The Corpse Light by J. E. Preston Muddock
My name is John Patmore Lindsay. By profession
I am a medical man, and a Fellow of the Royal
College of Surgeons, and Member of the Royal
College of Physicians, London. I am also the
author of numerous medical works, the best
known, perhaps, being ‘How to Keep in Good
Health and Live Long.’ I was educated at
one of the large public schools, and took
my degree at Oxford. I have generally been
regarded as ‘a hard-headed man,’ and sceptical
about all phenomena that were not capable
of being explained by rational and known laws.
Mysticism, occultism, spiritualism, and the
like only served to excite my ridicule; and
I entertained anything but a flattering opinion
of those people who professed belief in such
things. I was pleased to think it argued a
weakness of mind.
I have referred to the few foregoing facts
about myself because I wish to make it clear
that I do not belong to that class of nervous
and excitable people who fall a prey to their
own fancies; conjure up shapes and scenes
out of their imaginings, and then vow and
declare that they have been confronted with
stern realities. What I am about to relate
is so marvellous, so weird and startling,
that I am fain to begin my story in a half
apologetic way; and even now, as I dwell upon
it all, I wonder why I of all men should have
been subjected to the unnatural and unearthly
influence. But so it is, and though in a sense
I am only half convinced, I no longer scoff
when somebody reminds me that there is more
in heaven and earth than is dreamt of in our
philosophy.
But to my story, and when it is told the reader
can judge for himself how powerful must have
been the effect of what I witnessed, when
it could induce a man of my mental fibre to
commit to paper so astounding a narrative
as the one I now pen. It is about twenty years
ago that I took up a practice in the old-fashioned
and picturesque little town of Brinton-on-sea.
At that time there was no railway into Brinton,
the nearest station being some seven or eight
miles away. The result was, the town still
retained a delightful old-time air, while
the people were as primitive and old-fashioned
as their town. Nevertheless, Brinton was far
ahead of its neighbours, and, though in a
purely agricultural district, was enterprising
and business-like, while its weekly Tuesday
market brought an enormous influx of the population
of the district for miles around, and very
large sums of money changed hands. Being the
chief town of the parish, and boasting of
a very curious and ancient church, and a still
more ancient market cross, to say nothing
of several delightful old hostelries, and
a small though excellent museum of local curiosities,
consisting principally of Roman remains and
fossils, for which the district was renowned,
it attracted not only the antiquary and the
gourmand, but artists, tourists, and lovers
of the picturesque, as well as those in search
of quietude and repose. The nearest village
was High Lea, about three miles away. Between
the two places was a wide sweep of magnificent
rolling down, delightful at all times, but
especially so in the summer. Many an ancient
farmhouse was dotted about, with here and
there a windmill. The down on the seaside
terminated in a high headland, from which
a splendid lighthouse sent forth its warning
beams over the fierce North Sea. Second only
in conspicuousness to this lighthouse was
an old and half ruined windmill, known all
over the country side as ‘The Haunted Mill.’
When I first went to live in Brinton this
mill early attracted my attention, for it
was one of the most picturesque old places
of its kind I had ever seen; and as I had
some artistic instincts, and could sketch
with, as my too flattering friends said, ‘no
mean ability,’ the haunted mill appealed
to me. It stood on rising ground, close to
the high-road that ran between Brinton and
High Lea. I gathered that there had been some
dispute about the ownership, and, as is usually
the case, the suckers of the harpies of the
law had fastened upon it, so to speak, and
drained all its vitality away after the manner
of lawyers generally. The old-fashioned, legal
luminaries of the country were a slow-going
set, and for over a quarter of a century that
disputed claim had remained unsettled; and
during that long period the old mill had been
gradually falling into ruin. The foundations
had from some cause sunk, throwing the main
building out of the perpendicular. Part of
the roof had fallen in, and the fierce gales
of a quarter of a century had battered the
sails pretty well to match-wood. A long flight
of wooden steps led up to the principal door,
but these steps had rotted away in places,
and the door itself had partly fallen inwards.
Needless to say, this mill had become the
home of bats and owls, and, according to the
yokels, of something more fearsome than either.
It was a forlorn and mournful-looking place,
anyway, even in the full blaze of sunshine;
but seen in moonlight its appearance was singularly
weird, and well calculated to beget in the
rustic mind a feeling of horror, and to produce
a creepy and uncanny sensation in anyone susceptible
to the influence of outre appearances. To
me it did not appeal in any of these aspects.
