The Haunting at Blackwood Hall

By Barrymore Tebbs

Blackwood Hall is a house shrouded in silence. Nine-year-old Alice Fenn communicates only through her music. Jonathan Fenn and his sister Judith guard a terrifying family secret. The servants refuse to discuss the mysterious disappearance of a former governess. A drawing room séance attempts to make contact with the spirit of Elizabeth Blackwood. And when a diabolic madman holds the residents of Blackwood Hall hostage to an insidious reign of terror, governess Claire Ashby finds herself in a living nightmare of drug addiction, pagan rituals, and murder.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Barrymore Tebbs
• Release date: Dec 31, 2013
• ISBN: 9781311894236

Barrymore Tebbs

Barrymore Tebbs' writing combines the brooding atmosphere of Gothic fiction with the unexpected twists and turns of the Psychological Thriller to create "historical, doom-laden creepfests about people struggling (and often failing) to make sense of the situations they find themselves in." A polished stylist with an uncanny ability to transport the reader to a specific time and place, in recent works he has moved from the form of Gothic horror popularized by such mid Twentieth Century writers as Daphne du Maurier and Thomas Tryon into the genre of Pulp style crime - resulting in Nocturne in the Key of Death and a Dark and Lonely Highway, both modeled on the writings of Cornell Woolrich. If you enjoy his stories, please consider leaving a review to help other readers discover the dark joy of Barrymore Tebbs' unique style of storytelling.

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© 2012 Barrymore Tebbs. All rights reserved.

Lyrics from Speechless Child copyright by Richard Thompson 1980.

This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Cover Graphic: Barrymore Tebbs

Oh speechless child, who wants to touch you

Oh speechless child, no love in store

Too dumb to scream, too dumb to answer

Can only listen and lock the door

Can't stand the sound of raging voices

Can't stand the sound of warring tongues

Shut in a place where none can reach you

A better place than this cruel one

Oh child, oh child, oh speechless child

Richard Thomspon, Speechless Child

The flame sputtered in the darkness as if blown by some unseen breath and then stood tall and strong.

Are you there, Glenora? Glenora Ashby, if your spirit is among us, speak. I bid you, speak.

I strained my eyes to see Madame Lovely in the shadows opposite me. Her hair was too tightly coiffed, her eyes turned dramatically up into her head, and she swayed to the beat of some unheard rhythm.

I detected a faint grinding in the stillness of the room and realized it was the sound of my own teeth. Save for the stifled breathing of the others around the table, there was not another sound. If a phantom trumpet should blare or a drum rattle out its mournful tattoo, we would all scream and leap from our seats. This was more than my nerves could bear. Not because I believed my mother’s voice was about to speak to us from beyond the grave, for I did not. Could the querent on each side of me feel the tension in my fingertips? And what if they did? I did not care. This charade had gone on for the past hour as Madame Lovely summoned one spirit after another. Was I the only person at the circle who remained unconvinced? I found the affair tolerable, to a point, but that point was about to be crossed.

Who is there? Who is it who calls me from the grave? This was not my mother’s voice. It was little different than the voice before, that of a little boy named Ernest, taken from his mother too soon, or the voice before that, someone’s long dead sister. A West End actress would have done a more convincing job. Perhaps Madame Lovely should take lessons.

It is I, Glenora, said my father, It is Giles. I shut my eyes, wishing I was anywhere but here. There were tears in Papa’s words. Glenora, is it really you?

Giles, my darling, my love, my sweet, darling man. Not only was this not my mother’s voice, it was not her character. Never in their lives had the two of them uttered such romantic drivel to one another. My parents loved each other as surely as anyone’s, but that love was temperate, not melodramatic. Madame Lovely had perhaps read one too many penny novels.

It is so cold here, so dark, so lonely.

For God’s sake don’t tell him that! In his state of mind the first thing he would want to do would be to cross over and join her. The reality was he was already one foot in the grave.

Believe me, I would not have been a participant in this charade if it were not for my father. You may recall the name of Giles Ashby, for he was once a concert pianist and quite famous throughout the world. In his day he traveled all over Europe, to Rome, to Vienna and Paris, as far east as St. Petersburg and as far west as the Americas, to New York City, and to Chicago, and New Orleans.

My mother, Glenora, had been one of his brightest pupils, and I followed in both their footsteps, learning to play the piano at a very young age. I had recently finished my education at L’Académie Rousseau pour les Jeunes Femmes in Paris, but my return to London was overshadowed by news of my mother’s illness. No sooner had I returned than Papa announced he would be taking her to a spa in the Mediterranean, hoping and praying that the doctors there would be able to restore her health.

I found myself alone in the house on Crescent Walk that summer, and in an effort to appease my boredom and anxiety, I had offered my services as a piano teacher to young ladies and gentlemen of society. I was glad to have an income of my own as well as something to occupy my time as I awaited letters from Greece announcing news of mother’s restoration.

There were none.

I had not expected mother would recover. Still, it was a shock to greet Papa when he returned alone with nothing of my mother, no funeral urn, no coffin, nothing but the clothes on his back and the stench of whiskey on his breath. He had buried her on a hillside in Mykonos overlooking the sun dappled Aegean Sea.

