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AAbbiiggaaiill aanndd JJaacckk

t happened nearly two hundred years ago. But in thevillage they still tell the tale of Abigail and Jack. Abigailwas a fair, slim girl with pale blue eyes. Jack was a strong,

handsome and well-built young man. He was eighteen, butAbigail was only fourteen.

They often met in secret in the churchyard, where they sat ona bench talking and kissing. They wanted to marry, but Jackworked on Abigail’s father’s farm. Abigail’s father wanted herto marry a nobleman, not a farm labourer.

One day, while they were sitting in the churchyard, they hearda gravedigger singing. He sang about death and how everyonedies – the rich man, the poor man, the beggar man, the thief.He worked as he sang, using his shovel to dig a new grave. Jackand Abigail listened to his song. He sang that everyone mustdie. Only love can conquer death. His singing gave Abigail andJack hope. They made up their minds. Jack would ask herfather to allow them to marry.

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But when Jack spoke to Abigail’s father, he flew into a rage.He said he would never allow his daughter to marry a commonlabourer. He told Jack that he was dismissed and that he mustleave the village. Then he sent for Abigail. He told her thatshe must go and pack. He was sending her to a boarding school.

Jack left the village that night. He wandered the countrysidelooking for work. But every farm he called at turned him away.Abigail’s father had made sure that no one would employ him.As the weeks passed, he grew ill. He made his way back to thevillage, but within three days he was dead.

Meanwhile, at her boarding school, Abigail cried herself tosleep each night. There was no word from Jack. Surely hecould not have forgotten her?

Then, one night in December, she awoke to find Jack standingbeside her bed. His finger was on his lips to tell her not tospeak. Thinking her father must have sent for her, shedressed quickly and hurried outside.

There in the driveway was Abigail’s father’s horse andcarriage. Abigail climbed up beside Jack. She watched him ashe drove them towards her home. He was still and silent. Shefelt his hands, which were as cold as ice. She gave him hergloves. She touched his cheeks. They too felt like ice. Shegave him her scarf. He still looked cold. So she wrapped hercoat around him.

When they reached the farm, it was in darkness. Abigail wassurprised that neither her father nor the servants were up.Surely, they couldn’t have all gone to bed, when they knew shewas coming. She went and knocked on her father’s door. Herfather was surprised to see her. When she told him that Jack

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had brought her home, his face grew angry. He told her not tobe so stupid. Jack was dead. Abigail fell to the floor in afaint.

When she came around, her father lit lanterns and took her tothe graveyard. He wanted to show her Jack’s grave and proveto her that he was dead. But when they reached the grave,Abigail had another shock. There on top of the grave were hergloves, her scarf and her coat.

Abigail never recovered from Jack’s death. Within six months,she too was dead. Her last request was to be buried besideJack.

If you visit the churchyard, you can still see their graves.From Jack’s grave there grows a bright red rose. FromAbigail’s grave there grows a pure white rose. The two roseshave grown towards each other and are tangled together.

James Rigg

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TThhee FFaaccee aatt tthhee WWiinnddooww

he scream echoed throughthe house. EdwardCranswell snatched up his

loaded pistol and ran down thedark corridor. He knew exactlywhat he had to do. The madmanhad attacked his brother oncebefore. He was going to cut offthe lunatic’s escape. WhileEdward ran to the garden, hissister Amelia burst into theirbrother’s room. He was stillscreaming. He pointed towardsthe window. Pressed against theglass was the most hideous faceshe had ever seen. A thin brownhand was fumbling with thewindow catch. But for a secondAmelia was unable to move. Theman’s eyes seemed to hold herspellbound. They bored into her,daring her to go closer. As Ameliaraised her pistol to fire, the mansnarled. Then, he turned and fled.Michael was too frightened evento speak. He collapsed on Amelia’sshoulder and started to sob. Heremembered the dreadful nightwhen the man first broke into hisroom. He saw again the face with the scar, the twisted mouthand the long grey hair.

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TThhee NNiigghhtt FFllyyeerr ooff TTaallyyllllyynnEveryone has a favourite story of a place or building that’s haunted.

Why do you think people love to hear, read or watch ghost stories?What kinds of buildings are usually thought of as haunted? Arethere some places that you could never imagine as the settings forghost stories, such as supermarkets or swimming pools?

A popular short story by the nineteenth century novelist, CharlesDickens, is The Signalman. It is a spine-chilling tale about a ghostlyrailway line. Railways have often attracted mysterious rumours andlegends. Look at the following account – said to be true – about a mysterious locomotivein South Wales.

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he Welsh town of Tywyn, facing out across the beautiful sweep ofCardigan Bay, is one of those lovely spots that, once visited, arenever forgotten. Beyond the town, running to the north-east, is

the famous old Talyllyn Railway.

This whole area of Wales is replete with legends and stories of strangenocturnal happenings, so it is hardly surprising to learn that the TalylynRailway is haunted, too. Weird lights have been reported on the line longafter the last train has run, and the harsh whistle of an engine has beenheard on certain stretches, especially near the viaduct at Dolgoch.

