The Curse

Excerpt from the private journal of Philip Sanderson.

November 15th 1922.

I have always considered it strange how one image or scent, or product of any other sense can conjure up in the mind a whole combination of seemingly dissociated emotions. Such as the memory of one's Nurse, or one's first kiss, or the sight of an haunted house.

The house in question I have mentioned before in this journal. The ancestral home of the McCallum family, which lies just outside the small New England town in which I live. Only recently, however, have I decided to include here all that I know about the house, and in the light of today's events I deem now to be a good time at which to do so.

The house lies upon an open plane not half a mile from the outskirts of the town, though when it was originally built it must have been exceedingly isolated. As the town grew up the McCallum family are said to have shewn a great enthusiasm for their new neighbours, and have their names upon almost every publicly-funded building. They were disliked by nobody, until the turn of the century.

I have often referred to the house as being haunted. In the local legend that has grown up in the past twenty years or so, this phrase has been surprisingly absent. Perhaps the phrase "haunted house" causes too many impressions of ghoulish activities and forbidden acts, not in keeping with the popularity of the McCallums in local society. Perhaps if they had been a tyrannous dynasty of land owners this term may have been used, but for a popular local family such impressions are ill fitting.

A more accurate description of the place may be "cursed". Folk lore has never told of the mysterious disappearances or strange lights that may have been whispered of in a less modern society. People do not visit the old house simply out of respect for the dead, though I personally believe there is a small feeling that such a visit would be unwise.

The source of the curse is, however, well known. A middle aged gentleman of the town by the name of Edward Alexander, had shewn an interest in a young lady of the house. Elizabeth, the lady in question, was eighteen, and had met Mr Alexander at a performance of "The Tempest" at the Dramatic Society Hall (sponsored by her Father).

Mr Alexander was a known intellectual, but freely admitted to have an interest in Occult "Science" as he called it. This was deemed unworthy of the attentions of a young lady by Elizabeth's Father, and he regarded the friendship the grew up between the ill-matched couple with some suspicion. Similarly did many of the town's folk in the following months, and rumours were rife of a relationship that was likely to extend beyond friendship.

Mr Alexander paid frequent visits to the house, and was always treated cordially. He attended many dinners and formal occasions there as Elizabeth's guest, but although her Father was never unpleasant towards him, he must have known the increasing closeness between the two of them was not appreciated.

Being a man of means, Edward Alexander often flattered Elizabeth with beautiful presents from all around the world, and occasionally made gifts to the family. His greatest and most renown such gift was a set of cutlery, given on the first anniversary of he and Elizabeth's original meeting. Of most exquisite design and weight, he said he would be honoured if the family would accept his gift. Graciously they did so.

It was shortly after this presentation that the McCallum family made their first enemy. As had been expected by all the townspeople, Mr Alexander asked Mr McCallum Senior for the hand of his daughter in marriage, and as had been predicted Mr McCallum refused.

It is impossible to believe, from what I have heard and read, that Mr Alexander had not foreseen this refusal, but none the less he was both devastated and angered by it. He is said to have stormed from the house, cursing the whole household to a premature grave. Nothing more was seen of Mr Alexander; he disappeared the following day.

Much of the tale I have reported until now is based on hear say, albeit from people who experienced the events first hand at the time. Little of the rumour and speculation I have included here appeared in the press. All of the remaining events, however, are well documented by both the local newspapers, and various legal documents.

The first death in the household was one of the maids, but by this time many of the household were seriously ill. They appeared, according to the reports at the time, to be suffering from accelerated ageing, coupled with other symptoms. All suffered from feelings of weakness, and many complained of nausea. The staff of the house who became ill were permitted to return to their families. Numerous Doctors and Physicians were called in to try and find a cure and a cause, but were utterly unsuccessful on either count. They carried out every test on every article they could conceive, from the humblest pot to the elegant cutlery, but no poison or microbe could be traced. Everything was carefully sterilised and treated, but the Doctors felt it was probably too late to do anything. The house was made a place of quarantine, and all the staff who still could, left.

Talk started of Mr Alexander poisoning the family, but the Doctors soon quelled this idle chat, since no poison they knew of could induce the anaemic, warty, creeping plague affecting the most respected family for miles around.

It was then that a few of the less rational citizens began whispering of Mr Alexander's curse, which had been dismissed at the time as nothing more than an idle threat. The Doctors had a little more trouble dispelling this rumour. After all, Mr Alexander had been known to dabble with such things, and his curse, of which Mr McCallum had joked not a year ago, had mentioned "early death", or words to that effect.

But in either case, the local Police had been left with a problem. A man had been implicated in the strange events at the McCallum residence, who had since vanished. And so it was decided to obtain legal permission to search the seemingly abandoned house, to ascertain any links between Mr Alexander and the dying family.

The citizens of the town, however, were one step ahead of the police, and had already broken into the house when the officers arrived. Within the comfortable dwelling they found many signs of Edward Alexander's riches and travels. In these, however, they had no interest. The riches of such a villainous man were less than valueless; they were utterly shunned.

They soon found all the proof they needed of his villainy. Behind a locked oaken door they found stairs leading down to an underground room filled with occult paraphernalia and texts, as well as other, less identifiable objects.

And so was born the story of the curse. The last of the McCallum family, Joseph McCallum, died at the age of twenty-three barely eighteen months after the curse was laid. He had died looking like a man of eighty, withered and weakened, scarce able talk. None of those who had visited the house, or who had lived with the dying staff were affected, and no trace of poison was ever found. Even in these removed and more rational times I find it hard not to believe that something more sinister than Arsenic or Cyanide was at work.

