The Macabre Megapack Page 4
(1847)
In the north-west of Zealand stretches a small fertile peninsula, studded with hamlets, and connected with the mainland by a narrow strip of waste ground. Beyond the only town which this little peninsula possesses, the land runs out into the gloomy Cattegat, and presents an awfully wild and sterile appearance. The living sands have here obliterated every trace of vegetation; and the hurricanes which blow from all points of the ocean are constantly operating a change on the fluctuating surface of the desert, whose hills of sand rise and fall with a motion as incessant as that of the waves which roll around them. In traveling through this country, I spent upwards of an hour in this district, and never shall I forget the impression which the scene made upon my mind.
While riding along through the desolate region, a thunderstorm rose over the ocean towards the north—the waves roared—the clouds scudded along in gloomy masses before the wind—the sky grew every instant more dark, “menacing earth and sea”—the sand began to move in increasing volumes under my horse’s feet, a whirlwind arose and filled the atmosphere with dust, the traces of the path became invisible—while air, earth, and ocean seemed mingled and blended together, every object being involved in a cloud of dust and vapor. I could not discern the slightest trace of life or vegetation around the dismal scene—the storm roared above me—the waves of the sea lashed mournfully against the shore—the thunder rolled in the distance—and scarcely could the lurid lightning-flash pierce the heavy cloud of sand which whirled around me. My danger became evident and extreme; but a sudden shower of rain laid the sand, and enabled me to push my way to the little town. The storm I had just encountered was a horrid mingling of all elements. An earthquake has been described as the sigh which troubled nature heaves from the depth of her bosom; perhaps not more fancifully might this chaotic tempest have typified the confusion of a widely distracted mind, to which pleasure and even hope itself have been long strangers—the cheerless desert of the past revealing only remorse and grief—the voice of conscience threatened like the thunder, and her awful anticipations casting a lurid light over the gloomy spirit—till at last the long-sealed-up sources of tears open away for their floods, and bury the anguish of the distracted soul beneath their waves.
In this desolate country there existed in former times a village called Roerwig, about a mile distant from the shore. The moving sands have now buried the village; and the descendants of its inhabitants—mostly shepherds and fishermen—have moved their cottages close to the shore. A single solitary building, situated upon a hill, yet rears its head above the cheerless shifting desert. This building—and the village church—was the scene of the following mysterious transaction:
In an early year of the last century, the venerable cure of Roerwig was one night seated in his study, absorbed in pious meditations. His house lay at the extremity of the village, and the simple manners of the inhabitants were so little tinged with distrust, that bolts and locks were unknown among them, and every door remained open and unguarded.
The lamp burned gloomily, and the sullen silence of the midnight hour was only interrupted by the rushing noise of the sea, on whose waves the pale moon shone reflected, when the cure heard the door below opened, and the next moment the sound of men’s steps on the stair. He was anticipating a call to administer the last offices of religion to some parishioners on the point of death, when two foreigners, wrapped up in white cloaks, entered the room. One of them, approaching, addressed him with politeness: “Sir you will have the goodness to follow us instantly. You must perform a marriage ceremony; the bride and bridegroom are already waiting your arrival at the church. And this sum,”—here the stranger held out a purse full of gold—“will sufficiently recompense you for your trouble, and the alarm our sudden demand has given you.”
The cure stared in mute terror upon the strangers, who seemed to carry something fearful, almost ghastly, in their looks, and the demand was repeated in an earnest and authoritative tone. When the old man had recovered from his surprise, he began mildly to represent that his duty did not allow him to celebrate so solemn a rite without some knowledge of the parties, and the intervention of those formalities required by law. The other stranger here-upon stepped forward in a menacing attitude; “Sir,” said he, “you have your choice; follow us and take the sum we now offer you—or remain, and this bullet goes through your head.” Whilst speaking, he leveled his pistol at the forehead of the venerable man, and coolly waited his answer; whereupon the cure rose, dressed himself, and informed his visitants—who had hitherto spoken Danish, but with a foreign accent—that he was ready to accompany them.