I saw in it only subject matter for an exceedingly
effective picture, and yet I am bound to confess
that even when transferred to board or canvas
there was a certain grim suggestiveness of
things uncanny, and I easily understood how
the superstitious and unreasoning rustic mind
was awed into a belief that this mouldering
old mill was haunted by something more creepy
and harrowing than bats and owls. Anyway,
I heard wonderful tales, at which I laughed,
and when I learned that the country people
generally gave the mill a wide berth at night,
blamed them for their stupidity. But it was
a fact that worthy, and in other respects
intelligent, farmers and market folk coming
or going between Brinton and High Lea after
dark preferred the much longer and dangerous
route by the sea cliffs, even in the wildest
weather.
I have dwelt thus long on the ‘Haunted Mill’
because it bulks largely in my story, as will
presently be seen, and I came in time to regard
it with scarcely less awe than the rustics
did.
It was during the second year of my residence
in Brinton that a young man named Charles
Royce came home after having been absent at
sea for three years. Royce’s people occupied
Gorse Hill Farm, about two miles to the south
of Brinton. Young Charley, a fine, handsome,
but rather wild youngster, had, it appears,
fallen desperately in love with Hannah Trowzell,
who was a domestic in the employ of the Rector
of the parish. But Charley’s people did
not approve of his choice, and, thinking to
cure him, packed him off to sea, and after
an absence of three years and a month the
young fellow, bronzed, hearty, more rollicking
and handsome than ever, returned to his native
village. I had known nothing of Charles Royce
or his history up to the day of his return;
but it chanced on that very day I had to pay
a professional visit to the Rectory, and the
Rector pressed me to lunch with him. Greatly
interested in all his parishioners, and knowing
something of the private history of most of
the families in his district, the rev. gentleman
very naturally fell to talking about young
Royce, and he told me the story, adding, ‘Hannah
is a good girl, and I think it’s rather
a pity Charley’s people objected to his
courting her. I believe she would have made
him a capital wife.’
‘Has she given him up entirely?’ I asked.
‘Oh, yes, and is engaged to Silas Hartrop,
whose father owns the fishing smack the “North
Sea Beauty.” I’ve never had a very high
opinion of Silas. I’m afraid he is a little
too fond of skittles and beer. However, Hannah
seems determined to have him in spite of anything
I can say, so she must take her course. But
I hope she will be able to reform him, and
that the marriage will be a happy one. I really
shouldn’t be a bit surprised, however, if
the girl took up with her old lover again,
for I have reason to know she was much attached
to him, and I fancy Charley, if he were so
minded, could easily influence her to throw
Silas overboard.’
This little story of love and disappointment
naturally interested me, for in a country
town the affairs of one’s neighbours are
matter of greater moment than is the case
in a big city.
So it came to pass that a few weeks after
Charley’s return it was pretty generally
known that, even as the Rector had suggested
it might be, young Royce and pretty Hannah
Trowzell were spooning again, and Silas had
virtually been told to go about his business.
It was further known that Silas had taken
his dismissal so much to heart that he had
been seeking consolation in the beer-pot.
Of course, folk talked a good deal, and most
of them sympathised with Silas, and blamed
Hannah. Very soon it began to be bruited about
that Royce’s people no longer opposed any
objections to the wooing, and that in consequence
Hannah and Charley were to become husband
and wife at Christmas, that was in about seven
weeks’ time.
A month of the time had passed, and the ‘askings’
were up in the parish church, when one day
there went forth a rumour that Charles Royce
was missing. Rumour took a more definite shape
a few hours later when it was positively stated
that two nights previously Charles had left
his father’s house in high spirits and the
best of health to visit Hannah, and walk with
her, as she was going into the town to make
some purchases. On his way he called at the
‘Two Waggoners,’ a wayside inn, where
he had a pint of beer and purchased an ounce
of tobacco. From the time he left the inn,
all trace of him was lost, and he was seen
no more. Hannah waited his coming until long
past the appointed hour, and when he failed
to put in an appearance, she became angry
and went off to the town by herself. Next
day her anger gave place to anxiety when she
learnt that he had left his home to visit
her, and had not since returned; and anxiety
became alarm when two and three days slipped
by without bringing any tidings of the truant.