Seen by day from the B4405 which runs beside the railway for half itslength, the Dolgoch viaduct is an impressive looking construction. Bynight, however, it has a strangely eerie quality and to walk over it is tosense the great antiquity of the Welsh fastness all around. Indeed,locals say it takes stout-hearted men and women to be about in Dolgochafter night falls.

But such bravery is precisely what a group of climbers from an outdoorpursuits centre showed when they asked for permission to abseil downDolgoch Viaduct at midnight one autumn evening in 1982. According toone report, as they were tying their ropes to the rails on the viaduct inpreparation for their descent, a dark, mysterious shape hurtled at themout of the darkness.

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No one among the group was quite sure what they saw, for it all happenedso quickly. Whether it was something real or intangible was impossible tosay; but the shape of the “thing”, and the fact they were on the railway,made them think it must be a locomotive of some kind. Although thegroup were somewhat shaken by their experience, they nonethelessabseiled down the viaduct and later reported their strange experience inTywyn.

To the local people, the story merely added weight to the long-held beliefthat the line was haunted, and a newspaper later carried an account whichbegan, “Strange nocturnal happenings have confirmed the existence of aghost train on the Talyllyn Railway”.

There was, though, another suggestion: that the “ghost train” mightactually have been a runaway trolley hi-jacked by pranksters to frightenthe abseilers – but this did not explain the dramatic disappearance of the“thing” over the edge of the viaduct, nor the fact that nothingwhatsoever was found anywhere on the line between the viaduct andTywyn.

Richard Peyton, The Book of Great Mysteries

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HoundsburyAn old man is sometimes seen at Houndsbury Park aroundmidnight. He wears a long black coat and leans heavily on athick walking stick. His hair is long and white. He beckonspeople towards him with his stick. If you go to him, youfind yourself looking into the face of a grinning skull. Hethen vanishes. But it’s best to keep away from him.Everyone who has seen the grinning skull has died a fewweeks later in a strange accident.

AA--ZZ ooff GGhhoossttss aanndd HHaauunnttiinnggss

Farnham WoodSeveral places in and aroundFarnham Wood are said to behaunted by a beautiful youngwoman called Kate, dressed in

brown. If you go into the woodand she calls you, do not turn

around. If Kate stares into youreyes, she turns into a little girl

and you become old and ill.

HawkfordThe old road from Hawkford toHurlston is haunted by a mandriving a ghostly horse-drawncarriage. The man has no head.This is the ghost of CharlieGardiner, who has been spottedmany times on the old road.

In 1964 Charlie fell in love withElizabeth Broughton, a local beauty.

Her father, Squire Broughton, did notlike Charlie. He found out that Charlieand his daughter were planning to run

away together. When Charlie arrived inhis carriage, Squire Broughton was

waiting for him with his axe. Ever since,people have reported seeing the

headless driver and the ghostly carriagefleeing from Hawkford Manor.

HeltonPeople in Helton say the town is haunted by astrange black cat. It is twice the size of a normalcat. Anyone who sees it is said to fall under thespell of its hypnotic green eyes. It leads them outinto the marshes, where they fall into the peat bogand drown. The cat is said to be the ghost ofBenjamin Water’s old tom-cat. Benjamin was afarmer who died when he flee into the peat bog in1876. His cat escaped but was killed by the localpeople, who thought it had brought Benjamin badluck. They say that it has come back to get itsrevenge.

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RRoossaalliiee

Ghost stories have a similar effect on us to horror stories – they chill uswith fear. What makes them different is that they contain asupernatural element - a ghost or spectre or mysterious being whichdoesn’t belong on earth…something we thought was dead. Nowadays thedifferences between the genres can be unclear, but as a rule horrorstories – even those with ghosts – are gorier than ghost stories.

Robert Westall was well-known for his ghostly tales, as well as forthe many other stories he wrote for young readers. In this extract fromhis short story, Rosalie, a class has been talking about the ghost ofRosalie Scott who is supposed to haunt the school…

Think of a ghost story, in a book, television programme, or film,which has had a strong effect on you. What element in it sticks in yourmind most? Why do you remember it so well?

Do you think ghost stories are just “a bit of fun”, or could readingtoo many actually do harm?

*****************************************************************Rosalie

t was in maths, on the twenty-first of December, that TracyMerridew screamed. It was about half past three in the afternoonand raining, nearly dark outside already. The lights were on in the

classroom, but they seemed very far away, high up near the ceiling; andthe dull planked floor under the tables was full of dusty shadows.

“For goodness’ sake,” shouted Miss Hood, “will you be quiet, Tracy?I am sick of this class. I know we break up tomorrow, but today we areworking!”

But everyone was turning and staring at the dark space beneaththe cupboard where the textbooks and the library were kept. The girlswere huddling together and the boys were crouching tense, getting readyto be brave. As a whisper went round the room.

“The hand! The hand!”Then something scuttled with a dry noise, under the cupboard;

half-appeared, a dull grey, then vanished again.

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“Good God,” said Miss Hood. “A mouse. Or a rat!”

