Ghosts and Scholars: Ghost Stories in the Tradition of M. R. James

THE HORN OF VAPULA Lewis Spence

Lewis Spence, renowned poet and folklorist, acquired a vast knowledge of the arcane and esoteric during his long career. Among his many books are a monumental Encyclopaedia of Occultism (1920) and a series of attractively bound volumes on the mythologies of Ancient Egypt, Babylonia and Assyria, Mexico and Peru, and other countries. He also contributed many fine occult tales to the Grand and other magazines of the 1920s, later collected in The Archer in the Arras (1932). Some of them were submerged beneath an overdose of Scottish dialect, but of the others ‘The Horn of Vapula’ is one of his best stories, and the most Jamesian.

Ebberswale is on the edge of the moorland, a bright patch against the rolling, purple sea of heath, an isolated community, still retaining many customs and characteristics of medieval days. Its folk are simple and superstitious to a degree, and it is a rich mine of folklore. This it was in fact which drew me to the place and led me to rent a modest dwelling on its outskirts, not far from the almost unique old Norman church for which it is so justly celebrated. But I found the natives difficult to draw. Centuries of isolation had rendered them a suspicious and almost a taciturn race, and when I compared the scanty results of my folklore labours among them with those undertaken in other localities, I became a little regretful that I had bound myself down to a six months’ tenancy of my cottage. Neither did my sister Margaret relish residence at Ebberswale, but for profoundly different reasons. She disliked the inhabitants, whom she professed to regard as little better than savages, the village she found unspeakably dull, and the wives of the vicar and doctor she merely tolerated.

To me the ever-changing beauty of the moor appealed as the sea to the sailor, and I discovered infinite variety in exploring it in all directions, frequently returning from these excursions at a late hour. It was on such an occasion that there occurred the first of those strange happenings, the improbable nature of which renders them so exceedingly difficult to chronicle. I was passing the church just as the last lines of daylight barred the shadows of night, and thinking what a wonderful picture the beautiful old building presented, outlined as it was against the silver and sable of late twilight, when I stopped short with a little gasp of astonishment, for along the peaked roof of the church a weird and grotesque figure was slowly crawling, supporting itself by clinging with hands and toes to the sharp angle made by the apex of the roof. The black silhouette of the shape bore an odd resemblance to a human figure, and the idea of burglary at once entered my mind.

‘Hello!’ I called brusquely. ‘What do you want up there? What mischief are you up to?’

There was no reply. The thing, whatever it was, turned its head, and I could feel that it surveyed me attentively. Then, to my horror, it raised itself on a pair of slender legs, extended long, wasted arms, and literally dived from the roof. I could see a black shadow, attenuated and sharp of rib, stand poised as if for a leap, and then disappear. No sound as of a falling body reached my ears, but I was too alarmed to notice this at the time. I had, I thought, so startled an unfortunate criminal that in a mad attempt to escape he had taken his own life.

I thrust open the lich-gate of the churchyard and, hastily entering, made a scrupulous search. But I encountered no crushed and maimed body, nor did the least sign of anyone having fallen upon the surrounding gravel present itself. I resolved to return at once to the village, and having procured lights and assistance make an exhaustive search of the churchyard.

Hurrying along the highroad, with the thought of rescue uppermost in my mind, I did not at first pay much attention to a noise behind me, which I can liken only to a kind of soft trotting. It was so very light, a mere pit-pat, as almost to be indistinguishable beside the echo of my own footsteps, but shortly I began to find it riveting my attention in the most remarkable way. At first I thought it must be made by some animal broken loose, for in Ebberswale cattle and beasts of all kinds are but perfunctorily secured, even at nights. Irritated, I could not have told why, I stopped to assure myself regarding the precise nature of the sound, and as I did so it immediately ceased.

With an exclamation of impatience I proceeded on my way, and as I did so I remarked that the trotting noise recommenced. Once more I halted and once more that which dogged my footsteps paused likewise. I retraced my steps for a few paces, and as I did so a snarl like that of a leopard came out of the darkness, followed by a laugh so horrible that after a moment’s dismay I take no shame to myself for saying that I wheeled round and broke into wild, unreasoning flight.

Down the dark road I dashed headlong, in a drench of cold perspiration. The hammering of my heart made breathing doubly difficult. It was a panic flight, the stampede of a terrified animal, for as I raced along that shadowed turnpike the man in me was submerged in the fear-stricken beast which lies beneath in us all.

