The Haunting Shadow
‘There are dark shadows on the earth, but its lights are stronger in the contrast.’— Charles Dickens
It was an eerie and peculiar autumn day in the year 1903 when I arrived at the quaint town of Amherst in Massachusetts. A streetcar passed by Sunderland Street, crossing in front of the town hall. From the train station, I had taken a carriage that was provided to escort me to the outskirts of the town, where I was to reach the estate of a Mr Joshua Dickinson. As the carriage drew closer to the estate, I could discern a notably haunting aspect.
Atop the mansion, just below the mansard roof, were three marble figurines or statues of angels. The mansion had distinctively Victorian panes, as well as double-hung windows divided by mullions. Once there, I met the proprietor, who exuded warm cordiality and a firm handshake, but there was something selcouth about his persona that I found somewhat striking.
He was a willowy man with an aquiline nose and high cheekbones, a fair complexion and hair. He carried a walking stick with him to maintain his balance, for he had a visible limp. I was there to inspect the stately mansion on behalf of my bank’s request. My name is Arthur Langford, an Englishman residing in Boston.
Inside the mansion, I was escorted to my chamber on the first storey of the house, not before I took note of the intricate woodwork in the panels of the rooms, the ornate doorknobs, the marble fireplace, and the grand staircase. My chamber was impressive and elaborate in its design and meticulous arrangement. I was aware that the Dickinson lineage in the province was well reputed and long established.
From what I had been told by the bank, the Dickinsons were amongst the first Europeans who came during the 17th century. It was indeed something I intended to enquire about once I had settled in and was able to speak to Mr Dickinson in his private study without unwarranted interruptions.
After a sumptuous repast, we entered the private study adjoining the library to discuss the possible purchase of the estate, including the mansion. I had expected to pay a lofty sum, for which I had prepared myself and had brought my cheque book with me.
The mansion was in stellar condition, and the rest of the estate was likewise pristine. There were no obvious signs of decadence or erosion in the structure of the house to be seen with the naked eye. For some reason, when asked why he was selling the estate, his reply was that ever since the unfortunate death of his beloved daughter Margaret, he could no longer bear to live in the home he had once adored.
The expressions on his face were clearly tangible and emotive when he spoke about her so passionately. I could tell the subject pained him greatly and made him feel distinctly uncomfortable. The discussion was adjourned until the morning, as Mr Dickinson had a prior engagement to attend. He invited me to stay the night, and I gladly accepted his kind offer and hospitality.
He said he would return within an hour, and in the meantime, the servants would tend to any of my needs. My impression of the situation was somewhat uncertain as it unfolded. On one hand, I was confident we could reach an agreement if feasible, but on the other, there was something strange about the mansion and the death of the late Miss Dickinson that had begun to unnerve me, along with Mr Dickinson’s increasingly bizarre demeanour.
I was in one of the corridors, looking at a family portrait, when out of the corner of my eye I saw a flash of an image pass by the edge of the corridor. For a moment, I mistook it for a reflection of the sun, but I soon realised the windows were closed.
Thus, my curiosity compelled me to investigate. Upon reaching the edge of the corridor, I found a small trinket or heirloom on the floor. When I picked it up, I saw the initials “MD” engraved on the back. I assumed it had belonged to the deceased daughter Margaret.
As I held the object in my hand, I began to hear a whispering voice. It seemed to be coming from one of the nearby chambers. I wasn’t certain if it was the howling wind outside, but I proceeded to follow the sound. It led me to a chamber. When I approached and turned the doorknob, I found the door closed. For some reason unbeknown to me, it was kept firmly shut. I thought it odd, especially as the voice behind the door persisted—it sounded like the voice of a mysterious woman. It was then that one of the female servants saw me lingering.
‘Is there something I can do for you, sir?’ She asked.
‘Good God, you startled me. Whose room is this, if I may ask?’ I queried.
‘This room belonged to the late Miss Margaret’.
‘Why is it closed?’
‘I’m afraid you’ll have to ask the Mister’.
‘Might I ask how long she has been dead, if you don’t mind me asking?’
‘Over a year, I reckon’.
‘What did she die from?’
‘Poor Miss Margaret had a terrible accident’.
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Perhaps it’s best you ask the Mister’.