As she often told them, she was a farmer’s daughter, with no timefor nonsense. “We’ll soon deal with that!” She picked up her heavyblackboard pointer, which she had been known to poke people with, andmade straight for the cupboard. She banged on the side of the cupboardwith the pointer, making a terrific din. Hoping to scare the rat out.

Nothing stirred.Very bravely, or very foolishly, she knelt down and peered

underneath, her rather large bottom in its loud check skirt humped up inthe air. Still peering, she poked the pointer into the darkness, andrattled it about.

Then she gave such a scream as made Tracy Merridew’s seem asqueak.

And collapsed in a dead faint.And as she lay there a thing like a shrivelled hand, but also like a

great thin grey spider, seemed to crawl out from under the cupboard andcrawl on to her back; crawl up on to her woolly black jumper. Everyone inthe class saw it quite clearly, outlined against Miss Hood’s black jumper.So all the rest of their lives they would never forget it…

Everyone started screaming.Then the classroom door burst open, and Mrs Winterbottom was

shouting, “What is all this nonsense? Miss Hood…Miss Hood!”And by the time they had got Miss Hood into her chair and

splashed her with water, and tried to tell Mrs Winterbottom what hadhappened, and turned back to the cupboard, the hand was quite gone.

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Robert Westall

TThhee KKnnoocckk aatt tthhee MMaannoorr GGaattee

Franz Kafka is a Czech writer who is famous for stories which show theisolation and nightmares of human beings – the perfect subject matterfor ghost stories.Most readers agree that this story has suspense, but disagree aboutwhether it is a real ghost story. See what you think…

t was summer, a hot day. With my sister I was passing the gate of agreat house on our way home. I cannot tell now whether she knockedon the gate out of mischief or out of absence of mind, or merely

threatened it with her hand and did not knock at all. A hundred pacesfarther along the road, which here turned to the left, began the village.We did not know it very well, but no sooner had we passed the first housewhen people appeared and made friendly or warning signs to us; they werethemselves apparently terrified, bowed down with terror. They pointedtowards the manor house that we had passed and reminded us of theknock on the gate. The proprietor of the manor would charge us with it,the interrogation would begin immediately. I remainedquite calm and also tried to calm my sister’s fears.Probably she had not struck the door at all, and if she hadit could never be proved. I tried to make this clear to thepeople around us; they listened to me but refrained frompassing any opinion. Later they told me that not only mysister, but I too, as her brother, would be charged. Inodded and smiled. We all gazed back at the manor, asone watches a distant smoke-cloud and waits for the flames to appear.And right enough we presently saw horsemen riding in through the wide-open gate. Dust rose, concealing everything, only the tops of the tallspears glittered. And hardly had the troop vanished into the manorcourtyard before they seemed to have turned their horses again, forthey were already on their way to us. I urged my sister to leave me, Imyself would set everything right. I told her that she should at leastchange so as to appear in better clothes before these gentlemen. At lastshe obeyed and set out on the long road to our home. Already thehorsemen were beside us, and even before dismounting they enquired

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after my sister. She wasn’t here at the moment, was the apprehensivereply, but she would come later. The answer was received withindifference; the important thing seemed their having found me. Thechief members of the party appeared to be a young lively fellow, who wasa judge, and his silent assistant, who was called Assmann. I wascommanded to enter the village inn. Shaking my head and hitching up mytrousers I slowly began my statement, while the sharp eyes of the partyscrutinised me. I still half believed that a word would be enough to freeme, a city man, and with honour too, from this peasant folk. But when Ihad stepped over the threshold of the inn the judge, who had hastened infront and was already awaiting me, said: “I’m really sorry for this man.”And it was beyond all possibility of doubt that by this he did not mean mypresent state, but something that was to happen to me. The room lookedmore like a prison cell than an inn parlour. Great stone flags on the floor,dark, quite bare walls, into one of which an iron rung was fixed, in themiddle something that looked half a pallet, half an operating table.

Could I endure any other air than prison air now? That is the greatquestion, or rather it would be if I still had any prospect of release.

Franz Kafka

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TThhee WWaayy tthhrroouugghh tthhee WWooooddss

They shut the road through the woods Seventy years agoWeather and rain have undone it again,

And now you would never knowThere was once a road through the woods

Before they planted the trees

It is underneath the coppice and heathAnd the thin anemonesOnly the keeper sees

That, where the ring-dove broods,And the badgers roll at ease,

There was once a road through the woods

Yet, if you enter the woodsOf a summer evening late,

When the night-air cools on the trout-ringed poolsWhere the otter whistles his mate,

(They fear not men in the woods,Because they see so few)

You will hear the beat of a horse’s feetAnd the swish of a skirt in the dew,Steadily cantering through

The misty solitudes,As though they perfectly knew

The old lost road through the woods…But there is no road through the woods.

Word Bankcoppice – woodsanemones – woodlandflowerscantering – riding at asteady pacesolitudes – lonely places

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TThhee WWaallkkiinngg DDeeaadd

he eyes were the worst. It was not my imagination.They were in truth like the eyes of a dead man, notblind, but staring, unfocused, unseeing. The whole face,

for that matter, was bad enough. It was vacant, as if therewas nothing behind it. It seemed not only expressionless, butincapable of expression. I had seen so much previously in Haitithat was outside ordinary normal experience that for the flashof a second I had a sickening, almost panicky lapse in which Ithought, or rather felt, “Great God, maybe this stuff is reallytrue…”

This was how William Seabrook described his encounter withone of the most horrifying creatures ever to step from therealms of the supernatural. For Seabrook was face-to-facewith a zombie – a walking corpse. And inthat moment he was prepared to believe allhe had heard about zombies since he firstarrived on the island of Haiti.

