THE UNWANTED LODGER -
A ghost story for Christmas
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Introduction
Extract from the journal of Wm Posset
Friday 3rd of February 1860
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"A pleasurable day indeed: first, I routed Humblebroth's boy who had taken to lounging in the area in front of our house. Later, I let the upper back bedroom at five shillings a week to a most respectable gentleman, Mr Leviticus Chimes."
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Extract from the journal of Wm Posset
Friday 24th of February 1860
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"A sad day. Mr Chimes has given notice on his room. He seems to be in a state of nervous agitation"
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Brick Court and some of its inhabitants
(1855 to December 1858)
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Number 11 Brick Court was known to its owners as "The Yews". It had two such trees, undersized and sickly, persevering in poor soil in the front garden. Every day Mr Posset, the householder, gave them a stern look - willing them to survive. He feared that he would look foolish without a Yew tree to be seen. The house itself was a brick-built modern villa that was, to be frank, a little ugly. The architect seemed to have been fond of square blocks and straight lines; a lover of geometry rather than art. That whole side of the street consisted of houses of a similar sort and none were more than ten years of age. Alas, houses do not blossom from ugly ducklings to swans when they reach their majority.
The other side of Brick Court was of greater antiquity. 'Humblebroth the Poulterers' sat in a corner between two houses. It was a thriving enough business in decayed premises. The shop seemed to have slumped there, refusing to move any further for fear of collapse. Josiah Humblebroth was an exacting employer and his assistants rarely stayed long. As a vent for their feelings the younger lads tended to wage war upon neighbouring householders with a succession of japes and tricks. Mister Posset, with his pernickety manners, was a popular target for such ebullient youths.
Posset was head clerk at 'Porpentine & Jobkin' in the City. They were London agents for a Portugese wine merchant and originally took William on when he was but a boy. His employers knew him to be incorruptible and painstaking. The junior clerks called him 'Old Posy' and liked to imitate his stooped gait.
"Getting ahead" was Posset's mission in life and he liked to think that he was succeeding. Being the third son of an impoverished Yorkshire curate he'd known worse circumstances. He had long since married Lucy Honey and both were very happy together at "The Yews". He had but one small source of dissatisfaction – the necessity of letting two rooms to allow for the little luxuries of life.
The 'middle-bedroom' had been let to Mr Timpani, those last three years. A quiet fellow, of Italian origin, he played violin in a theatre in the West End. The rent was paid regularly and Timpani had undertaken never to play the violin at "The Yews". An exception had been made on his first Christmas but the Possets regretted it.
The 'upper back-bedroom' was more problematic. It was a little dingy, a little small and a little chilly. Everything about it was just a little wrong. Several lodgers came and went in as many months. Each time the card went back up in the fanlight "Room to let, Apply Within". The Possets were slightly ashamed every time they put the notice up, but the extra income was just so helpful.
A fellow called Isaiah Snatchbrand lodged there next but the Possets weren't hopeful. The tenant was morose to the point of curtness. Only the pressing matter of the poulterer's bill had induced William to let him the room. Isaiah paid promptly and in full each week, without quibble. Being so undemanding he was, in that sense at least, the perfect tenant. He preferred to take his meals in his room and the Possets preferred to let him. Snatchbrand was also a fellow Yorkshireman, although he never discussed his origins. Perhaps that too had engendered a little sympathy with his landlord.
The lodger was a clerk although not such an exalted one as Mr Posset. Snatchbrand worked for 'Slumgullion's' – an insurance company on Fleet Street. Judging by his shabby suit he was either badly paid or his employers were not particular about dress. 'Old Posy' liked to cut a smart figure at his own office and deplored such slovenliness. Despite that reservation, all was well with the lodger until one day near Christmas. He'd always been quiet in his habits but it was clear that he'd got very drunk after work. He returned late and made an unholy noise bumping about in his room and singing snatches of a song. Mr Posset steeled himself to talk to the fellow but decided to let the matter drop. The lodger repeated the performance three Fridays in a row. The Possets' dog seemed to sense Isaiah's condition before he even arrived. Normally its ears would prick up and he'd give a low growl. On those nights however it would howl then hide itself under the table. The Possets had resolved to give Mr Snatchbrand notice to quit but, just as unexpectedly as it had started, the drinking stopped. Mrs Posset's desire for a new hat and shoes meant that it was inexpedient to lose a lodger at that time.
The second Christmas, when the Possets had nearly forgotten about 'the problem', it started again. The lodger only got drunk on two occasions, both Fridays after work. Again there was a lot of banging and crashing about upstairs, accompanied by occasional verses of song. The family pet once more made his feelings on the matter plain. Mr Posset tackled Isaiah and made it clear that such behaviour could not be tolerated in a respectable house. The lodger apologised and admitted that it was a difficult time of year for him. We will later come to the third Christmas to learn of some unexpected events.