At night I would lie awake listening to the melancholy sound of the Nocturne in C Minor drifting through the benighted rooms of our lovely little house in Bloomsbury. The soul had long since gone out of his playing, and when his hands faltered and fell upon the keys, the wretched sound of his weeping would drift upward through the house until my pillow was soaked with tears as well.

And now it had come to this – these weekly excursions throughout the city, entering these shaded parlors and taking his position among the curious and lonely, desperate in their mourning. The spiritualist circles had been all the rage in London for several years. I have to admit that I had participated in a séance on more than one occasion at the invitation of an old family friend, Mrs. Luna Summerhill. Mrs. Summerhill was a member of the Theosophical Society. Not only was she a firm believer in spiritualism and the ways of the occult, but she also allegedly possessed powers as a spiritual medium herself. I could not take her claims seriously. Such practices are simply parlor entertainment, magic tricks performed in a darkened room, and I couldn’t fathom otherwise intelligent men and women who believed that voices from beyond the grave were able to speak through themselves or others. Poor Papa, so lonely in his desperation. What did he hope to gain?

And how is my baby, my Claire? Is she there among you as well?

I sensed my father bristling in his seat just as the tension in my body prepared to uncoil.

You’re not my mother, I said through clenched teeth. My voice was even, yet a shot in the stillness of the room. There were sudden intakes of breath all about me.

Claire, my darling, I’ve missed you so.

You’re not my mother! The shout tore its way from my breast. I leapt to my feet, my fists beating against the table. There were shouts and cries about the room, and loudest of all was Madame Lovely who screamed as though she were meeting her death at the end of some back alley madman’s blade. Chaos ensued. Someone turned up the gas on the lights, and a sickly yellow glow enveloped the room. Any shades that might truly have been present were dutifully banished.

Madame Lovely had collapsed face first onto the table. Someone produced a bottle of smelling salts, and another poured brandy from a decanter. Papa came and wrapped his arm around my shoulder.

Claire, whatever possessed you?

I am sorry, Papa. Surely you must see this woman is a charlatan. That was not my mother’s voice. That was not my mother.

Young lady, I think you had better leave, was the stern reprobation of our hostess. You could have killed Madame.

The look I gave the woman was enough to let her know not to push her luck with me, and she turned away with a disgusted cluck of her tongue. Papa gathered our coats from the cloak room, and we dressed in silence in the foyer. Not a word was spoken between us on the return journey home. That night I prayed he would come to his senses and these weekly sojourns would come to an end.

How long does it take a man to drink himself to death? This was not a question I thought I would ever ask myself or have the misfortune to learn the answer to. In my father’s case, it was only a few short months.

Summer gave way to autumn. One October afternoon, I arrived home earlier than expected and thought I would take Papa out to eat at one of our favorite restaurants, perhaps some place where we might meet old friends.

As I entered his study, my foot struck an empty bottle, and it skittered across the floor and clattered against the leg of the chair where he often dozed in the afternoon. The bottle knocking against the chair did nothing to arouse him.

I called, Papa, as I had done in childhood, but there was no response. I went to him and knelt on the floor beside him. I held his hand and brushed his hair away from his forehead. His chin had slumped against his chest. The skin of his hand was cool. His eyes were closed. I shut my own as well, and prayed that he had at last found peace.

Papa had not been three days in the ground when I received a summons from his solicitor, Mr. Lowndes, and with apprehension made my way to his office. I was twenty-years-old. Both my parents were dead. I had inherited the deed to the house in Crescent Walk, Papa’s white Steinway grand piano, and a wealth of debts that nearly caused me to faint when I saw the sum.

Maurice Lowndes, gentleman that he was, handed a handkerchief to me to dab the tears which stung my eyes. The handkerchief was followed by a stout glass of brandy which, under other circumstances, decorum would have dictated I refuse. In this instance I was grateful. I blotted my eyes and stared again at the figures on the paper, then lifted the glass and made quick work of its contents. The rush of alcohol warmed my face and plied my brain with a pleasant tingling sensation. Mr. Lowndes lifted the decanter and raised an eyebrow, but I declined, knowing that this was how it had begun for my father. One drink, and then another, and another.

My dear Miss Ashby, I feel awful, truly awful. Your father and I were friends long before he became my client. I am sure this all must come as a dreadful shock to you.

To say the least, I replied. I know one mustn’t demand the head of the messenger, but under the circumstances I did not feel compelled to nod and smile and say yes, yes, couldn’t be helped, then, could it?

I simply stared at the figure on the paper before closing my eyes and drawing a long, deep breath. The rapid beating of my heart at last begin to abate, but when I opened my eyes the sum on the paper had not changed.

At length Mr. Lowndes said, What do you suppose you shall do?

I have no idea, I said bleakly. I don’t know where I would begin to come up with this kind of money.

Have you no relatives whom you can turn to?

