A Bottomless Grave Read online

  DOVER THRIFT EDITIONS FICTION

  FLATLAND: A ROMANCE OF MANY DIMENSIONS, EDWIN A. ABBOTT. (0-486-27263-X)

  PRIDE AND PREJUDICE, JANE AUSTEN. (0-86-28473-5)

  PERSUASION, JANE AUSTEN. (0-486-29555-9)

  SENSE AND SENSIBILITY, JANE AUSTEN. (0-486-29049-2)

  EMMA, JANE AUSTEN. (0-486-40648-2)

  JANE EYRE, CHARLOTTE BRONTË. (0-486-42449-9)

  WUTHERING HEIGHTS, EMILY BRONTË. (0-486-29256-8)

  ALICE’S ADVENTURES IN WONDERLAND, LEWIS CARROLL. (0-486-27543-4)

  MY ÁNTONIA, WILLA CATHER. (0-486-28240-6)

  THE AWAKENING, KATE CHOPIN. (0-486-27786-0)

  HEART OF DARKNESS, JOSEPH CONRAD. (0-486-26464-5)

  THE RED BADGE OF COURAGE, STEPHEN CRANE. (0-486-26465-3)

  A CHRISTMAS CAROL, CHARLES DICKENS. (0-486-26865-9)

  DAVID COPPERFIELD, CHARLES DICKENS. (0-486-43665-9)

  GREAT EXPECTATIONS, CHARLES DICKENS. (0-486-41586-4)

  A TALE OF TWO CITIES, CHARLES DICKENS. (0-486-40651-2)

  CRIME AND PUNISHMENT, FYODOR DOSTOYEVSKY. TRANSLATED BY CONSTANCE GARNETT. (0-486-41587-2)

  THE BROTHERS KARAMAZOV, FYODOR DOSTOYEVSKY. TRANSLATED BY CONSTANCE GARNETT. (0-486-43791-4)

  THE HOUND OF THE BASKERVILLES, ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE. (0-486-28214-7)

  THE SCARLET LETTER, NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. (0-486-28048-9)

  THE GIFT OF THE MAGI AND OTHER SHORT STORIES, O. HENRY. (0-486-27061-0)

  SIDDHARTHA, HERMANN HESSE. (0-486-40653-9)

  THE ILIAD, HOMER. (0-486-40883-3)

  THE ODYSSEY, HOMER. (0-486-40654-7)

  THE TURN OF THE SCREW, HENRY JAMES. (0-486-26684-2)

  A PORTRAIT OF THE ARTIST AS A YOUNG MAN, JAMES JOYCE. (0-486-28050-0)

  DUBLINERS, JAMES JOYCE. (0-486-26870-5)

  THE METAMORPHOSIS AND OTHER STORIES, FRANZ KAFKA. (0-486-29030-1)

  THE CALL OF THE WILD, JACK LONDON. (0-486-26472-6)

  MOBY-DICK, HERMAN MELVILLE. (0-486-43215-7)

  GREAT SHORT SHORT STORIES: QUICK READS BY GREAT WRITERS, EDITED BY PAUL NEGRI. (0-486-44098-2)

  GREAT AMERICAN SHORT STORIES, EDITED BY PAUL NEGRI. (0-486-42119-8)

  THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL, BARONESS ORCZY. (0-486-42122-8)

  THE GOLD-BUG AND OTHER TALES, EDGAR ALLAN POE. (0-486-26875-6)

  FRANKENSTEIN, MARY SHELLEY. (0-486-28211-2)

  THE JUNGLE, UPTON SINCLAIR. (0-486-41923-1)

  Copyright

  Copyright © 1977 by Hugh Lamb

  All rights reserved.

  Bibliographical Note

  This Dover edition, first published in 2001, is a slightly corrected, unabridged republication of the work originally published in 1977 by Taplinger Publishing Company, New York, under the title Victorian Nightmares.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  A bottomless grave and other Victorian tales of terror / edited by Hugh Lamb.

  p. cm.

  Rev. ed. of: Victorian nightmares. 1977.