All these facts have, naturally, been recorded in other places and at other times, but the reason I record them here and now, as I have said, is in the light of events that have occurred today.

Last night, after my wife had retired, I sat gazing out of my window as I often do. But last night, a clear early winter's night, as the moon rose steadily above the horizon it silhouetted the old house in a way that made my heart freeze. Not half a mile from my house here on the outskirts of the town in which I was born, and not twenty years ago, the entire line of the McCallum family was wiped out at the command of a single man. Then I resolved that I must see the inside of the place for myself.

And so, late this afternoon, I left for the old house. I had no clear concept of what I might do or see once there, but I had resolved to be the first man to enter that house in two decades.

As I arrived at the main gate of the property, I found it locked. This came as no disappointment to me since I knew the railings around the place were principally for decoration; security had been no consideration when it had been constructed. I climbed quickly over, and stood before the house.

The mansion itself stood on a slight rise which put it barely above the level of the surrounding fence. I stood yet a way off, and the aspect of the house was as chilling now as it must have been lovely on the day it was finished. As I have said, I find it incredible how one image can conjure up a whole range of emotions, which should not be associated with that image.

The brickwork, during the day a luxuriant orange red, now as the crimson colour of blood in the fading dusk. The lush ivy growing upon the walls almost appeared as coarse hair, giving the place the overwhelming impression of a long dead beast.

Leading up to the house was a straight drive, with tall, lean trees now stripped of leaves by the fall. And to the left and right low mounds each capped with a broken stump, or so at first I thought.

Not stumps, but rough hewn wooden crosses, each bearing the name of an unfortunate McCallum hurriedly painted on, haste presumably due to the undertaker's wish to leave this cursed place. And a cursed place, now, it certainly did seem. Closest to me I saw the name of Elizabeth McCallum.

Ahead, as I walked pensively up the silent drive, lay the house. The moon was just beginning to shew above the horizon, and I felt sure that in the moonlight the scene would take on a more wholesome look, loosing its sinister colouring.

The wooden door, panelled and studded, was unlocked when I tried it, and opened easily and silently inwards. From within came no sound; no scurrying of rats or flapping of bats. I stepped inside, closed the door behind me, and all was darkness.

With me I had bought a paraffin lamp to light my way, deeming that my flashlight would have been too bright and cumbersome not to arouse suspicion. A ridiculous thought on reflection; anybody seeing me stealing up the drive would have assumed my intentions, and a flashlight would merely have confirmed them.

I struck a match, which after a momentary burst burnt steadily in the still, dry air. The house had obviously stood well these two decades, and remained perfectly weatherproof.

Lighting the lantern, I took a moment to glance around. My eyes were already accustomed to the gloom, and I was forced to dim the light a little to ease my sight. Ahead of me was an open hall, and slightly to my left (or right, I forget which), a stairway led up to the balcony of the second floor. I had resolved to make a complete search of the place, and decided to start on the first floor with the door nearest to me, until I noticed that a little further away a door stood slightly ajar, with a dim light escaping from within.

I approached the door and drew it open. A bright shaft of silver light shone into my face, seeming as the brightest daylight compared with the dull beams of my lamp. The moonlight shone across the hallway, picking out tiny motes of dust I had disturbed by opening the door. I placed the lantern on the floor, having decided it an unnecessary encumbrance, and entered the room.

It was the dining room. Before me was a long, oak dinner table, with eight places fully laid for a meal. Only one of the places, at the head of the table opposite me, shewed any signs of having been used. At that place a plate was set, with the remains of the last meal of the last of the McCallums. A wineglass still appeared full, but as I approached I realised it only contained dust and a red, dry deposit. The chair was skewed slightly to one side, and on the floor I noticed a fork had been dropped.

I bent down to pick it up, and was immediately struck by the sheer weight of the thing. I come from a family of modest wealth, and had rarely handled fine silverware. But nothing I had ever seen in even the most lavish restaurants could compare with this. I placed it back on the table, and noticed that whoever (presumably Joseph McCallum) had not used the knife which still lay in its place.

Suddenly, I desired to have this silverware. There, on a table against the wall, was the canteen from whence the cutlery must have come. And so I began carefully loading every item back into its place. When I had finished, I had found not a spoon missing, and each piece fitted perfectly into its red velvet lined place.

My only wish now was to carry this beautiful find home. Thoughts of theft were far from my mind. There was no member of the family left to lay a claim on a single item in this house. And I had as much right to its possession as any man. My only concern was the curse. Perhaps it had been laid on this cutlery, such that anybody eating with it would be struck down. Nonsense! Had not an humble maid been the first victim of the magic?

I left my lantern, still burning, where I had put it. I would have no need of it on my brightly moonlit journey home. Also, I had no way to carry it since my prize required both my arms and nearly all my strength to lift. Finally, of course, I had no wish to be seen leaving the place. I resolved to make a far stealthier exit than my entrance.

To this end, I did not follow the long drive which was brightly lit by the light of the moon, now having climbed a little higher above the horizon. It was, though, still low enough to cast a long shadow of the house almost perpendicular to the drive, and so I stole silently back across the unkempt, long grass that surrounded the house.

I am sure I passed undetected home, the drawing in of winter keeping most people of the town in past nightfall. After relating the story to my wife, I sat down to write this entry. I think she will forgive me my foolishness in time.

Letter from H.J. Fenton & Sons (Auctioneers) to Mrs. J. Sanderson dated June 3rd 1924.