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Footsteps in the fog
(December 1859)
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The trouble began one Friday night in early December. Mr Snatchbrand's belongings had been put into two trunks, months ago, and stored in the attic. After all, he had no further need of them. The room was to let again, although the locals would not recommend it. The little card was back in its window.
William Posset had been to the 'Red Lion' for a convivial evening with the 'Honourable Society of Clerks'. As Deputy he'd proposed the health of the Chairman in a speech that was, he flattered himself, most elegant. Now I wouldn't like to suggest that the gentleman had drunk too much, although he ought to have taken a little water with it. His gait was after all a little unsteady.
It was a foggy night: one of the old 'peasoupers' that plagued the capital for so long. The smog was malicious for it liked to blind a person whilst making them cough and splutter. Like ivy strangling an old tree it wrapped its tendrils tightly about folk. Pools of smothered light appeared where street lamps fought against the conditions. The Deputy Chairman made his way home slowly, keeping to the walls when possible. He had that latent homing instinct so often found in those that have freely imbibed. Our merry pigeon would soon be home.
William began to hear occasional footsteps behind him. Nobody likes to be out at night followed by unseen persons. He stopped to look over his shoulder several times but could discern no one. The sporadic footsteps continued however and seemed to be going his way.
I should now tell you about the garden gate at 'The Yews'. Unremarkable in itself it had lately been painted a bold, cherry red. A loud and protracted squeak remained to be dealt with. Mr Posset had promised faithfully to oil it at the weekend. To his surprise he now heard that distinctive squeal ahead of him. He hurried along the pavement and had reached his offending gate when he heard the click of the kitchen door being shut. Fumbling for his key he entered the house, "Hello my dear".
"Bill," said his wife, accepting a peck on her cheek in salute. "Have you had a good night?"
"Not bad at all," he admitted. "Has Mr Timpani just come in?"
"Just come in? Why, no. He's been confined to his bed all night with a cold in his head".
"What of the girl?" William asked (meaning the maid-of-all work that 'slept in').
"Mary? The poor thing is exhausted. She works too hard; I'm always telling her," Lucy added mendaciously. "She was in bed for nine".
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A very short letting indeed
(February 1860)
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They say that a new year brings new opportunities and so it had for Timothy Humblebroth. He was the nephew of the poulterer of that name and fresh from the country (unlike their pullets). Aged sixteen he was to learn the business and might prove less troublesome to his uncle that his usual apprentices. Try as they might there had been no way to squeeze the lad into the family abode above the shop. "We're like so many sardines already," his cousins complained. The shrewd shopkeeper managed to negotiate a cheap rate with Mr Posset for the use of his spare room. "After all, they aren't queuing up for it, after what happened…" he pointed out. With some relief, William agreed a bargain price.
Timothy was a broad, placid looking lad with a pleasant face and sandy hair. Everything about him told of a calm temperament. His lack of imagination was in fact quite stupendous. Other boys had indulged their fancies and played at pirates or knights of old. Timothy was more likely to be found hitting a wall with a stick or making a meal of his fingernails whilst thinking of nothing in particular.
We find the lad on his very first night at 'The Yews' laid on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. He mentally recalled the poultry prices that he'd learned that day. He heard slow footsteps on the stairs and sat up. He would ask the 'Mister or Missus' if they might give him a shout in the morning to ensure that he was up and about.
The door began to open, which is a bit rude without a preliminary knock. Even so, it swung open and the lodger looked towards it. Nobody was there. When stairs creak and doors move in an old house on a windy night one can understand it. It's very unnerving for such things to occur on a still night in a modern house.
What followed next was more extraordinary still for there was a distinct tread across the rug. The bed creaked bitterly and an unseen entity apparently stretched itself flat. Three of Timothy's senses – eyes, ears and touch – told him that he was neither deceived nor alone. For once in his life the boy's stolid nature deserted him. With a wail of fright he fled the room never to return.
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When tragedy struck
(We now go back to the 17th of December 1858)
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We can avoid a distressing scene no longer. It's time to learn something of the events that terminated Isaiah's tenancy of the room and of this world.
It was a Friday in advent and the third festive season of Snatchbrand's tenancy would soon be upon him. He'd no wish to change lodgings and so he'd fought the desire to drink and wallow in misery that usually overwhelmed him at that time of year. He wasn't a habitual toper but in December it was a valve that could be opened to release pressure. He'd allowed himself that relief after work, in December, for several years. Finally he cracked again. He spent the night in the 'Hog's Head', a surly figure whose attitude warned company to stay clear. With rent and food money safely stashed in an inner pocket he intended to drink the remainder away.