  9780486114378

  1. Horror tales, English. 2. English fiction—19th century. I. Lamb, Hugh. II. Victorian nightmares.

  PR1309.H6 B68 2001

  823’.0873808’09034—dc21

  00-047373

  Manufactured in the United States by Courier Corporation

  41590203

  www.doverpublications.com

  For a good friend, Auntie Liz,

  and her magic certificate

  Table of Contents

  DOVER THRIFT EDITIONS FICTION

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Editor’s Foreword

  The Devil of the Marsh

  A Tragic Honeymoon

  The Battle of the Monsters

  The Return

  The Corpse Light

  The Ship that saw a Ghost

  A Bottomless Grave and One Summer Night

  Ghosts that have Haunted Me

  Haunted by Spirits

  A Ghost Slayer

  The Tomb

  The Man with the Nose

  My Nightmare

  A Life-Watch

  The Haunted Chair

  Coolies

  The Three Souls

  A Strange Goldfield

  An Alpine Divorce

  The Story of Baelbrow

  Editor’s Foreword

  Proving that you can’t please everyone, a newspaper reviewer of Victorian Tales of Terror, my first volume in what I hope will be a modest series of books, remarked that the Victorian era held many fine ghost and horror stories but anthologies have dredged it almost dry by now. He held in his hands the instant refutation of his own argument, for that first volume contained, as the other two have, fine stories that have been totally ignored since their original Victorian publication.

  But that reviewer was merely reciting (and further propagating) an old canard: that the Victorian ghost story and the tale of terror have now been thoroughly researched and the best examples all reprinted. The fact is that nothing could be further from the truth. For far too many years, anthologists have been content to reprint the same old Victorian stories, good though they may be, and not bothering to dig even a fraction deeper to find more unreprinted tales which can be found; bear in mind that my three volumes of Victorian tales of terror have only used the best of those I found. And I can promise more anthologies along the same lines.

  A friendly reader wrote and asked exactly how I manage to find these old rare stories. It would be nice, I suppose, to say that I retire once a year to a darkened room, draw a pentacle, and with the aid of a certain gentleman whose book I had signed in my own blood, conjure up a pile of forgotten stories, covered in dust... but alas, nothing so glamorous. To find the tales in this and the first two volumes entailed nothing more or less than hard work. It means continuous reading, of old books of short stories in the hope of finding some nugget, of old journals in the same hope; it means haunting bookshops and junk shops; it means studying old catalogues and digging out likely names; it means long hours in the library looking at such light reading material as the British Museum book catalogue.

  But there again, it also means the thrill of discovery, the satisfaction of putting a copy of an old tale in the file and knowing that you are so many more thousand words on the way to the next book’s completion. It means the sudden excitement of realising that some dreary old book of short stories actually contains one tale worth reprinting. It means that nice sensation when you find that the tatty book on the dealer’s shelf, with the unreadable spine that you almost passed over without bothering to examine, is in fact a volume of Victorian stories that you’ve been chasing for months.

  In short, the preparation of these anthologies means two things: hard work and satisfaction. And I might add that the latter is what will make me produce more volumes in this vein, for the letters I receive from readers make it clear that Victorian tales of terror are still popular and those faithful readers of such works know what they want—and they don’t want the same old stories again and again.

  And so to Victorian Nightmares, our third excursion into the realms of the macabre tales of Victoria’s reign. The usual criteria apply: these are rare stories, either previously unanthologised or out of print for many years. Of the twenty-one stories, only four have appeared in a similar work before, and one is appearing for the first time in English in this country.

  Some famous names make an appearance in these pages, among them Ambrose Bierce, Richard Marsh, Guy de Maupassant and Guy Boothby. From the other side of the Atlantic there are Frank Norris, J. K. Bangs and Morgan Robertson, and from the other side
of the Channel, Erckmann-Chatrian with a tale forgotten for over a hundred years.

  Some fine English authors are included, fairly well known in other fields, but here contributing rare tales of terror. They include G. R. Sims, H. B. Marriott-Watson, George Manville Fenn, Robert Barr and R. Murray Gilchrist. And to round off this anthology, some forgotten names with forgotten stories, such as Dorothea Gerard, J. Keighley Snowden, W. Carlton Dawe and Georgina C. Clark.

  Victorian Nightmares await you—they’re strong stuff, for the Victorians liked their thrills in undiluted measures. They also liked an occasional laugh, so you will find herein a trio of their humorous ghost stories. But the accent is on terror, Victorian terror, and in its day, there was nothing better, as you’ll find out.

