0 comments/ 21989 views/ 1 favorites The Ancient Curse By: Starlight “If I might advise you, Miss Carstairs-Browne, I don’t think you should be alone in Carstairs Manor. I mean, a great rambling place with not even a servant left.” “I know Mr.Roberts,” I said, smiling, “and I know the story that is told about the curse, but you see, I don’t believe in old curses.” I was talking to Mr.Roberts, the agent who managed Carstairs Manor and land. It had fallen to me to inherit the crumbling old house and the few remaining acres of what had once been a huge estate. I was the last of the Carstairs, my parents having failed to produce any more children. The “Browne” came from my mother who before her marriage to my father was Amanda Browne, and being an independent woman, insisted on her name being linked to the Carstairs name. My parents were dead, and there was no one else to take on the old ruin. I had dragged myself away from the novel I was writing, to come to Carstairs le Moor, as the village is called, to try to sort out the situation. My intention was, to sell the place for whatever I could get for it. The story I referred to goes, in brief, something like this: One night in eighteen hundred and five, Sir Lucas Carstairs was carousing with a group of his cronies in the Great Hall. A young maid was serving them their wine, and at one point, Sir Lucas pulled her on to his lap. The girl started to struggle, begging to be released. This aroused Sir Lucas, and in his drunken state he decided to show the girl who was master. With the aid of his intoxicated companions, the girl, a virgin, was stripped naked, and being held down by four of the men, Sir Lucas raped her. When he had finished, he invited his companions to enjoy the girl. She was subjected to multiple rapes, and her screams were heard in the servant’s hall. One of the servants, a footman, was the girl’s brother. Hearing his sister’s screams he made to go to her rescue, but was restrained by the other servants who feared the power of Sir Lucas. The young footman managed to break loose and raced into the Great Hall. Seeing one of the men in the act of raping his sister, he tore the man from her. He was seized and while being held was forced to watch the remainder of the men take his sister. When they had all taken their turn, Sir Lucas turned on the young footman and struck him across the face saying, “You’ve just seen what serving wenches are good for.” Then young man, now insane with what he had witnessed, broke free and struck Sir Lucas. One of the rapists took a knife from the table and drove it into the footman’s back, inflicting a mortal wound. As he lay dying on the floor, the footman pronounced a curse on the Carstairs family that went like this; “May all Carstairs women be defiled as my sister has been defiled, until the day a Carstairs women surrenders her body to a footman.” Sir Lucas drove the toe of his boot into the dying man’s side saying, “Carstairs women do not give themselves to menial scum.” The young man died. The raped girl, deranged though her experience and seeing her bother murdered, staggered from the Great Hall, and climbing the stairs to the east wing, she flung her self to her death from one of the windows. Sir Lucas was the local magistrate, and such inquiry as there was, found the murderer of the footman had acted in self-defense, and the girl had committed suicide in a fit of madness. No one was ever punished for the crimes. No one was punished, unless, if you believe the tales that are told, the Carstairs women. In the succeeding generations of Carstairs, wives and daughters of the Carstairs men are said to have had strange things happen to them. Some committed suicide, others went insane and on three occasions, the women appear to have born children that could not possibly have been the offspring of their husbands, and claimed a ghost had raped them. Indeed, one had no husband, being an unmarried daughter. Apart from being Carstairs women, they all had one thing in common. They all told stories of being raped in the night by an unseen assailant. Investigation of these claims found nothing, and since the three pregnancies took place before the time when satisfactory tests for paternity were available, nothing was ever proved. The male line of Carstairs, apart from the problems they had with their womenfolk, were never assailed in any way. My parents had never lived in Carstairs Manor, so my mother was never “defiled.” I did not believed these tales, and as I entered maturity, I took a rather cynical view of the women’s stories of being raped by someone unseen. “One way of accounting for bit on the side,” I commented to my father when he spoke of the matter. Whether he fully believed the stories I do not know, but he did say, “Ushas, don’t ever go near that house.” Mr.Roberts was speaking again. “If you insist on going to the Manor, Miss Carstairs-Browne, I’m afraid you will find it unprepared. I didn’t expect you so soon or I’d have got the place ready for you.” “It’s okay,” I said. “I’ve brought some food with me, and presumably there’s somewhere I can cook?” “Oh yes, the electrical power is still on, and by the way, you’ll find sheets and blankets in a cupboard on the first landing. I’ll send young Gresham along in the morning, and you can go over the inventory with him.” “I want to get rid of it as soon as possible, Mr.Roberts.” “Hmm. Not a particularly good time to sell a property like that, but, we are at your service.” I rose. “Thank you, Mr.Roberts. I’ll be on my way then. I’ll be in touch.” We shook hands and he saw me to my car. I was about to get in when he said, “Oh, I forgot to mention it. The telephone isn’t connected.” I shrugged. I couldn’t think of any particular reason why I should need it for the short time I intended staying. I drove the couple of miles out of the village along the road to Carstairs Manor wondering what I should find. I had only ever visited the place once, and that was with my father to see my grandfather. I never knew my grandmother. She was one of those