The Top 10 Scary Stories of All Time: Number 8
Golfing,
a seaside resort, and a dog whistle. This story is somehow hilarious and
terrifying at the same time.
"Oh, Whistle, and I'll Come to You, My Lad"
by MR James
"I suppose you will be getting away pretty soon, now
Full term is over, Professor," said a person not in the story to the
Professor of Ontography, soon after they had sat down next to each other at a feast
in the hospitable hall of St James's College.
The Professor was young, neat, and precise in speech.
"Yes," he said; "my friends have been making me take up golf
this term, and I mean to go to the East Coast - in point of fact to Burnstow -
(I dare say you know it) for a week or ten days, to improve my game. I hope to
get off tomorrow."
"Oh, Parkins," said his neighbour on the other
side, "if you are going to Burnstow, I wish you would look at the site of
the Templars" preceptory, and let me know if you think it would be any
good to have a dig there in the summer."
It was, as you might suppose, a person of antiquarian
pursuits who said this, but, since he merely appears in this prologue, there is
no need to give his entitlements.
"Certainly," said Parkins, the Professor: "if
you will describe to me whereabouts the site is, I will do my best to give you
an idea of the lie of the land when I get back; or I could write to you about
it, if you would tell me where you are likely to be."
"Don't trouble to do that, thanks. It's only that I'm
thinking of taking my family in that direction in the Long, and it occurred to
me that, as very few of the English preceptories have ever been properly
planned, I might have an opportunity of doing something useful on
offdays."
The Professor rather sniffed at the idea that planning out a
preceptory could be described as useful. His neighbour continued:
"The site - I doubt if there is anything showing above
ground - must be down quite close to the beach now. The sea has encroached
tremendously, as you know, all along that bit of coast. I should think, from
the map, that it must be about three-quarters of a mile from the Globe Inn, at
the north end of the town. Where are you going to stay?"
"Well, at the Globe Inn, as a matter of fact,"
said Parkins; "I have engaged a room there. I couldn't get in anywhere
else; most of the lodging-houses are shut up in winter, it seems; and, as it
is, they tell me that the only room of any size I can have is really a double-bedded
one, and that they haven't a corner in which to store the other bed, and so on.
But I must have a fairly large room, for I am taking some books down, and mean
to do a bit of work; and though I don't quite fancy having an empty bed - not
to speak of two - in what I may call for the time being my study, I suppose I
can manage to rough it for the short time I shall be there."
"Do you call having an extra bed in your room roughing
it. Parkins?" said a bluff person opposite. "Look here, I shall come
down and occupy it for a bit; it"ll be company for you."
The Professor quivered, but managed to laugh in a courteous
manner.
"By all means, Rogers; there's nothing I should like
better. But I'm afraid you would find it rather dull; you don't play golf, do
you?" "No, thank Heaven!" said rude Mr Rogers. "Well, you
see, when I'm not writing I shall most likely be out on the links, and that, as
I say, would be rather dull for you. I'm afraid."
"Oh, I don't know! There's certain to be somebody I
know in the place; but, of course, if you don't want me, speak the word.
Parkins; I shan't be offended. Truth, as you always tell us, is never
offensive."
Parkins was, indeed, scrupulously polite and strictly
truthful. It is to be feared that Mr Rogers sometimes practised upon his
knowledge of these characteristics. In Parkins's breast there was a conflict
now raging, which for a moment or two did not allow him to answer. That
interval being over, he said:
"Well, if you want the exact truth, Rogers, I was
considering whether the room I speak of would really be large enough to
accommodate us both comfortably; and also whether (mind, I shouldn't have said
this if you hadn't pressed me) you would not constitute something in the nature
of a hindrance to my work." Rogers laughed loudly.
"Well done. Parkins!" he said. "It's all
right. I promise not to interrupt your work; don't you disturb yourself about
that. No, I won't come if you don't want me; but I thought I should do so
nicely to keep the ghosts off." Here he might have been seen to wink and
to nudge his next neighbour. Parkins might also have been seen to become pink.
"I beg pardon. Parkins," Rogers continued; "I oughtn't to have
said that. I forgot you didn't like levity on these topics."
"Well," Parkins said, 'as you have mentioned the
matter, I freely own that I do not like careless talk about what you call
ghosts. A man in my position," he went on, raising his voice a little,
"cannot, I find, be too careful about appearing to sanction the current
beliefs on such subjects. As you know, Rogers, or as you ought to know; for I
think I have never concealed my views - "
"No, you certainly have not, old man," put in
Rogers sotto voce.
" - I hold that any semblance, any appearance of
concession to the view that such things might exist is equivalent to a
renunciation of all that I hold most sacred. But I'm afraid I have not
succeeded in securing your attention."
"Your undivided attention, was what Dr Blimber actually
said," Rogers interrupted, with every appearance of an earnest desire for
accuracy. "But I beg your pardon. Parkins; I'm stopping you."
"No, not at all," said Parkins. "I don't
remember Blimber; perhaps he was before my time. But I needn't go on. I'm sure
you know what I mean."
"Yes, yes," said Rogers, rather hastily -
"just so. We'll go into it fully at Burnstow, or somewhere."
In repeating the above dialogue I have tried to give the
impression which it made on me, that Parkins was something of an old woman -
rather hen-like, perhaps, in his little ways; totally destitute, alas! of the
sense of humour, but at the same time dauntless and sincere in his convictions,
and a man deserving of the greatest respect. Whether or not the reader has
gathered so much, that was the character which Parkins had.
On the following day Parkins did, as he had hoped, succeed
in getting away from his college, and in arriving at Burnstow. He was made
welcome at the Globe Inn, was safely installed in the large double-bedded room
of which we have heard, and was able before retiring to rest to arrange his
materials for work in apple-pie order upon a commodious table which occupied
the outer end of the room, and was surrounded on three sides by windows looking
out seaward; that is to say, the central window looked straight out to sea, and
those on the left and right commanded prospects along the shore to the north
and south respectively. On the south you saw the village of Burnstow. On the
north no houses were to be seen, but only the beach and the low cliff backing
it. Immediately in front was a strip - not considerable - of rough grass,
dotted with old anchors, capstans, and so forth; then a broad path; then the
beach. Whatever may have been the original distance between the Globe Inn and
the sea, not more than sixty yards now separated them.
The rest of the population of the inn was, of course, a
golfing one, and included few elements that call for a special description. The
most conspicuous figure was, perhaps, that of an ancien militaire, secretary of
a London club, and possessed of a voice of incredible strength, and of views of
a pronouncedly Protestant type. These were apt to find utterance after his
attendance upon the ministrations of the Vicar, an estimable man with
inclinations towards a picturesque ritual, which he gallantly kept down as far
as he could out of deference to East Anglian tradition.
Professor Parkins, one of whose principal characteristics
was pluck, spent the greater part of the day following his arrival at Burnstow
in what he had called improving his game, in company with this Colonel Wilson:
and during the afternoon - whether the process of improvement were to blame or
not, I am not sure - the Colonel's demeanour assumed a colouring so lurid that
even Parkins jibbed at the thought of walking home with him from the links. He
determined, after a short and furtive look at that bristling moustache and
those incarnadined features, that it would be wiser to allow the influences of
tea and tobacco to do what they could with the Colonel before the dinner-hour should
render a meeting inevitable.
"I might walk home tonight along the beach," he
reflected - "yes, and take a look - there will be light enough for that -
at the ruins of which Disney was talking. I don't exactly know where they are,
by the way; but I expect I can hardly help stumbling on them." This he
accomplished, I may say, in the most literal sense, for in picking his way from
the links to the shingle beach his foot caught, partly in a gorse-root and
partly in a biggish stone, and over he went. When he got up and surveyed his
surroundings, he found himself in a patch of somewhat broken ground covered
with small depressions and mounds. These latter, when he came to examine them,
proved to be simply masses of flints embedded in mortar and grown over with
turf. He must, he quite rightly concluded, be on the site of the preceptory he
had promised to look at. It seemed not unlikely to reward the spade of the
explorer; enough of the foundations was probably left at no great depth to
throw a good deal of light on the general plan. He remembered vaguely that the
Templars, to whom this site had belonged, were in the habit of building round
churches, and he thought a particular series of the humps or mounds near him
did appear to be arranged in something of a circular form. Few people can
resist the temptation to try a little amateur research in a department quite
outside their own, if only for the satisfaction of showing how successful they
would have been had they only taken it up seriously. Our Professor, however, if
he felt something of this mean desire, was also truly anxious to oblige Mr
Disney. So he paced with care the circular area he had noticed, and wrote down
its rough dimensions in his pocket-book. Then he proceeded to examine an oblong
eminence which lay east of the centre of the circle, and seemed to his thinking
likely to be the base of a platform or altar. At one end of it, the northern, a
patch of the turf was gone - removed by some boy or other creature ferae
naturae. It might, he thought, be as well to probe the soil here for evidences
of masonry, and he took out his knife and began scraping away the earth. And
now followed another little discovery: a portion of soil fell inward as he
scraped, and disclosed a small cavity. He lighted one match after another to
help him to see of what nature the hole was, but the wind was too strong for
them all. By tapping and scratching the sides with his knife, however, he was
able to make out that it must be an artificial hole in masonry. It was
rectangular, and the sides, top, and bottom, if not actually plastered, were
smooth and regular. Of course it was empty. No! As he withdrew the knife he
heard a metallic clink, and when he introduced his hand it met with a
cylindrical object lying on the floor of the hole. Naturally enough, he picked
it up, and when he brought it into the light, now fast fading, he could see
that it, too, was of man's making - a metal tube about four inches long, and
evidently of some considerable age.