At that moment, the carriage of Mr Dickinson was heard approaching.
‘The Mister is here. I must go now; I’ve my duties to finish. If you’ll kindly excuse me’.
‘Of course’.
I waited for Mr Dickinson in the main hall. When he entered the house and found me there, I was eager to enquire about the locked chamber, but I also had the pressing matter that had brought me to his estate in the first place: the potential purchase of the property.
Instead of returning to the familiar surroundings of the private study, we went into the library to resume our prior conversation on the sale of the estate. We sat down, and he offered me a drink. I was not much of a habitual drinker, but I accepted as a token of his formality. After all, I needed something to calm my anxiety, and he, too, seemed a rather nervous fellow.
‘What will it be—brandy or sherry, my good friend?’
‘I’ll take a glass of sherry. Thank you, sir’.
‘What part of England are you from? Your accent is British, but I can’t quite place the origin’.
‘I am from Stratford, or to be more precise, Stratford-upon-Avon’.
‘The birthplace of Shakespeare’.
‘Yes, that’s correct, sir’.
‘Tell me, Mr Langford, if I may ask—what brought you to this country? You are quite far from your native land. You seem like an unassuming fellow’.
‘Well, sir—adventure. I wanted to come to America to prosper. My brother emigrated here a decade ago and asked if I was interested in joining him at the bank where we are both employed’.
‘That’s an admirable venture and rather bold, if I may say so. Do you enjoy your stay in the country? What do you think of Amherst?’
‘Indeed, I enjoy America. As for Amherst, I must admit I have not had sufficient time to see much of the town. I shall have to reserve my judgement’.
‘And the estate? Do you find the house as welcoming as I am?’
‘So far, I must say I have’.
‘Good. Let us proceed with the transaction, before I give you the deed, Mr Langford’.
‘By all means, sir’.
After we had finished the transaction, I asked him about the mysterious room that was closed.
'Pardon my intrusive nature and inquisitive mind, but I have discovered a closed chamber nearby along the corridor. Why is this chamber closed, sir?'
He hesitated for a moment, as if he had not expected the question. His response was, 'You are indeed a rather curious fellow, Mr Langford'.
He paused, then continued, 'There are secrets that are best kept quiet'.
I did not think it prudent to persist. Thus, I desisted for the nonce. I would stay the night and leave in the early midday back to Boston. With the completion of the necessary transaction, my task had been accomplished. Normally, I would be extremely satisfied with having done my diligence, but my keen fascination with the mystery surrounding the death of Miss Margaret was manifest.
I considered myself a man with an acute awareness and a proclivity for discovery; even though I began to sense an instinctive prescience of the approach of danger. From what? I was not certain of its nature. That was the daunting question. Once the property was refurnished in certain areas, the closed chamber would be reopened. The bank was not interested in foolish tales of fret and scare, but in the interest of selling the estate for a worthy amount and profit.
That night, I remained in my chamber, seated at a desk provided to write an urgent correspondence to the bank. I was supposed to stop in Cambridge the next day to handle another affair for the bank. As I was perusing the fine details of the deed, I began to hear the sound of a faint whisper close by. At first, I dismissed the particular sound as the whistling wind, but the whisper then intensified and became more audible.
When I rose, intrigued to investigate the source of the whispers, I could clearly hear the utterance of my name. The doorknob in my chamber was heard moving slowly, as if someone were trying to enter uninvited. I reached for the doorknob, when suddenly the movement stopped. I cautiously opened the door afterwards and stuck my head into the corridor to see if anyone was present. No one, not even a soul—or so I thought.
Once more, my curiosity convinced me to explore the strange occurrence. At that moment in time, a storm from afar reached the estate. There was lightning at first, then thunder. I proceeded to walk towards the closed chamber of the late daughter of Mr Dickinson.
When I arrived, I noticed that someone had recently been there, owing to the soily footprints on the ground. The question was who? It was then that I heard the whispers of my name anew. As I stood before the door, I was startled by one of the female servants again who had seen me.
'Sir... is there something I can do for you? Are you lost, by chance?'
'Good God, you startled me. I did not see you at all'.
'I saw you standing before the door of the late Miss Dickinson'.
'The door. Yes, indeed. I apparently thought I heard a noise coming from behind the door'.
'Noise, you said, sir. Like what?'
