Hello Doctor. I recently spoke to your associate, a Mr. Young, and he led me to believe that you might be interested in my story. I know that every old building, manor house or castle in England has its resident ghost story, but what I saw was no faintly floating apparition or tourist-friendly myth, but an entirely corporeal horror that I have never forgotten.
Visiting Athelhampton House was the final thing on my holiday agenda that day and, it being winter, it was already dark by the time I arrived. This suited me just fine, as the warm lamplight bathing the house gave a cosy air to what could otherwise have been an austere, cold-looking facade.
I entered the building through an oak and marble hallway and meandered from royal bedrooms to grand dining rooms, following the route laid out in the visitor’s pamphlet. I stopped occasionally to snap a photograph or two on my little disposable camera, which were more commonplace at that time. Everything is digital nowadays, of course. No more running out of film or waiting to have your prints developed. I was able to get some good pictures, as the late hour meant that most visitors had already been and gone and I didn’t have to worry about someone blundering into my shot.
I had been in the house for about an hour and was thinking to myself that my tour must soon be coming to an end when, as I strolled down a long empty picture gallery, a room off to the side caught my attention. It was very brightly lit, much more so than I had seen elsewhere and, in the doorway, I saw a velvet rope. There had been many of these throughout the house, blocking entrances and elegantly indicating to visitors that some areas were off-limits.
This one, however, was only hooked up on one side, with the rope trailing aimlessly on the floor. I guessed that a member of staff had perhaps been obliged to pass through and had not yet returned and I certainly did not really believe that this room was suddenly open to visitors. However, it also meant that I had a pleasing opportunity to have a look into a restricted room with a good excuse for being there, should I be discovered.
I approached the doorway and stepped carefully inside.
I’m not really sure what I expected to find. A space in use by the resident family? A horde of fascinating curiosities? Perhaps. However, to my slight disappointment, the room was empty. There was a wooden door in front of me, slightly ajar, and on the wall to my left, another doorway was blocked by an iron grate bolted securely to the stone. I looked at it, puzzled. From markings on the stonework beside the doorway, it seemed as though a normal door had once hung here. Why it had been replaced with this ugly lump of metalwork, I couldn’t begin to guess.
On the other side of the grate was a short narrow hallway, also brightly lit and bare. After a short distance, it dropped away down a staircase to who knows where? Servants’ quarters, perhaps? A cellar? A dungeon?
Did stately homes have dungeons? Probably not.
I walked over and peered through the bars, standing on my tiptoes to see if I could see any distance down the stairs. And then I nearly jumped out of my skin when a voice behind me said:
‘Careful, love.’
I spun around and saw an elderly lady standing by the door that had been left open. She was dressed in the same blue shirt as other members of staff that I’d seen, and wore a small name tag that introduced her as Margaret.
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ I said, blushing a little. ‘Am I not supposed to be in here? It’s just that…the rope…’ I gestured a little pathetically towards the doorway and my excuse.
Margaret looked over at it, her blue eyes twinkling. She smiled at me.
‘No, no,’ she said. ‘My mistake. But, yes, this room is off limits.’
I moved back towards the hallway, stammering another apology.
The old woman waved it away. ‘It’s quite alright, young lady. No harm done.’
I paused at the doorway and, seeing that Margaret seemed to be a friendly sort, decided to push my luck a little.
‘Do you mind if I ask what’s behind the grate?’
‘Oh!’ She exclaimed. ‘That’s just the staircase that leads down to the man with too many eyes!’
I stood still for some seconds, staring at her. Then I said, ‘The man…with too many eyes.’
‘Yes,’ she said, in a cheerful voice. ‘He’s all sorts of trouble, which is why we have to leave all the lights on. He can’t stand the light. Because of all the eyes.’ She was nodding her head enthusiastically as she spoke, her grey curls bobbing up and down.
I scrabbled for the pamphlet in my bag.
‘I don’t recall reading about that story,’ I mumbled. ‘Um…is it a recent legend?’