By the time Parkins had made sure that there was nothing
else in this odd receptacle, it was too late and too dark for him to think of
undertaking any further search. What he had done had proved so unexpectedly
interesting that he determined to sacrifice a little more of the daylight on the
morrow to archaeology. The object which he now had safe in his pocket was bound
to be of some slight value at least, he felt sure.
Bleak and solemn was the view on which he took a last look
before starting homeward. A faint yellow light in the west showed the links, on
which a few figures moving towards the club-house were still visible, the squat
martello tower, the lights of Aldsey village, the pale ribbon of sands
intersected at intervals by black wooden groynes, the dim and murmuring sea.
The wind was bitter from the north, but was at his back when he set out for the
Globe. He quickly rattled and clashed through the shingle and gained the sand,
upon which, but for the groynes which had to be got over every few yards, the
going was both good and quiet. One last look behind, to measure the distance he
had made since leaving the ruined Templars' church, showed him a prospect of
company on his walk, in the shape of a rather indistinct personage, who seemed
to be making great efforts to catch up with him, but made little, if any,
progress. I mean that there was an appearance of running about his movements,
but that the distance between him and Parkins did not seem materially to
lessen. So, at least, Parkins thought, and decided that he almost certainly did
not know him, and that it would be absurd to wait until he came up. For all
that, company, he began to think, would really be very welcome on that lonely
shore, if only you could choose your companion. In his unenlightened days he
had read of meetings in such places which even now would hardly bear thinking
of. He went on thinking of them, however, until he reached home, and
particularly of one which catches most peoples fancy at some time of their
childhood. "Now I saw in my dream that Christian had gone but a very
little way when he saw a foul fiend coming over the field to meet him."
"What should I do now," he thought, "if I looked back and caught
sight of a black figure sharply defined against the yellow sky, and saw that it
had horns and wings? I wonder whether I should stand or run for it. Luckily,
the gentleman behind is not of that kind, and he seems to be about as far off
now as when I saw him first. Well, at this rate he won't get his dinner as soon
as I shall; and, dear me! it's within a quarter of an hour of the time now. I
must run!"
Parkins had, in fact, very little time for dressing. When he
met the Colonel at dinner. Peace - or as much of her as that gentleman could
manage - reigned once more in the military bosom; nor was she put to flight in
the hours of bridge that followed dinner, for Parkins was a more than
respectable player. When, therefore, he retired towards twelve o'clock, he felt
that he had spent his evening in quite a satisfactory way, and that, even for
so long as a fortnight or three weeks, life at the Globe would be supportable
under similar conditions - 'especially," thought he, "if I go on
improving my game."
As he went along the passages he met the boots of the Globe,
who stopped and said: "Beg your pardon, sir, but as I was a-brushing your
coat just now there was somethink fell out of the pocket. I put it on your
chest of drawers, sir, in your room, sir - a piece of a pipe or somethink of
that, sir. Thank you, sir. You"ll find it on your chest of drawers, sir -
yes, sir. Good night, sir."
The speech served to remind Parkins of his little discovery
of that afternoon. It was with some considerable curiosity that he turned it
over by the light of his candles. It was of bronze, he now saw, and was shaped
very much after the manner of the modern dog-whistle; in fact it was - yes,
certainly it was - actually no more nor less than a whistle. He put it to his
lips, but it was quite full of a fine, caked-up sand or earth, which would not
yield to knocking, but must be loosened with a knife. Tidy as ever in his
habits. Parkins cleared out the earth on to a piece of paper, and took the
latter to the window to empty it out. The night was clear and bright, as he saw
when he had opened the casement, and he stopped for an instant to look at the
sea and note a belated wanderer stationed on the shore in front of the inn.
Then he shut the window, a little surprised at the late hours people kept at
Burnstow, and took his whistle to the light again. Why, surely there were marks
on it, and not merely marks, but letters! A very little rubbing rendered the
deeply-cut inscription quite legible, but the Professor had to confess, after
some earnest thought, that the meaning of it was as obscure to him as the
writing on the wall to Belshazzar. There were legends both on the front and on
the back of the whistle. The one read thus:
FLA.
FUR BIS
FLE
The other:
QUIS EST ISTE QUI UENIT
"I ought to be able to make it out," he thought;
"but I suppose I am a little rusty in my Latin. When I come to think of
it, I don't believe I even know the word for a whistle. The long one does seem
simple enough. It ought to mean, "Who is this who is coming?" Well,
the best way to find out is evidently to whistle for him."
He blew tentatively and stopped suddenly, startled and yet
pleased at the note he had elicited. It had a quality of infinite distance in
it, and, soft as it was, he somehow felt it must be audible for miles round. It
was a sound, too, that seemed to have the power (which many scents possess) of
forming pictures in the brain. He saw quite clearly for a moment a vision of a
wide, dark expanse at night, with a fresh wind blowing and in the midst a
lonely figure - how employed, he could not tell. Perhaps he would have seen
more had not the picture been broken by the sudden surge of a gust of wind
against his casement, so sudden that it made him look up, just in time to see
the white glint of a sea-bird's wing somewhere outside the dark panes.
The sound of the whistle had so fascinated him that he could
not help trying it once more, this time more boldly. The note was little, if at
all, louder than before, and repetition broke the illusion - no picture
followed, as he had half hoped it might. "But what is this? Goodness! what
force the wind can get up in a few minutes! What a tremendous gust! There! I
knew that window-fastening was no use! Ah! I thought so - both candles out.
It's enough to tear the room to pieces."
The first thing was to get the window shut. While you might
count twenty Parkins was struggling with the small casement, and felt almost as
if he were pushing back a sturdy burglar, so strong was the pressure. It
slackened all at once, and the window banged to and latched itself. Now to
relight the candles and see what damage, if any, had been done. No, nothing
seemed amiss; no glass even was broken in the casement. But the noise had
evidently roused at least one member of the household: the Colonel was to be
heard slumping in his stockinged feet on the floor above, and growling.
Quickly as it had risen, the wind did not fall at once. On
it went, moaning and rushing past the house, at times rising to a cry so
desolate that, as Parkins disinterestedly said, it might have made fanciful
people feel quite uncomfortable; even the unimaginative, he thought after a
quarter of an hour, might be happier without it.
Whether it was the wind, or the excitement of golf, or of
the researches in the preceptory that kept Parkins awake, he was not sure.
Awake he remained, in any case, long enough to fancy (as I am afraid I often do
myself under such conditions) that he was the victim of all manner of fatal
disorders: he would lie counting the beats of his heart, convinced that it was
going to stop work every moment, and would entertain grave suspicions of his
lungs, brain, liver, etc. - suspicions which he was sure would be dispelled by
the return of daylight, but which until then refused to be put aside. He found
a little vicarious comfort in the idea that someone else was in the same boat.
A near neighbour (in the darkness it was not easy to tell his direction) was
tossing and rustling in his bed, too.
The next stage was that Parkins shut his eyes and determined
to give sleep every chance. Here again overexcitement asserted itself in
another form - that of making pictures. Experto crede, pictures do come to the
closed eyes of one trying to sleep, and are often so little to his taste that
he must open his eyes and disperse them.
Parkins's experience on this occasion was a very distressing
one. He found that the picture which presented itself to him was continuous.
When he opened his eyes, of course, it went; but when he shut them once more it
framed itself afresh, and acted itself out again, neither quicker nor slower
than before. What he saw was this: A long stretch of shore - shingle edged by
sand, and intersected at short intervals with black groynes running down to the
water - a scene, in fact, so like that of his afternoon's walk that, in the
absence of any landmark, it could not be distinguished therefrom. The light was
obscure, conveying an impression of gathering storm, late winter evening, and
slight cold rain. On this bleak stage at first no actor was visible. Then, in
the distance, a bobbing black object appeared; a moment more, and it was a man
running, jumping, clambering over the groynes, and every few seconds looking
eagerly back. The nearer he came the more obvious it was that he was not only
anxious, but even terribly frightened, though his face was not to be
distinguished. He was, moreover, almost at the end of his strength. On he came;
each successive obstacle seemed to cause him more difficulty than the last.
"Will he get over this next one?" thought Parkins; "it seems a
little higher than the others." Yes; half-climbing, half throwing himself,
he did get over, and fell all in a heap on the other side (the side nearest to
the spectator). There, as if really unable to get up again, he remained crouching
under the groyne, looking up in an attitude of painful anxiety.
