Tales from the Haunted House by R. Chetwynd-Hayes

Tales from the Haunted House 

by R. Chetwynd-Hayes

(1986, William Kimber)

In his eccentric - to be charitable - history of supernatural literature, S. T. Joshi sums up Chetwynd-Hayes thus:

....his prose lacks distinction and his conceptions are trite and hackneyed. The fact that he began writing his horror tales at a time when the field was at a low ebb should not entice us to elevate his work beyond the level of resolute mediocrity.

This is a surprising balance sheet to anyone who has finished a novel or book of stories by Chetwynd-Hayes. I am no expert in the writer, and have only read a couple of slim 1970s and 1980s collections, but it seems to me he bent every effort to avoid the trite and hackneyed.  His offhand wit and clever (and insightful) turns of phrase revealed the writer's genuine sympathy and curiosity for his characters and their predicaments. 

As to the charge of mediocrity? I haven't found a mediocre Chetwynd-Hayes tale yet, and hope I never do!

❖

Eight for Dinner

A seemingly odd bit of uncanniness at a dinner party takes on sinister implications, at least for those sharp enough to figure out the implications.

....How ridiculous these communal eating get-togethers were. Some relic tribal ritual no doubt that had celebrated the success of a hunter who wished to share his good fortune with his less fortunate neighbours. Now it had deteriorated into a kind of status symbol, intended to advertise the popularity of the host who could boast of having so many friends to entertain, while his guests could enjoy free food and the knowledge they were worthy of invitation.

     Six guests. A pair of hosts. Or rather host and hostess. Molly counted heads. Dennis and Alice, Mrs Parkinson and Clare, John and Alfred, plus her husband at the end of the table. Eight. Plus herself. That made nine.

     No. That must be wrong. With herself there could only be eight. Eight to sit down for dinner. Had Malcolm mentioned nine she would have exploded. Now, never mind faces. Count heads.

     She closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them again and slowly and silently counted.

     One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . five . . . six . . . seven . . . eight . . . and she made nine.

     It must be the wine. She had drunk too much and was now suffering from a peculiar kind of DTs. Surely the answer would be to examine each face and try to find a strange — an uninvited — one among them.

     She studied each face carefully. Starting from her left there were Dennis, Mrs Parkinson and Clare, and Malcolm at the far end. Coming up on the right there were John, Alfred and Alice. All accounted for. Now count again. One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . five . . . six . . . seven . . . eight and she Molly. . . made nine.

     The problem became too much for her to solve all by herself and she appealed to Malcolm. 'Malcolm, I know this is a stupid question, but how many of us are there around this table?'

***

Alice in Bellington Lane 

An unsettling afterlife fantasy.

....'Peaceful night,' he called after her. 'May your dreams be all you wish them to be.'

     'I never dream,' she replied without looking round. 'Never.'

     Jessica nudged her. 'I do, miss. Something cruel. I keep dreaming I'm in a little terrace cottage round Teddington way, and me daughter and me little grandson have called and we're all having tea in the kitchen. And what with it being warm and all, I've dropped off and this is all a dream. Isn't that a dreadful cruel dream, miss?'

     'I don't know,' Alice said, 'it sounds like a cosy dream to me.'

     'But not when you wake up in Bellington Lane.'

***

Great-Grandad Is in the Attic 

There is nothing musty or cod-Victorian or pseudo-antiquarian bric-a-brac about the stories of Chetwynd-Hayes. He has heart and sympathy for his antagonists living and dead. His turns of phrase are impeccably droll: "Aunt Jennifer began to exercise her tongue" is only one of the seemingly offhand gems in "Great-Grandad Is in the Attic," a haunted house story made perfect by its sense of everyday proportion.

....there was at least one lad of his own age who had experienced the unusual himself and fully appreciated the perils of telling unseeing, not to mention thick-headed adults.

     His name was Harold Brown and he sat behind the next desk to Kevin, thus encouraging a next-door-neighbour relationship.

     It was Kevin who broke the ice. 'Have you got a great-grandad.'

     Harold nodded. 'Sort of. My mum says he's gone to the great jumping-off ground, but I know he's in the potting shed.'

     Kevin displayed keen interest. 'Honestly.'

     'Yep.' Harold sighed like one who is forced to carry an almost impossibly heavy burden. 'I go down there sometimes and peep through the little window that needs cleaning badly, and there he is, sitting behind the little bench with a fag behind his ear, staring at nothing. Just like he always did.'

     'I know. I've got one up in the attic.'

     'Go on!'

     'It's absolutely true. I go up and have a chat with him and he say's he's not ready to go out among the stars yet and intends to stay where he is — in the attic.'

