Black  House  

By

Alan  E.  Longworth  

Copyrite Alan E Longworth 2011-11-30

ISBN 978-09878863-2-3

eISBN 978-0-9880874-6-0

Preface   Mist and low cloud often shrouded the house. From the valley below, its sheer bulk against the skyline looked ominous, foreboding even, a place for uneducated minds to fear. To the residents deep down in the village below, the house in its isolation was a place to be avoided. No road led to it; there was just a well worn track which wound up the hillside. It had been created by untold years of travel by horses and two wheeled carts. A secondary path of rock and bare soil followed a more direct route to and from the village. Over time it had been pounded into the surface by countless human feet crushing the sparse vegetation. At one point, the path skirted a large bog. A natural water holding depression in the land had become overgrown with aquatic plant life. When stepping onto it, one could feel the feet slowly sinking. The surface trembled in wave like motions. Long standing rumours suggested that many folks, attempting to negotiate the path in the hours of darkness, had wandered onto the bog surface, never to be seen again. This was only one of the many rumours connected to the house on the moor. The few residents were seldom seen. At night, a lone pale yellow light emanated from a single narrow window, seen as a speck of illumination against the vast blackness of the moor. The tiny glow never seemed to be extinguished, adding to the rumours and speculation as to what went on within the walls of the house. Some said the light was to ward off the wandering spirits of the long departed within the house. Others were of the opinion that the light was intended to lure those lost upon the moor to the dwelling, and a nefarious end. There were also those who believed the house was inhabited by vampires, witches and demons. The moor supported no trees. The barren uneven and boggy ground was clothed in bracken, harsh inedible grasses, and sporadic patches of heather. In spring, the new fern growth had a pleasing light green hue, changing in the summer to a darker shade, then in the fall to brown, brittle bracken. For a few months, the purple of the heather brightened the moor’s landscape, but at sundown each day, summer or winter, the moor turned to a black beyond description. Dark thoughts lurking within the minds of the villagers caused them to believe the utter blackness of the moor to be synonymous with death or evil. Shepherds or herdsmen, searching for strayed livestock hurried to get off the moor before the daylight faded. Deep fear of the unknown goings on at the storied house on the moor lived within them, so they hastened to the safety of their homes in the village below. No one could understand why the house had been built so high up on the moor, since there was no suitable land around it for livestock or crops. It had stood in lonely vigil for over two hundred years. The house was built with black rock from a quarry on the peak of the moor. Any details or records of the original builder-owner had been lost over time, and successive residents had shared the reputation of being strange and solitary individuals. It was little wonder that strange tales and superstitions would develop.

Chapter  One  

I sit here in stark terror of the unknown. My life has unravelled from relative tranquility, to one of fear of the shadows which surround me. I survive precariously in a world devoid of other adjacent human neighbours. My fingers are frozen with fright. I am barely able to hold the pen with which I describe the atmosphere within Black House. Should I not survive the horrors within these walls I have left this epistle for those who might find or follow me. I have begun this record with a recounting of my initial naivety, when I saw the advertisement for the sale of Black House, and my subsequent journey to the village at the foot of the moor, to purchase what I assumed would be an ideal location to ply my vocation as a writer.