So far no cause whatever for the fear of the runner had been
shown; but now there began to be seen, far up the shore, a little flicker of
something light-coloured moving to and fro with great swiftness and
irregularity. Rapidly growing larger, it, too, declared itself as a figure in
pale, fluttering draperies, ill-defined. There was something about its motion
which made Parkins very unwilling to see it at close quarters. It would stop,
raise arms, bow itself toward the sand, then run stooping across the beach to
the water-edge and back again; and then, rising upright, once more continue its
course forward at a speed that was startling and terrifying. The moment came
when the pursuer was hovering about from left to right only a few yards beyond
the groyne where the runner lay in hiding. After two or three ineffectual
castings hither and thither it came to a stop, stood upright, with arms raised
high, and then darted straight forward towards the groyne.
It was at this point that Parkins always failed in his
resolution to keep his eyes shut. With many misgivings as to incipient failure
of eyesight, over-worked brain, excessive smoking, and so on, he finally
resigned himself to light his candle, get out a book, and pass the night
waking, rather than be tormented by this persistent panorama, which he saw
clearly enough could only be a morbid reflection of his walk and his thoughts
on that very day.
The scraping of match on box and the glare of light must
have startled some creatures of the night - rats or what not - which he heard
scurry across the floor from the side of his bed with much rustling. Dear,
dear! the match is out! Fool that it is! But the second one burnt better, and a
candle and book were duly procured, over which Parkins pored till sleep of a
wholesome kind came upon him, and that in no long space. For about the first
time in his orderly and prudent life he forgot to blow out the candle, and when
he was called next morning at eight there was still a flicker in the socket and
a sad mess of guttered grease on the top of the little table.
After breakfast he was in his room, putting the finishing
touches to his golfing costume - fortune had again allotted the Colonel to him
for a partner - when one of the maids came in.
"Oh, if you please," she said, "would you
like any extra blankets on your bed, sir?"
'ah! thank you," said Parkins. "Yes, I think I
should like one. It seems likely to turn rather colder."
In a very short time the maid was back with the blanket.
"Which bed should I put it on, sir?" she asked.
"What? Why, that one - the one I slept in last night," he said,
pointing to it.
"Oh yes! I beg your pardon, sir, but you seemed to have
tried both of em; leastways, we had to make 'em both up this morning."
"Really? How very absurd!" said Parkins. "I
certainly never touched the other, except to lay some things on it. Did it
actually seem to have been slept in?"
"Oh, yes, sir!" said the maid. "Why, all the
things was crumpled and throwed about all ways, if you'll excuse me, sir -
quite as if anyone 'adn't passed but a very poor night, sir."
"Dear me," said Parkins. "Well, I may have
disordered it more than I thought when I unpacked my things. I'm very sorry to
have given you the extra trouble. I'm sure. I expect a friend of mine soon, by
the way - a gentleman from Cambridge - to come and occupy it for a night or
two. That will be all right, I suppose, won't it?"
"Oh yes, to be sure, sir. Thank you, sir. It's no
trouble. I'm sure," said the maid, and departed to giggle with her
colleagues.
Parkins set forth, with a stern determination to improve his
game.
I am glad to be able to report that he succeeded so far in
this enterprise that the Colonel, who had been rather repining at the prospect
of a second day's play in his company, became quite chatty as the morning
advanced; and his voice boomed out over the flats, as certain also of our own
minor poets have said, "like some great bourdon in a minster tower".
"Extraordinary wind, that, we had last night," he
said. "In my old home we should have said someone had been whistling for
it."
"Should you, indeed!" said Parkins, "Is there
a superstition of that kind still current in your part of the country?"
"I don't know about superstition," said the
Colonel. "They believe in it all over Denmark and Norway, as well as on
the Yorkshire coast; and my experience is, mind you, that there's generally
something at the bottom of what these country-folk hold to, and have held to
for generations. But it's your drive" (or whatever it might have been: the
golfing reader will have to imagine appropriate digressions at the proper
intervals).
When conversation was resumed. Parkins said, with a slight
hesitancy:
"apropos of what you were saying just now. Colonel, I
think I ought to tell you that my own views on such subjects are very strong. I
am, in fact, a convinced disbeliever in what is called the
"supernatural"."
"What!" said the Colonel, "do you mean to
tell me you don't believe in second-sight, or ghosts, or anything of that
kind?"
"In nothing whatever of that kind," returned
Parkins firmly.
"Well," said the Colonel, "but it appears to
me at that rate, sir, that you must be little better than a Sadducee."
Parkins was on the point of answering that, in his opinion,
the Sadducees were the most sensible persons he had ever read of in the Old
Testament; but, feeling some doubt as to whether much mention of them was to be
found in that work, he preferred to laugh the accusation off.
"Perhaps I am," he said; "but - Here, give me
my cleek, boy! - Excuse me one moment. Colonel." A short interval.
"Now, as to whistling for the wind, let me give you my theory about it.
The laws which govern winds are really not at all perfectly known - to
fisher-folk and such, of course, not known at all. A man or woman of eccentric
habits, perhaps, or a stranger, is seen repeatedly on the beach at some unusual
hour, and is heard whistling. Soon afterwards a violent wind rises; a man who
could read the sky perfectly or who possessed a barometer could have foretold
that it would. The simple people of a fishing-village have no barometers, and
only a few rough rules for prophesying weather. What more natural than that the
eccentric personage I postulated should be regarded as having raised the wind,
or that he or she should clutch eagerly at the reputation of being able to do
so? Now, take last night's wind: as it happens, I myself was whistling. I blew
a whistle twice, and the wind seemed to come absolutely in answer to my call.
If anyone had seen me - "
The audience had been a little restive under this harangue,
and Parkins had, I fear, fallen somewhat into the tone of a lecturer; but at
the last sentence the Colonel stopped.
"Whistling, were you?" he said. 'and what sort of
whistle did you use? Play this stroke first." Interval.
"About that whistle you were asking. Colonel. It's
rather a curious one. I have it in my - No; I see I've left in it my room. As a
matter of fact, I found it yesterday."
And then Parkins narrated the manner of his discovery of the
whistle, upon hearing which the Colonel grunted, and opined that, in Parkins's
place, he should himself be careful about using a thing that had belonged to a
set of Papists, of whom, speaking generally, it might be affirmed that you
never knew what they might not have been up to. From this topic he diverged to
the enormities of the Vicar, who had given notice on the previous Sunday that
Friday would be the Feast of St Thomas the Apostle, and that there would be
service at eleven o'clock in the church. This and other similar proceedings
constituted in the Colonel's view a strong presumption that the Vicar was a
concealed Papist, if not a Jesuit; and Parkins, who could not very readily
follow the Colonel in this region, did not disagree with him. In fact, they got
on so well together in the morning that there was no talk on either side of
their separating after lunch.
Both continued to play well during the afternoon, or, at
least, well enough to make them forget everything else until the light began to
fail them. Not until then did Parkins remember that he had meant to do some
more investigating at the preceptory; but it was of no great importance, he
reflected. One day was as good as another; he might as well go home with the
Colonel.
As they turned the corner of the house, the Colonel was
almost knocked down by a boy who rushed into him at the very top of his speed,
and then, instead of running away, remained hanging on to him and panting. The
first words of the warrior were naturally those of reproof and objurgation, but
he very quickly discerned that the boy was almost speechless with fright.
Inquiries were useless at first. When the boy got his breath he began to howl,
and still clung to the Colonel's legs. He was at last detached, but continued
to howl.
"What in the world is the matter with you? What have
you been up to? What have you seen?" said the two men.
"Ow, I seen it wive at me out of the winder,"
wailed the boy, "and I don't like it."
"What window?" said the irritated Colonel.
"Come, pull yourself together, my boy." "The front winder it
was, at the 'otel," said the boy. At this point Parkins was in favour of
sending the boy home, but the Colonel refused; he wanted to get to the bottom
of it, he said; it was most dangerous to give a boy such a fright as this one
had had, and if it turned out that people had been playing jokes, they should
suffer for it in some way. And by a series of questions he made out this story.
The boy had been playing about on the grass in front of the Globe with some
others; then they had gone home to their teas, and he was just going, when he
happened to look up at the front winder and see it a-wiving at him. It seemed
to be a figure of some sort, in white as far as he knew - couldn't see its
face; but it wived at him, and it warn't a right thing - not to say not a right
person. Was there a light in the room? No, he didn't think to look if there was
a light. Which was the window? Was it the top one or the second one? The
seckind one it was - the big winder what got two little uns at the sides.
"Very well, my boy," said the Colonel, after a few
more questions. "You run away home now. I expect it was some person trying
to give you a start. Another time, like a brave English boy, you just throw a
stone - well, no, not that exactly, but you go and speak to the waiter, or to
Mr Simpson, the landlord, and - yes - and say that I advised you to do
so."