At last, to the relief of my bursting lungs and strained legs, I came in sight of my cottage. Vaulting the fence I thundered loudly at the door, and as it happened to be open I tumbled pell-mell into the tiny hall. Picking myself up again I slammed the door, and entering the little sitting room sank into a chair. My sister was evidently in the kitchen assisting the callow maid to prepare our evening meal, and, glad that she was not there to question me, I leant back in my chair and slowly began to recover from the effects of my mad race.

But my state of comparative peace was rudely broken. I had been seated for scarcely a couple of minutes when a scratching and fumbling at the window behind me made me leap to my feet. My courage, or at least a large portion of it, had now returned, and heartily ashamed of my late conduct I grasped the heavy stick of Burmese bamboo weighted with lead I had not taken time to deposit in the hall, and advanced to the window. The scratching and fumbling continued, and with a firm hand I threw back the blind and looked out.

Well for me it was that my courage did not desert me at sight of the awful thing that met my gaze. A long, satyr-like face, demoniac in its hideousness, leered with fiendish spite into mine, white eyeballs surrounding fiery pupils rolled menacingly in a lean black countenance, above which rose small, crescent horns. The face ended in a peaked and beardless chin and the mouth opened upon gleaming fangs. Two grotesque paw-hands bristling with talons clawed the glass fiercely as if seeking to make entrance.

As I stood looking into the frenzied eyes of this demon-shape it showed signs of the liveliest eagerness to come at me. Trembling with excitement, it ravened against the thick glass, leaping to and fro like a hound hot for the chase, its red tongue flashing from side to side of the slavering mouth. Then a madness of wrath came upon me. If the brute in me had aroused inhuman fear it now kindled the flames of an anger equally beastlike, and I struck savagely at the dread thing on the other side of the window. The pane shivered with a loud crash, but as I raised my stick to strike again the appearance confronting me grew dim, and gradually melted away.

The crash of broken glass naturally alarmed my sister, who rushed into the room in consternation, asking what had happened.

‘A—a dog—a fierce dog attacked me,’ I said clumsily, my lips framing the first excuse that offered.

‘But no dog could have broken the window,’ she exclaimed, looking curiously at me.

‘The brute dashed itself against the glass, and I was so angry——’ I commenced, in more particular excuse.

‘That you lost your temper, and to get at it broke the window,’ she said, in her most caustic manner. ‘How childish—and how manlike!’

If I had ‘lost my temper’—or rather gone temporarily insane with loathing—I kept it now, and held my tongue. We patched up the window as best we might, and in the morning I strolled down to the village glazier and requested him to put in another pane. I thought I would make the errand serve a double purpose, and worked the conversation round to the church. He talked quite volubly for a while about the windows, the brasses and monuments it contained, but when I asked casually if there were any legends or stories connected with it he grew strangely reserved.

‘There be stories, sir, they say,’ he ventured, ‘but I haven’t an idea what they are about. Belike they’re as stupid as most old tales.’

Judicious inquiries in other quarters served me no better. I found the people would speak freely about their church, would even wax enthusiastic over it, but when the question of legendary matter was introduced they obstinately refused to be drawn. Of course, this merely excited my curiosity, and feeling that I was on the verge of a discovery I resolved to appeal for details to the vicar, with whom I had some slight acquaintance.

The Rev. Edward North was nearly as drowsy as his parishioners, and quite as reserved. He listened to my questionings in a dull, uninterested way, nodding now and again—to reassure me, I suppose, that he was not quite asleep.

‘I believe there was some stupid legend,’ he said at last, with an effort, ‘but what it was I really cannot say at this time of day.’

‘But no one seems to know,’ I protested. ‘Surely it’s a great loss to folklore?’

‘You won’t get it out of the folk hereabouts,’ he growled, in a manner that made me suspect that he was proud of the taciturnity of his parishioners. ‘Believe me, Mr Frain, it will be better that you do not prosecute your inquiries any further. As a matter of fact’—here he adopted a stupidly important tone, as of imparting a weighty confidence—‘they consider it highly unlucky to allude to the question at all.’

If my interest had been aroused before, it was now at fever-point.

‘But you—you do not share this superstition?’ I said. ‘Surely you can give me some inkling—help to put me on the track of the facts?’

‘I?’ he cried, quite startled. ‘No, no, Mr Frain; I tell you I am absolutely ignorant——’

‘Mr North,’ I said, ‘what is it that crawls along the roof of your church at nights and follows people in the dark?’

He paled, and collapsed backwards in his chair. Then he leaned forward and began to bluster.

‘I will have nothing to do with it, sir,’ he cried, rising in great excitement. ‘I entirely dissociate myself from your foolish inquiries. An absurd superstition! . . . Preposterous nonsense!’

‘So you say,’ I replied warmly; ‘but you know quite well that you have seen it yourself.’