'Like the sound of a whispering voice'.
'Sir...it was probably the howling wind. There is a storm approaching. Do you not hear the sprinkle of the rain?'
'Rain? Yes, it could have been the rain'.
'Will you be needing anything before I retire for the night, sir?'
'No. I am going to return to my chamber and attempt to rest; even though I doubt I can with the emergence of the rain'.
'I am afraid it is a common occurrence during this time of the year'.
'Common occurrence? What do you mean?'
'The storm, sir. I am referring to the storm, naturally'.
'It must be the long hours and travelling that have made me weary and a bit confused. Good night'.
'Good night, sir'.
When I returned to my chamber, I tried to repose, but the storm intensified with the roaring thunder. It seemed the storm was interminable. I became restless as I sat on the bed. It was then that I heard a giggling voice, as the doorknob was once more turned from side to side. I proceeded with the utmost caution and heightened intrigue.
As I reached the door, the giggling halted as well as the turning of the doorknob. I was resolute to unmask the obfuscating mystery of the house. The solution was to obtain a key that would open the door of the private room of the late Miss Margaret. I was aware that the servants would go in and out of the rooms; all except this particular room.
There was a huge fireplace with a distinctive mantel that dominated the parlour, whilst a tiny scullery was located on the other side. I knew the servants had retired to their quarters. Thus, I cautiously walked towards the scullery discreetly, but it was locked. I returned to my chamber to ponder how I could open the door. The idea of using a coat hanger entered my mind.
I quickly went to the wardrobe to find one. The chamber I was staying in had shelving, a desk, and a dressing table as well. I pulled one out and immediately thought about heading to the mysterious room, but for some strange reason, I was locked from inside by someone unannounced.
The storm began to unnerve me more as I tried to concentrate on what my next step should be. If I called out to the stranger, I would awaken suspicion—and the servants too. I paced the floor of the room, thinking about the enigma of the mansion that was attached to the death of the daughter of Mr Dickinson. I paced and paced more by the minute until I could bear no more.
I was resolute to solve the pending mystery. In the morning, I would try to open the door of the chamber of Miss Dickinson. I slept very little that night, for the storm disquieted my night and troubled my mental faculties. The following morning, I was awakened by the noise of the servants who were up and about, doing their daily duties. Unbeknownst to me, someone had unlocked the door of my room. My immediate thoughts were of gaining entrance to the room, but I had to remind myself that I had to deal with the matter that had brought me to the Dickinson Estate in the first place—the business of the property.
My carriage was being prepared as I bided my time anxiously. I was supposed to head to Cambridge after all. I knew that I had some time in between my expected departure. I then proceeded to go to the room and was able to open the door. I made certain that nobody was observing me.
Once I entered stealthily, I saw a mahogany chest of drawers, with a trace of magenta blood next to the brass bed. The windows were shut tight and the blue draperies were closed. The furniture was polished and had remained in superb condition, but there was something noticeable in the room that stood out—a lone wooden rocking chair.
A peculiar sentiment prevailed over me. It was one of a haunting intuition that brought a cold chill down my tingling spine. I was uncertain of the reason for this awkward sensation I was experiencing. As I approached to investigate further the mystery, the rocking chair began to move side to side suddenly. I could hear the sound of the chair in clear movement.
I stopped in my steps for a moment before I advanced. When I did, the rocking chair ceased its inexplicable movement. A daunting silence occurred next that discomfited me. I felt a queer breath upon the bare nape of my neck, of a creepy presence—an invisible and unknown stranger.
Something or someone had entered the room uninvited and had arrested my attention. Abruptly, the creak of a floorboard broke the silence and interrupted the sequence of events. The breathing intensified as I started to walk back towards the entrance of the room, but the door had closed.
When I turned around, at last I saw the guise of the hideous ghost that was the late Margaret, the daughter of Mr Dickinson. At first, the ghost was no more than a sudden chill drifting in the air, a shimmer of ethereal mist diffused. The wallpaper began to peel with the rising damp, becoming slightly out of focus, like an undeveloped photograph revealed.
When the mysterious figure formed into a shape of matter, it was a corporeal revenant that I descried. I could discern the shape of a female being with long, flowing black silk hair, wearing a black dress as one would wear on the occasion of a funeral. Her pale lineaments were tangibly recognised within the decomposition, but it was her dark opal-shaped eyes that mesmerised me as she stared into mine. A loud, vociferous screech came from her dried lips and mouth.