The zombie’s fate is even worse than thatof the vampire or the werewolf. Thevampire returns to his loved ones. He maybe recognised and lain to rest. Thewerewolf may be wounded and regain human

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form. But the zombie can move, eat, hear, even speak, but hehas no memory of his past or knowledge of his presentcondition. He may pass by his own home or gaze into the eyesof his loved ones without a glimmer of recognition.

Neither ghost nor person, the zombie is said to betrapped, possibly forever, in that “misty zone that divides lifefrom death.” For while the vampire is the living dead, thezombie is merely the walking dead – a body without soul or mindraised from the grave and given a semblance of life throughsorcery. He is the creature of the sorcerer, who uses him as aslave or hires him out – usually to work on the land.

Ed. Colin Wilson & Christopher Evans The Book of Great Mysteries

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TThhee BBooddyy SSnnaattcchheerr

omewhat as two vultures may swoop upon a dying lamb, Fettes andMacfarlane were to be let loose upon a grave in that green andquiet resting place. The wife of a farmer, a woman who had lived

for sixty years, and been known for nothing but good butter and godlyconversation, was to be rooted from her grave at midnight and carried,dead and naked, to that far away city that she had always honoured withher Sunday best; the place beside her family was to be empty till thecrack of doom; her innocent and almost vulnerable members to beexposed to that last curiosity of the anatomist.

Late one afternoon the pair set forth, well wrapped in cloaks andfurnished with a formidable bottle. It rained without remission – a cold,dense, lashing rain. Now and again there blew a puff of wind, but thesesheets of falling water kept it down.

…It was by this time growing somewhat late. The gig, according toorder, was brought round to the door with both lamps brightly shining,and the young men had to pay their bill and take the road. Theyannounced that they were bound for Peebles, and drove in that directiontill they were clear of the last houses of the town; then, extinguishingthe lamps, returned upon their course, and followed a by-road towardsGlencorse. There was no sound but that of their own passage, and the

s

Horror stories usually deal with subject matter that terrifies and yetfascinates us. Few writers created more disturbing tales of horror than RobertLouis Stevenson who, late in the nineteenth century, chilled Victorian readerswith his tale of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde – the polite doctor who by night turns intoa menacing monster. Here Stevenson describes another Victorian fascination –the practice of digging up and selling dead bodies for medical experimentation.As medical science developed, trainee surgeons needed human corpses to practiseon. Money was to be made by raiding the graveyards at night and selling humanremains to certain medical schools. After a night of drinking with a stranger called Gray, two medical studentsbecome involved in grave-robbing, and set out for the body of a farmer’s wife… What is your worst fear or phobia? Why do you think grave-robbing was so terrifying to readers in the lastcentury?

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incessant, strident pouring of the rain. It waspitch dark; here and there a white gate or a whitestone in the wall guided them for a short spaceacross the night; but for the most part it was at afoot pace, and almost groping, that they pickedtheir way through that resonant blackness totheir solemn and isolated destination. In thesunken woods that traverse the neighbourhood ofthe burying ground the last glimmer failed them,and it became necessary to kindle a match and re-illumine one of the lanterns of the gig. Thus, under the dripping trees,and environed by huge and moving shadows, they reached the scene oftheir unhallowed labours.

They were both experienced in such affairs, and powerful with thespade; and they had scarce been twenty minutes at their task beforethey were rewarded by a dull rattle on the coffin lid. At the samemoment Macfarlane, having hurt his hand upon a stone, flung it carelesslyabove his head. The grave, in which they now stood almost to theshoulders, was close to the edge of the plateau of the graveyard; and thegig lamp had been propped, the better to illuminate their labours, againsta tree, and on the immediate verge of the steep bank descending to thestream. Chance had taken a sure aim with the stone. Then came a clangof broken glass; night fell upon them; sounds alternately dull and ringingannounced the bounding of the lantern down the bank, and its occasionalcollision with the trees. A stone or two, which it had dislodged in itsdescent rattled behind it into the profundities of the glen; and thensilence, like night, resumed its sway; and they might bend their hearing toits utmost pitch, but naught was to be heard except the rain, nowmarching to the wind, now steadily falling over miles of open country.

They were so nearly at an end of their abhorred task that theyjudged it wisest to complete it in the dark. The coffin was exhumed andbroken open; the body inserted in the dripping sack and carried betweenthem to the gig; one mounted to keep it in its place, and the other, takingthe horse by the mouth, groped along by the wall and bush until theyreached the wider road by the Fisher’s Tryst. Here was a faint disusedradiancy, which they hailed like daylight; by that they pushed the horse

to a good pace and began to rattle along merrily in thedirection of the town.

