As he sipped his third brandy, he considered several questions that were still puzzling him. Why was there no sign of dust anywhere? He doubted if anyone from the village would come daily to keep it clean even if his uncle had made provision for that before his death. It was almost as if the house had been waiting for him to move in.
After the fourth brandy, an odd drowsiness came over him. He felt his eyelids drooping, his head sinking towards the table. He had the feeling that someone, or something, was watching him closely. Once he opened his eyes to assure himself it was only his imagination playing tricks with him. The only eyes staring down at him were those in the large portraits on the walls.
His eyes closed again and a moment later he was asleep, the half-empty glass falling from his hand onto the floor. When he came awake, he was shivering violently. The two candles he had placed on the table had burned very low and were flickering on the point of extinction. Then, with a sudden cry, he jerked himself from his chair.
The unmistakable sound of voices and laughter reached him quite clearly from outside. His first thought was that some of the more adventurous youths from the village had made their way across the moors intent on making trouble.
If that were the case, he’d soon chase them away. With a grim determination, he strode to the door and threw it open. The sudden shock of what he saw froze him instantly.
Everything was changed. Where he had left the smoldering bonfire was a wide grassy lawn sloping towards the gates. Light suddenly spilled through every window on the lower floor, clearly illuminating the long line of carriages drawn up in front of the house. The men and women alighting from them were dressed oddly in the style of two centuries earlier.
In twos and threes, they brushed past him. Not one so much as glanced in his direction or gave any sign they saw him. It was as if he didn’t exist. Behind him, in the banqueting hall, there was a sudden riot of noise. Tall wax candles suddenly appeared on the table.
As he watched, every seat was occupied. A ceaseless chatter dinned in his ears as he sagged against the door.
At the head of the table he saw a tall, arrogant man in his mid-fifties whom Charles instantly recognized from the portraits around the walls as the infamous Sir Roger Ingham. His face was flushed with drink and something in his close-set eyes sent a shiver of ice along Charles’ spine. The man was the embodiment of pure, sadistic evil.
Immobile, Charles struggled to pull himself together. The one thought in his mind was that the drug he had taken with the brandy was affecting him to the point where he was hallucinating. Once he slept it off, everything would return to normal.
A harsh, angry shout from the head of the table jerked Charles’ head around. His ancestor had lurched drunkenly to his feet, a silver goblet in his hand. “More wine!” he yelled.
One of the liveried servants hurried over. The man’s hands were shaking violently as he poured more wine into the goblet. Some spilled onto the table but more fell upon Sir Roger’s richly-embroidered coat.
With a roar of rage, he flung the goblet into the servant’s face, sending him reeling back. Whirling, Sir Roger motioned to two other footmen standing nearby.
“I’ll teach ye to spill drink on your master!” Swaying a little, he tore at the servant’s jacket and shirt, ripping them away until the man was naked to the waist. With a gesture, Ingham ordered the footmen to pin the man to the wall.
Another lackey crossed to the wall and took down a long, heavy whip, which Sir Roger snatched from him. Motioning the footmen away, he drew back the whip and then proceeded to flog the unfortunate servant mercilessly. Within minutes, the man’s back was a mass of lacerated, bleeding flesh.
But worse was to come. Dragging the servant from the wall, he flung him to the floor. Then, reaching up, he pulled one of a pair of axes from the wall. Charles could barely suppress a scream as his ancestor raised the axe high above his head and brought the blade down on the moaning man’s outstretched wrist.
“Now ye’ll not spill any of my fine wine again.” Sir Roger straightened, his face like a demon’s as he stared around the guests gathered at the table.
Charles had expected to see shock and horror mirrored on their faces. But, without exception, he saw broad smiles of approval, their very attitudes applauding his actions and lusting for more. Clearly, these folk were just as evil as Sir Roger. The footmen hauled the servant to his feet and took him from the room while a third entered and sprinkled sawdust on the pool of blood near the table.
Shaking uncontrollably, Charles pushed himself hard against the wall. Dear God, had such scenes as this really happened two hundred years ago? If so, he could clearly understand how the villagers felt about his family even after all this time.
Sir Roger had returned to his seat, an expression of malicious amusement on his coarse features. For a moment, he sat there, his gaze roving over the faces of his guests.
Then, suddenly, he turned his head and stared directly at the spot where Charles stood. His gaze locked with Charles’ and there was a look of growing amazement blended with anger on his bloated features.
Starting up, he pointed directly at Charles. “An interloper in our midst!” he bellowed. “How did yon knave gain entry into my house? Seize him!”
Somehow, Charles galvanized himself into action. Several of the guests were on their feet. Together with the servants, they came towards him.
His first thought was the front door directly behind him. Frantically, he twisted the handle but it stubbornly refused to open. There was no escape that way.
Turning, he ran for the far wall. His only chance lay in getting back upstairs, into his bedroom, and locking the thick wooden door. A dark, menacing figure suddenly blocked his way.
Without thinking, he swung a clenched fist at the leering face, expecting his hand to pass right through it. Instead, his knuckles contacted solid flesh.
With a grunt, the man staggered and fell to his knees. Desperately, Charles kicked out as the servant attempted to grab him around the knees. Then, acutely aware of the pandemonium all around him, he managed to free himself.
Moments later, he reached the bottom of the wide stairway and took the stairs two at a time, almost falling in his frantic haste to reach the top. Behind him, Sir Roger was shouting at the top of his voice, urging his guests on.
Throwing open the door of the bedroom, he slammed it shut behind him, sliding the thick metal bolts into place. He was shaking convulsively as he dragged the heavy dressed across the floor, thrusting it hard against the door.
His mind whirling, he threw himself down on the bed. If this was an hallucination induced by that drug he’d taken, it was too damned real for his liking. Even now, the hallucination continued. Dimly, he heard the sound of heavy footsteps in the corridor outside the door.
The handle turned, accompanied by several loud blows. Harsh voices sounded. Then these ceased. But from downstairs, there was still the sound of coarse, raucous laughter.
Steadying himself, he tried to think clearly. This had to be a delusion. There was no other rational explanation. From all he knew, it was a fact that none of these people had died here and there was no reason for them to haunt this place.
He clung desperately to that one thought, still struggling to compose himself. How long he lay there, still trembling all over, he couldn’t tell. Then, abruptly, there came a change in the sounds from below. The harsh merriment gave way to shrieks of terror. There came the crash of dishes, the unmistakable sound of running feet.
For a moment, Charles remained where he was, fingers clutching convulsively at the bed covers. Then he stumbled from the bed and walked unsteadily to the window.