*** “I’m sure you will hear lots of strange stories from the local residents, Mr. Manson. Villagers in isolated areas tend to be superstitious. Many are suspicious of newcomers, and take some time in accepting them as neighbours. Many of the old stories become embellished over time, to the point they are believed to be truths.” I pondered the words of the estate agent as he prepared the purchase documents for Black House, the house on the moor. “The previous owner,” he continued between the shuffling of papers “was a very reclusive man; little is, or was, known about him. I received a letter from London telling me to put the property on the market. Black House has sat empty for a considerable time. None of the local people would consider purchasing the house, due to its rumoured reputation.” He handed me several sheets of legal papers. “Sign at the bottom where I have marked them with a small x.” Hurriedly I scribbled my signature on the papers. I was eager to see the property I had bought sight unseen. I wrote out a cheque for the balance of the agreed price, plus the legal fees. Mr. Capstone, the agent, handed me a large iron key. “This fits the main door of the house. As I believe I stated earlier, Mr. Manson, the house has all its furnishings included in the sale price; however, having sat empty for so long, it likely will be damp.” “Thank you, Mr. Capstone,” I said, rising from my chair. Now that I was taking my leave of him, for the first I time took the measure of him. His face had a ruddy complexion like so many in this northern area, I presume as a result of living in and walking about in the cold. His eyes were dark and narrow, piercing even; his puffy lips suggested having consumed many pints of the local ale. The top of his head was bereft of hair, but a tuft or so of brown encircled his head, reminiscent of a Benedictine monk. His mouth, while far from jovial, did not portray meanness. He wore a dark coloured suit which appeared to have seen better days. The lapels and breast pocket were frayed from haphazardly stuffing in pens and pencils. His waistcoat had spatters of food spills adorning it; a large

watch chain looped from a buttonhole to a threadbare pocket. A winged shirt collar hugged his thick neck; below it a haphazardly fastened tie, complete with food stains, hung limply. Behind him, a long dark overcoat and bowler hat were perched upon an oaken coat stand. His shoes, in terrible need of cleaning, protruded from under the massive desk he sat behind. I remembered the small sign upon the entrance to his office; it stated he was the estate agent, lawyer, notary, and the town funeral director. As I turned to leave I caught a glimpse of several coffins through a chink in the curtains shielding a door at the side of his office. My first and immediate thought was how one man could possibly wear so many different hats. My second thought rationalized it by realizing; that a small village, such as I had suddenly become a part of, could not support a different man for each profession. I deduced Mr. Capstone was likely the most educated man in the community and trusted implicitly to carry out the duties each profession demanded. “May I ask, simply out of curiosity, Mr. Manson, what endeavours you will be engaged in at Black House?” “Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Capstone. I thought I had already told you. It is no secret. I am a writer, an author of note. I find that city living has far too many distractions for a man in my profession. It is imperative for the writer’s mind to be free of the hustle and bustle of daily city life. When I discovered Black House stood in such splendid isolation I knew this was the place for me to continue my work unhindered, and so here I am. May I ask where I can obtain transportation to Black House for myself and my belongings?” “I would suggest you try the village blacksmith shop. He shares the building with old Sam Wheaton, the local carter. He has several horse drawn vehicles and can supply what you need. The blacksmith’s shop is behind the hotel. You can’t miss it.” With my hand resting on the big iron key in my coat pocket, I turned towards the door. “Thank you Mr. Capstone,” I said in genuine gratitude for the services rendered. I pulled the door towards me; it squawked on dry hinges both upon opening and closing. A cold wind slapped my cheeks as I stepped into the street. I took my hand from the key to put on my gloves. I knew the location of the hotel; it was where my possessions were being held. I walked along the cobbled street and down a narrow alley behind the hotel; the ringing sound of a hammer striking steel, led me directly to the blacksmith’s shop. Noting a shadow crossing the smithy entrance, the proprietor ceased hammering and looked up. He was a big swarthy character in a leather apron reaching down to his ankles. His bare muscular arms instantly reminded me the words from the children’s song, ‘The muscles on his brawny arms stood out like knots in cotton.’ “Can I help thee?” he asked in greeting. “I’m looking for a fellow called Sam Wheaton. The lawyer said I could find him here.” “Aye, his stables are right behind my shop. If he’s not there tending his horses, he will be at home, no doubt drinking tea. If you can’t find him in the stables, I will direct you to his house.” I thanked the blacksmith and walked round to the stables. Outside were parked a dray with raised sides, a pair of two wheeled carts, and a passenger buggy. Just inside the wide doors an ornate horse drawn hearse sat out of the weather. In the stalls, stood a matched pair of black lightweight horses eating hay. Two heavier horses, likely Clydesdales, occupied the two remaining stalls. I called out “Are you here, Sam?” but