They had both been wetted to the skin during theiroperations, and now, as the gig jumped among the deepruts, the thing that stood propped between them fell

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now upon one and now upon the other. At every repetition of the horridcontact each instinctively repelled it with greater haste; and the process,natural as it was, began to tell upon the nerves of the companions.Macfarlane made some ill-favoured jest about the farmer’s wife, but itcame hollowly from his lips, and wasallowed to drop in silence. Still theirunnatural burthen jumped from side toside; and now the head would be laid, asif in confidence, upon their shoulders,and now the drenching sackcloth wouldflap icily about their faces. A creepingchill began to possess the soul ofFettes. He peered at the bundle, and it seemed somehow larger than atfirst. All over the countryside, and from every degree of distance, thefarm dogs accompanied their passage with tragic ululations; and it grewand grew upon his mind that some unnatural miracle had been achieved,that some nameless change had befallen the dead body, and that it was infear of their unholy burthen that the dogs were howling.

“For God’s sake,” said he, making a great effort to arrive at speech,“for God’s sake, let’s have a light!”

Seemingly Macfarlane was affected in the same direction; forthough he made no reply, he stopped the horse, passed the reins to hiscompanion, got down, and proceeded to kindle the remaining lamp. Theyhad by that time got no farther than the crossroad down to Auchendinny.The rain still poured as though the deluge were returning, and it was noeasy matter to make a light in such a world of wet and darkness. When atlast the flickering blue flame had been transferred to the wick and beganto expand and clarify, and shed a wide circle of misty brightness roundthe gig, it became possible for the two young men to see each other andthe thing they had along with them. The rain had moulded the roughsacking to the outlines of the body underneath; the head was distinctfrom the trunk, the shoulders plainly modelled; something at oncespectral and human riveted their eyes upon the ghastly comrade of theirdrive.

For some time Macfarlane stood motionless, holding up the lamp. Anameless dread was swathed, like a wet sheet, above the body, andtightened the white skin upon the face of Fettes; a fear that wasmeaningless, a horror of what could not be, kept mounting to his brain.Another beat of the watch, and he had spoken. But his comradeforestalled him.

“That is not a woman,” said Macfarlane, in a hushed voice.

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“It was a woman when we put her in,” whispered Fettes.“Hold that lamp,” said the other. “I must see her face.”And as Fettes took the lamp his companion untied the fastenings of

the sack and drew down the cover from the head. The light fell veryclear upon the dark, well-moulded features and smooth-shaven cheeks ofa too familiar countenance, often beheld in dreams of both of theseyoung men. A wild yell rang up into the night; each leaped from his ownside into the roadway; the lamp fell, broke, and was extinguished; and thehorse, terrified by this unusual commotion, bounded and went off towardsEdinburgh at a gallop, bearing along with it, sole occupant of the gig, thebody of the dead and long-dissected Gray.

Robert Louis Stevenson

Word BankDisused radiancy – unfamiliar glow oflightEnvironed – surrounded byExhumed – uncovered from the earthFormidable –powerfulGig – small horse-drawn carriageIncessant – endlessNaught – nothingPlateau – flat landProfundities of the glen – depths ofthe valleyResonant – echoingSpectral – ghost-likeTragic – sadTraverse – crossUlulations – criesUnhallowed – unholy, evilVenerable - respectable

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A Case of Murder

They should not have left him there alone,Alone that is except for the cat.He was only nine, not old enough

To be left alone in a basement flat,Alone, that is, except for the cat.

A dog would have been a different thing,A big gruff dog with slashing jaws,

But a cat with round eyes mad as gold,Plump as a cushion with tucked-in paws –

Better have left him with a fair-sized rat!But what they did was leave him with a cat.

He hated that cat; he watched it sit,A buzzing machine of soft black stuff,

He sat and watched and he hated it,Snug in its fur, hot blood in a muff,

And its mad gold stare and the way it satCrooning dark warmth: he loathed all that.

So he took Daddy’s stick and he hit the cat.Then quick as a sudden crack in glass

It hissed, black flash, to a hiding placeIn the dust and dark beneath the couch.

And he followed the grin on his new-made face,A wide-eyed, frightened snarl of a grin,

And he took the stick and he thrust it in.Hard and quick in the furry dark,

The black fur squealed and he felt his skinPrickle with sparks of dry delight.

Then the cat again came into sight,Shot for the door that wasn’t quite shut,

But the boy, quick too, slammed fast the door:The cat, half-through, was cracked like a nut

And the soft black thud was dumped on the floor.Then the boy was suddenly terrified

And he bit his knuckles and cried and cried;But he had to do something with the dead thing there.

His eyes squeezed beads of salty prayerBut the wound of fear gaped wide and raw ;He dared not touch the thing with his hands

So he fetched a spade and shovelled itAnd dumped the load of heavy fur

In the spidery cupboard under the stairWhere it’s been for years, and though it died

It’s grown in that cupboard and its hot low purrGrows slowly louder year by year:

There’ll not be a corner for the boy to hideWhen the cupboard swells and all sides split

And the huge black cat pads out of it.