It was the voice of a young woman with the rasping tones of death. The words she uttered sounded like 'Get out!' It was enough to discompose me into an unsettling state of mind. The ghost then disappeared into the air with celerity. I banged on the door as loudly as I could with all my force until the door was opened by none other than Mr Dickinson himself, who stood there observing me with a sarcastic grin on his face. It was indeed an unexpected sight to see him standing there so imposing.
For a moment, it almost appeared as though I were staring into the face of the devil. My pulse was rapid and my heart was pounding and pounding in my obvious apprehension.
'Good God, you startled me, Mr Dickinson. I did not see you standing there in front of the door'.
'Your curiosity got the better of you, Mr Langford. You could not keep your nose out of where it did not belong, could you?'
'What I have seen in this room is beyond any family secret. Bloody hell, I have seen the ghost of some poor wretch. What was it that I saw? What is the secret you are hiding in this room, Mr Dickinson?'
'If I told you the whole story, you would not understand, Mr Langford. It is the curse that haunts me since Margaret died'.
I looked into his piercing eyes and saw a darkness I had never seen before in any man. 'What curse are you talking about? Are you referring to your daughter, Margaret?'
He proceeded to escort me outside to a damp and dreary setting behind the gloomy garden. There, in a solitary grave, lay the body of the late Margaret Dickinson. There was a legible epitaph in bold letters written on the precious tombstone of Plutonic rock. A lone red rose was placed over the grim tombstone. The inscription read: 'Here lieth the body of the late Margaret Dickinson Jordan, daughter of Joshua and Martha Dickinson. Born 1880, died 1903'.
'I am afraid I don’t know what this proves exactly, except for the fact that she is dead, Mr Dickinson?'
'There is more to the story, Mr Langford. Be patient'.
'I wish I were a patient man, but you must surely understand that at this moment, I am more flustered than patient'.
'Understandable. What I have failed to reveal, and what I have kept from you as a family secret, is the fact that I killed my daughter, Margaret. I had to'.
My reaction was one of utter shock and disbelief. 'What are you saying, Mr Dickinson?'
He began to relate his tale of absolute horror and dread. 'I could not allow her to bear a bastard child unmarried. Thus, I had her womb mutilated, and she ultimately bled to death in the same room that I have kept closed since that awful day of her death. You must surely understand that what I did, I did for the sake of my reputation'.
'And for the sake of your daughter? What of her? Good God, do you realise what you are telling me? You murdered your own daughter. You have committed a bloody crime—a senseless one—all for the sake of your foolish need to preserve your untarnished reputation'.
'You do not have a child, Mr Langford. How dare you question my honour. My family descends from a long line of proud ancestors. I could not allow that lineage to be tarnished by a bastard child born out of wedlock. She was like the whore of her mother. She too had cheated on me—and I murdered her as well'.
'And the child? Where is the unborn child buried?'
'In an unmarked grave'.
'How long did you think you could hide this secret?'
'Forever, if I had to. The police believe she committed suicide. There is no further proof that she was killed'.
I began to walk away. 'You don’t expect me to be an accomplice to this macabre event?'
As I did so, Mr Dickinson pulled a pistol from his coat and pointed it directly at me before uttering, 'Stop there, Mr Langford—you do not think I can let you walk away so easily, knowing what you know now'.
'You said before that the case was declared a suicide. Who would believe me if I told them you killed your daughter? What evidence do I have to contradict that?'
'True, but I cannot take the chance that someday soon you might convince the authorities. It is with a regrettable sigh that I must also kill you, Mr Langford. The sad irony of it all is that I was beginning to like you'.
He ordered me to walk several kilometres ahead into the forest, where he then told me to halt. I knew as I walked that he would ultimately murder me. I knew I had to act quickly if I were to save myself from the clutches of death. The forest appeared to be the ideal place to commit a crime and not be noticed by anyone—particularly any unwelcome onlooker lurking nearby.
'Stop here. This is a perfect spot. Who will hear the shots? Not a soul, if I am not mistaken'.
'What if you are wrong? Will you take that risk?' I asked him desperately.