     Harold shook his head. 'I haven't spoken to mine. Don't think I want to. He was always a miserable old bugger when he was alive. You couldn't say a word to him. He called me a horrible little brat.'

     'I always got on all right with mine.'

     That was as much as Kevin got out of Harold about his great-grandad in the potting shed, but this revelation encouraged him tactfully to question other schoolfellows, and the answers were quite surprising.

     Jack Binns had an ordinary grandfather in his cellar, Arthur Collins a great-grandad in a bedroom cupboard, Martin Webster a great-uncle in a disused larder, and Madeline Broadfield a great-great-grandmother in a wardrobe, but as she was inclined to be a bit of a show off and always wanted to outshine her best friend Mary Goldwater, her allegation was suspect....

***

Next Door

Chetwynd-Hayes handles human relations with great maturity. He does not blink, but expresses a mature sense of compassion.

....Julia sat by her would-be friend and wondered why. Why should she be losing badly-needed sleep through the illusions generated by a brain that most likely had been softened by years of excesses. If she had been drawn to her before it was due to the reaction that followed Hector's terrible death. And possibly — the unavoidable attraction of mutual good looks. Youth and beauty.

     She looked down at the sleeping Adele. Asleep she had assumed a vulnerable, almost fragile beauty and all resentment — dislike? — melted, to be replaced by a desire to comfort — caress — draw closer.

     Julia pulled the bedclothes back and bared one white smooth shoulder. Yes, she had the brain-numbing fragile beauty that one used to associate with tuberculosis. Or slow corruption.

     The white flesh seemed to challenge her; demand she discard prohibitions built by generations of puritanic ancestors and surrender to the ecstasy of strange temptations. Her hand went out and her head was slowly lowered, then — the tapping on the connecting wall began again.

     Julia became as a frozen effigy, her five senses united in an effort to understand that seemingly purposeless tapping. Yet — it was even — the same short period between each tap. Tap . . . tap . . . tap . . . tap. Then a much longer pause before it began all over again.

     Four even single taps. From far back in the mists of time a fragment of memory floated up into the seething pool of now....

***

The Phantom Axeman of Carleton Grange

A psychic detective tale filled wirh insouciant and suggestive dialogue between the detective, his medium, and their client. Sadly this over-determined tale takes up 48 pages of the collection, and turns out to be a mere holding-action against the dark forces.

Psychic detectives were, I suppose, once a revenue stream that Edwardian and Georgian scribblers neglected at the peril of their bank balances. Then they became a bingo card square for sentimental fan fictionists to mark off. Ugh.

Francis replied airily. 'But you must understand we are often under great stress and find relief by — how shall I put it? — striking sparks off each other and people around us. I guess it has grown into a habit over the years and I can appreciate that it can be annoying.'

     Sir Robert grunted again. 'So long as I understand. Well, when can you come down to Carlton Grange?'

     Francis consulted a desk diary. 'Will Friday suit you?'

     'The sooner the better. If that is the earliest . . . '

     'Fraid so. I've got a possession job on tomorrow and Thursday.'

     'That means me going grubless for two days,' Fred informed Sir Robert. 'He says I have to keep my pretty tummy empty before going out on a case.'

     'Indeed! I'm sure . . .'

     'We'll be down in time for lunch,' Francis said. 'But as Fred has pointed out, she must be put on an extremely light diet. Full stomachs and the practice of her unique talent do not go together.'

     'Pig! I want . . .'

     'I'll arrange for a car to collect you at the station,' Sir Robert promised. 'And now unless . . .'

     Francis succeeded in looking embarrassed. 'There is the little matter of . . .'

     Sir Robert pulled a cheque book from his breast pocket. 'Four hundred pounds — two days' fee in advance. You will of course render a statement of expenses when the — the case is closed?'

     'Of course,' Francis agreed. 'Please make the cheque out to Psychic Enterprises Ltd. Thank you . . . yes . . . Oh, by the way, there will be no need to collect us from the station. I'll motor down to Carlton. Have to anyway. I always cart a fair amount of equipment around with me.'

     Sir Robert handed the cheque over the desk. Francis examined it with great care, then blew on the wet ink. He looked up.

     'We will look forward to seeing you on Friday, Sir Robert.'

     'I'm going to bring my own nosh,' Fred said.

     The psychic detective saw his client to the door, then returned to the study. When he was again seated behind his desk, he asked:

     'Well, Fred?'

     She shrugged white shoulders. 'Well, not much to tell. He's got one nasty hanging around him. Been drawn into his aura by an overwhelming greed for money. Plus, I suspect, suppressed sex. When I gave him the works he was trying to play "Isn't she a hussy game," but he was very interested.'