‘I—seen it!’ he gasped. ‘Rubbish, sir, rubbish! . . . And if I had, let me tell you, sir, as an educated man I would have considered myself as in honour bound to hold my tongue about it.’

Rather mystified, and not a little angry, I crossed the village green to where the grey church stood aloof from the huddle of red houses. I would at least make such examination within its precincts as I thought fit and then debate with myself as to what course I should pursue. With this end in view I walked round the entire edifice, to discover if possible in what manner the hideous monster I had encountered was connected with the building. Hardly had I completed my circuit when my progress was suddenly arrested—for there, not ten feet above me, was the horrible apparition of the night before.

I started back involuntarily, but relief immediately followed upon the discovery that what I gazed on with such dismay was nothing more or less than a carven thing of stone. I had, however, no doubt but that it was the autotype of my monster, for the resemblance was startling to a degree. There was the demoniac countenance wearing a leer of such malice as had wreathed it when it gazed threateningly into mine; there were the same satyr-like features and pointed chin—only the appearance of life was wanting to make the resemblance complete.

Drawing by Colin Langeveld

For long I stood there drinking in every detail of the gruesome piece of stonework. It was situated immediately above the wall of the church exactly where it met the roof. There were other gargoyles, some with human attributes, some with animal, but obviously carved by other and less skilful hands. That in which I was interested was not, as is sometimes the case, merely a head and shoulders jutting from a block of stone, but was fully represented, with slender, half-human legs, ending in hoofs, projecting ribs and small, crescent horns. It was in every respect the beau-ideal of the medieval fiend.

On returning home I felt more than ever determined to get at the truth concerning the mystery of Ebberswale church. But, I reflected, it was a gruesome and dangerous business to attempt such an undertaking single-handed, and I resolved to apply to an intimate friend of mine, Martin Radcliffe, the well-known anthropologist, for assistance. A letter describing my dilemma brought in reply a telegram announcing that he would be with me a day later.

In due season he arrived, and in the course of a long walk I described to him the entire details of my adventure. I would have hesitated to confide them to anyone else, but as Radcliffe was a man who had encountered strange happenings in many parts of the world he was by no means sceptical regarding my experience, and told me some remarkable things of the same nature which supplemented it. We resolved to watch the church closely after nightfall.

To that end we commenced our vigil underneath its shadow on the night following his arrival, but although we watched for at least four hours nothing whatever occurred. We had taken up a position almost directly beneath the gargoyle which so closely resembled the horrible apparition I had encountered, but on the succeeding night I thought it better that we should conceal ourselves in the shrubbery opposite the church. We were shod with goloshes to ensure absolute silence in movement, and cautiously clambered over the fence and crouched down among the thick bushes just as the last silver streaks of daylight were blotted out by the heavy night shadows.

On this occasion our vigil was rewarded with startling suddenness, for only a minute or two after we had hidden ourselves in the shrubbery, and made up our minds for a long wait, did the appalling thing happen. I had from the first riveted my gaze upon the gargoyle above us. At first I could not believe the evidence of my senses, but I thought I saw a movement, a kind of tremor, pass through the stone. I nudged Radcliffe, who signalled by an answering nudge that he too had seen. Slowly, very gradually, life seemed to creep into the image, animating the rigid limbs and relaxing its tense outlines, until at length it raised its horned head as if from sleep and looked round it as does a beast of prey when awakened. Then with an agile bound it leapt upon the roof of the church, and made its way along the rooftree until it came to a buttress, down which it crawled slowly until it alighted on the ground. Round the angle of the church it disappeared, walking on hands and feet, and with the utmost caution we followed, taking elaborate care not to make the least noise that could possibly attract its attention.

As we rounded the church tower we could see a dim shape about thirty yards in front of us, crawling slowly along the highway, nose to ground, like a tracking beast. Every now and then it stopped and looked around it, and as it did so we halted and concealed ourselves as best we might in the roadside shadows. I felt cool enough, but was not without a sense of the very real danger we ran, but to Radcliffe, who had seen it for the first time, the experience, as he has since admitted, was a little unnerving.

Suddenly, after a halt, the creature raised its head, and giving a low, short growl clambered over a fence and commenced to run across a field on our right. Cautiously we followed. We had now no cover, and it was necessary to exercise increased care not to be seen. Falling upon our faces, we stalked our quarry, grovelling and writhing over the damp grass like Indian hunters. More than once the fiendish thing in front of us must have suspected that it was being followed, for it stopped dead and stood sniffing the night air in an attitude eloquent of distrust of its surroundings. Once, indeed, it faced completely round and snarled, and we thought that it had discovered us. But in the end it turned once more and advanced, as did we, after allowing it a little longer start.