The boy's face expressed some of the doubt he felt as to the
likelihood of Mr Simpson's lending a favourable ear to his complaint, but the
Colonel did not appear to perceive this, and went on:
"And here's a sixpence - no, I see it's a shilling -
and you be off home, and don't think any more about it."
The youth hurried off with agitated thanks, and the Colonel
and Parkins went round to the front of the Globe and reconnoitred. There was
only one window answering to the description they had been hearing.
"Well, that's curious," said Parkins; "it's
evidently my window the lad was talking about. Will you come up for a moment.
Colonel Wilson? We ought to be able to see if anyone has been taking liberties
in my room."
They were soon in the passage, and Parkins made as if to
open the door. Then he stopped and felt in his pockets.
"This is more serious than I thought," was his
next remark. "I remember now that before I started this morning I locked
the door. It is locked now, and, what is more, here is the key." And he
held it up. "Now," he went on, "if the servants are in the habit
of going into one's room during the day when one is away, I can only say that -
well, that I don't approve of it at all." Conscious of a somewhat weak
climax, he busied himself in opening the door (which was indeed locked) and in
lighting candles. "No," he said, "nothing seems disturbed."
'except your bed," put in the Colonel. 'excuse me, that isn't my
bed," said Parkins. "I don't use that one. But it does look as if
someone has been playing tricks with it."
It certainly did: the clothes were bundled up and twisted
together in a most tortuous confusion. Parkins pondered. "That must be
it," he said at last: "I disordered the clothes last night in
unpacking, and they haven't made it since. Perhaps they came in to make it, and
that boy saw them through the window; and then they were called away and locked
the door after them. Yes, I think that must be it."
"Well, ring and ask," said the Colonel, and this
appealed to Parkins as practical.
The maid appeared, and, to make a long story short, deposed
that she had made the bed in the morning when the gentleman was in the room,
and hadn't been there since. No, she hadn't no other key. Mr Simpson he kep'
the keys; he'd be able to tell the gentleman if anyone had been up.
This was a puzzle. Investigation showed that nothing of
value had been taken, and Parkins remembered the disposition of the small
objects on tables and so forth well enough to be pretty sure that no pranks had
been played with them. Mr and Mrs Simpson furthermore agreed that neither of them
had given the duplicate key of the room to any person whatever during the day.
Nor could Parkins, fair-minded man as he was, detect anything in the demeanour
of master, mistress, or maid that indicated guilt. He was much more inclined to
think that the boy had been imposing on the Colonel.
The latter was unwontedly silent and pensive at dinner and
throughout the evening. When he bade good night to Parkins, he murmured in a
gruff undertone: "You know where I am if you want me during the
night." "Why, yes, thank you. Colonel Wilson, I think I do; but there
isn't much prospect of my disturbing you, I hope. By the way," he added,
"did I show you that old whistle I spoke of? I think not. Well, here it
is."
The Colonel turned it over gingerly in the light of the
candle.
"Can you make anything of the inscription?" asked
Parkins, as he took it back. "No, not in this light. What do you mean to
do with it?"
"Oh, well, when I get back to Cambridge I shall submit
it to some of the archaeologists there, and see what they think of it; and very
likely, if they consider it worth having, I may present it to one of the
museums."
""M!" said the Colonel. "Well, you may
be right. All I know is that, if it were mine, I should chuck it straight into
the sea. It's no use talking. I'm well aware, but I expect that with you it's a
case of live and learn. I hope so. I'm sure, and I wish you a good night."
He turned away, leaving Parkins in act to speak at the
bottom of the stair, and soon each was in his own bedroom.
By some unfortunate accident, there were neither blinds nor
curtains to the windows of the Professor's room. The previous night he had
thought little of this, but tonight there seemed every prospect of a bright
moon rising to shine directly on his bed, and probably wake him later on. When
he noticed this he was a good deal annoyed, but, with an ingenuity which I can
only envy, he succeeded in rigging up, with the help of a railway-rug, some
safety-pins, and a stick and umbrella, a screen which, if it only held together,
would completely keep the moonlight off his bed. And shortly afterwards he was
comfortably in that bed. When he had read a somewhat solid work long enough to
produce a decided wish for sleep, he cast a drowsy glance round the room, blew
out the candle, and fell back upon the pillow.
He must have slept soundly for an hour or more, when a
sudden clatter shook him up in a most unwelcome manner. In a moment he realized
what had happened: his carefully-constructed screen had given way, and a very
bright frosty moon was shining directly on his face. This was highly annoying.
Could he possibly get up and reconstruct the screen? or could he manage to
sleep if he did not?
For some minutes he lay and pondered over the possibilities;
then he turned over sharply, and with all his eyes open lay breathlessly
listening. There had been a movement, he was sure, in the empty bed on the
opposite side of the room. Tomorrow he would have it moved, for there must be
rats or something playing about in it. It was quiet now. No! the commotion
began again. There was a rustling and shaking: surely more than any rat could
cause.
I can figure to myself something of the Professor's
bewilderment and horror, for I have in a dream thirty years back seen the same
thing happen; but the reader will hardly, perhaps, imagine how dreadful it was
to him to see a figure suddenly sit up in what he had known was an empty bed.
He was out of his own bed in one bound, and made a dash towards the window,
where lay his only weapon, the stick with which he had propped his screen. This
was, as it turned out, the worst thing he could have done, because the
personage in the empty bed, with a sudden smooth motion, slipped from the bed
and took up a position, with outspread arms, between the two beds, and in front
of the door. Parkins watched it in a horrid perplexity. Somehow, the idea of
getting past it and escaping through the door was intolerable to him; he could
not have borne - he didn't know why - to touch it; and as for its touching him,
he would sooner dash himself through the window than have that happen. It stood
for the moment in a band of dark shadow, and he had not seen what its face was
like. Now it began to move, in a stooping posture, and all at once the
spectator realized, with some horror and some relief, that it must be blind,
for it seemed to feel about it with its muffled arms in a groping and random
fashion. Turning half away from him, it became suddenly conscious of the bed he
had just left, and darted towards it, and bent over and felt the pillows in a
way which made Parkins shudder as he had never in his life thought it possible.
In a very few moments it seemed to know that the bed was empty, and then,
moving forward into the area of light and facing the window, it showed for the
first time what manner of thing it was.
Parkins, who very much dislikes being questioned about it,
did once describe something of it in my hearing, and I gathered that what he
chiefly remembers about it is a horrible, an intensely horrible, face of crumbled
linen. What expression he read upon it he could not or would not tell, but that
the fear of it went nigh to maddening him is certain.
But he was not at leisure to watch it for long. With
formidable quickness it moved into the middle of the room, and, as it groped
and waved, one corner of its draperies swept across Parkins's face. He could
not - though he knew how perilous a sound was - he could not keep back a cry of
disgust, and this gave the searcher an instant clue. It leapt towards him upon
the instant, and the next moment he was half-way through the window backwards,
uttering cry upon cry at the utmost pitch of his voice, and the linen face was
thrust close into his own. At this, almost the last possible second,
deliverance came, as you will have guessed: the Colonel burst the door open,
and was just in time to see the dreadful group at the window. When he reached
the figures only one was left. Parkins sank forward into the room in a faint,
and before him on the floor lay a tumbled heap of bedclothes.
Colonel Wilson asked no questions, but busied himself in
keeping everyone else out of the room and in getting Parkins back to his bed;
and himself, wrapped in a rug, occupied the other bed for the rest of the
night. Early on the next day Rogers arrived, more welcome than he would have
been a day before, and the three of them held a very long consultation in the
Professor's room. At the end of it the Colonel left the hotel door carrying a
small object between his finger and thumb, which he cast as far into the sea as
a very brawny arm could send it. Later on the smoke of a burning ascended from
the back premises of the Globe.
Exactly what explanation was patched up for the staff and
visitors at the hotel I must confess I do not recollect. The Professor was
somehow cleared of the ready suspicion of delirium tremens, and the hotel of
the reputation of a troubled house.
There is not much question as to what would have happened to
Parkins if the Colonel had not intervened when he did. He would either have
fallen out of the window or else lost his wits. But it is not so evident what
more the creature that came in answer to the whistle could have done than
frighten. There seemed to be absolutely nothing material about it save the
bedclothes of which it had made itself a body. The Colonel, who remembered a
not very dissimilar occurrence in India, was of opinion that if Parkins had
closed with it it could really have done very little, and that its one power
was that of frightening. The whole thing, he said, served to confirm his
opinion of the Church of Rome.
There is really nothing more to tell, but, as you may
imagine, the Professor's views on certain points are less clear cut than they
used to be. His nerves, too, have suffered: he cannot even now see a surplice
hanging on a door quite unmoved, and the spectacle of a scarecrow in a field
late on a winter afternoon has cost him more than one sleepless night.
The list so far:
10. HG Wells: The Sea Raiders
9. William Fryer Harvey: The Beast with Five Fingers
*
Another Story by This Author
(Confession: I actually like this other story, "The Ash Tree," better than "Oh Whistle." I just didn't want to run it twice. But definitely give it a try. It will ruin your sleep.)
a seaside resort, and a dog whistle. This story is somehow hilarious and
terrifying at the same time.