'I suppose it is a risk I must take. You see, Mr Langford, the consequence supersedes the risk. It is, I am afraid, that simple'.
As he was about to shoot me, the sound of rustling leaves being stepped upon could be heard, as if someone were approaching. I quickly seized the moment and attempted to flee, but I would not get far before he found me and ordered me to return with him to the house.
His visible gait posed no problem in locating me, as he knew the area better than I did. To my chagrin, I was unfamiliar with the surroundings and unable to hide effectively from his menace for long. I had no choice but to acquiesce unwillingly. With his pistol at my back, he escorted me back into the house once again.
There were no servants in sight, as though it had all been planned—including my cold-blooded execution. He led me into the corridor leading to the cellar below, but something very unusual then occurred—something of an ineffable nature. As we reached the door of the cellar, it would not open. Mr Dickinson tried and tried to open it, but to no avail. It was then that the sound of deep breathing could be heard, and footsteps of a stranger drew closer to us with each passing second. Mr Dickinson paused for a moment to listen, sensing the presence of a familiar foe.
It was—lo and behold—his deceased daughter, Miss Margaret.
‘I know it is you, Margaret. Have you come back to take me? If you have, then take me. Forgive me for the sin I have committed against you. I have been haunted ever since that day’, confessed Mr Dickinson.
I looked on, incredulous and filled with the utmost consternation, as I saw then the spectral guise, drenched in the moisture of the soil in which she was buried, wearing the garments she had borne on that tragic day of her death. Those unforgettable, piercing eyes could not be so easily dismissed. She stared into my eyes for a brief moment, and then, like a sudden bolt of lightning, she rushed towards Mr Dickinson. She stood before the very man who had killed her—her father, once beloved.
‘Margaret…I did what I had to do to save you and preserve the family's honour’.
No words were uttered in reply, save for one chilling word: ‘Father.’ Then came the dreadful scream—a mad daughter's wail of vengeance for her betrayal. The ghost of Miss Margaret seized him and pierced his heart with a sharp dagger.
Mr Dickinson fell to the floor; the dagger had ended his life instantly. I stared on, utterly amazed, uncertain whether I might be the next victim. Yet, the ghastly apparition allowed me to live. Suddenly, the sound of a crying infant echoed from Miss Margaret’s secret room. She passed by me and made her way towards it. I gathered my courage and followed her, my heart hammering against my ribs as though it would burst.
The air grew colder with every step I took, the walls of the ancient house closing in around me like a suffocating tomb. I hesitated on the threshold, torn between dread and morbid curiosity.
When I reached the room, the door stood open, and I stepped inside. What I saw next is something I alone am witness to—a dreadful occurrence beyond belief. Miss Margaret sat in a rocking chair, moving back and forth as she cradled her dead infant in her arms. The child, too, was drenched in that awful grave-soil and bore the same deathly stench as its mother.
I gazed into her eyes as she stared into mine, her hollow expression both accusing and mournful. Then, as if some invisible signal had been given, she began to hum a lullaby—a haunting, fractured melody that filled the room with a melancholy more profound than words. I dared not move, riveted by the spectral performance, until at last, she faded into obscurity, her form dissolving like mist at dawn.
The rocking chair continued to sway long after she had disappeared, as though moved by phantom hands. What remained behind, as a token of this unbelievable story, was a silver brooch with an embroidered red rose at its centre, resting on the seat of the chair.
For a brief moment, the rose bled—a single crimson droplet weeping from its heart—before the bleeding ceased. I took a deep breath, my body quaking with exhaustion and fear, and left the room, every step an act of will.
As I stepped out into the hallway, I felt the oppressive weight of the house press down on me. Shadows danced on the walls, and the silent corridors seemed to whisper secrets I dared not hear. Yet I pressed on, my only thought to flee this place of horrors. Outside, I turned back once, out of instinctive curiosity, casting one last glance at the forlorn house. There, eldritch figures of marble angels stood sentinel, their mournful eyes seeming to glisten with spectral tears that shimmered in the moonlight.
I quickly made my way to my carriage and departed the Dickinson Estate, vowing never to return, whilst a cold breeze brushed against my face and hair—a ghostly caress, as if to remind me of its indelible presence. What I did not know with absolute certainty was whether the baleful curse had finally been lifted, or if the haunting shadow lingered still.