there was no reply. I returned to the smithy. “He’s not at the stables,” I informed the blacksmith. “His house is just off the main street. It is the house with bright green trim,” The blacksmith told me. Upon finding the house I noted it had no garden; it butted out to the narrow street lined by similar houses, but distinguished from each other by different coloured trim and doors. I rapped on the door. It was answered by a woman likely in her sixties, her back was bent, I presumed from a life of hard labour. The smell of fresh baked bread burst forth out to where I stood. She looked at me suspiciously, her eyes searching my person up and down. Bare arms protruded from out of a wrap-around apron and wisps of grey hair hung below her frilly cap. “What does thee want?” Her voice was both inquiring and caustic. It set me back for a moment before I could respond. It seemed to me her odd choice of words were right out of the last century. “Pardon me; I am seeking Mr. Sam Wheaton.” Her face revealed she recognized by my accent and clothing that I was not from this area. I was a stranger with whom she should be cautious. “What be your business with my husband?” “I am in need of his services as a carter. The lawyer, Mr. Capstone, directed me here. I need transportation for me, and my two trunks, up the moor to Black House. I am the new owner.” Instantly I perceived a change in her facial expression upon hearing the words, “Black House.” Now, as well as cautious, I saw a flash of something resembling fear. “Just a minute.” She almost hurled the words at me and quickly closed the door. I waited; then I heard the shuffle of boots approach the door from inside. It opened part way and a weathered old face looked around it. “I’m Tom Wheaton. What’s this about Black House?” “My name is Daniel Manson. I am the new owner of Black House. I have bought the property sight unseen through the auspices of Mr. Capstone. It was he who suggested I call upon you to provide transportation to the house for me and my belongings, consisting of two large trunks which at the moment are at the hotel.” “It is true I am for hire, Mr. Manson. I will take thee there, but not today. It is past the hour of three. Darkness will fall upon the moor before I could return to the village and no one ventures upon the moor in the night hours.” “I was hoping to get there today, Mr. Wheaton. Surely you could be most of the way home before the light fails?” “Be that as it may, I will not go on the moor tonight, not even for double my carter’s rate. Thou had best stay the night in the hotel along with thy chattels. I will call there for thee at nine of the clock tomorrow when the sun is fully risen.” I recalled the words of the lawyer. It was obvious that both Wheaton and his wife believed the rumours and superstitions about the moor, and about Black House. It seemed odd in this day and age that the stories and old wives’ tales were still believed. But no matter, it was obvious I would not get to Black House tonight. However I would accept his suggestion, and spend the night at the hotel. I walked to the inn, and arranged for a room. Afterwards, I decided I would stroll round the village to se what kind of amenities would be available to me. I discovered a bakery shop, a grocery with a small post office in one corner, and a shoemaker who also was the local barber. Next door, I discovered a small apothecary who filled prescriptions as