  As always, my thanks are due to those who have helped me gather together these assorted Victorian bad dreams. I would like to thank in particular the staff of Sutton Public Library, who still manage an incredible success ratio for finding old books for me. I am indebted to Robert Aickman for his generous help in obtaining the story by Richard Marsh, and for his assistance with information on his grandfather. For their help with the hard work of tracing biographical details of authors, my especial thanks to my friend Mike Ashley, and to Pamela Redknap of the National Book League. And to the readers, who have made it clear that my efforts are indeed appreciated, the sincerest gratitude of all. I hope the result is worthwhile.

  HUGH LAMB

  Sutton, Surrey

  The Devil of the Marsh

  by H. B. MARRIOTT-WATSON

  Nightmares I promised you and nightmares you shall have. For a start, try this exceedingly creepy vignette from the end of the Victorian era, by one of the time’s most prolific authors.

  H. B. Marriott-Watson (1863—1921) was born in New Zealand and made his way to England in 1885. He soon succeeded in his chosen profession, journalism, eventually becoming editor of the Pall Mall Gazette. In addition to his press work, Watson also wrote over fifty novels and books of short stories. Among his more notable collections were Alarums and Excursions (1903) and The Heart of Miranda (1898). As with many of his contemporaries, he tried his hand at the occasional ghost story and ‘The Devil of the Marsh’, from his 1893 collection Diogenes of London, shows considerable talent. From the very first sentence we are in the land of the dead, where a master of his craft leads us through a genuine waking nightmare.

  It was nigh upon dusk when I drew close to the Great Marsh, and already the white vapours were about, riding across the sunken levels like ghosts in a churchyard. Though I had set forth in a mood of wild delight, I had sobered in the lonely ride across the moor and was now uneasily alert. As my horse jerked down the grassy slopes that fell away to the jaws of the swamp I could see thin streams of mist rise slowly, hover like wraiths above the long rushes, and then, turning gradually more material, go blowing heavily away across the flat. The appearance of the place at this desolate hour, so remote from human society and so darkly significant of evil presences, struck me with a certain wonder that she should have chosen this spot for our meeting. She was a familiar of the moors, where I had invariably encountered her; but it was like her arrogant caprice to test my devotion by some such dreary assignation. The wide and horrid prospect depressed me beyond reason, but the fact of her neighbourhood drew me on, and my spirits mounted at the thought that at last she was to put me in possession of herself Tethering my horse upon the verge of the swamp, I soon discovered the path that crossed it, and entering struck out boldly for the heart. The track could have been little used, for the reeds, which stood high above the level of my eyes upon either side, straggled everywhere across in low arches, through which I dodged, and broke my way with some inconvenience and much impatience. A full half-hour I was solitary in that wilderness, and when at last a sound other than my own footsteps broke the silence the dusk had fallen.

  I was moving very slowly at the time, with a mind half disposed to turn from the melancholy expedition, which it seemed to me now must surely be a cruel jest she had played upon me. While some such reluctance held me, I was suddenly arrested by a hoarse croaking which broke out upon my left, sounding somewhere from the reeds in the black mire. A little further it came again from close at hand, and when I had passed on a few more steps in wonder and perplexity, I heard it for the third time. I stopped and listened, but the marsh was as a grave, and so taking the noise for the signal of some raucous frog, I resumed my way. But in a little the croaking was repeated, and coming quickly to a stand I pushed the reeds aside and peered into the darkness. I could see nothing, but at the immediate moment of my pause I thought I detected the sound of some body trailing through the rushes. My distaste for the adventure grew with this suspicion, and had it not been for my delirious infatuation I had assuredly turned back and ridden home. The ghastly sound pursued me at intervals along the track, until at last, irritated beyond endurance by the sense of this persistent and invisible company, I broke into a sort of run. This, it seemed, the creature (whatever it was) could not achieve, for I heard no more of it, and continued my way in peace. My path at length ran out from among the reeds upon the smooth flat of which she had spoken, and here my heart quickened, and the gloom of the dreadful place lifted. The flat lay in the very centre of the marsh, and here and there in it a gaunt bush or withered tree rose like a spectre against the white mists. At the further end I fancied some kind of building loomed up; but the fog which had been gathering ever since my entrance upon the passage sailed down upon me at that moment and the prospect went out with suddenness. As I stood waiting for the clouds to pass, a voice cried to me out of its centre, and I saw her next second with bands of mist swirling about her body, come rushing to me from the darkness. She put her long arms about me, and, drawing her close, I looked into her deep eyes. Far down in them, it seemed to me, I could discern a mystic laughter dancing in the wells of light, and I had that ecstatic sense of nearness to some spirit of fire which was wont to possess me at her contact.