     'Has he made enemies?'

     'Has he not. Some guy who died, I'd say around ten years ago, is trying to clobber him with a hammer.'

     'Immature death impulse,' Francis murmured.

     'And there's a young girl who died long ago. But he still mourns her — deep inside. The one human trait.'

     'Interesting.'

     'He's the kind that attracts nasties. I'll be interested to see this Carlton Grange. Interested but not keen.'

     'Rubbish. You can't wait to get down there.'

     'Yes, and get back.'

     'You know,' Francis observed after sitting still for a full two minutes, 'I'll bet you ten pounds to a pair of your best lace knickers, all he's got in the old house is a shadow relic. Bit alarming when seen by the uninitiated, but nothing really to worry about.'

     'Then you'll tuck away an easy four hundred and me — I'll get back to some civilized eating.'

     Francis St Clare leaned back and closed his eyes. 'I foresee the time when you'll tip the scales at twenty stone and it will take all my time to get round you.'

     Fred flinched but did not reply....

***

The House on the Hill 

An amusing tale about a cyclist who picks the wrong house for overnight shelter.

....Sir Barton, attired in a shabby dinner jacket, rose when he entered and pointed to a chair to his immediate right.

     'Sit there, my dear boy. That's right. My family will put in an appearance shortly and I'd like to have you nearby when they lay eyes on you.' He released a little dry chuckle, then transformed it into a cough. 'Yes, indeed. You will be a surprise. A nice surprise. I hope you like steak served with small potatoes, I was always partial to them myself. Both steak and potatoes, I mean. Plus of course brussell sprouts that have to be only slightly boiled, so they are rather crisp. If you understand me. Ah! Estella.'

     The lady who entered was tall, thin, with red hair framing an exceedingly pale face that was enhanced by large, bright blue eyes. She wore a long green dress that left arms and shoulders bare and clung to her lean figure as though it were a mould into which she had been poured. The very moment she spotted Mark her eyes became even brighter and her long-fingered hands came up to cover her cheeks. A thin, weedy voice gasped:

     'Barton! Oh, darling Barton! What . . . oh what have we here? Where did you find him?'

     'Didn't,' Sir Barton replied with a chuckle. 'Came here of his own accord. Asked if he could stay.'

     'Great Beldeza! He didn't?'

     'He most certainly did. But what am I thinking of? Mark, this is my dear departed sister Estella. Estella — Mark Mellor.'

     The hands came down and gripped Mark's own and squeezed them with such strength he gasped. Estella giggled — really a high-pitched squeaking sound — then said, 'Did I squeeze a bit tight, boy? Eh? Due to excitement — pleasure you might say. Oh, you beautiful thing, I must have you.'

     Now although Mark knew he was gifted with great appeal for the opposite sex, such rapture as demonstrated by this long lanky length of skinny has-been-and-probably-never-had-been was by far too much. He snatched his hands away, shook them to restore the circulation, certain gangrene would have set in had she hung on for much longer.

     'It's been a pleasure to meet you, ma'am,' he said coldly. Estella giggled again.

     'Doesn't he talk beautifully, Barton? Oh, my . . . oh, my, I will enjoy having him.'

     'Only if good fortune smiles upon you,' Barton told her with a firmness that he had not displayed before. 'Kindly take your seat, my dear. Ah! Here comes Camilla.'

     Another lady entered the room. Short, fat, her pudgy face surmounted by thick black hair coiled round her head and held in place by a bright yellow ribbon. Her eyes were small, bright as boot buttons and gleamed over the little snub nose and rosebud mouth that gradually opened to form a perfect little red O. The mere sight of Mark seemed enough to rob her of speech and movement. For a while she struggled to regain both powers and finally did succeed in croaking:

     'A . . . a . . . a Young Man! Oh, my unsainted grandmother — he's not much more than a boy! I must . . . must . . . must . . . have him.'

     'Cousin Camilla,' Sir Barton said quite sternly, 'be so good as to control yourself.'

     Camilla got herself moving again and she knocked a chair over on her way round the table to get at Mark. He tried to back away, but found Hoskins was politely blocking his retreat. When the fat, gasping little woman reached Mark, she flung her arms round him and looked up at him with tear-filled eyes. Sir Barton, still speaking quite sternly, made the introduction:

     'Mark, may I present my second cousin twice removed Camilla. Camilla — Mark Mellor. And please — let him go. There're others to come.'

***

A Clavering Chronicle

A peerless and sublime haunted house story of profound poignancy. Unsurpassed.