By ten o'clock Isaiah could take the company of his fellow man no longer. He left the pub and walked out into the frosty night. Witnesses later came forward to say that he'd stood by the canal, looking out onto the ink black water. Perhaps he'd considered the finality represented by the dark surface. How many stories had ended there?
The Possets gave evidence that Isaiah had returned to 'The Yews' at 10.40 PM precisely. The Coroner's Court heard how the dog had howled and concealed itself at his approach. Twenty minutes later the maid heard the lodger singing a sentimental song in his room ('Flora, I have left thee to die'). After five or ten minutes all went quiet.
The next morning Mr Snatchbrand failed to respond to the customary knock at his door. The Possets were inclined to let him 'sleep it off' but time went by and still there was no sign of the man. The young maid voiced her objections to waking a man in his own bedroom. It was Mrs Posset therefore who had the shock of her life.
"Mr Snatchbrand! Mr Snatchbrand!" she called. There was no reply. "Isaiah," she said, more sharply. 'What a nuisance tenants are,' she thought to herself, trying the door. It was unlocked and swung open. "Are you quite well?" she asked, "It is…" She broke off with a cry that 'fair curdled my blood' as her husband was later fond of recalling. A long figure, with the most ghastly look on its face, was stretched by a rope, suspended from a ceiling beam. "God bless us and save us!" Lucy exclaimed.
What a terrible waste. Why is it that we are all so different? Some people can cope with the things life throws at them and others simply cannot. It is not just a question of effort. Nowadays we have all kinds of help available that Isaiah might have sought out. In that age little assistance was available except, perhaps, the compassion of individuals and that Isaiah was not prepared to seek.
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A songbird causes misery
October 1860
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Fridays had become quite upsetting for the Possets. They would sit up waiting for the click of the (now oiled) gate and the snap of the backdoor. The dog would yawp miserably and scuttle under the drawing room table. They'd stare at a book or at the fire and resolutely refuse to acknowledge the squeak of the stairs seemingly trodden heavily upon. Sometimes they could hear the back bedroom door shutting and only then would they relax. It is the most unpleasant thing imaginable having a supernatural lodger who one cannot evict.
Mr Timpani invariably worked Friday nights but he had the full tale from the maid. She'd nearly left her position over the matter. Mrs Posset had to concede that she could go home to her parents late on a Friday afternoon. She returned on Saturday mornings.
The last Friday in October found the Possets reading beside a banked up fire. The drawing room was snug and well lit. The curtains kept out the dark night. Even so they were not comfortable for the spectral resident was surely due back at any time. Mr Posset, thinking he heard a click, lifted his head and his eyes met those of his wife. She gave a frown and he shook his head, not wanting to comment.
Sure enough, the backdoor rattled a few moments later. The expected sound of footsteps came from the staircase. Then, to their horror, they heard a voice.
"Flora, my love,
How my heart aches for you,"
"Oh! I can't bear it," squealed Lucy Posset. Her husband sprang out of his chair to comfort her. The spirit, if such it was, sang the refrain of a popular 'parlour song'.
"For I left thee,
And now I must die,"
"I don't like it," William admitted, his arm about his wife. He would have liked to stop his ears but one trembling limb was otherwise engaged. The footsteps vanished and they heard the distant sound of the bedroom door shutting. "It's over, my love, it's over".
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Tidings of comfort and joy
December 1860
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In mid-December Mr Posset received an unexpected epistle. It was evening and he was catching up on his mail. Happy days those when one could receive a second post the same day! He'd had a frustrating time at work as the young clerks had been unruly. He'd looked forward to a lazy night. He broke open the letter and began to read. "Good heavens," he exclaimed.
Mrs Posset looked up from her embroidery. "What is it, William dear?"
"It's from…" he began and coughed. He tried again, "It's from Mrs Snatchbrand". The gentleman mouthed the name quietly and pointed vaguely to the ceiling.
"His mother?" Lucy mouthed.
"Seemingly not; his wife," William replied.
"I'd no idea that he was married!"
"Nor I! It seems that she's been looking for him and traced him to 'Slumgullions'. They gave her our direction. She wants to come and meet us."
Mrs Snatchbrand was in town on Friday the 21st of December and called around for tea as arranged. She was a tall, slim woman in her middle forties. She wasn't exactly pretty but had a pleasing sort of face.
She announced herself to the Possets, "Parousia Snatchbrand." Catching their startled looks she smiled. "An uncommon name, is it not? My parents were millenarians, as am I".
"Please be seated, madam," said Posset unware of the theological implications but impressed by the words. He warmed to their guest's amiable manner. "My wife, Mrs Posset, and I'm William".
"You have come from Kent, I understand," Lucy said inconsequently.