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NNuullee

Remember trying to get to sleep but something in your housewouldn’t let you – a picture on your bedroom wall, the creaking sound offloorboards, the shape of a dressing gown on the back of your door?

Libby and Martin are staying in an old house, full of old-fashionedrooms and features. They notice that the foot of the staircase has anewel-post – a polished wooden post with a rounded ball on top, like ahead. Because it looks so much like a person, they call it Nule and dress itwith a hat, paper face, long coat and boots. But at night it seems tobecome too real…

Think of a time when you’ve been terrified by something at nightwhich by day would have seemed ordinary and not at all frightening

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Nule

At night the house creaked.“Thiefly footsteps,” said Libby.“It’s the furniture warping,” said Mum.Libby thought she said that the furniture was walking, and she could

well believe it. The dressing-table had feet with claws; why shouldn’t itwalk in the dark, tugging fretfully this way and that because the clawedfeet pointed in opposite directions? The bath had feet too. Libbyimagined it galloping out of the bathroom andtobogganing downstairs on its stomach, like a greatwhite walrus plunging into the sea. If someone held thedoor open, it would whizz up the path and crash into thefront gate. If someone held the gate open, it wouldshoot across the road and hit the district nurse’s car,which she parked under the street light, opposite.

Horror fiction tells the stories of our worst nightmares. Being trapped in afunhouse, trying to escape, being attacked, and everyday creatures (rats,spiders, ants) turning nasty…these are the special ingredients of thehorror story. If they’re so unpleasant, why do we read them? Probablybecause we love to be frightened…so long as we know it’s only a story.

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Libby thought of the headlines in the local paper – NURSE RUNOVER BY BATH – and giggled, until she heard the creaks again. Then shehid under the bedclothes.

In his bedroom Martin heard the creaks too, but he had a differentreason for worrying. In the attic where the dry rot lurked, there was abig oak wardrobe full of old dead ladies’ clothes. It was directly over hishead. Supposing it came through?

Next day he moved his bed.

The vacuum cleaner had lost its casters and had to be helped, byLibby pushing from behind. It skidded up the hall and knocked Nule’sfootball boots askew.

“The Hoover doesn’t like Nule either,” said Libby. Although shewouldn’t talk to Nule anymore she liked talking about it, as though thatsomehow made Nule safer.

“What’s that?” said Mum.“It knocked Nule’s feet off”“Well, put them back,” said Mum, but Libby preferred not to. When

Martin came in he set them side by side, but later they were kicked outof place again. If people began to complain that Nule was in the way, Nulewould have to go. He got round this by putting the right boot where theleft had been and the left boot on the bottom stair. When he left it, theveil on the hat was hanging down behind, but as he went upstairs after teahe noticed that it was now draped over Nule’s right shoulder, as if Nulehad turned its head to see where its feet were going.

That night the creaks were louder than ever, like a burglar on heftytiptoe. Libby had mentioned thieves only that evening, and Mum had said,“What have we got worth stealing?”

Martin felt fairly safe because he had worked out that if thewardrobe fell tonight, it would land on his chest of drawers and not onhim, but what might it not bring down with it? Then he realised that thecreaks were coming not from above but from below.

He held his breath. Downstairs didn’t creak.His alarm clock gleamed greenly in the dark and told him that it had

gone two o’clock. Mum and Dad were asleepages ago. Libby would sooner burst thanleave her bed in the dark. Perhaps it was aburglar. Feeling noble and reckless he put onthe bedside lamp, slid out of bed, trodsilently across the carpet. He turned on themain light and opened the door. The glow

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shone out of the doorway and saw him as far as thelanding light switch at the top of the stairs, but henever had time to switch it on. From the top of thestairs he could look down into the hall where thestreet light opposite shone coldly through thefrosted panes of the front door.

It shone on the hall-stand where the coatshung, on the blanket chest and the brass jug thatstood on it, through the white coins of the honesty

plants in the brass jug, and on the broody telephone that never rang atnight. It did not shine on Nule. Nule was not there.

Nule was half-way up the stairs, one hand on the banisters and onehand holding up the housecoat, clear of its boots. The veil on the hatdrifted like smoke across the frosted glass of the front door. Nulecreaked and came up another step.

Martin turned and fled back to the bedroom, and dived under thebedclothes, just like Libby who was three years younger and believed inghosts.

“Were you reading in bed last night?” said Mum, prodding him awakenext morning. Martin came out from under the pillow, very slowly.

“No, Mum.”“You went to sleep with the light on. Both lights,” she said, leaning

across to switch off the one by the bed.“I’m sorry.”

Jan Mark

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VVAAMMPPIIRREESS

ithout wishing to pour cold water (or garlic juice!) on theidea of the vampire, there are a number of simplereasons which explain the legend. Dennis Wheatley,

author of such thrillers as The Devil Rides Out, has a convincingtheory that in times of extreme poverty beggars would make theirhomes in graveyards, emerging from tombs in the cover of darknessto scavenge for food. If they were seen in the moonlight, stealingout of coffins, it is not very surprising that rumours would bespread quickly by word of mouth from person to person, then fromvillage to village, until the seeds of the legend would be sown overan entire district.

