(Transcribed by TurboScribe.ai. Go Unlimited to remove this message.) For a period extending over some years, a notice appeared, periodically, in various daily papers.
It read, To let furnished, for a term of years, at a very low rental, a large old-fashioned family residence, comprising eleven bedrooms, four reception rooms, dressing rooms, two staircases, complete servants' offices, ample accommodation for a gentleman's establishment, including six-stall stable, coach house, etc. This advertisement referred to No. 90.
Occasionally, you saw it running a week or a fortnight at a stretch, as if it were resolved to force itself into consideration by sheer persistency. Sometimes, for months, I looked for it in vain. Other folk might possibly fancy that the effort of the house agent had been crowned at last with success, that it was let, and no longer in the market. I knew better. I knew that it would never, never find a tenant. I knew that it was passed on as a hopeless case.
From house agent to house agent, I knew that it would never be occupied, save by rats. And more than this, I knew the reason why. I will not say in what square, street, or road No. 90 may be found, nor will I divulge to human being its precise and exact locality. But this, I'm prepared to state, that it is positively in existence, is in Charleston, and is still empty.
Twenty years ago, this very Christmas, I was down from New York visiting my friend, John Holyoke, a civil engineer, in Charleston. We were guests at a little dinner party. In the neighborhood of the South Battery. Conversation became very brisk as the champagne circulated, and many topics were started, discussed, and dismissed. We talked on an extraordinary variety of subjects. I distinctly recollect a long argument on mushrooms. Mushrooms, murders, racing, cholera.
From cholera, we came to sudden death. From sudden death, to churchyards. And from churchyards, it was naturally but a step to ghosts. John Holyoke, who was the most vehement, the most incredulous, the most jocular, and the most derisive of the anti-ghost faction, brought matters to a climax by declaring that nothing would give him greater pleasure than to pass a night in a haunted house. And that the worse its character, the better he would be pleased.
His challenge was instantly taken up by our somewhat ruffled host, who warmly assured him that his wishes could easily be satisfied, and that he would be accommodated with a night's lodging in a haunted house within twenty-four hours. In fact, in a house of such a desperate reputation, that even the adjoining mansions stood vacant. He then proceeded to give a brief outline of the history of Number Ninety. It had once been the residence of a well-known county family.
But what evil events had happened therein, tradition did not relate. On the death of the last owner, a diabolical-looking aged person, much resembling the typical wizard, it had passed into the hands of a kinsman, resident abroad, who had no wish to return to Charleston, and who desired his agents to let it, if they could, a most significant condition.
Year by year went by, and still this highly desirable family mansion could find no tenant, although the rent was reduced, and reduced, and again reduced, to almost zero. The most ghastly whispers were afloat, the most terrible experiences were actually proclaimed on the housetops. No tenant would remain, not even gratis, and for the last ten years this handsome, desirable town family residence had been the abode of rats by day and something else. By night, so said the neighbors.
Of course, it was the very thing for John, and he snatched up the gauntlet on the spot. He scoffed at its evil repute and solemnly promised to rehabilitate its character within a week. I was charged by our host to serve as a witness, to verify that John Holyoake did indeed spend the night at number 90. The next night, at ten o'clock, I found myself standing, with John, on the steps of the notorious mansion, but I was not going to remain.
The carriage that brought us was going to take me back to my respectable chambers. This ill-fated house was large, solemn-looking, and gloomy. A heavy portico frowned down on neighboring bare -faced hall doors. The elderly caretaker was prudently awaiting us outside with a key, which, said key, he turned in the lock and admitted us into a great echoing hall, black as night, saying as he did so, My missus has made the bed and stoked up a good fire in the front room, sir.
Your things is all laid out, and I hope you'll have a comfortable night, sir. No, sir. Thank you, sir. Excuse me, I'll not come in. Good night. And with the words still on his lips, he clattered down the steps with most indecent haste and vanished. And of course, you will not come in either, said John. It is not in the bond, and I prefer to face them alone. And he laughed contemptuously, a laugh that had a curious echo, it struck me at the time.
A laugh strangely repeated, with an unpleasant mocking emphasis. Call for me alive or dead at eight o'clock tomorrow morning, he added, pushing me forcibly out into the porch and closing the door with a heavy reverberating clang that sounded halfway down the street. I did call for him the next morning as desired, with the caretaker, who stared at John's commonplace, self-possessed appearance with an expression of respectful astonishment.
So it was all humbug, of course, I said, as he took my arm and we set off for our club. You shall have the whole story, whenever we have had something to eat, he replied somewhat impatiently. It won't keep till after breakfast. I'm famishing. I remarked that he looked unusually grave as we chatted over our broiled fish and omelet, and that occasionally his attention seemed wandering, to say the least.
The moment he had brought out his cigar case and lit up, he turned to me and said, I see that you are just quivering to know my experience, and I won't keep you in suspense any longer. In four words, I have seen them. I merely looked at him with widely parted mouth and staring interrogative eyes. I believe I had best endeavor to give the narrative without comment, and in John Holyoake's own way. This is, as well as I can recollect, his experience, word for word.