The sky overhead was a charcoal canopy, streaked with wisps of silver clouds, and the wind howled with an otherworldly cry. The horses pulling my carriage stamped nervously, as though sensing the unnatural energies that lingered around the estate. I climbed aboard hastily, urging the driver to depart at once. As we rolled away down the winding lane, I felt the cold breeze brush against my face and hair—a ghostly caress, as if to remind me of its indelible presence.
The journey back was a silent one. I could not sleep that night, nor the next. The images of Margaret, her child, and Mr Dickinson’s final moments played over and over in my mind, a macabre reel of sorrow and horror. I spent hours staring into the fireplace, hoping that the comforting warmth of its flames might burn away the chilling memories, but to no avail.
In the days that followed, strange occurrences began to plague me. Objects in my home shifted positions without explanation. At night, the soft creak of a rocking chair echoed from the corner of my room, even though no such chair existed there. Once, I awoke to find a single red rose placed delicately upon my nightstand—no vase, no note, just the rose, its petals dark as blood.
Was the curse now upon me? Had the horrors of the Dickinson Estate followed me back to my own doorstep? These questions haunted me with relentless persistence. I sought the counsel of clergymen, spiritualists, even physicians, but none could provide the solace or clarity I so desperately craved.
And now, as I pen these words, I find myself unable to shake the feeling that eyes—those same piercing eyes—are watching me still. What I do not know with absolute certainty is whether the baleful curse has, in the end, been lifted, or if the haunting shadow lingers on, waiting…ever patient, ever present.
One thing is clear: some doors, once opened, can never truly be close.
Months passed, and I tried to resume my life, though my nights remained sleepless and my days shadowed by unease. I thought I had managed to escape the full grip of that haunted experience until one autumn evening, when fate wove its cruel web once more.
I received a letter—a curious thing. The parchment was yellowed with age, and the handwriting delicate, flowing with an elegance not seen in modern correspondence. There was no return address, no indication of the sender, only a single line inscribed within:
'Return, and witness what must be witnessed'.
Against every rational instinct, something compelled me to heed the message. Perhaps it was morbid curiosity; perhaps it was an invisible thread of destiny pulling me back to that cursed place. As dusk bled into night, I found myself once again approaching the Dickinson Estate, the carriage wheels crunching over the frost-bitten path.
To my astonishment, the once-decaying house stood strangely restored. The broken windows were mended, the creeping ivy trimmed back. Candlelight flickered from within, casting warm glows against the panes. For a fleeting moment, it looked almost...inviting.
Hesitating at the gate, I was startled when it swung open by unseen hands. The same chill from before crept up my spine, but I pressed on, ascending the steps and pushing open the heavy oak door, which gave way without protest.
Inside, a transformation had taken place. The grand hall was immaculate, the chandeliers gleaming, the wooden floors polished to a lustrous shine. I wandered through the corridors, entranced and bewildered, until I reached the parlour, where a soft murmur of voices seemed to beckon me.
And there—seated by the fire—was Margaret.
But not the ghastly spectre of before. This Margaret was radiant, her skin glowing softly, her eyes gentle and human with the colour green. She cradled her infant, who now appeared peaceful, sleeping soundly in her arms.
Margaret’s eyes met mine, no longer piercing, but soulful and kind. She nodded slowly, as if to acknowledge my part in their tragic tale, and whispered, 'Thank you'.
A sense of profound calm settled over me, unlike anything I had felt since that dreadful night. The air seemed to shimmer, the room growing hazy as though veiled in mist. Slowly, the figures before me began to fade, their outlines dissolving into the ether. The fire dimmed, the warmth ebbed away, and silence reclaimed the house.
I stood alone once more.
Turning to leave, my eyes fell upon the rocking chair by the window. The silver brooch, with its embroidered red rose, now lay there again. This time, there was no blood—just the delicate gleam of silver catching the pale moonlight.
I left the house, stepping into the cool embrace of night, and as I glanced back one final time, I saw the marble angels outside. No longer weeping, their faces were serene, their eyes dry. A soft wind stirred the leaves around my feet, and for the first time, I felt a sense of closure, as if the lingering curse had finally been laid to rest.
And yet…as I departed, a distant whisper rode the wind:
“Do not come back…”
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