On the night that he left his home, the weather
was very tempestuous, and it had been wild
and stormy since. It was therefore suggested
that on leaving the ‘Two Waggoners’ he
might have got confused when he reached the
common, which he had to cross to get to the
Rectory; and as there were several pools and
treacherous hollows on the common, it was
thought he had come to grief, but the most
diligent search failed to justify the surmise.
Such an event as this was well calculated
to cause a sensation, not only in Brinton
and its neighbourhood, but throughout the
county. Indeed, for many days it was a common
topic of conversation, and at the Brinton
weekly market the farmers and the rustics
dwelt upon it to the exclusion of other things;
and, of course, everybody, or nearly everybody,
had some wonderful theory of his or her own
to account for the missing man’s disappearance.
One old lady, who every week for twenty years
had trudged in from a village five miles off
with poultry and eggs for the Brinton market,
declared her belief that young Royce had been
spirited away, and she recommended an appeal
to a wondrous wise woman, locally known as
‘Cracked Moll,’ but whose reputation for
solving mysteries and discovering lost persons
and things was very great. Ultimately Royce’s
people did call in the services of this ancient
fraud, but without any result. And despite
of wide publicity and every effort on the
part of the rural and county police, to say
nothing of a hundred and one amateur detectives,
the mystery remained unsolved. Charles Royce
had apparently disappeared from off the face
of the earth, leaving not a trace behind.
In the process of time the nine days’ wonder
gave place to something else, and excepting
by those directly interested in him, Charles
Royce was forgotten. Hannah took the matter
very seriously to heart, and for a while lay
dangerously ill. Silas Hartrop, who was much
affected by his disappointment with regard
to Hannah, went to the dogs, as the saying
is, and drank so heavily that it ended in
an attack of delirium tremens. I was called
in to attend him, and had hard work to pull
him through. On his recovery his father sent
him to an uncle at Yarmouth, who was in the
fishing trade, and soon afterwards news came
that young Hartrop had been drowned at sea.
He was out in the North Sea in his uncle’s
fishing smack, and, though nobody saw him
go, it was supposed that he fell overboard
in the night. This set the local tongues wagging
again for a time, but even the affairs of
Brinton could not stand still because the
ne’er-do-well Silas Hartrop was drowned.
So sympathy was expressed with his people,
and then the affair was dismissed.
About two years later I received an urgent
message late one afternoon to hasten with
all speed to High Lea, to attend to the Squire
there, who had been taken suddenly and, as
report said, seriously ill. I had had rather
a heavy day of it, as there had been a good
deal of sickness about for some time past,
and it had taken me several hours to get through
my list of patients. I had just refreshed
myself with a cup of tea and was about to
enjoy a cigar when the messenger came. Telling
him to ride back as quickly as possible and
say that I was coming, I busied myself with
a few important matters which had to be attended
to, as I might be absent for some hours, and
then I ordered my favourite mare, Princess,
to be saddled.
I set off from Brinton soon after seven. It
was a November night, bitterly cold, dark
as Erebus, while every now and then violent
squalls swept the land from seaward. Princess
knew the road well, so I gave the mare her
head, and she went splendidly until we reached
the ruined mill, when suddenly she wheeled
round with such abruptness that, though I
was a good horseman, I was nearly pitched
from the saddle. At the same moment I was
struck in the face by something that seemed
cold and clammy. I thought at first it was
a bat, but remembered that bats do not fly
in November; an owl, but an owl would not
have felt cold and clammy. However, I had
little time for thought, as my attention had
to be given to the mare. She seemed disposed
to bolt, and was trembling with fear. Then,
to my intense astonishment, I noticed what
seemed to be a large luminous body lying on
the roadway. It had the appearance of a corpse
illuminated in some wonderful and mysterious
manner. Had it not been for the fright of
my mare I should have thought I was the victim
of some optical delusion; but Princess evidently
saw the weird object, and refused to pass
it. So impressed was I with the idea that
a real and substantial body was lying on the
road, notwithstanding the strange unearthly
light, that I slipped from the saddle, intending
to investigate the matter, when suddenly it
disappeared, and the cold and clammy something
again struck me in the face.
I confess that for the first time in my life
I felt a strange, nervous, unaccountable fear.