I proceeded upstairs, after I had shut you out lighting my way by match, and found the front room easily, as the door was ajar and was lit up by a roaring and most cheerful looking fire and two white candles. It was a comfortable apartment, furnished with old -fashioned chairs and tables and the traditional four -poster bed.
There were numerous doors which proved to be cupboards, and when I had executed a rigorous search in each of these closets and locked them and investigated the bed above and beneath, sounded the walls and bolted the door, I sat down before the fire, lit a cigar, opened a book, and felt that I was going to be master of the situation, and was thoroughly and comfortably at home. My novel proved absorbing.
I read greedily chapter after chapter, and so interested was I, and amused, for it was a lively book, that I positively lost sight of my whereabouts, and fancied myself reading in my own chamber. There was not a sound. The coals dropping from the grate occasionally broke the silence, till a neighboring church clock slowly boomed twelve. The hour, I said to myself with a laugh, as I gave the fire a rousing poke, and commenced a new chapter.
But ere I had read three pages, I had occasion to pause to listen. What was that distinct sound now coming nearer and nearer? Rats, of course, said common sense. It was just the house for vermin. Then a longish silence. Again a stir, sounds approaching, if apparently caused by many feet passing down the corridor. High-heeled shoes, the sweeping switch of silken trains. Of course it was imagination, I assured myself, or rats. Rats were capable of making such curious, improbable noises.
Then another silence. No sound but cinders, and the ticking of my watch, which I had laid upon the table. I resumed my book, rather ashamed and a little indignant with myself for having neglected it, and calmly dismissed my late interruption as, rats, nothing but rats. I had been reading and smoking for some time in a placid and highly incredulous frame of mind, when I was somewhat rudely startled by a loud single knock at my room door.
I took no notice of it, but merely laid down my novel and sat tight. Another knock, more imperious this time. After a moment's mental deliberation, I rose, armed myself with the poker prepared to brain any number of rats, and threw the door open with a violent swing that strained its very hinges, and beheld, to my amazement, a tall, powdered butler in a laced scarlet uniform, who, making formal inclination of his head, astonished me still further by saying, Dinner is ready.
I'm not coming, I replied without a moment's hesitation, and thereupon I slammed the door in his face, locked it, and resumed my seat. Also my book, but reading was a farce. My ears were aching for the next sound. It came soon, rapid steps running up the stairs, and again a single knock. I went over to the door, and once more discovered the tall butler who repeated with a studied courtesy, Dinner is ready, and the company are waiting. I told you I was not coming.
Be off and be hanged, I cried again, shutting the door violently. This time I did not make even a pretense at reading. I merely sat and waited for the next move. I had not long to sit. In ten minutes I heard a third loud summons. I rose, went to the door, and tore it open. There, as I expected, was the servant again with his parrot speech, Dinner is ready, the company are waiting, and the master says you must come.
All right then, I'll come, I replied, wearied by reason of his importunity and feeling suddenly fired with a desire to see the end of the adventure. He accordingly led the way downstairs, and I followed him, noting as I went the gold buttons on his coat. Also that the hall and passages were now brilliantly illuminated by glowing candles and hung with living green, the crisp leaves of holly, mistletoe, and ivy reflecting back the light.
There were several uniformed servants passing to and fro, and from the dining room there issued a buzz of tongues, loud volleys of laughter, many hilarious voices, and a clatter of knives and forks. I was not left much time for speculation, as in another second I found myself inside the door, and my escort announced me in a loud voice as, Mr. Holyoak.
I could hardly credit my senses as I looked round and saw about two dozen people, dressed in a fashion of the eighteenth century, sitting at the table set for a sumptuous Christmas dinner, and lighted by a blaze of wax candles and massive candelabra. A swarthy elderly gentleman, who presided at the head of the board, rose deliberately as I entered. He was dressed in a crimson coat braided with silver.
He wore a white wig, had the most piercing black eyes I ever encountered, made the finest bow I ever received in all my life, and with a polite wave of his hand indicated my seat. A vacant chair between two powdered and embroidered beauties, with overflowing white shoulders and necks sparkling with diamonds. At first I was fully convinced that the whole affair was a superbly matured practical joke. Everything looked so real, so truly flesh and blood, so complete in every detail.
But I gazed around in vain for one familiar face. I saw young, old, and elderly, handsome, and the reverse. On all the faces there was a similar expression, reckless, hardened, defiance, and something else that made me shudder. But that I could not classify or define. Were they a secret community? Burglars or counterfeiters? No. In one rapid glance I noticed that they belonged exclusively to the upper stratum of society, bygone society.
The jabber of talking had momentarily ceased, and the host, imperiously hammering the table with knife handle, said in a singularly harsh grating voice, Ladies and gentlemen, permit me to give you a toast. Our guest, looking straight at me with his glittering coal-black eyes. Every glass was immediately raised. Twenty faces were turned towards mine when, happily, a sudden impulse seized me.