ordered by the local doctor. He lived, and had his office, in a detached house at the end of the main street. It seemed news of my presence in the village had preceded me. The populace looked at me warily; some peeped from behind curtains to look at the person who had become the new owner of Black House. It was the same at the hotel. After my meal I sat in the ale room and discerned wary eyes looking at me, quickly looking away as my gaze met theirs. In an odd sense, it was as if they were afraid of me, as though something malevolent had come to their world. I had not expected to be welcomed into the village with open arms. But the reception seemed more like one of rejection; of course I had no idea why. I accepted it would probably take some time until the residents realized I was not an evil person, but simply a writer requiring solitude. I retired early, in the knowledge I would likely have lots to do upon arrival at Black House. I spent a restless night wondering what the inside of my new abode would look like, and what I would have to do to bring it to my personal taste. Also, the characters in my partly finished novel kept appearing in my mind during the period of limbo between sleep and wakefulness. I should explain that within the mind of a novelist, the characters become real people wanting to be heard and written about. In essence they tell their own story; the writer just puts it all in order. The sound of crowing cockerels heralded the dawn. There must have been a dozen of them throughout the village; it was as if they were conversing with each other. The sounds were reminiscent of the men in the fish markets of the city, advertizing their wares in the post dawn light with high pitched and loud voices. The insistent sounds penetrated my window. With further rest no longer possible, I arose, dressed, and washed. Downstairs, I consumed a bowl of porridge, tea and buttered bread. Outside the hotel I glanced eastwards up at the moor. The sun had risen behind Black House outlining its starkness against the sky, but it had not reached high enough to shed its rays upon the moor, which remained dark and shadow less. It occurred to me that I would need groceries. There would be nothing edible in the house after being unoccupied for so long. At eight thirty of the clock, I ordered the supplies I felt I would need and told the proprietor I would pick them up at nine and load them in Mr. Wheaton’s cart. At nine fifteen I sat alongside Tom Wheaton on the cart which was pulled by a chestnut Clydesdale. We left the village and headed up the rough trail to Black House. Tom was not a good communicator, and for the most part stayed silent, just answering my questions with a curt yes or no. But as we neared the house he seemed to tense up, and I sensed an emanation of fear surround him. I could not help thinking how powerful these country superstitions and folk tales must be to create such attitudes. Tom drove the cart into a courtyard built with the same black stone as the house. Up two wide steps, a massive oak door, a lighter shade of weathered black, suggested this was the main entrance. Mr. Wheaton quickly unloaded my trunks and groceries, then held out his hand for the agreed upon fifteen shillings. He left the courtyard in a hurry as though he feared being asked to help carry my trunks into the house. I took the iron key from my pocket and inserted into the large keyhole. I found it hard to turn; it appeared the lock was dried out from lack of use. I heard a resounding click as the bolt moved to the open position. I pushed the door inwards; it was heavy, similar to a barn door. A rush of stale

air burst from inside it was like an instant wind, catching me by surprise. It had an odour I was not familiar with. Eager to explore my new home, I stepped inside leaving my belongings out on the step. The entrance hall had no window; consequently it was dark. However the open door let in sufficient light for me to see down the passage. I found a door on the right and opened it. The room also was dark but a glimmer of light escaped into the room from a chink in the drawn curtains. I strode to the window and grasped the curtain to open it. The material was rotten with age, and at my touch fell to the floor in a cloud of dust. It occurred to me that this room had not seen daylight for a very long time. Muted light from the cobweb covered window flooded into the room, allowing me to take stock of the contents. Oak paneling lined three walls; the other wall had shelves filled with dust covered books surrounding a large stone fireplace. A large desk and chair, coated in at least an inch of gray dust, had a commanding position in the middle of the room. My first thought, was that this would be a great room for my writing, but there would have to be some major cleaning to make it habitable. I returned to the hall, leaving the door open to allow light to enter the passage. Directly across the hall a second door beckoned. It was locked. I assumed I would find the key elsewhere in the house. At the end of the hall, the additional light revealed a wide staircase leading to the second floor, and two more closed doors on each side. I opened the one on the left; it led into a kitchen. It had a small window set high in the wall, allowing unfettered light to spill gloomily into the room. A number of mice, disturbed by the opening door, scurried across the floor to places of safety. To the right of the window, was a huge fireplace with cast iron ovens on each side, and a chain dangled from the chimney for hanging pots over the fire. A large dust covered work table with utensils hanging over it, took centre stage in the kitchen. A loud noise disturbed my investigations. I returned to the hall to see the entrance door had slammed shut. I assumed it was caused by the wind. I went to the door on the right of the stairs; it opened with the creak of dry hinges. I saw steps leading down into the black dark of a cellar. I knew I would need a lamp to investigate down there. Possibly there would be one in one of the upstairs rooms. I ascended the wide staircase to a spacious landing with five closed doors. The first one led me into a bedroom containing a four poster bed with heavy drapes, a massive armoire, and a night stand with ewer and wash bowl, all laden with a thick coat of grey dust. The smell of damp and decay were rampant. I attempted to open the window, but time and damp had sealed it tight. The next two rooms I entered were devoid of any furnishings; one of them contained a fireplace where a fall of soot had soiled the floor around it. The fourth room contained a single iron bed, a high backed chair, and a small nightstand with an oil lamp. The fifth door baffled me. I opened it to find a stone wall directly behind it. I thought the carpenters must have made an error when building the place. I returned to get the lamp. I was disappointed to discover it contained no oil, so I took it downstairs, thinking I might find some in the kitchen. As I reached the top of the stairs the open bedroom door slammed violently shut. It seemed odd since there were no open windows to cause a wind. As I looked through the kitchen cupboards, I spotted a door across the room which I had not noticed when I first looked around. Opening it, I found myself in a dining room. A large table sat in the centre of the room surrounded by a dozen high backed chairs. The table was set with glasses, plates, cutlery and two large candelabra. Again this seemed most odd, for Mr. Capstone had said the previous owners