I say ‘unaccountable,’ because it would
have been difficult for me to have given any
explanation of my fear. Why and of what was
I afraid? Now, whatever the phenomenon was,
there was the hard, stern fact to face that
my horse had seen what I had seen, and was
terrified. There was something strangely uncanny
about the whole business, and when a terrific
squall, bringing with it sleet and rain, came
howling from the sea, it seemed to emphasise
the uncanniness, and the ruined mill, looming
gaunt and grim in the darkness, caused me
to shake with an involuntary shudder. The
next moment I was trying to laugh myself out
of my nervousness. ‘Princess and I,’ I
mentally argued, ‘have been the victims
of some atmospheric delusion.’ That was
all very well, but the something cold and
clammy that struck me in the face, and which
may have struck the mare in the face also,
was no atmospheric delusion. With an alacrity
I did not often display, I sprang into the
saddle, spoke some encouraging words to the
mare, for she was still trembling, and when
she bounded forward, and the haunted mill
was behind me, I experienced a positive sense
or relief.
I found my patient at High Lea in a very bad
way. He was suffering from an attack of apoplexy,
and though I used all my skill on his behalf
he passed away towards midnight. His wife
very kindly offered me a bed for the night,
but as I had important matters to attend to
early in the morning I declined the hospitality,
though I was thankful for a glass or two of
generous port wine and some sandwiches. It
was half-past twelve when I left the house
on my return journey. The incident by the
haunted mill had been put out of my head by
the case I had been called upon to attend,
but as I mounted my mare the groom, who had
brought her round from the stable, said, ‘It
be a bad night, doctor, for riding; the kind
o’ night when dead things come out o’
their graves.’
I laughed, and replied: ‘Tom, lad, I am
surprised to hear you talk such rubbish. I
thought you had more sense than that.’
‘Well, I tell ’ee what, doctor; if I had
to ride to Brinton to-night I’d go by the
cliffs and chance being drowned, rather than
pass yon old mill.’
These words for the moment unnerved me, and
I honestly confess that I resolved to go by
the cliffs, dangerous as the road was in the
dark. Nevertheless, I laughed at Tom’s fears,
and ridiculed him, though when I left the
squire’s grounds I turned the mare’s head
towards the cliffs. In a few minutes I was
ridiculing myself.
‘John Patmore Lindsay,’ I mentally exclaimed,
‘you are a fool. All your life you have
been ridiculing stories of the supernatural,
and now, at your time of life, are you going
to allow yourself to be frightened by a bogey?
Shame on you.’
I bucked up, grew bold, and thereupon altered
my course, and got into the high road again.
There had been a slight improvement in the
weather. It had ceased to rain, but the wind
had settled down into a steady gale, and screeched
and screamed over the moorland with a demoniacal
fury. The darkness, however, was not so intense
as it was, and a star here and there was visible
through the torn clouds. But it was an eerie
sort of night, and I was strangely impressed
with a sense of my loneliness. It was absolutely
unusual for me to feel like this, and I suggested
to myself that my nerves were a little unstrung
by overwork and the anxiety the squire’s
illness had caused me. And so I rode on, bowing
my head to the storm, while the mare stepped
out well, and I anticipated that in little
more than half an hour I should be snug in
bed. As we got abreast of the haunted mill
the mare once more gibbed, and all but threw
me, and again I was struck in the face by
the cold clammy something.
I have generally prided myself on being a
bold man, but my boldness had evaporated now,
and I almost think my hair rose on end as
I observed that the illuminated corpse was
lying in the roadway again; but now it appeared
to be surrounded by a lake of blood. It was
the most horrible, weird, marrow-curdling
sight that ever human eyes looked upon. I
tried to urge Princess forward, but she was
stricken with terror, and, wheeling right
round, was setting off towards High Lea again.
But once more I was struck in the face by
the invisible something, and its coldness
and clamminess made me shudder, while there
in front of us lay the corpse in the pool
of blood. The mare reared and plunged, but
I got her head round, determining to make
a wild gallop for Brinton and leave the horrors
of the haunted mill behind. But the corpse
was again in front of us, and I shrank back
almost appalled as the something once more
touched my face.