I did; however, the Uncle whom I had not seen since childhood had not responded to the letter sent to his address in Yorkshire after Papa died, and I certainly would not go begging to him now. If there were other relatives, they remained forever unknown to me.

I’m sure Papa’s piano would fetch a good deal of money as a collector’s item of sorts now that he is dead. And I could always sell the house.

Mr. Lowndes’ eyes grew wide. Surely you are joking?

I assure you I am not. Of what value is any of it to me? It is already too much to look after. The housekeeper has taken her leave, and the cook, and father’s valet. I am left with a thirteen-year-old maid who manages to be a decent cook, but soon we will be covering every item of furniture in the house and closing off unused rooms. What would I do with all that room even if I could afford to keep it?

Mr. Lowndes folded and unfolded his hands, the thumbs of his pudgy fingers worrying each other. But where will you go? How will you live?

I thought of those large empty rooms, the white sheets covering the furnishings like funeral shrouds, the echo of my solitary footsteps on the hardwood floors.

There are boarding houses that cater to young ladies in my position. I would certainly never lack for female companionship. And I would continue to teach, of course. A lump formed in my throat. There really is nothing else I can do.

And that was the whole of it. No inheritance with which to live off of. No suitors to become future husbands. No skills other than my love of music and the ability to teach.

I went home and straight away placed an advertisement in the Times. Estate sale – everything must go. The Steinway was taken away to auction, and when the movers had loaded it onto the wagon, I closed the door against the prying eyes of the neighbors and stood in the center of the music room. The room that had once been a thing of beauty was now as empty as my heart. Within those silent walls, I heard the phantom strains of my father’s playing, whispers of Tchaikovsky's Barcarole, a touch of the Chopin Nocturnes, Bach’s poignantly beautiful Prelude in C Minor – music that would haunt me always and forever remind me of him.

I wanted nothing more than to sit with my face in my hands and weep, but the time for tears had passed. The door to the past swiftly closed behind me just as a new one would open to the future.

The future was presented to me like a gift wrapped up at Christmas time in the form of a proposition from Mrs. Summerhill.

I wonder if you would consider a position as a governess, Mrs. Summerhill blurted without preamble as we sat down to afternoon tea. Her voluminous dress was a vibrant red, far too bright for the dreary afternoon, and there was a constant clatter as the many cheap baubles and artificial jewels she wore rattled against each other.

I scoffed at the idea. I am a music teacher. I am fond of children, and of music and art, but when it comes to mathematics and the sciences I am of little use. I cannot see myself growing gray before my time chasing after the wild and untamed children of the upper class.

What I have in mind is something altogether different. I know a family who is in need of a governess to take charge of their child. She is a most unusual girl, the most darling little thing. I suppose she might be considered a mental defective. There must be a more appropriate medical term for her affliction. I understand she does not speak; whether she cannot or will not I cannot say. She has no sense of etiquette or social skills, yet I am told she is artistic and musically inclined as well.

I was intrigued. You have met this girl?

Only once. The Fenns are a private family. Judith is a humorless woman, and Jonathan is something of a recluse. Mr. Fenn is not in the best of health and prefers to remain at their country home in Devonshire. Neither one is happy to be burdened with such a child. Dr. Coleridge had the child brought to London and presented her case to a team of doctors who specialize in diseases of the mind. There was a great to-do about a course of treatment for the child. Some wanted to study her like a rat in a cage, and others thought she should be presented as a musical prodigy.

Mrs. Summerhill paused to catch her breath, affording me a moment to process this flood of information. The truth, I believe, lies somewhere in between. To look at Alice, one would not suspect that she is a defective, but I suppose a child of her disposition can be quite a handful. They say the family has a difficult time of it keeping governesses for very long. Perhaps the girl is too challenging. Perhaps the isolation of the country estate does not sit well for young women of certain temperaments. They live in an old manor house on the moors. The place is remote and primitive. What I know is that the child could benefit with someone like you in her life. Your kindness and patience with children is remarkable.

Mrs. Summerhill had piqued my interest.

Her name is Alice?

Alice Fenn. How soon would you like to meet her?

I smiled at Mrs. Summerhill’s power of persuasion. I have a full schedule tomorrow, but I can mete out some time between appointments on Thursday.

Shall we say ten o’clock on Thursday?

I would need to consult my calendar.

I am sure you can make any necessary excuses. This is a rare opportunity for you, my dear. I will even send my driver around for you. You can thank me later.

The address was in a shadowed corner of Ravenswood Square. Though yet still warm October, when the cab pulled up to the house I sensed a coolness in the air that hinted not of winter, but of something deeper, a chill that cut to the soul and not to the bone.

Ravenswood Square is home to a number of houses inhabited by a small handful of London’s upper crust, elegant and charming as one might expect, save for this dark one alone in its corner. A footman opened the door only moments after I rang the bell, and I was ushered with cold formality into a dim little parlor.

My hostess was already ensconced in the room. It could not have been two minutes past the appointed hour yet her presence, the tilt of her chin, and the stiffness of her shoulders indicated that her time was valuable and that I had kept her waiting. The woman had a long, narrow