I sprang to my feet and said, Ladies and gentlemen, I beg to thank you for your kind hospitality, but before I accept it, allow me to say grace. I did not wait for permission, but horridly repeated a Latin benediction. Ere the last syllable was uttered, in an instant there was a violent crash, an uproar, a sound of running, of screams, groans, and curses, and then utter darkness.
I found myself standing alone by a big, plain mahogany table, which I could just dimly discern by the aid of a street lamp that threw its meager rays into the great empty dining room from two deep and narrow windows. I must confess that I felt my nerves a little shaken by the instantaneous change from light to darkness, from a crowd of gay and noisy companions to utter solitude and silence. I stood for a moment, trying to recover my mental balance.
I rubbed my eyes hard to assure myself that I was wide awake, and then I placed this very cigar case in the middle of the table as a sign and token that I had been downstairs, which cigar case I found exactly where I left it this morning, and then went and groped my way into the hall and regained my room. I met no obstacle en route. I saw no one.
But as I closed and double-locked my door, I distinctly heard a low laugh outside the keyhole, a sort of suppressed, malicious titter that made me furious. I opened the door at once. There was nothing to be seen. I waited and listened. Dead silence. Then I undressed and went to bed, resolved that a whole army of butlers would fail to allure me once more into that Christmas feast. I was determined not to lose my night's rest, ghosts or no ghosts.
Just as I was dozing off, I remember hearing the neighboring clock chime too. It was the last sound I was aware of. The house was now as silent as a vault. My fire burnt away cheerfully. I was no longer in the least degree inclined for reading, and I fell fast asleep and slept soundly till I heard the cabs and milk carts beginning their morning career. I then rose, dressed at my leisure, and found you, my good, faithful friend, awaiting me, rather anxiously, on the hall door steps.
I have not done with that house yet. I'm determined to find out who these people are and where they come from. I shall sleep there again, tonight, along with my bulldog, and you will see that I shall have news for you tomorrow morning, if I am still alive to tell the tale, he added with a laugh. In vain I would have dissuaded him. I protested, argued, implored.
I declared that rashness was not courage, that he had seen enough, that I, who had seen nothing and only listened to his experiences, was convinced that number 90 was a house to be avoided. I might just as well have talked to my umbrella. So, once more, I reluctantly accompanied him to his previous night's lodgings. Once more, I saw him swallowed up inside the gloomy, forbidden looking, re-echoing hall. And then I went home, in an unusually anxious, semi-excited, nervous state of mind.
I lay awake, tumbling and tossing, hour after hour, a prey to the most foolish ideas, ideas. I would have laughed to scorn in daylight. More than once I was certain that I heard John Holyoake distractedly calling me, and I sat up in bed and listened intently. Of course, it was fancy. For the instant I did so, there was no sound. At the first gleam of winter dawn, I rose, dressed, swallowed a cup of good strong hot coffee to clear my brain from the misty notions I had harbored during the night.
And then I invested myself in my warmest top coat and set off for number 90. Early as it was, it was but half past seven, I found the caretaker was before me, pacing the pavement, his face drawn with a melancholy expression. I was not disposed to wait for eight o'clock. I was too uneasy and too impatient for further particulars of the Christmas dinner party. And so I rang with all my might and knocked with all my strength. No sound within. No answer.
But John was always a heavy sleeper, and I was resolved to arouse him all the same, and knocked and rang and rang and knocked incessantly for fully ten minutes. And then I stooped down and applied my eye to the keyhole. I looked steadily into the aperture, till I became accustomed to the darkness. And then it seemed to me that another eye, a very strange, fiery eye, was glaring into mine from the other side of the door.
I removed my eye and applied my mouth instead, and shouted with all the power of my lungs, John! John! John Holyoake! How his name echoed and re-echoed up through that dark and empty house. He must hear that, I said to myself as I pressed my ear closely against the lock, and listened with throbbing suspense. The echo of Holyoake had hardly died away when I swear that I distinctly heard a low, snickering, mocking laugh. That was my only answer. That and a vast, unresponsive silence.
I was now quite desperate. I shook the door frantically, and with all my strength I broke the bell in short. My behavior was such that it excited the curiosity of a police officer who crossed the road to know what was up. I want to get in, I panted, breathless with my exertions. You'd better stay where you are, said the police officer. The outside of this house is the best of it. There are terrible stories, but there's a gentleman inside it. I interrupted impatiently.
He slept there last night, and I can't wake him. He has the key. Oh, you can't wake him, returned the police officer gravely. Then we must get a locksmith. But already the thoughtful caretaker had procured one, and already a considerable and curious crowd surrounded the steps. After five minutes of maddening delay, the great, heavy door was opened and swung slowly back, and I instantly rushed in, followed less frantically by the police officer and the caretaker.
I had not far to seek John Holyoake. He and his dog were lying at the foot of the stairs, both stone dead.