There is another obvious theory which explains a great deal –that vampires were really unfortunate people who had been buriedalive. Premature burial has taken place on occasions right up to thepresent day, for the simple reason that a state of death isextremely difficult to certify. In 1885 the British Medical Journalstated, “It is true that hardly any one sign of death, short ofputrefaction, can be relied on as infallible." This is just as truetoday – for without sophisticated clinical tests, you can only reallybe certain that death has occurred when the body begins to decay.In fact, you can still occasionally read of the terrible shock thatbefalls an unlucky mortuary attendant when he finds that one of hiscorpses is still alive.

A number of Victorians were terrified of being buried alive.Wilkie Collins, who wrote two of the first and most famous thrillers– The Moonstone and The Woman in White – left instructions forvarious tests to be made before he was buried, so that there shouldbe no doubt that he was dead. A Russian, Count Karnicki, invented acoffin with a glass ball resting on top of the body. If the corpsemoved, the ball released a spring and the lid would fly open while aflag waved above and a bell rang for assistance. This contraptionsounds pretty silly, but Collins and Karnicki had a point when youconsider that at least one person was buried alive every week inAmerica at the beginning of this century!

One such victim was a young woman who lived near Indianapolis.When she collapsed, six doctors signed the death certificate after

W

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making the usual tests, but her young brother refused to believethem. He tried to prevent her body being removed for the funeralseveral days later, and in the struggle a bandage came loose aroundher jaw and it could be seen that her lips were moving.

“What do you want, what do you want?” cried the boy.“Water,” she whispered faintly. She revived and lived to an old

age.Another American woman, the respected matron of a large

orphanage, was declared dead and her body placed in a shroudbefore she was rescued and revived by friends. Needless to say,extra precautions were taken the next time she was presumed to bedead, but again her body was shrouded. Luckily, the undertakerhappened to pierce her body with a pin, and noticed that a smalldrop of blood oozed from the puncture, to the joy of her friendswho helped her recover. These women were fortunate – justimagine the numbers of people who were not rescued in time. It is agrisly thought.

Daniel Farson, The Beaver Book of Horror

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VICTORNo, no, no!

Slowly he turns and walks away, his experiment, allhis work, a failure.

We move slowly in on the porthole by the Creature’shand. It taps on the glass. Inside the sarcophagusthe Creature’s eyes open – and register panic.

VICTOR, hearing the noise, turns. Is he imaginingit?

The sarcophagus begins to convulse.

VICTORIt’s alive, it’s alive…

He races towards the sarcophagus, which is nowshaking madly, and reaches out to the main lock. Butbefore he can get to the lead bolts, they snap fromthe power inside the sarcophagus.

Suddenly the lid flies off, sending VICTORbackwards into the spill tank as a wave of fluid landson him.

The lid of the sarcophagus flies through the lab,sending shelves and equipment flying, finally endingup near the door, having knocked the shelf holdingVICTOR’S coat onto the ground.

VICTOR stares aghast at the sarcophagus. Slowlyhe gets to his feet and walks towards the nowmotionless vat. He walks up to the side of it, lookingin, anticipating his creation is alive. But everythingis still, no sign of life.

He looks down towards the feet – and suddenly theCreature flies up in front of him, grabbing for him.As he does this, the sarcophagus starts to toppleoff its rail and tips over onto its side, sendingVICTOR and the creature flying across the spill tankamongst the fluid and eels.

Slowly VICTOR looks up as the Creature crawlsthrough the fluid.

VICTORI knew it could work. I knew it!

He moves over to his creation and tries to lift him tohis feet. The Creature seems as helpless as thenewly born.

VICTORStand, please stand, come on…

The Creature, his vision hazy, manages to get to hisfeet.

VICTOR(monologue during the following action)Breathe, come on breathe.Stand, you can stand, come on, come on, that’s it.What’s wrong? What’s wrong with you?That’s it, that’s it.

You can do it, come on.

Stand, yes. Now walk. No, no.

With VICTOR still on his knees, they then slowlyslide across the tank, the Creature managing tostand some of the time.

VICTORLet me help you, I’ll help you to stand – the chains,the chains, over here.

VICTOR leads him over to some chains hanging froma bar, and, in an attempt to help him to stand, hefits the Creature’s arms into some ropes.

VICTORThis must work, you’re alive. What is wrong?What’s wrong with you? Be careful of the rope –look out!

As VICTOR steps back, he loses his balance and,falling backwards, grabs a rope. A counterweightsnaps, overloading the pulley, and the wooden bar ofchains begins to rise up, carrying the Creature withit, moaning and twitching.

A piece of wood comes down past him and hits himover the head. The bar of chains continues to riseand the Creature continues to struggle.

VICTOR stands, dripping fluid and goo, chestheaving, staring up at the Creature. The full horrorsinks in.

Now the Creature’s death throes are complete.

Silence. Softly:

VICTORIt’s dead, it’s dead. I’ve killed it! (pause)What have I done? I gave it life and then I killed it.

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BBrraamm SSttookkeerr’’ss DDrraaccuullaa

MINA and DRACULA

DRACULA turns to her.His face horriblytransformed.

DRACULA(tender, loving)Mina…?