Gradually we made up on it, and observed it crawl towards a large wooden building on the outskirts of a farm. By this time we were close to it, and to our intense surprise we saw the thing, material and living as it seemed, pass through the wall of the wooden structure. Silently we ran to the building, which from the characteristic odour that emanated from it we knew to be a cow-house, and peering through chinks in the wall of boards we looked for signs of the monster within. As our eyes grew accustomed to the darkness of the interior we gazed upon a ghastly sight enough. The horror had seized upon a young calf, and its black, protruding lips were glued to the poor animal’s neck. A dreadful sucking sound reached our ears.

Suddenly an involuntary exclamation of disgust came from my companion. The demon creature instantly abandoned its prey, and although we were separated from it by thick deal boards it evidently saw us, for it turned and faced us, baring its horrid fangs and uttering its low, leopard-like snarl. Crouching backwards, it sprang full at us with a furious yelling, right through the wall.

We started backwards, and apart, so that the great, black shape leapt between us. Howling in the most appalling manner it turned, on recovery, and rushed at me in a wolflike transport of anger. I was armed only with the heavy stick with which I had aimed a blow at it through the window, and as I lashed at its long, contorted body with this it gave a piteous whimper. Once more I struck at it with the stout bamboo, and it darted back. As it did so, Radcliffe, who had seized a great axe lying against the wall of the cow-house, aimed a mighty blow at it, and I saw the axe cleave its head. With a series of yells it turned and sped into the darkness.

Once it had gone, the revulsion came, and we hurried home.

We both spent a restless night, and about eight o’clock next morning Radcliffe entered my room.

‘Let’s go for a walk,’ he said drearily. ‘I haven’t slept a wink. Besides—I want to see—something in the church.’

I jumped out of bed, and in ten minutes we were at the church gates. We made for that angle of the building from which the gargoyle projected.

‘It’s there!’ muttered Radcliffe. ‘Good heavens, how like!’

‘Yes,’ I replied, ‘it’s certainly there, but—but look at its head. It has only one horn!’

Sure enough but one crescent horn, and that the right, decorated the rugged poll of the gargoyle.

Radcliffe’s eyes were directed upon the ground. I followed his gaze. There upon the gravel, directly below the gargoyle, lay the missing horn, with a portion of the head adhering.

We stared at one another.

‘That was my blow, Frain,’ murmured Radcliffe.

‘Then, sir, I must request you to give me your name and address at once, as I intend to report your act of vandalism to the police,’ said a voice.

Turning, we beheld the Rev. Edward North. He was in a white heat of passion, and trembled violently.

‘I scarcely think you will report the matter to the police, Mr North,’ I said very politely. ‘Indeed, I am sure you will not.’

‘But I shall, sir!’ stormed the vicar. ‘I shall, and without delay.’

‘Do so, then, sir,’ I retorted, ‘and see what happens. The blow, the results of which you see, was not struck in the precincts of the church. Do you suggest that my friend climbed the roof to deal it?’

‘I—I suggest nothing!’ he roared. ‘You will not be able to substantiate your absurd stories to the authorities. You are a pair of vandals.’

‘And you, sir,’ I thundered, losing my temper wholly, ‘are a coward who, rather than create a scandal in connection with your charge, would tolerate the presence within its precincts of an abomination and a sacrilege unspeakable, as well as an active danger to the community you serve.’

He swung round on his heel and hurried off. Needless to say he did not inform the police.

On returning to town, Radcliffe made great search for material relative to Ebberswale, and at last, in the records of the see in which it is situated, he ran the legend to earth. It concerned one Bishop Brachet, prelate and voluptuary, who, cherishing his charge, desired to have within it one of the richest architectural gems in England. Despairing of success at Ebberswale, which he had himself designed, he at last bartered his soul to the Evil One in exchange for the fruition of his desires. Satan had come to his assistance, but when too late Bishop Brachet had repented, and had by dint of art magic immured Vapula, the demon familiar whom his dreadful master had given him to assist in his task, in a gargoyle which he had carved to represent the fiend in question. But all to no purpose, for only by day had he power to enclose his fell servant in the stone. The record was silent as to the Bishop’s ultimate fate—perhaps it is better so.

We left the district shortly afterwards, and to the best of my belief the manifestations have entirely ceased and the grim, horned denizen of the church roof no longer flashes into life at sunset. Strangely enough, I discovered long afterwards that the bamboo stick I carried on the night Radcliffe and I encountered the demon had once been the property of a Burmese wizard—which circumstance perhaps accounts for the reluctance the creature showed to attack me when we met it beside the farm on that memorable night of fear in old-world Ebberswale.