The mysterious stranger now proceeded silently through the village, followed by the clergyman. It was a dark autumn night, the moon having set; but when they emerged from the village, the old man perceived with terror and astonishment, that the distant church was all illumined. Meanwhile his companions, wrapped up in their white cloaks, strode hastily on before them through the barren plain. On reaching the church they bound up his eyes; he then heard a side door open with a well-known creaking noise, and felt himself violently pushed into a crowd of people whose murmuring he heard all around him, while close beside him some persons carried on a conversation in a language unknown to him, but which he thought was Russian. As he stood helpless and blindfolded, he felt himself seized by a man’s hand, and drawn violently through the crowd. At last the bandage was removed from his eyes, and he found himself standing with one of the two strangers before the altar. A row of large tapers, in magnificent silver candlesticks, adorned the altar, and the church itself was splendidly lighted by a profusion of candles. The deepest silence now reigned through the whole building, though the side passages and all the seats were crowded to excess; but the middle passage was quite clear, and he perceived in it a newly dug grave, with the stone which had covered it leaning against a bench. Around him were only male figures, but on one of the distant benches he thought he perceived a female form. The terrible silence lasted for some minutes, during which not a motion could be detected in the vast assembly. Thus when the mind is bent on deeds of darkness, a silent gloomy brooding of soul often precedes the commission of the horrid action.
At last a man, whose magnificent dress distinguished him from all the rest, and bespoke his elevated rank, rose and walked hastily up to the altar; as he passed along, his steps resounded through the building, and every eye was turned upon him; he appeared to be of middle stature, with broad shoulders and strong limbs—his gait was commanding, his complexion of a yellowish brown, and his hair raven black—his features were severe, and his lips compressed as if in wrath—a bold aquiline nose heightened the haughty appearance of his countenance, and dark shaggy brows lowered over his fiery eyes. He wore a green coat, with broad gold braids, and a brilliant star. The bride, who also approached, and kneeled beside him at the altar, was magnificently dressed. A sky blue rose, richly trimmed with silver, enveloped her slender limbs and floated in large folds over her graceful form—a diadem sparkling with diamonds, adorned her fair hair—the utmost loveliness and beauty might be traced in her features, although despair now expressed itself in them—her cheeks were pale as those of a corpse—her features unanimated—her lips were blanched, her eyes dimmed—and her arms hung motionless at her side as she kneeled before the altar; terror seemed to have wrapped her consciousness as well as her vital powers in deep lethargy.
The cure now discovered near him an old ugly hag, in a parti-colored dress, with a blood-red turban on her head, who stood gazing with an expression of malignant fury on the kneeling bride; and behind the bridegroom, he noticed a man of gigantic size and a gloomy appearance, whose eyes were fixed immovably on the ground.
Horror-struck by the scene before him, the priest stood mute for some time, till a thrilling look from the bridegroom reminded him of the ceremony he had come hither to perform. But the uncertainty whether the couple he was about to marry understood his language, afforded him a fresh source of uneasiness. He
ventured, however, to ask the bridegroom for his name and that of his bride! “Neander and Feodora,” was the answer returned in a rough voice.
The priest now began to read the ritual in faltering accents, frequently stopping to repeat the words, without however either the bride or bridegroom appearing to observe his confusion, which confirmed him in the conjecture that his language was almost unknown to either of them. On putting the question, “Neander, wilt thou have this woman for thy wedded wife?” he doubted he would receive any answer; but to his astonishment, the bridegroom answered in the affirmative with a loud and almost screaming voice, which rung throughout the church, while deep sighs were heard from every quarter of the building, and a silent quivering like the reflection of distant lightning, threw a transitory motion over the deathly pale features of the bride. When the priest turned to her with the interrogatory: “Feodora, wilt thou have this man for thy wedded husband?” the lifeless form before him seemed to awake, a deep convulsive throb of terror trembled on her cheeks—her pale lips quivered—a passing gleam of fire shone in her eye—her breast heaved—a violent gush of tears flooded the brilliance of her eyes, and the “yes” was pronounced like the scream of anguish uttered by a dying person, and seemed to find a deep echo in the sounds of grief which burst from the surrounding multitude. The bride then sank into the arms of the horrid old hag, and after some minutes had passed in awful silence, the pale corpse-like female kneeled again, as if in a deep trance, and the ceremony was finished. The bridegroom now rose and led away the trembling bride, followed by the tall man and old woman; and two strangers then appeared again, and having bound the priest’s eyes, drew him with violence through the crowd, and pushed him out at the door, which they bolted from within.