"That's right, Mrs Posset, although I'm from Yorkshire originally." There was an awkward pause as tea was offered and served. Some chit-chat was made until the maid had gone. They finally came to the reason for the visit. "I understand that this was my unhappy husband's last home. I also believe that you… found him?"
The hosts told Mrs Snatchbrand everything that they could about their late tenant. The two trunks would be forwarded to her, at her expense. As the visit wore on, Mrs Posset began to give the impression of one who is big with news yet fears to tell it. Mr Posset glanced at his spouse unsure whether to broach such a strange business. Finally, the widow relieved them of the decision. "Forgive me," she said, "But I feel that there is something you would like to tell me yet can't."
Delighted with the opportunity to unburden herself, Lucy lurched into her tale. Although initially reluctant, Mr Posset soon found himself chipping in with confirmations and small observations.
Parousia sat back in her chair, in some amazement. Although the story was hard to credit, the Possets seemed sincere. Indeed, they appeared perfectly ordinary people, if a tad dull. They were the respectable sort who surely feared to be thought 'touched in the attic' (as the saying went).
When the tale was told in full there was need to prevent Lucy repeating it. "Mr and Mrs Posset, you have given me a lot to think about," the widow said. "With your permission I would like to be here tonight, to see these strange things for myself".
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As was usual for a Friday, the maid and Mr Timpani were safely off the premises. The Possets sat in the drawing room, both pretending to read. Although the ghostly lodger was unwelcome they actually feared his absence. Nobody likes to be thought a liar or fantasist. For once they allowed themselves to acknowledge events. "Soon be here," William said with a faux brightness.
"I do hope so," his wife replied.
It was nearly eleven o'clock when they heard the distinct noise of the gate clicking shut. The Possets let the books fall from their hands, unnoticed. A few moments later the backdoor clattered and there came the usual steps on the stairs and the usual chorus:
"Flora, my love,
How my heart aches for you,
For I left thee,
And now I must die,"
William found himself biting his fingernails, a habit he abhorred.
"The door," Lucy whispered as she heard the bedroom door shut. "I hope she is safe!"
Parousia, a very calm person, had sat for an hour on the bed in the spare room. She'd leafed through a prayer book and read several prayers to herself. Finally she'd heard the footsteps on the stairs and yet still half expected one of the Possets bearing a cup of tea.
The door swung open but no one was there. Parousia leapt off the bed and stood facing the doorway. The door closed again through some unknown agency and unseen feet crossed the floor. "There's no such thing as ghosts," the woman declared, against the apparent evidence. "There's no such thing as ghosts," she repeated.
A great creaking noise followed as if somebody had settled on the bed and she saw the bedclothes shift. "Whatever you are, you are not Isaiah Snatchbrand". The bed creaked again as if somebody had changed position.
"Isaiah Snatchbrand is dead, do you hear me? There are two places that he may be and neither of them is this house!" A pillow slowly slid along the bed and toppled to the floor as if in objection.
"There are no such things as ghosts," Parousia reiterated. "There are things that may counterfeit them, to confuse us." A dusty jug on the washstand turned with an unpleasant grating sound.
"My husband was an unhappy man. He suffered all his life, from boyhood," the widow stated. "He felt inadequate, which was nonsense. He didn't think he was good enough for me, which was also nonsense. You are not my late husband; he cannot be here," she said definitely.
The whole washstand began to rattle and the jug shook. "Whatever you are, you have fed on his misery. You are using it to project yourself," the woman told the presence. "You are just a thing in borrowed clothes. You have wrapped yourself in him; without his memory you are nothing at all".
There was a loud bang as the jug fell to the floor and the washstand toppled after it. Downstairs the Possets leapt to their feet. "Well you can't feed on the misery of my husband anymore, do you hear me. I forgive him."
The remaining pillow launched itself at Parousia and she dodged it. "I forgive him. Isaiah Snatchbrand is forgiven and is still loved. His misery died with his mortal body. You cannot use it because my love for him has outlived his misery. His memory is a happy one for me. Do you hear me, you misbegotten thing?"
The jug rolled slowly across the floor without much force. "I love Isaiah and he is forgiven! Your puppet is useless to you. Leave now and don't come back," she commanded. The room went still. She was alone, in that place and in life.
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Epilogue
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Mrs Snatchbrand returned to Kent, undaunted by the encounter. She hoped that she had left 'The Yews' at peace and never once thought that Isaiah himself had tormented it. The Possets had no more trouble with the room although they could only ever let it to total strangers. The local children always called it the 'haunted house' – encouraged by Timothy Humblebroth. Mr Timpani had never truly believed in the ghost but he was glad that his landlords had cheered up. Only Mary, the maid, was the loser for she found herself working full Fridays once again.
We will leave the Possets now, restored to their unremarkable, happy lives. The only thing left for me to do is to wish us all a very merry Christmas.
THE END