"Oh, Whistle, and I'll Come to You, My Lad"
by MR James
"I suppose you will be getting away pretty soon, now
Full term is over, Professor," said a person not in the story to the
Professor of Ontography, soon after they had sat down next to each other at a feast
in the hospitable hall of St James's College.
The Professor was young, neat, and precise in speech.
"Yes," he said; "my friends have been making me take up golf
this term, and I mean to go to the East Coast - in point of fact to Burnstow -
(I dare say you know it) for a week or ten days, to improve my game. I hope to
get off tomorrow."
"Oh, Parkins," said his neighbour on the other
side, "if you are going to Burnstow, I wish you would look at the site of
the Templars" preceptory, and let me know if you think it would be any
good to have a dig there in the summer."
It was, as you might suppose, a person of antiquarian
pursuits who said this, but, since he merely appears in this prologue, there is
no need to give his entitlements.
"Certainly," said Parkins, the Professor: "if
you will describe to me whereabouts the site is, I will do my best to give you
an idea of the lie of the land when I get back; or I could write to you about
it, if you would tell me where you are likely to be."
"Don't trouble to do that, thanks. It's only that I'm
thinking of taking my family in that direction in the Long, and it occurred to
me that, as very few of the English preceptories have ever been properly
planned, I might have an opportunity of doing something useful on
offdays."
The Professor rather sniffed at the idea that planning out a
preceptory could be described as useful. His neighbour continued:
"The site - I doubt if there is anything showing above
ground - must be down quite close to the beach now. The sea has encroached
tremendously, as you know, all along that bit of coast. I should think, from
the map, that it must be about three-quarters of a mile from the Globe Inn, at
the north end of the town. Where are you going to stay?"
"Well, at the Globe Inn, as a matter of fact,"
said Parkins; "I have engaged a room there. I couldn't get in anywhere
else; most of the lodging-houses are shut up in winter, it seems; and, as it
is, they tell me that the only room of any size I can have is really a double-bedded
one, and that they haven't a corner in which to store the other bed, and so on.
But I must have a fairly large room, for I am taking some books down, and mean
to do a bit of work; and though I don't quite fancy having an empty bed - not
to speak of two - in what I may call for the time being my study, I suppose I
can manage to rough it for the short time I shall be there."
"Do you call having an extra bed in your room roughing
it. Parkins?" said a bluff person opposite. "Look here, I shall come
down and occupy it for a bit; it"ll be company for you."
The Professor quivered, but managed to laugh in a courteous
manner.
"By all means, Rogers; there's nothing I should like
better. But I'm afraid you would find it rather dull; you don't play golf, do
you?" "No, thank Heaven!" said rude Mr Rogers. "Well, you
see, when I'm not writing I shall most likely be out on the links, and that, as
I say, would be rather dull for you. I'm afraid."
"Oh, I don't know! There's certain to be somebody I
know in the place; but, of course, if you don't want me, speak the word.
Parkins; I shan't be offended. Truth, as you always tell us, is never
offensive."
Parkins was, indeed, scrupulously polite and strictly
truthful. It is to be feared that Mr Rogers sometimes practised upon his
knowledge of these characteristics. In Parkins's breast there was a conflict
now raging, which for a moment or two did not allow him to answer. That
interval being over, he said:
"Well, if you want the exact truth, Rogers, I was
considering whether the room I speak of would really be large enough to
accommodate us both comfortably; and also whether (mind, I shouldn't have said
this if you hadn't pressed me) you would not constitute something in the nature
of a hindrance to my work." Rogers laughed loudly.
"Well done. Parkins!" he said. "It's all
right. I promise not to interrupt your work; don't you disturb yourself about
that. No, I won't come if you don't want me; but I thought I should do so
nicely to keep the ghosts off." Here he might have been seen to wink and
to nudge his next neighbour. Parkins might also have been seen to become pink.
"I beg pardon. Parkins," Rogers continued; "I oughtn't to have
said that. I forgot you didn't like levity on these topics."
"Well," Parkins said, 'as you have mentioned the
matter, I freely own that I do not like careless talk about what you call
ghosts. A man in my position," he went on, raising his voice a little,
"cannot, I find, be too careful about appearing to sanction the current
beliefs on such subjects. As you know, Rogers, or as you ought to know; for I
think I have never concealed my views - "
"No, you certainly have not, old man," put in
Rogers sotto voce.
" - I hold that any semblance, any appearance of
concession to the view that such things might exist is equivalent to a
renunciation of all that I hold most sacred. But I'm afraid I have not
succeeded in securing your attention."
"Your undivided attention, was what Dr Blimber actually
said," Rogers interrupted, with every appearance of an earnest desire for
accuracy. "But I beg your pardon. Parkins; I'm stopping you."
"No, not at all," said Parkins. "I don't
remember Blimber; perhaps he was before my time. But I needn't go on. I'm sure
you know what I mean."
"Yes, yes," said Rogers, rather hastily -
"just so. We'll go into it fully at Burnstow, or somewhere."
In repeating the above dialogue I have tried to give the
impression which it made on me, that Parkins was something of an old woman -
rather hen-like, perhaps, in his little ways; totally destitute, alas! of the
sense of humour, but at the same time dauntless and sincere in his convictions,
and a man deserving of the greatest respect. Whether or not the reader has
gathered so much, that was the character which Parkins had.
On the following day Parkins did, as he had hoped, succeed
in getting away from his college, and in arriving at Burnstow. He was made
welcome at the Globe Inn, was safely installed in the large double-bedded room
of which we have heard, and was able before retiring to rest to arrange his
materials for work in apple-pie order upon a commodious table which occupied
the outer end of the room, and was surrounded on three sides by windows looking
out seaward; that is to say, the central window looked straight out to sea, and
those on the left and right commanded prospects along the shore to the north
and south respectively. On the south you saw the village of Burnstow. On the
north no houses were to be seen, but only the beach and the low cliff backing
it. Immediately in front was a strip - not considerable - of rough grass,
dotted with old anchors, capstans, and so forth; then a broad path; then the
beach. Whatever may have been the original distance between the Globe Inn and
the sea, not more than sixty yards now separated them.
The rest of the population of the inn was, of course, a
golfing one, and included few elements that call for a special description. The
most conspicuous figure was, perhaps, that of an ancien militaire, secretary of
a London club, and possessed of a voice of incredible strength, and of views of
a pronouncedly Protestant type. These were apt to find utterance after his
attendance upon the ministrations of the Vicar, an estimable man with
inclinations towards a picturesque ritual, which he gallantly kept down as far
as he could out of deference to East Anglian tradition.
Professor Parkins, one of whose principal characteristics
was pluck, spent the greater part of the day following his arrival at Burnstow
in what he had called improving his game, in company with this Colonel Wilson:
and during the afternoon - whether the process of improvement were to blame or
not, I am not sure - the Colonel's demeanour assumed a colouring so lurid that
even Parkins jibbed at the thought of walking home with him from the links. He
determined, after a short and furtive look at that bristling moustache and
those incarnadined features, that it would be wiser to allow the influences of
tea and tobacco to do what they could with the Colonel before the dinner-hour should
render a meeting inevitable.
"I might walk home tonight along the beach," he
reflected - "yes, and take a look - there will be light enough for that -
at the ruins of which Disney was talking. I don't exactly know where they are,
by the way; but I expect I can hardly help stumbling on them." This he
accomplished, I may say, in the most literal sense, for in picking his way from
the links to the shingle beach his foot caught, partly in a gorse-root and
partly in a biggish stone, and over he went. When he got up and surveyed his
surroundings, he found himself in a patch of somewhat broken ground covered
with small depressions and mounds. These latter, when he came to examine them,
proved to be simply masses of flints embedded in mortar and grown over with
turf. He must, he quite rightly concluded, be on the site of the preceptory he
had promised to look at. It seemed not unlikely to reward the spade of the
explorer; enough of the foundations was probably left at no great depth to
throw a good deal of light on the general plan. He remembered vaguely that the
Templars, to whom this site had belonged, were in the habit of building round
churches, and he thought a particular series of the humps or mounds near him
did appear to be arranged in something of a circular form. Few people can
resist the temptation to try a little amateur research in a department quite
outside their own, if only for the satisfaction of showing how successful they
would have been had they only taken it up seriously. Our Professor, however, if
he felt something of this mean desire, was also truly anxious to oblige Mr
Disney. So he paced with care the circular area he had noticed, and wrote down
its rough dimensions in his pocket-book. Then he proceeded to examine an oblong
eminence which lay east of the centre of the circle, and seemed to his thinking
likely to be the base of a platform or altar. At one end of it, the northern, a
patch of the turf was gone - removed by some boy or other creature ferae
naturae. It might, he thought, be as well to probe the soil here for evidences
of masonry, and he took out his knife and began scraping away the earth. And
now followed another little discovery: a portion of soil fell inward as he
scraped, and disclosed a small cavity. He lighted one match after another to
help him to see of what nature the hole was, but the wind was too strong for
them all. By tapping and scratching the sides with his knife, however, he was
able to make out that it must be an artificial hole in masonry. It was
rectangular, and the sides, top, and bottom, if not actually plastered, were
smooth and regular. Of course it was empty. No! As he withdrew the knife he
heard a metallic clink, and when he introduced his hand it met with a
cylindrical object lying on the floor of the hole. Naturally enough, he picked
it up, and when he brought it into the light, now fast fading, he could see
that it, too, was of man's making - a metal tube about four inches long, and
evidently of some considerable age.