For some minutes the old man stood endeavoring to recollect himself, and uncertain whether the horrid scene, with all the ghastly attendant circumstances, might not have been a dream; but when he had torn the bandage from his eyes, and saw the illuminated church before him, and heard the murmuring of the crowd, he was forced to believe its reality. To learn the issue, he hid himself in the corner of the building, and while listening there he heard the murmuring within grow louder and louder—then it seemed as if a fierce altercation arose, in which he thought he could recognize the rough voice of the bridegroom commanding silence—a long pause followed—a shot fell—the shriek of a female voice was heard, which was succeeded by another pause—then followed a sound of pickaxes, which lasted about a quarter of an hour, after which the candles were extinguished, the door was flung open, and a multitude of persons rushed out of the church, and ran toward the sea.
The old priest now arose from his hiding place, and hastened back to the village, where he awoke his neighbors and friends, and related to them his incredible and marvelous adventure; but everything which had hitherto fallen out among those simple people, had been so calm and tranquil, so much measured by the laws of daily routine, that they were seized with a very different alarm; they believed that some unfortunate accident had deranged the intellects of their beloved pastor, and it was not without difficulty that he prevailed on some of them to follow him to the church, provided with picks and spades.
Meanwhile the morning had dawned, the sun arose, and as the priest and his companions ascended the hill toward the church, they saw a man-of-war standing off from the shore under full sail toward the north. So surprising a sight in this remote district, made his companions already hesitate to reject his story as improbable and still more were they inclined to listen to him when they saw that the side door of the church had been violently burst open. They entered, full of expectation, and the priest showed them the grave which he had seen opened in the night time; it was evident that the stone had been lifted up and replaced again. They therefore put their implements in motion, and soon came to a new and richly adorned coffin, in which lay the murdered bride—a bullet had pierced her right breast to the heart—the magnificent diadem which she had worn at the altar, no longer adorned her brows, but the distracted expression of deep grief had vanished from her countenance, and a heavenly calm seemed spread over her features. The old man threw himself down on his knees near the coffin, and wept and prayed aloud for the soul of the dead, while mute astonishment and horror seized his companions.
The clergyman found himself obliged to make this event instantly known, with all its circumstances, to his superior, the Bishop of Zealand; meanwhile, until he got further instructions from Copenhagen, he bound all his friends to secrecy by an oath. Shortly afterward a person of high rank suddenly arrived from the capital; he inquired into all the circumstances, visited the grave, commended the silence which had been hitherto observed, and stated that the whole event must remain forever a secret, threatening, at the same time, with a severe punishment any person who should dare to speak of it.
At the death of the priest, a writing was found in the parochial register narrating this event; some believed that it might have some secret connexion with the violent political changes which occurred in Russia, after the death of Catherine and Peter I; but to resolve the deep riddle of this mysterious affair will ever be a difficult, if not impossible task.
THE BURIAL BY FIRE, by Louisa Medina Hamblin
(1838)
“Will you not walk this gloomy evening? Come, the air is as soft as balm, and the sunset on the sea will be beautiful. The afternoon worship is over, and all the villagers are out in their Sunday clothes adoring their creator in his works. Come, my own Mary, and enjoy the beauty of the evening.”