I cannot hope to describe what my feelings
were at this supreme moment. I don’t believe
anything human could have daunted me; but
I was confronted by a supernatural mystery
that not only terrified me but the mare I
was riding. Whichever way I turned, that awful,
ghastly object confronted me, and the blow
in the face was repeated again and again.
How long I endured the unutterable horrors
of the situation I really don’t know. Possibly
the time was measured by brief minutes. It
seemed to me hours. At last my presence of
mind returned. I dismounted, and reasoned
with myself that, whatever the apparition
was, it had some import. I soothed the mare
by patting her neck and talking to her, and
I determined then to try and find a solution
of the mystery. But now a more wonderful thing
happened. The corpse, which was still made
visible by the unearthly light, rose straight
up, and as it did so the blood seemed to flow
away from it in great, gurgling streams, for
I solemnly declare that I distinctly heard
gurgling sounds. The figure glided past me,
and a sense of extraordinary coldness made
me shiver. Slowly and gracefully the shining
corpse glided up the rotting steps of the
old mill, and disappeared through the doorway.
No sooner had it gone than the mill itself
seemed to glow with phosphorescent light,
and to become transparent, and I beheld a
sight that took my breath away. I am disposed
to think that for some moments my brain became
so numbed that insensibility ensued, for I
am conscious of a blank. When the power of
thought returned, I was still holding the
bridle of the mare, and she was cropping the
grass at her feet. The mill loomed blackly
against the night sky. It had resumed its
normal appearance again. The wind shrieked
about it. The ragged scud raced through the
heavens, and the air was filled with the sounds
of the raging wind. At first I was inclined
to doubt the evidence of my own senses. I
tried to reason myself into a belief that
my imagination had played me a trick; but
I didn’t succeed, although the mystery was
too profound for my fathoming. So I mounted
the mare, urged her to her fastest pace, galloped
into Brinton, and entered my house with a
feeling of intense relief.
Thoroughly exhausted by the prolonged physical
and mental strain I had endured, I speedily
sank into a deep though troubled slumber as
soon as I got into bed. I was unusually late
in rising the next day. I found that I had
no appetite for breakfast. Indeed, I felt
ill and out or sorts; and, though I busied
myself with my professional duties, I was
haunted by the strange incidents of the preceding
night. Never before in the whole course of
my career had I been so impressed, so unnerved,
and so dispirited. I wanted to believe that
I was still as sceptical as ever, but it was
no use. What I had seen might have been unearthly;
but I had seen it, and it was no use trying
to argue myself out of that fact. The result
was, in the course of the afternoon I called
on my old friend, Mr. Goodyear, who was chief
of the county constabulary. He was a strong-minded
man, and, like myself, a hardened sceptic
about all things that smacked of the supernatural.
‘Goodyear,’ I said, ‘I’m out of sorts,
and I want you to humour a strange fancy I
have. Bring one of your best men, and come
with me to the haunted mill. But first let
me exact from you a pledge of honour that,
if our journey should result in nothing, you
will keep the matter secret, as I am very
sensitive to ridicule.’
He looked at me in amazement, and then, as
he burst into a hearty laugh, exclaimed: ‘I
say, my friend, you are over-working yourself.
It’s time you got a locum tenens, and took
a holiday.’
I told him that I agreed with him; nevertheless,
I begged him to humour me, and accompany me
to the mill. At last he reluctantly consented
to do so, and an hour later we drove out of
the town in my dog-cart. There were four of
us, as I took Peter, my groom, with me. We
had provided ourselves with lanterns, but
Goodyear’s man and Peter knew nothing of
the object of our journey.
When we got abreast of the mill I drew up,
and giving the reins to Peter, I alighted,
and Goodyear did the same. Taking him on one
side, I said, ‘I have had a vision, and
unless I am the victim of incipient madness
we shall find a dead body in the mill.’
The light of the dog-cart was shining full
on his face, and I saw the expression of alarm
that my words brought.
‘Look here, old chap,’ he said in a cheery,
kindly way, as he put his arm through mine,
‘you are not going into that mill, but straight
home again. Come, now, get into the cart,
and don’t let’s have any more of this
nonsense.’
I felt disposed to yield to him, and had actually
placed my foot on the step to mount, when
I
staggered back and exclaimed——
‘My God! am I going mad, or is this a reality?’
Once again I had been struck in the face by
the cold clammy something; and I saw Goodyear
suddenly clap his hand to his face as he cried
out — ‘Hullo, what the deuce is that?’