By the time Parkins had made sure that there was nothing
else in this odd receptacle, it was too late and too dark for him to think of
undertaking any further search. What he had done had proved so unexpectedly
interesting that he determined to sacrifice a little more of the daylight on the
morrow to archaeology. The object which he now had safe in his pocket was bound
to be of some slight value at least, he felt sure.
Bleak and solemn was the view on which he took a last look
before starting homeward. A faint yellow light in the west showed the links, on
which a few figures moving towards the club-house were still visible, the squat
martello tower, the lights of Aldsey village, the pale ribbon of sands
intersected at intervals by black wooden groynes, the dim and murmuring sea.
The wind was bitter from the north, but was at his back when he set out for the
Globe. He quickly rattled and clashed through the shingle and gained the sand,
upon which, but for the groynes which had to be got over every few yards, the
going was both good and quiet. One last look behind, to measure the distance he
had made since leaving the ruined Templars' church, showed him a prospect of
company on his walk, in the shape of a rather indistinct personage, who seemed
to be making great efforts to catch up with him, but made little, if any,
progress. I mean that there was an appearance of running about his movements,
but that the distance between him and Parkins did not seem materially to
lessen. So, at least, Parkins thought, and decided that he almost certainly did
not know him, and that it would be absurd to wait until he came up. For all
that, company, he began to think, would really be very welcome on that lonely
shore, if only you could choose your companion. In his unenlightened days he
had read of meetings in such places which even now would hardly bear thinking
of. He went on thinking of them, however, until he reached home, and
particularly of one which catches most peoples fancy at some time of their
childhood. "Now I saw in my dream that Christian had gone but a very
little way when he saw a foul fiend coming over the field to meet him."
"What should I do now," he thought, "if I looked back and caught
sight of a black figure sharply defined against the yellow sky, and saw that it
had horns and wings? I wonder whether I should stand or run for it. Luckily,
the gentleman behind is not of that kind, and he seems to be about as far off
now as when I saw him first. Well, at this rate he won't get his dinner as soon
as I shall; and, dear me! it's within a quarter of an hour of the time now. I
must run!"
Parkins had, in fact, very little time for dressing. When he
met the Colonel at dinner. Peace - or as much of her as that gentleman could
manage - reigned once more in the military bosom; nor was she put to flight in
the hours of bridge that followed dinner, for Parkins was a more than
respectable player. When, therefore, he retired towards twelve o'clock, he felt
that he had spent his evening in quite a satisfactory way, and that, even for
so long as a fortnight or three weeks, life at the Globe would be supportable
under similar conditions - 'especially," thought he, "if I go on
improving my game."
As he went along the passages he met the boots of the Globe,
who stopped and said: "Beg your pardon, sir, but as I was a-brushing your
coat just now there was somethink fell out of the pocket. I put it on your
chest of drawers, sir, in your room, sir - a piece of a pipe or somethink of
that, sir. Thank you, sir. You"ll find it on your chest of drawers, sir -
yes, sir. Good night, sir."
The speech served to remind Parkins of his little discovery
of that afternoon. It was with some considerable curiosity that he turned it
over by the light of his candles. It was of bronze, he now saw, and was shaped
very much after the manner of the modern dog-whistle; in fact it was - yes,
certainly it was - actually no more nor less than a whistle. He put it to his
lips, but it was quite full of a fine, caked-up sand or earth, which would not
yield to knocking, but must be loosened with a knife. Tidy as ever in his
habits. Parkins cleared out the earth on to a piece of paper, and took the
latter to the window to empty it out. The night was clear and bright, as he saw
when he had opened the casement, and he stopped for an instant to look at the
sea and note a belated wanderer stationed on the shore in front of the inn.
Then he shut the window, a little surprised at the late hours people kept at
Burnstow, and took his whistle to the light again. Why, surely there were marks
on it, and not merely marks, but letters! A very little rubbing rendered the
deeply-cut inscription quite legible, but the Professor had to confess, after
some earnest thought, that the meaning of it was as obscure to him as the
writing on the wall to Belshazzar. There were legends both on the front and on
the back of the whistle. The one read thus:
FLA.
FUR BIS
FLE
The other:
QUIS EST ISTE QUI UENIT
"I ought to be able to make it out," he thought;
"but I suppose I am a little rusty in my Latin. When I come to think of
it, I don't believe I even know the word for a whistle. The long one does seem
simple enough. It ought to mean, "Who is this who is coming?" Well,
the best way to find out is evidently to whistle for him."
He blew tentatively and stopped suddenly, startled and yet
pleased at the note he had elicited. It had a quality of infinite distance in
it, and, soft as it was, he somehow felt it must be audible for miles round. It
was a sound, too, that seemed to have the power (which many scents possess) of
forming pictures in the brain. He saw quite clearly for a moment a vision of a
wide, dark expanse at night, with a fresh wind blowing and in the midst a
lonely figure - how employed, he could not tell. Perhaps he would have seen
more had not the picture been broken by the sudden surge of a gust of wind
against his casement, so sudden that it made him look up, just in time to see
the white glint of a sea-bird's wing somewhere outside the dark panes.
The sound of the whistle had so fascinated him that he could
not help trying it once more, this time more boldly. The note was little, if at
all, louder than before, and repetition broke the illusion - no picture
followed, as he had half hoped it might. "But what is this? Goodness! what
force the wind can get up in a few minutes! What a tremendous gust! There! I
knew that window-fastening was no use! Ah! I thought so - both candles out.
It's enough to tear the room to pieces."
The first thing was to get the window shut. While you might
count twenty Parkins was struggling with the small casement, and felt almost as
if he were pushing back a sturdy burglar, so strong was the pressure. It
slackened all at once, and the window banged to and latched itself. Now to
relight the candles and see what damage, if any, had been done. No, nothing
seemed amiss; no glass even was broken in the casement. But the noise had
evidently roused at least one member of the household: the Colonel was to be
heard slumping in his stockinged feet on the floor above, and growling.
Quickly as it had risen, the wind did not fall at once. On
it went, moaning and rushing past the house, at times rising to a cry so
desolate that, as Parkins disinterestedly said, it might have made fanciful
people feel quite uncomfortable; even the unimaginative, he thought after a
quarter of an hour, might be happier without it.
Whether it was the wind, or the excitement of golf, or of
the researches in the preceptory that kept Parkins awake, he was not sure.
Awake he remained, in any case, long enough to fancy (as I am afraid I often do
myself under such conditions) that he was the victim of all manner of fatal
disorders: he would lie counting the beats of his heart, convinced that it was
going to stop work every moment, and would entertain grave suspicions of his
lungs, brain, liver, etc. - suspicions which he was sure would be dispelled by
the return of daylight, but which until then refused to be put aside. He found
a little vicarious comfort in the idea that someone else was in the same boat.
A near neighbour (in the darkness it was not easy to tell his direction) was
tossing and rustling in his bed, too.
The next stage was that Parkins shut his eyes and determined
to give sleep every chance. Here again overexcitement asserted itself in
another form - that of making pictures. Experto crede, pictures do come to the
closed eyes of one trying to sleep, and are often so little to his taste that
he must open his eyes and disperse them.
Parkins's experience on this occasion was a very distressing
one. He found that the picture which presented itself to him was continuous.
When he opened his eyes, of course, it went; but when he shut them once more it
framed itself afresh, and acted itself out again, neither quicker nor slower
than before. What he saw was this: A long stretch of shore - shingle edged by
sand, and intersected at short intervals with black groynes running down to the
water - a scene, in fact, so like that of his afternoon's walk that, in the
absence of any landmark, it could not be distinguished therefrom. The light was
obscure, conveying an impression of gathering storm, late winter evening, and
slight cold rain. On this bleak stage at first no actor was visible. Then, in
the distance, a bobbing black object appeared; a moment more, and it was a man
running, jumping, clambering over the groynes, and every few seconds looking
eagerly back. The nearer he came the more obvious it was that he was not only
anxious, but even terribly frightened, though his face was not to be
distinguished. He was, moreover, almost at the end of his strength. On he came;
each successive obstacle seemed to cause him more difficulty than the last.
"Will he get over this next one?" thought Parkins; "it seems a
little higher than the others." Yes; half-climbing, half throwing himself,
he did get over, and fell all in a heap on the other side (the side nearest to
the spectator). There, as if really unable to get up again, he remained crouching
under the groyne, looking up in an attitude of painful anxiety.
