer. I
banged the door, locked it, and fled for a few steps.
Only then I realized that I had not given time
for a reply, and my terror had locked the door
upon the living occupant of the tomb, if living occupant

(38:36):
there were, and had left him or her alone for
the night in that most gruesome place. I know that
when I went back, I did the bravest thing of
my life. But back I went. The pulses in my
head were making such a noise that I doubted whether
I could hear an answer from within. My own blood
deafened me, but I was resolved that when I called again,

(38:57):
it should be with the door shut between me and
that iideous black silence. I approached the door to find
that the initiative was mine. No more from the vault,
which a moment before had been so deadly still, there
now issued a tumult which filled the churchyard. The door
of the crypt was being violently shaken, and voices, many

(39:17):
of them, were crying insistently from within. No, this was
not Lady Southover. I thought the language was not really English,
and yet I could make out some meaning in the hasty,
desperate words. The voices were unlike any that I had
ever heard. Were the shrill or deep I could not say.
They were toneless and yet dominant as the wind, and

(39:40):
they were urgent, with an urgency had never before or
since imagined opened the door. Open the door. They have
mixed the bones with the voices. There came a thousand
fluttering sounds, as if another host of bats were being
driven against the door. I was shaking so much that,
even had I wished to do so, I could not
have put the key into the lock. But I knew

(40:03):
that I could never, never open the door. Upon this
unknown horror, I thought I was going to fall to
the ground, and to save myself, I clutched at the
top of the low doorway. It seemed as if the
whole church swayed with my weight. Open the door, Open
the door. His bones shall not rest with hers. The
agony in that voice was so terrible, So compelling was

(40:28):
that cry, that in spite of my terror, I found
myself fumbling for the lock. The key touched it. Did
I turn it? I do not think so, though I
cannot say. But at the same moment, that frenzied entreaty
from within became a violent hurricane, and the door burst
open with a crash. I was caught into the rush
of a whirlwind, and the something which came out of

(40:50):
the crib swept me helplessly along. Then the engraved stone
at which I had clutched for support, came thundering to
the ground, bringing with it the sarcophagus behind It felt
me to the earth, and there I lay helplessly pinned
under it. The casket had broken and the bones were
littered all about. By this time, the driving cloud had
almost covered the moon and had become much darker. I

(41:13):
lay under the fallen stone, my eyes staring into the
uncertain twilight. I dared not close them, and I watched rigid,
unable to look away. But I could not see the figures,
two or three of them, which moved, crouching, bending, and
turning over the bones. I was aware of their movements,
but I could not distinguish themselves. They were so near

(41:34):
me that I could feel a little stir of damp,
cold air as they passed about, almost treading upon me
as they went. I shrank away as far as I
could from their wavering, uncertain course, but I could not
really move, pinned as I was beneath that stone for force.
I watched their horrible gestures as I handled the bones
one by one. Now they would lift one tenderly, fondling

(41:54):
it with caresses, which seemed indescribably evil. Then they grabbed
at another with ribolt, loathing and scorn, tossing it mockingly away,
or hurling it brutally to the ground and trampling it
under foot. Sometimes they bent close to the earth, near,
dreadfully near to where I lay. And then they whispered furtatively,
muttering and gibbering. I thought the scene would never end.

(42:18):
Then the pain in my shoulder became unbearable. I fainted.
My grandmother was silent. I looked anxiously toward her. Was
she dead or dying? Surely the telling of the story
must have been beyond her failing strength. But no, she
lay there quietly, her face less distressed than I had
seen it some time during her illness, as though by

(42:41):
speaking she had eased her memory of a heavy weight.
After a few moments she spoke again. The sexton found
me lying there next morning, she said, and thought that
I had been overtaken by the storm by my way
to lock the door of the crypt. I never told
my story to any one. It was always supposed that
only the storm had loosened the sarcophagus and the casket.

(43:01):
I ask were the bones put back? And was it
returned to its place? It was not broken when they
found it, replied great grandmother. Then do you think that
the bones are there safely? To this day? I know
they are not. She answered,

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