  ‘At last,’ she said, ‘at last, my beloved!’ I caressed her.

  ‘Why,’ said I, tingling at the nerves, ‘why have you put this dolorous journey between us? And what mad freak is your presence in this swamp?’ She uttered her silver laugh, and nestled to me again.

  ‘I am the creature of this place,’ she answered. ‘This is my home. I have sworn you should behold me in my native sin ere you ravished me away.’

  ‘Come, then,’ said I; ‘I have seen; let there be an end of this. I know you, what you are. This marsh chokes up my heart. God forbid you should spend more of your days here. Come.’

  ‘You are in haste,’ she cried. ‘There is yet much to learn. Look, my friend,’ she said, ‘you who know me, what I am. This is my prison, and I have inherited its properties. Have you no fear?’

  For answer I pulled her to me, and her warm lips drove out the horrid humours of the night; but the swift passage of a flickering mockery over her eyes struck me as a flash of lightning, and I grew chill again.

  ‘I have the marsh in my blood,’ she whispered: ‘the marsh and the fog of it. Think ere you vow to me, for I am the cloud in a starry night.’

  A lithe and lovely creature, palpable of warm flesh, she lifted her magic face to mine and besought me plaintively with these words. The dews of the nightfall hung on her lashes, and seemed to plead with me for her forlorn and solitary plight.

  ‘Behold!’ I cried, ‘witch or devil of the marsh, you shall come with me! I have known you on the moors, a roving apparition of beauty; nothing more I know, nothing more I ask. I care not what this dismal haunt means; not what these strange and mystic eyes. You have powers and senses above me; your sphere and habits are as mysterious and incomprehensible as your beauty. But that’, I said, ‘is mine, and the world that is mine shall be yours also.’

  She moved her head nearer to me with an antic gesture, and her gleaming eyes glanced up at me with a sudden flash, the similitude (great heavens!) of a hooded snake. Starting, I fell
away, but at that moment she turned her face and set it fast towards the fog that came rolling in thick volumes over the flat. Noiselessly the great cloud crept down upon us, and all dazed and troubled I watched her watching it in silence. It was as if she awaited some omen of horror, and I too trembled in the fear of its coming.

  Then suddenly out of the night issued the hoarse and hideous croaking I had heard upon my passage. I reached out my arm to take her hand, but in an instant the mists broke over us, and I was groping in the vacancy. Something like panic took hold of me, and, beating through the blind obscurity, I rushed over the flat, calling upon her. In a little the swirl went by, and I perceived her upon the margin of the swamp, her arm raised as in imperious command. I ran to her, but stopped, amazed and shaken by a fearful sight. Low by the dripping reeds crouched a small squat thing, in the likeness of a monstrous frog, coughing and choking in its throat. As I stared, the creature rose upon its legs and disclosed a horrid human resemblance. Its face was white and thin, with long black hair; its body gnarled and twisted as with the ague of a thousand years. Shaking, it whined in a breathless voice, pointing a skeleton finger at the woman by my side.

  ‘Your eyes were my guide,’ it quavered. ‘Do you think that after all these years I have no knowledge of your eyes? Lo, is there aught of evil in you I am not instructed in? This is the Hell you designed for me, and now you would leave me to a greater.’

  The wretch paused, and panting leaned upon a bush, while she stood silent, mocking him with her eyes, and soothing my terror with her soft touch.

  ‘Hear!’ he cried, turning to me, hear the tale of this woman that you may know her as she is. She is the Presence of the marshes. Woman or Devil I know not, but only that the accursed marsh has crept into her soul and she herself is become its Evil Spirit; she herself, that lives and grows young and beautiful by it, has its full power to blight and chill and slay. I, who was once as you are, have this knowledge. What bones lie deep in this black swamp who can say but she? She has drained of health, she has drained of mind and of soul; what is between her and her desire that she should not drain also of life? She has made me a devil in her Hell, and now she would leave me to my solitary pain, and go search for another victim. But she shall not!’ he screamed through his chattering teeth; ‘she shall not! My Hell is also hers! She shall not!’