were solitary and reclusive. I took one of the dust covered candelabra and lit the three candles. Now I could see what the cellar had to offer. I brushed aside the multitude of cobwebs as I made my way down the stone steps. I was relieved to see a large pile of coal. Now I had a way to dispel the damp from at least the library and the kitchen. Along two of the walls were massive flagstone shelves. One of them held a number of large earthenware crocks, but I was not inclined to investigate their contents at this moment. My main thought was to get a fire started in the library. I knew I could always boil water for tea-making on it. As I filled a pail with coal, I heard the cellar door slam shut. I remembered I had left the main entrance door open, but it had closed due to the wind. But now there should be no wind within the house, and I wondered why the cellar door had closed. With the candelabra in one hand and a pail of coal in the other I ascended the stone steps. I discovered there was no door handle on my side of the door. I had trapped myself in the dark with three half burned candles. Mild panic struck me. I wondered how I would get out. I looked carefully to see if there was a finger-hold but saw none. The door fitted tightly into the jamb. I would need some kind of narrow tool to slip into the space between door and frame. Of course I had nothing in my pocket I could use. I descended the steps and began to look around. Then I saw a chink of light over the pile of coal. Perhaps there was a chute or door where the coal entered the cellar. Climbing on top of the pile I found a sloping wooden cover over the chute. I pushed, but I was too low to be able to put my weight behind it. I needed something to stand on. I brought one of the earthenware crocks to the top of the coal heap and turned it over to stand upon. To my intense relief, the cover was not locked. I drew strength from within myself, and hurled the cover over on its hinges. Light flooded into the cellar. I managed to climb out, and found myself at the rear of the building. This was not how I had envisioned my first day at Black House. I walked round the walls and entered the main door. I immediately went to the cellar door to retrieve the bucket of coal. This time I would make sure I blocked the door from closing. After opening it, I felt around the back side and found a door handle. I knew it definitely was not there before, but also the chute cover had been closed and I knew positively I had left it open. The candelabra which I had left burning on the floor as I attempted to climb out of the cellar had blown out. Darkness reigned once more down there. Quickly I realized the odd happenings since my arrival were not mere coincidence. I began to wonder about the rumours I had been told about down in the village. Did they have any substance? But then I began to think that perhaps the high winds which played around the house were responsible for the slamming doors. I held none of the superstitions the villagers may have had. After all they were old wives’ tales, and embellished stories from the past, lodged in the minds of people with little education and dealings with logic. I took one of the chairs from the dining room and propped the cellar door open, then I retrieved my bucket of coal and lit a fire in the library fireplace. I brought in my two trunks and groceries, and put them into the warming room. I figured since I would be the only inhabitant of Black House, I might as well bring the single bed from the upstairs room and place it in here. Not only would it dry the dampness from the mattress and linens, but it would also be more convenient for me to be close to my work, in case I got sudden inspirations during the night hours. After struggling with the bed, I went in search