It was on a summer’s Sabbath, in the beautiful neighborhood of Hastings, that William Lindsay spoke thus to Mary Stuart, a fair young girl who was his promised wife, when success in his toilsome profession might give sanction to the union. He was an artist of much talent but little celebrity, and she was the orphan child of a British officer. Her mother and herself lived in quiet contentment on the small pension allowed to the widow of a captain of Infantry. Their ways were simple—their wants were few—from their little, they had still a little to spare to such as needed, and they felt themselves
“Passing rich on forty pounds a year.”
If the want of wealth ever caused a sigh in the gentle bosom of Mary, it was when she beheld her William debarred from the foreign treasures of art which he panted to behold, or when she heard her prudent mother prophesy a long lapse of years ere they might venture to unite their earthly fate together. Mary had received a tolerable education, and her mind was naturally poetic, her thoughts were fraught with natural beauty and often untutored language would flow in rich and melodious eloquence; she was never of a buoyant temper: a placid calmness, a softened serenity which was not sadness, was her usual mood, and the very style of her features harmonized with this shadowed feeling. Her cheek was very fair, but when a chance excitement called the eloquent blood into it, the color was rather the blush of hectic than the crimson of health; her hair was a pale brown but perfectly straight, and without any of those sunlight hues which sometimes wander through chestnut tresses—in a word, Mary was more a lovely twilight than a brilliant day. Captain Stuart had died of decline, not as they fondly believed a constitutional malady, but brought on by over-exertion and exposure; still, when William would notice the translucent fairness of his Mary’s cheek, and mark the languid softness of her eye, a terrible fear would come across his heart, to be as instantly banished by the certainty of her perfect health.
She arose in answer to his invitation to walk and, with a gentle smile, passed her arm through his and strolled up the hill which bounded their dwelling. William had truly said that the evening was beautiful—not a breath of air was stirring, but the atmosphere was soft and redolent of perfume. The rays of the declining sun, slanting from the west, tessellated the heavens with chequers of gold and lengthened the shadows upon the earth—not a ripple stirred the mighty ocean, the vast expanse of blue water lying unruffled as a lake, without a sound save when the receding tide carried with it the pebbles from the beac
h with a lulled and dreamy sound. The lowing of the cattle in the distant pastures and the chirping of the nimble grasshoppers joined to an occasional twittering from the inhabitants of the trees, all contributed to produce that feeling of repose which the night always induces. Almost insensibly, the lovers turned away from the groups of merry villagers, and directed their course to the village churchyard. Of all spots on earth, that containing the “short and simple annals of the poor,” is to a reflective mind most interesting, and that of Hastings is peculiarly so. From its mild and sheltered situation, its advantages of country joined to those of sea bathing, Hastings is recommended by the faculty to consumptive patients, and many a marble slab in the churchyard records the early exit of creatures in the spring and matin of their days, who have sought for health and found a grave. On one which this simple inscription,
“EMILY MARKHAM—AGED NINETEEN,”
Mary sat down, and pulling a few wild flowers, strewed them reverentially on the grave.
“William,” at last she said, “burial is a frightful thing.”
“Death is, do you mean, my Mary?” answered he; “for after death, on this earth feeling is no more.”
“Are you assured of that?” asked Mary solemnly. “Does that conviction bear an if? Oh, God! To be shut down, away from light and warmth, to be straightened here, rigid, immoveable and stiff—to rot by scarce perceptible degrees, to have the flesh which in life we guard so carefully, mangled and gnawed by crawling vermin—nay, in our very selves to engender the foul life of corruption! It is too horrible!”
“Dearest Mary, this is a morbid feeling and a false fear. Our Creator made man in mercy, and could it be possible that the dead suffered by burial, it would long have been made manifest to the living. Now, for my part, this scene is one to me of rest and comfort—in this sacred spot the dead slumber in peace, the flowers grow here as sweet, and those graceful willows bend down their branches as if appointed by the Spirit of Holiness to guard the dead. And see—the evening star looks out upon this tranquil spot like a good angel calmly keeping