So far no cause whatever for the fear of the runner had been
shown; but now there began to be seen, far up the shore, a little flicker of
something light-coloured moving to and fro with great swiftness and
irregularity. Rapidly growing larger, it, too, declared itself as a figure in
pale, fluttering draperies, ill-defined. There was something about its motion
which made Parkins very unwilling to see it at close quarters. It would stop,
raise arms, bow itself toward the sand, then run stooping across the beach to
the water-edge and back again; and then, rising upright, once more continue its
course forward at a speed that was startling and terrifying. The moment came
when the pursuer was hovering about from left to right only a few yards beyond
the groyne where the runner lay in hiding. After two or three ineffectual
castings hither and thither it came to a stop, stood upright, with arms raised
high, and then darted straight forward towards the groyne.
It was at this point that Parkins always failed in his
resolution to keep his eyes shut. With many misgivings as to incipient failure
of eyesight, over-worked brain, excessive smoking, and so on, he finally
resigned himself to light his candle, get out a book, and pass the night
waking, rather than be tormented by this persistent panorama, which he saw
clearly enough could only be a morbid reflection of his walk and his thoughts
on that very day.
The scraping of match on box and the glare of light must
have startled some creatures of the night - rats or what not - which he heard
scurry across the floor from the side of his bed with much rustling. Dear,
dear! the match is out! Fool that it is! But the second one burnt better, and a
candle and book were duly procured, over which Parkins pored till sleep of a
wholesome kind came upon him, and that in no long space. For about the first
time in his orderly and prudent life he forgot to blow out the candle, and when
he was called next morning at eight there was still a flicker in the socket and
a sad mess of guttered grease on the top of the little table.
After breakfast he was in his room, putting the finishing
touches to his golfing costume - fortune had again allotted the Colonel to him
for a partner - when one of the maids came in.
"Oh, if you please," she said, "would you
like any extra blankets on your bed, sir?"
'ah! thank you," said Parkins. "Yes, I think I
should like one. It seems likely to turn rather colder."
In a very short time the maid was back with the blanket.
"Which bed should I put it on, sir?" she asked.
"What? Why, that one - the one I slept in last night," he said,
pointing to it.
"Oh yes! I beg your pardon, sir, but you seemed to have
tried both of em; leastways, we had to make 'em both up this morning."
"Really? How very absurd!" said Parkins. "I
certainly never touched the other, except to lay some things on it. Did it
actually seem to have been slept in?"
"Oh, yes, sir!" said the maid. "Why, all the
things was crumpled and throwed about all ways, if you'll excuse me, sir -
quite as if anyone 'adn't passed but a very poor night, sir."
"Dear me," said Parkins. "Well, I may have
disordered it more than I thought when I unpacked my things. I'm very sorry to
have given you the extra trouble. I'm sure. I expect a friend of mine soon, by
the way - a gentleman from Cambridge - to come and occupy it for a night or
two. That will be all right, I suppose, won't it?"
"Oh yes, to be sure, sir. Thank you, sir. It's no
trouble. I'm sure," said the maid, and departed to giggle with her
colleagues.
Parkins set forth, with a stern determination to improve his
game.
I am glad to be able to report that he succeeded so far in
this enterprise that the Colonel, who had been rather repining at the prospect
of a second day's play in his company, became quite chatty as the morning
advanced; and his voice boomed out over the flats, as certain also of our own
minor poets have said, "like some great bourdon in a minster tower".
"Extraordinary wind, that, we had last night," he
said. "In my old home we should have said someone had been whistling for
it."
"Should you, indeed!" said Parkins, "Is there
a superstition of that kind still current in your part of the country?"
"I don't know about superstition," said the
Colonel. "They believe in it all over Denmark and Norway, as well as on
the Yorkshire coast; and my experience is, mind you, that there's generally
something at the bottom of what these country-folk hold to, and have held to
for generations. But it's your drive" (or whatever it might have been: the
golfing reader will have to imagine appropriate digressions at the proper
intervals).
When conversation was resumed. Parkins said, with a slight
hesitancy:
"apropos of what you were saying just now. Colonel, I
think I ought to tell you that my own views on such subjects are very strong. I
am, in fact, a convinced disbeliever in what is called the
"supernatural"."
"What!" said the Colonel, "do you mean to
tell me you don't believe in second-sight, or ghosts, or anything of that
kind?"
"In nothing whatever of that kind," returned
Parkins firmly.
"Well," said the Colonel, "but it appears to
me at that rate, sir, that you must be little better than a Sadducee."
Parkins was on the point of answering that, in his opinion,
the Sadducees were the most sensible persons he had ever read of in the Old
Testament; but, feeling some doubt as to whether much mention of them was to be
found in that work, he preferred to laugh the accusation off.
"Perhaps I am," he said; "but - Here, give me
my cleek, boy! - Excuse me one moment. Colonel." A short interval.
"Now, as to whistling for the wind, let me give you my theory about it.
The laws which govern winds are really not at all perfectly known - to
fisher-folk and such, of course, not known at all. A man or woman of eccentric
habits, perhaps, or a stranger, is seen repeatedly on the beach at some unusual
hour, and is heard whistling. Soon afterwards a violent wind rises; a man who
could read the sky perfectly or who possessed a barometer could have foretold
that it would. The simple people of a fishing-village have no barometers, and
only a few rough rules for prophesying weather. What more natural than that the
eccentric personage I postulated should be regarded as having raised the wind,
or that he or she should clutch eagerly at the reputation of being able to do
so? Now, take last night's wind: as it happens, I myself was whistling. I blew
a whistle twice, and the wind seemed to come absolutely in answer to my call.
If anyone had seen me - "
The audience had been a little restive under this harangue,
and Parkins had, I fear, fallen somewhat into the tone of a lecturer; but at
the last sentence the Colonel stopped.
"Whistling, were you?" he said. 'and what sort of
whistle did you use? Play this stroke first." Interval.
"About that whistle you were asking. Colonel. It's
rather a curious one. I have it in my - No; I see I've left in it my room. As a
matter of fact, I found it yesterday."
And then Parkins narrated the manner of his discovery of the
whistle, upon hearing which the Colonel grunted, and opined that, in Parkins's
place, he should himself be careful about using a thing that had belonged to a
set of Papists, of whom, speaking generally, it might be affirmed that you
never knew what they might not have been up to. From this topic he diverged to
the enormities of the Vicar, who had given notice on the previous Sunday that
Friday would be the Feast of St Thomas the Apostle, and that there would be
service at eleven o'clock in the church. This and other similar proceedings
constituted in the Colonel's view a strong presumption that the Vicar was a
concealed Papist, if not a Jesuit; and Parkins, who could not very readily
follow the Colonel in this region, did not disagree with him. In fact, they got
on so well together in the morning that there was no talk on either side of
their separating after lunch.
Both continued to play well during the afternoon, or, at
least, well enough to make them forget everything else until the light began to
fail them. Not until then did Parkins remember that he had meant to do some
more investigating at the preceptory; but it was of no great importance, he
reflected. One day was as good as another; he might as well go home with the
Colonel.
As they turned the corner of the house, the Colonel was
almost knocked down by a boy who rushed into him at the very top of his speed,
and then, instead of running away, remained hanging on to him and panting. The
first words of the warrior were naturally those of reproof and objurgation, but
he very quickly discerned that the boy was almost speechless with fright.
Inquiries were useless at first. When the boy got his breath he began to howl,
and still clung to the Colonel's legs. He was at last detached, but continued
to howl.
"What in the world is the matter with you? What have
you been up to? What have you seen?" said the two men.
"Ow, I seen it wive at me out of the winder,"
wailed the boy, "and I don't like it."
"What window?" said the irritated Colonel.
"Come, pull yourself together, my boy." "The front winder it
was, at the 'otel," said the boy. At this point Parkins was in favour of
sending the boy home, but the Colonel refused; he wanted to get to the bottom
of it, he said; it was most dangerous to give a boy such a fright as this one
had had, and if it turned out that people had been playing jokes, they should
suffer for it in some way. And by a series of questions he made out this story.
The boy had been playing about on the grass in front of the Globe with some
others; then they had gone home to their teas, and he was just going, when he
happened to look up at the front winder and see it a-wiving at him. It seemed
to be a figure of some sort, in white as far as he knew - couldn't see its
face; but it wived at him, and it warn't a right thing - not to say not a right
person. Was there a light in the room? No, he didn't think to look if there was
a light. Which was the window? Was it the top one or the second one? The
seckind one it was - the big winder what got two little uns at the sides.
"Very well, my boy," said the Colonel, after a few
more questions. "You run away home now. I expect it was some person trying
to give you a start. Another time, like a brave English boy, you just throw a
stone - well, no, not that exactly, but you go and speak to the waiter, or to
Mr Simpson, the landlord, and - yes - and say that I advised you to do
so."