‘I’m not sure,’ answered Margaret. ‘He’s been here as long as I have, and likely a lot longer. Most people don’t know about him, of course. I probably shouldn’t have told you! And of those that do know, they don’t like to come near his rooms because of… well… all the trouble.’
I followed her gaze to the floor near the grate and saw a large scratch in the wood, and a stain where something dark had been spilled. Margaret was staring at me, her blue eyes wide and earnest.
‘I come in every night to check that the lights are on. They’re well maintained, of course, by people braver than me, but it never hurts to check!’ She pointed at the grate. ‘That’s just a temporary measure, until they replace the door.’
‘What happened to the door?’ I asked. She opened her mouth to answer, but didn’t get the chance.
Because the lights went out.
I flinched in the sudden darkness and looked out into the hallway, towards the windows. No light came through and, with no moon that night, we found ourselves standing in absolute blackness.
‘I think there’s been a power cut,’ I ventured.
‘Oh dear,’ replied Margaret, her voice a little slow, almost dreamy.
I intended to say something comforting, maybe that the power would surely be restored soon. Perhaps I could attempt to lead her out to the hallway where I vaguely remembered there being seating.
But I said nothing because, in the silence of my hesitation, I became aware of a noise. I listened intently and realised I was hearing the sound of running coming from the direction of the metal grate, of bare feet moving in long strides over stone, followed by the fast step of someone moving up stairs.
As the footsteps grew nearer, I could hear that they were accompanied by another sound, like heavy breathing or grunting. Something hungry and desperate.
I cowered back against the wall, one hand pressed against my chest, my eyes locked on the darkness ahead of me, unseeing but expecting. And then there was a loud metallic crash and I realised that the approaching entity had collided violently with the metal grate.
Beside me, Margaret again whispered, ‘Oh dear.’
The footsteps had stopped but the sound of awful breathing continued, somewhere directly ahead of me and only held back by a metal grate that suddenly seemed horribly insufficient. As the seconds passed in the blackness, and I stood frozen in fear, the awful grunting grew louder, alternating between drawn out grunts and rapid gasps of exertion.
An idea formed in my mind, and I dropped my hand to my pocket, drawing out my little camera. I raised it up in front of me, pointed it towards the noise and pressed the shutter.
The flash exploded into the room, momentarily bathing it in a bright cold light.
I saw the man.
I saw his wide mouth and I saw his eyes, all those horrible eyes.
And I saw impossibly long arms stretching through the grate some fifteen feet in front of us, his fingers mere inches from my face. Saw them recoil back into the figure as he shielded himself from the filament’s glare.
I screamed and flung myself to the side. I heard his wailing cry of pain and, once again, the sound of running, this time away from us heading back down the stairs.
I sat frozen on the floor, my back planted against the wall, blind once more but with the horrendous image of what I had just seen burned into my eyes.
I heard Margaret nearby whispering something to herself, over and over, her voice soft and trembling.
But I didn’t pay her much attention as on the edges of my hearing came, once more… the footsteps.
They were slower this time, more cautious. Moving back this way.
I reached out a flailing hand in the darkness and grabbed Margaret, feeling her flinch and hearing her cry out and then, staggering to my feet, I began to move back towards where I remembered the hall doorway being.
I reached out blindly in front of me, my breath heavy and fast. I tried to move as quickly as I could, horribly aware of the approaching footsteps and those desperate hungry grunts…
And then the lights came back on.
A scream tore the air, louder than before, screeching its agony out into the world. My head snapped around back towards the grate but, suddenly blinded by the brightness, I saw nothing.
Just the sound of wailing and receding footsteps into the dark belly of the house.
Margaret and I walked hand in hand back to the entrance, neither of us saying anything. I deposited her into the caring hands of a colleague whose scared expression suggested that she too know what lurked beneath this fine building.
Then I drove home.
If you’re wondering about the photo that I took… it came out surprisingly well. I had it developed and I enclose it here for your examination. Sometimes I used to take it out and look at it, though never for long. His face is somewhat obscured by those otherworldly arms but, perhaps, if you’re braver than me, you can try to count his eyes…
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