....To this day I cannot understand what there was about Clavering Retreat that charmed, intrigued and on occasion terrified me. In the final analysis it was no more than a collection of fairly large and expensive houses, all flaunting a rather nauseating mock Tudor style, surrounded by tamed countryside.

     The trees as I have observed before, contributed a sense of dignity, but they were not responsible for the feeling that unseen eyes were watching each house, ready to take note of everyone that entered or left. Or the almost excruciating nostalgia that became most marked when one walked the broad pavements at eventide.

     With the exception of the Sinclairs (plus Mrs Collins) I did not meet anyone else who lived on the estate who appeared to be influenced by this phenomenon, or even be aware of it.

     The three Sinclairs treated me as a long-lost, but now gloriously found member of the family. Every action I performed, every word I uttered seemed to be greeted with the utmost respect and consideration. Lizzy developed the habit of kissing me on the left cheek first thing in the morning; so did Linda, although as time passed her lips tended to stray towards mine.

     Do not misunderstand me. I had no objection to these illuminated signposts to closer intimacy. On the contrary I began to daydream of marrying Linda, becoming something more than a son-in-law to Lizzy and Charles, and eventually ending up master of this fine house and whatever liquid assets the Sinclairs had tucked away.

     But the house! There was the rub.

     Three times I passed the dried up little lady in the hall, each time waxing indignant when my cheerful greeting was ignored, until I finally mentioned the matter to Charles while we were sorting out a mountain of old books on the top floor.

     I cleared my throat. 'Charles,' — no amount of pleading would make me call him Charlie — 'who is the little lady I keep passing in the hall? She keeps ignoring me.'

     He blew dust from a Emma Marshall first edition. 'A dried-out little thing?'

     'That's her. She's a complete mystery. Does she help out in the kitchen?'

     He chuckled. 'Hardly. Apart from shooing off any domestic help we manage to get. That little dried up lady, Michael, is Old Jessica.'

     It took around two minutes — perhaps more — for this item of information to sink in. My first problem was to remember what I had heard about Old Jessica. Then it all came back.

     'But that's the person Mrs Collins said was on the prowl.'

     'That's right. She comes and goes. So far as I can understand she was Sir Stephen Sinclair's nurse around one hundred and thirty-five years ago. He came to a ghastly end in the infamous yellow room. The old grange had many such rooms — yellow — blue — red, every colour you can think of. Anyway it would seem Old Jessica was implicated in her former charge's terrible end and hence was forced to walk the corridors of Clavering Grange forever. But when the house was knocked down she was ousted from her haunting path and has in consequence transferred her beat to this house. Thanks I should think to Lizzy's incantations. Not her fault, poor darling. As you know she's so anxious to contact the past and is apt to become over enthusiastic.'

     He laid a hand on my arm 'My dear fellow, you've gone a mite pale. Can it be that you have not fully accepted and, more importantly, understood all we have been trying to tell you since your arrival?'

     The answer to that was an unequivocal yes, although up to then I would never have gone so far as to hurt their feelings by saying so. But now that I had come to understand that on four separate occasions I had seen a ghost, such a consideration was of little importance. Of course once I had got my breath back, I went through the usual shocked-ridicule-what-nonsense-and-you-expect-me-to-believe procedure that ran on for some time until I ran out of disbelief. Then belief took over and I began to gibber.

     'But an actual ghost! If I should meet another . . .'

     Charles's laugh was low, one might say throaty and decidedly affectionate. 'My dear fellow, don't take on so. I am surprised. You are a member of the family now, and remember, members of the family accept the presence of — well — out of town visitors. Townies.'

     'She looked so real.'

     'Who did?'

     'The little, dried-up lady.'

     'Old Jessica. Yes, she does. I'm always afraid she might be seen by an undesirable person. A gentlemen of the press, some person who is interested in psychic research. Our lives would be made miserable. Fortunately those who have seen rarely believe.'

     'But I don't know if I can . . .'

     A slight frown and I had the impression that I had rather strained the sinews of his regard. He said, 'I do think we have forgotten this is a work period and we have spent far too much time on a non-essential subject.'

     I accepted the rebuke, but had much difficulty in dismissing the non-essential from my mind.

     The news that I had seen Old Jessica was well received at the lunch table.

     'Now the house has — so to speak — accepted you,' Lizzy murmured. 'I do think that's nice.'

     'So do I,' Linda nodded her agreement. 'And he didn't know it was a ghost, sort of let him down gently. So many people when they first see a has-been, fall flat on their faces. Shock. The knowledge hits them a hell of a wallop....'

❖

Jay

8 June 2019