‘Aha,’ I exclaimed exultantly, for I no
longer thought my brain was giving way, ‘you
have felt it
too?’
‘Well, something cold and nasty-like struck
me in the face. A bat, I expect. Confound
’em.’ ‘Bats don’t fly at this time
of the year,’ I replied. ‘By Jove, no
more they do.’ I approached him, and said
in a low tone — ‘Goodyear, this is a mystery
beyond our solving. I am resolved to go into
that mill.’
He was a brave man, though for a moment or
two he hesitated; but on my insisting he consented
to humour me, and so we lit the lantern, and
leaving the groom in charge of the horse and
trap, I, Goodyear, and his man made our way
with difficulty up the rotting steps, which
were slimy and sodden with wet. As we entered
the mill an extraordinary scene of desolation
and ruin met our gaze as we flashed the light
of the lantern about. In places the floor
had broken away, leaving yawning chasms of
blackness. From the mouldering rafters huge
festoons of cobwebs hung. The accumulated
dust and dampness of years had given them
the appearance of cords. And oh, how the wind
moaned eerily through the rifts and crannies
and broken windows! If ever there was a place
on this earth where evil spirits might dwell
it was surely that ghoul-haunted old mill.
The startling aspect of the place impressed
us all, perhaps me more than the other two.
We advanced gingerly, for the floor was so
rotten we were afraid it would crumble beneath
our feet.
My companions were a little bewildered, I
think, and were evidently at a loss to know
what we had come there for. But some strange
feeling impelled me to seek for something;
though if I had been asked to define that
something, for the life of me I could not
have done it. Forward I went, however, taking
the lead, and holding the lantern above my
head so that its rays might fall afar. But
they revealed nothing save the rotting floor
and slimy walls. A ladder led to the upper
storey, and I expressed my intention of mounting
it. Goodyear tried to dissuade me, but I was
resolute, and led the way. The ladder was
so creaky and fragile that it was not safe
for more than one to be on it at a time. When
I reached the second floor and drew myself
up through the trap, I am absolutely certain
I heard a sigh. You may say it was the wind.
I swear it was not. The wind was moaning drearily
enough, but the sigh was a distinctive note,
and unmistakable. As I turned the lantern
round so that its light might sweep every
hole and corner of the place, I noticed what
seemed to be a sack full of something lying
in a corner. I approached and touched it with
my foot, and drew back in alarm, for touch
and sound told me it contained neither corn
nor chaff. I waited until my companions had
joined me. Then I said to Goodyear, ‘Unless
I am mistaken there is something dreadful
in that sack.’
He stooped and placed his hand on the sack,
and I saw him start back. In another moment
he recovered himself, and whipping out his
knife cut the string which fastened up the
mouth of the sack, and revealed a human skull
with the hair and shrivelled mummified flesh
still adhering to it.
‘Great heavens!’ he exclaimed, ‘here
is a human body.’ We held a hurried conversation,
and decided to leave the ghastly thing undisturbed
until the morrow. So we scuttled down as fast
as we could, and went home. I did not return
to the mill again myself. My part had been
played. Investigation made it absolutely certain
that the mouldering remains were those of
poor Charley Royce, and it was no less absolutely
certain that he had been foully murdered.
For not only was there a bullet-hole in the
skull, and a bullet inside, but his throat
had been cut. It was murder horrible and damnable.
The verdict of the coroner’s jury pronounced
it murder, but there was no evidence to prove
who had done the deed. Circumstances, however,
pointed to Charley’s rival, Silas Hartrop.
Was it a guilty conscience that drove him
to drink? And did the Furies who avenge such
deeds impel him on that dark and stormy night
in the North Sea to end the torture of his
accursed earthly life? Who can tell? The sea
holds its secrets, and not a scrap of legal
evidence could be obtained. But though the
law declined the responsibility of fixing
the guilt of the dark deed on Silas, there
was a consensus of opinion that he was the
guilty party. It was a mystery, but the greatest
mystery of all was that I, the sceptic, should
have been selected by some supernatural power
to be the instrument for bringing the foul
crime to light. For myself, I attempt no explanation.
I have told a true story. Let those who can
explain it. I admit now that ‘there are
more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt
of in our philosophy.’