of a kettle and water to make tea. I found an iron kettle in the kitchen, but no source of water. I deduced there had to be a well close by. I found it in the corner of the courtyard, overgrown by a vine I was not familiar with. A copper pail hung upon a rusted chain. I lowered it down and brought up clean water. After filling the kettle and placing it on the fire, I found a cloth and began wiping up the dust from the desk and chair. I made tea, ate bread and cheese, and then continued cleaning the room. By the time I had my quarters tolerably habitable it was evening. I set my literary materials on the desk, retrieved and lit the second candelabra from the dining room, and continued writing the story I had been working on. When I looked up from my work, darkness had come to Black House. The moor-top winds moaned as they rushed past the building. Strange noises came from within the house, which I presumed were as a result of atmospheric pressure changes with the wind outside. It had been a long tiring day. I found I had difficulty concentrating on my writing, so I made another cup of tea, banked up the fire, and got ready for bed. The mattress and blankets were aired and dry, and with the fire nearby I felt comfortable. I lay still, listening to the wind, waiting for sleep to engulf me. I was in the state hovering between sleep and conscious thought, when I heard voices. I sat bolt upright in bed. I knew I hadn’t bothered to lock the main door, for it seemed pointless at the time. I wondered, had someone entered the house? Or was the sound of voices my imagination playing tricks on me? I strained to hear, but the only sound reaching my ears was the incessant wind. I sat motionless for several minutes, but did not hear any more voices. Assuming it must be my imagination, I lay back down and buried myself in the blankets. I wondered if the nonsense I had heard in the village was beginning to affect my judgment. Eventually, warm and comfortable, I succumbed to slumber. I have no idea what time it was; I just remember waking with a start. I had a distinct feeling someone was in the room with me. The fire had died down to a faint glow, providing just enough light for me to look around. I saw no one, yet the feeling of a presence lingered. There was the sensation of someone standing close to the bed. It was a similar feeling to what one gets when, during the day, a person stands too close to you. A kind of aura from them gives a slight feeling of discomfort. This was different. I felt the aura, but there was no one there. I swung my legs out of the bed. Instantly, the sensation of the presence left me. Since I was now wide awake, I placed a cob of coal on the fire. I figured when the flames got higher I would put the kettle on to make some tea. I glanced at my pocket watch. It had just turned twelve; I thought it would have been much later into the night. When I had brewed my tea, I drew my chair up close to the fire and sat quietly drinking it. I was deep in thought about the odd feelings I had experienced, and about the strange slamming of doors which had occurred since my arrival. I pondered on the mystery of the missing basement door handle. I had been so convinced it was not there, and yet on second examination it was there. And what about the voices I heard? Were they real or was my imagination running wild as a result of the stories I had heard in the village? The only sounds now were my elevated heartbeat, the crackle of the fire, and the wail of the wind outside. I told myself to get a grip on my thoughts and emotions. I convinced myself that my imagination had been running wild. Surely there must be a valid explanation for my experiences. This was the first time in my life I was completely alone. Always in the past there had been other people around me, at times too many of them.

The reason for me buying Black House was for the solitude it afforded. I wondered if perhaps it was finding myself totally alone, which produced a heightened awareness of my surroundings. Possibly it was this elevated awareness causing me to see and hear things which were not happening. It seemed a plausible explanation; after all, some children left alone in their bedrooms often imagine all manner of frightening scenarios. Having finished my tea I opted to return to bed. I lay with my eyes open, gazing blankly at the ceiling; the flickering fire cast odd shadows about the room. My heart suddenly began to race. I saw the shadow on the ceiling of a man walking between my bed and the fireplace. Rapidly I turned to look who had entered my room, but there was no one there. The shadow continued to walk slowly past my bed, and then it vanished into the gloom. When I recovered from the shock of the moment, and the urge to panic, I knew I had to have a serious talk with myself. “Manson” I said. “You are letting a child’s vivid imagination take hold of you. You are not a child; you are a logical thinking adult. Now behave like one.” I closed my eyes, and drew the blankets over my head as I repeated my own mantra. It took a long time for sleep to come, but come it did, and the pale sunlight of morning forced its way through the grimy window to illuminate the writing desk.