The boy's face expressed some of the doubt he felt as to the
likelihood of Mr Simpson's lending a favourable ear to his complaint, but the
Colonel did not appear to perceive this, and went on:
"And here's a sixpence - no, I see it's a shilling -
and you be off home, and don't think any more about it."
The youth hurried off with agitated thanks, and the Colonel
and Parkins went round to the front of the Globe and reconnoitred. There was
only one window answering to the description they had been hearing.
"Well, that's curious," said Parkins; "it's
evidently my window the lad was talking about. Will you come up for a moment.
Colonel Wilson? We ought to be able to see if anyone has been taking liberties
in my room."
They were soon in the passage, and Parkins made as if to
open the door. Then he stopped and felt in his pockets.
"This is more serious than I thought," was his
next remark. "I remember now that before I started this morning I locked
the door. It is locked now, and, what is more, here is the key." And he
held it up. "Now," he went on, "if the servants are in the habit
of going into one's room during the day when one is away, I can only say that -
well, that I don't approve of it at all." Conscious of a somewhat weak
climax, he busied himself in opening the door (which was indeed locked) and in
lighting candles. "No," he said, "nothing seems disturbed."
'except your bed," put in the Colonel. 'excuse me, that isn't my
bed," said Parkins. "I don't use that one. But it does look as if
someone has been playing tricks with it."
It certainly did: the clothes were bundled up and twisted
together in a most tortuous confusion. Parkins pondered. "That must be
it," he said at last: "I disordered the clothes last night in
unpacking, and they haven't made it since. Perhaps they came in to make it, and
that boy saw them through the window; and then they were called away and locked
the door after them. Yes, I think that must be it."
"Well, ring and ask," said the Colonel, and this
appealed to Parkins as practical.
The maid appeared, and, to make a long story short, deposed
that she had made the bed in the morning when the gentleman was in the room,
and hadn't been there since. No, she hadn't no other key. Mr Simpson he kep'
the keys; he'd be able to tell the gentleman if anyone had been up.
This was a puzzle. Investigation showed that nothing of
value had been taken, and Parkins remembered the disposition of the small
objects on tables and so forth well enough to be pretty sure that no pranks had
been played with them. Mr and Mrs Simpson furthermore agreed that neither of them
had given the duplicate key of the room to any person whatever during the day.
Nor could Parkins, fair-minded man as he was, detect anything in the demeanour
of master, mistress, or maid that indicated guilt. He was much more inclined to
think that the boy had been imposing on the Colonel.
The latter was unwontedly silent and pensive at dinner and
throughout the evening. When he bade good night to Parkins, he murmured in a
gruff undertone: "You know where I am if you want me during the
night." "Why, yes, thank you. Colonel Wilson, I think I do; but there
isn't much prospect of my disturbing you, I hope. By the way," he added,
"did I show you that old whistle I spoke of? I think not. Well, here it
is."
The Colonel turned it over gingerly in the light of the
candle.
"Can you make anything of the inscription?" asked
Parkins, as he took it back. "No, not in this light. What do you mean to
do with it?"
"Oh, well, when I get back to Cambridge I shall submit
it to some of the archaeologists there, and see what they think of it; and very
likely, if they consider it worth having, I may present it to one of the
museums."
""M!" said the Colonel. "Well, you may
be right. All I know is that, if it were mine, I should chuck it straight into
the sea. It's no use talking. I'm well aware, but I expect that with you it's a
case of live and learn. I hope so. I'm sure, and I wish you a good night."
He turned away, leaving Parkins in act to speak at the
bottom of the stair, and soon each was in his own bedroom.
By some unfortunate accident, there were neither blinds nor
curtains to the windows of the Professor's room. The previous night he had
thought little of this, but tonight there seemed every prospect of a bright
moon rising to shine directly on his bed, and probably wake him later on. When
he noticed this he was a good deal annoyed, but, with an ingenuity which I can
only envy, he succeeded in rigging up, with the help of a railway-rug, some
safety-pins, and a stick and umbrella, a screen which, if it only held together,
would completely keep the moonlight off his bed. And shortly afterwards he was
comfortably in that bed. When he had read a somewhat solid work long enough to
produce a decided wish for sleep, he cast a drowsy glance round the room, blew
out the candle, and fell back upon the pillow.
He must have slept soundly for an hour or more, when a
sudden clatter shook him up in a most unwelcome manner. In a moment he realized
what had happened: his carefully-constructed screen had given way, and a very
bright frosty moon was shining directly on his face. This was highly annoying.
Could he possibly get up and reconstruct the screen? or could he manage to
sleep if he did not?
For some minutes he lay and pondered over the possibilities;
then he turned over sharply, and with all his eyes open lay breathlessly
listening. There had been a movement, he was sure, in the empty bed on the
opposite side of the room. Tomorrow he would have it moved, for there must be
rats or something playing about in it. It was quiet now. No! the commotion
began again. There was a rustling and shaking: surely more than any rat could
cause.
I can figure to myself something of the Professor's
bewilderment and horror, for I have in a dream thirty years back seen the same
thing happen; but the reader will hardly, perhaps, imagine how dreadful it was
to him to see a figure suddenly sit up in what he had known was an empty bed.
He was out of his own bed in one bound, and made a dash towards the window,
where lay his only weapon, the stick with which he had propped his screen. This
was, as it turned out, the worst thing he could have done, because the
personage in the empty bed, with a sudden smooth motion, slipped from the bed
and took up a position, with outspread arms, between the two beds, and in front
of the door. Parkins watched it in a horrid perplexity. Somehow, the idea of
getting past it and escaping through the door was intolerable to him; he could
not have borne - he didn't know why - to touch it; and as for its touching him,
he would sooner dash himself through the window than have that happen. It stood
for the moment in a band of dark shadow, and he had not seen what its face was
like. Now it began to move, in a stooping posture, and all at once the
spectator realized, with some horror and some relief, that it must be blind,
for it seemed to feel about it with its muffled arms in a groping and random
fashion. Turning half away from him, it became suddenly conscious of the bed he
had just left, and darted towards it, and bent over and felt the pillows in a
way which made Parkins shudder as he had never in his life thought it possible.
In a very few moments it seemed to know that the bed was empty, and then,
moving forward into the area of light and facing the window, it showed for the
first time what manner of thing it was.
Parkins, who very much dislikes being questioned about it,
did once describe something of it in my hearing, and I gathered that what he
chiefly remembers about it is a horrible, an intensely horrible, face of crumbled
linen. What expression he read upon it he could not or would not tell, but that
the fear of it went nigh to maddening him is certain.
But he was not at leisure to watch it for long. With
formidable quickness it moved into the middle of the room, and, as it groped
and waved, one corner of its draperies swept across Parkins's face. He could
not - though he knew how perilous a sound was - he could not keep back a cry of
disgust, and this gave the searcher an instant clue. It leapt towards him upon
the instant, and the next moment he was half-way through the window backwards,
uttering cry upon cry at the utmost pitch of his voice, and the linen face was
thrust close into his own. At this, almost the last possible second,
deliverance came, as you will have guessed: the Colonel burst the door open,
and was just in time to see the dreadful group at the window. When he reached
the figures only one was left. Parkins sank forward into the room in a faint,
and before him on the floor lay a tumbled heap of bedclothes.
Colonel Wilson asked no questions, but busied himself in
keeping everyone else out of the room and in getting Parkins back to his bed;
and himself, wrapped in a rug, occupied the other bed for the rest of the
night. Early on the next day Rogers arrived, more welcome than he would have
been a day before, and the three of them held a very long consultation in the
Professor's room. At the end of it the Colonel left the hotel door carrying a
small object between his finger and thumb, which he cast as far into the sea as
a very brawny arm could send it. Later on the smoke of a burning ascended from
the back premises of the Globe.
Exactly what explanation was patched up for the staff and
visitors at the hotel I must confess I do not recollect. The Professor was
somehow cleared of the ready suspicion of delirium tremens, and the hotel of
the reputation of a troubled house.
There is not much question as to what would have happened to
Parkins if the Colonel had not intervened when he did. He would either have
fallen out of the window or else lost his wits. But it is not so evident what
more the creature that came in answer to the whistle could have done than
frighten. There seemed to be absolutely nothing material about it save the
bedclothes of which it had made itself a body. The Colonel, who remembered a
not very dissimilar occurrence in India, was of opinion that if Parkins had
closed with it it could really have done very little, and that its one power
was that of frightening. The whole thing, he said, served to confirm his
opinion of the Church of Rome.
There is really nothing more to tell, but, as you may
imagine, the Professor's views on certain points are less clear cut than they
used to be. His nerves, too, have suffered: he cannot even now see a surplice
hanging on a door quite unmoved, and the spectacle of a scarecrow in a field
late on a winter afternoon has cost him more than one sleepless night.
The list so far:
10. HG Wells: The Sea Raiders
9. William Fryer Harvey: The Beast with Five Fingers
*
Another Story by This Author
(Confession: I actually like this other story, "The Ash Tree," better than "Oh Whistle." I just didn't want to run it twice. But definitely give it a try. It will ruin your sleep.)
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