R. Lafferty - The 7th Ghost Story Megapack

“That tomorrow you may not think you are dreaming, here is a token,” and she touched the palm of my hand with her finger-tips, and as you see, my child, to this day, there are three crimson spots in the palm of my hand that nothing will eradicate.

“Do not fail me, and pray for us, Jeannette, pray,” and with a longing, wistful gaze, and a deep, sobbing sigh, Nancy Black faded from my sight.

“Am I dreaming?” I exclaimed, as I rose from my chair and rang the bell. When the servant entered, I bade him attend to the fire and light the lamps, and I went through the room to see if any unusual arrangement of the furniture could have caused the appearance, but nothing was apparent, and I bade him send my maid to attend me in my chamber, for I could not help feeling unwilling to remain in the library any longer that evening.

While making my toilet for the night my maid said:

“Have you burned your hand, madam?”

Glancing hastily down, I saw three dark crimson spots upon the palm of my left hand. They had an odd look, seared as though touched by a red-hot iron, yet the flesh was soft, not burned and not painful. Making some excuse for it, I did not allude to it again, and dismissed her speedily, that I might reflect undisturbed over the singular occurrence. There were the marks upon my hand; I could not remove them, and they did not fade. In fact, their deep red made the rest of the palm lose its pinkish hue and look pale from the strong contrast. Could I have been asleep and dreamed it all, and by any means have done this to myself? I thought, but finally concluded that on the morrow I’d go over to Nancy Black’s old residence and settle the question; and with that conclusion had to content myself until the morrow came.

Nancy Black was an old friend from my girlhood, who had owned large property in the town, and lived all alone in a spacious stone house directly opposite my home, and who, when dying, had left me the sole legatee of her property.

When morning came I took the keys, and, with my maid, went over to Nancy’s house. It had never been disturbed since her death, which was sudden and somewhat singular, and the furniture remained just as she left it when taken to her last resting place. We went to the room Nancy had directed. I bade Sarah take up the carpet, and, sure enough, there was a plank with a knot-hole in it; so I sent her from the room, and lifted the plank myself, and there, between the two joints, rested a long box, the lid not fastened. Opening it, I was horrified to see two skeletons—those of an infant and of a woman, small in stature and delicate frame. In a moment it flashed before me that I saw all that remained of Nancy Black’s young sister, a girl of seventeen, who had left home somewhat mysteriously years ago, and had died while absent—at least, that was the version Nancy had given of her absence, and no one had dreamed of doubting it, her tale was so naturally told.

Left orphans when Lucy was only two years and Nancy eighteen, she had devoted her life to the care of this young girl, and when she found her sister had fallen, she, in her pride of name and position, had destroyed mother and child, that her shame might not be known, and had lived all those dreary years in that house with her fearful secret.

Round the box, heaped up on every side, were money and jewels, and a parchment scroll among them had written on it: “Lucy’s share of our father’s estate.” I carried out Nancy’s wishes to the letter, for I now firmly believed that she had come to me herself that night. To avoid scandal resting on the dead, I took our clergyman into my confidence, and with his assistance had the remains buried quietly in consecrated ground. The money and jewels were given to the poor, and the old building I turned into a home for destitute females; and morning and night, as I kneel in prayer, I pray forgiveness to rest upon Nancy Black and peace to her troubled soul.

I have been asked by so many friends to write down the following story that I have, under pressure, consented to do so. I therefore place the facts before my readers. I tell it exactly as it took place, and I leave it to you to decide as to its reason. The results, as you will see, were real and tangible; but the question will no doubt arise: “Did I dream what I saw?—or was it the spirit power, which, unable to rest, used me as its medium?—or did my imagination, aided and excited by my crystal-gazing, lead me to do as I did?”

Where do dreams and imagination end? And where does the real spirit power commence? And is it possible that we are mediums, good and bad, of another world? This is for you, not for me to decide. I will only tell you what happened.

In the early summer of 1893, in the month of June, I found myself (a widow of eight-and-twenty, with small means and no occupation) on a tourist steamer bound for a three-weeks’ trip to the fjords of Norway, in search of health and fresh air, after many months spent in a small and airless house in London. Among our many passengers, who included all sorts and conditions of men, women, and children, were a lady and gentleman—Lord and Lady Glencoine. They were middle-aged, pleasant, and inclined to be companionable. We were mutually attracted, and within a few days became quite friendly, and even intimate. It is wonderful on board ship how soon one gets to know people well; there is so little to do, and the life lends itself to companionship and conversation. We were lucky, too, in our weather, which no doubt aided our friendly instincts; and when we parted, at the end of three weeks, it was with mutual regrets, hopes of a speedy meeting, and a warm invitation from the Glencoines that I should visit them in their beautiful old Tudor house in Gloucestershire.

I returned to my little house in Chester Street; the weeks and months passed, and I had almost forgotten our trip and the invitation, when one morning in September, amongst other letters, one in a strange handwriting ran as follows:

Taverndale House, Gloucester.

Dear Mrs. Haywood,

I hope you have not forgotten your promise to pay us a visit. I am writing a line to say we shall be at home from the middle of October for a month, and do hope you will find it convenient to come during that time. Glencoine is longing to show you this house, knowing how you appreciate old buildings, and if only the frost will keep off, the garden may still be looking quite pretty.

Yours very sincerely,

I consulted my almanac; found, curiously enough, that I was engaged to pay another visit in Gloucestershire about that time, and that I could fit in a Friday till Tuesday at Taverndale with great pleasure and convenience to myself. So I wrote to Lady Glencoine proposing this time, and in two days received an answer warmly accepting my proposal, but regretting the shortness of my visit. On my arrival at their station, about half-past four in the afternoon, I found the carriage waiting, and was told by the coachman that it was a drive of two miles. We passed through a lodge, and up a large and beautiful avenue of elm trees, which were scattering their golden leaves with great rapidity; and as we suddenly swung round a sharp corner and the house came into view, I was lost in admiration. One of those early Tudor houses, with its gabled roofs and high windows and chimneys, branching out at the end into two wings, almost untouched by modern hands, except where, here and there, there was absolute need of restoration. I had hardly time to take it in before we stopped at the door, and I stepped through the vestibule into the hall, and again my eyes had a feast. The dark wainscoting of oak, with which it was entirely panelled, and the picturesque high windows, the shields and armour hanging from the wainscoting, all made a lovely picture in the setting sun which was pouring through the mullioned window.