She holds his dying gaze.He turns and dragshimself toward the chapel.MINA backs slowly afterhim, her gun on the men.

MINAWhen my time comes – will youdo the same to me? Will you?

On men over MINA

HOLMWOOD looking ather, the rifle pointing athim. HARKER, loving her,begins to understand.

HOLMWOOD tries to rush toher. HARKER holds him back,understanding MINA’s resolve.

HARKERNo, let them go. Let her go. Ourwork is finished here…hers is justbegun.

Closeup VAN HELSING nodsknowingly. HARKER has learnedfrom his nightmare.

Closeup MINA

She aims pointblank at HARKER.

On HARKER over MINA

She fires! We pull backto see a wolf leaping fromthe ramparts at him,crashing to the ground –dead.

Back to MINA and DRACULA

MINA backs after DRACULAinto the castle, never taking hereyes or her gun off the men.

Chapel door – sunset

Medium wide shot

HARKER waits at the chapeldoor nervously. HOLMWOOD ispacing, pounding his fistsfutilely against it. VANHELSING holds his hand up,indicating that they should bestill.

SEWARD cradles QUINCEY

He dies…

On VAN HELSING

He drops his gun and faces thechapel. He bows his head,praying intensely.

VAN HELSINGRest him. Let him sleep in peace…We have become God’s mad men.

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Castle chapel – sunset

Wide shot

DRACULA and MINA on thealtar steps. Deep in the cavernsof his eyes, fierce life stillburns. We track in on them.

DRACULAWhere is my God? He forsakes me.

MINA grips the handle of theknife and tries to pull it out.His fingers, nearly bone, creepup the shaft, stopping her.

DRACULAIt is finished.

Filled with love, she stares downinto his eyes. She cradles him,kissing him, smoothing hismatted, graying hair. Suddenlyshe speaks intimately inRoumanian – he responds.

MINANo… my love –

He shudders, blood welling upfrom the wound in his heart.

DRACULAGive me peace.

View on the steps – high overheadangle.

Old candles light themselves. Theshadow of the crucifix moves across

the floor as MINA, glowing, movesinto the place and manner as whenELIZABETH lay there.

DRACULA raises his eyes to…ELIZABETH.

Camera starts slowly booming down.

She rises up and kisses him. Cameramoves closer. His youth is restored.She comforts him. He puts her handon the knife in his heart. MINA’shands on the knife. She quakes,knowing what she must do. Shecloses her eyes, prays for strength,and falls on him with all her weight,driving the knife clear through hisheart.

Close shot – the knife

The steel point penetrating theground.

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NNOOSSFFEERRAATTUU

NINA had promised her husband never to open TheBook of the Vampires, but she found herself unable toresist the temptation.

In the living room of the HARKERS, NINA reads from The Book ofthe Vampires.

One can recognize the mark of the vampire by the trace of hisfangs on the victim’s throat. Only a woman can break his frightfulspell – a woman pure in heart – who will offer her blood freely toNOSFERATU and will keep the vampire by her side until after thecock has crowed.

Enter HARKER

NINA(pointing out the window to the mansion across the street)Look! Every night, in front of me!

The townspeople lived in mortal terror. Who was sick or dying?Who will be stricken tomorrow?

At the HARKERS’ house NINA lies sick in bed.

HARKERDon’t be frightened. I will get the professor.

Exit HARKER

NINA looks out the window at the line of coffins being carriedalong the street. She reads from The Book of the Vampires.

Only a woman can break his frightful spell – a woman pure in heart –who will offer her blood freely to NOSFERTU and will keep thevampire by her side until after the cock has crowed.

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MEANWHILE Outside the sanatorium. Two old women talk to eachother.

OLD WOMANThey saw him escape. He strangled his keeper.

RENFIELD runs down an alley, pursued by a crowd. He climbs onto aroof. The crowd throws rocks at him. He climbs down and runs

outside of town. The crowd pursues.

THAT NIGHT. In the HARKERS’ Bedroom. NINA is awakened bythe NOSFERATU outside her window. She opens the window.

HARKER awakens and NINA faints in his arms.

HARKERThe professor! Call the professor!

Exit HARKER.

Enter the NOSFERATU.

THE NEXT MORNING

In the HARKERS’ Bedroom. The cock crows. The NOSFERATUlooks up from drinking at NINA’s neck.

MEANWHILE In RENFIELD’s Cell at the Sanatorium.

RENFIELDMaster! Master! Beware!

Outside the HARKERS’ House. HARKER and VAN HELSING arrive.

In the HARKERS’ Bedroom. Sunlight sweeps across the buildingsacross the street from NINA’s window.

NOSFERATU attempts to escape but is touched by the sunlight.

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He vanishes in a puff of smoke.

In RENFIELD’s Cell at the Sanatorium.

RENFIELDThe Master is dead.

In the HARKERS’ Bedroom NINA awakens.Enter HARKER

NINAJonathon!

HARKER takes NINA in his arms as she dies.

And at that moment, as if by a miracle, the sick no longer died, andthe stifling shadow of the vampire vanished with the morning sun.

TTHHEE EENNDD

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