who, about five months after giving birth to my father, had committed suicide. Grandfather had never married again, and he had disapproved of my father marrying my mother. “Not a gel of our class,” he is alleged to have said. We did not stay overnight, so if there were any ghosts wandering around, I wasn’t there to see them. I came to some rickety gates with a sign that read, “Carstairs Manor.” The gates must have been imposing once, flanked as they were by stone pillars surmounted by lions sitting on their haunches holding the Carstairs coat of arms. The gates themselves were stained with rust and a couple of the iron bars were missing. After a struggle I managed to open the heavy gates and continued up the weed festooned drive to the house, which came into view round a bend. In its finest hour, the place must have been truly imposing. Three stories high, and with dormer windows set in the roof (“Servant’s quarters I’ll bet,” I thought), it must have had at least sixty bedrooms. Now it showed all the marks of unpainted neglect. I pulled up in front of the main entrance and got out. The place was strangely silent. No bird sang. No tree or bush rustled. Out on the road as I opened the gates, I had felt a slight breeze. Here, there was nothing. I went up the steps to the door, and taking from my bag the huge key Mr.Roberts had given me, I pushed it into the formidable looking lock. I turned the key, and much to my surprise, it moved easily. “Well, something around here works,” I thought. Stepping into the large entrance hall, I found it in reasonable order. The servants had left over week before, so I supposed they must have given the place a last thorough tidy and clean up. I tried a light switch, and a massive chandelier sprang into life. “Something else that works,” I congratulated myself. Picking up the hall telephone, I discovered Mr.Roberts was right, it was dead. I went back to the car and after making a couple of trips back and forth, I had all my gear in the hall. “Kitchens,” I thought, and started the hunt for them. It took a couple of false starts before I lit upon the right passage. The kitchens were gray and gloomy as if designed and decorated to produce the maximum depression in whoever used them. It looked as if the equipment had been haphazardly upgraded over the years, with old solid fuel stoves still in place, and a couple of large cast iron gas stoves that appeared to be about vintage 1902. Then in one corner I spied a small modern, if 1950 can be considered modern, electric stove. “That’s for me,” I thought, and went to bring my food supplies in from the hall. The next task was to find a suitable bedroom. I went up the curving stairs to the landing indicated by Mr.Roberts, and found the cupboard with bed linen. I then proceeded to open doors to see what was available for sleeping purposes. Most of the rooms looked as if they had not been used since the nineteenth century, but I came upon one which, almost before I turned the doorknob, seemed to open of its own volition. I walked in and the first thing that I saw was a truly magnificent four poster bed. It was of gargantuan proportions with splendid hangings of a golden coloured cloth. Unlike all the other beds, it gave the appearance of having been freshly prepared, with clean silk sheets and soft blankets. “Might as well sleep like a member or the aristocracy for once in my life,” I said aloud. I thought I heard a faint rustle behind me, but turning, there was nothing. There were huge floor to ceiling windows, a dressing table that must have been made by some master craftsman in the eighteenth century and, much to my delight upon opening a door, a bathroom and toilet. I tried the hot water tap, and behold hot water! “Must be an electric hot water tank somewhere,” I said, once more aloud. Another faint rustle, and again, nothing. “Watch your imagination, girl,” I said, but making sure it was not aloud this time. A further hunt revealed a large cupboard with the hot water heater, and an abundance of warm, fluffy towels. “Well, that’s settled the cooking and sleeping arrangements,” I thought. “Now, where to eat?” I went back to the kitchens and on investigation found a side room no less depressing than the kitchens themselves. “Must have been where the servants ate, poor buggers,” I thought. “Well, it’s either this, or that bloody great dining room, so here it is.” By the time I had finished cooking and eating my meal, the sun had disappeared over the horizon and I had the lights on. I decided on an early night preceded by a bath in the magnificent cast iron receptacle provided for the purpose. Carting my suitcase with spare clothing up to the bedroom, I stripped off and ran the bath. I luxuriated for about half and hour, and after drying myself, I wrapped myself in another towel and went back into the bedroom. The room was filled with soft light from concealed lighting controlled by a small panel set beside the bed. I switched on the bed reading light and extinguished the others. I had brought a book with me, and after reading for a while, I put the book aside, turned off the reading light, and went quickly to sleep. I don’t know how long I had been asleep, when I awoke with a start. The room was pitch black. I had pulled the heavy curtains across the windows before my bath, and if there was any starlight or moonlight outside, it did not penetrate the room. Everything was very still. One might say, “It was deathly silent.” I reached for the lighting panel and flicked a switch. Nothing happened. I tried another, then a third. Still nothing happened. “Damn,” I thought, “a fuse must have gone.” Having no idea where the fuse box might be, and having no torch even if I did want to go in search of it, I had to accept the situation and go off to sleep again. I settled down again for sleep, but before I could go off, I heard that faint rustle again. I listened intently, and the sound grew louder I began to distinguish words. They echoed round the room so that I could not pinpoint a source. “Carstairs…Carstairs…Carstairs…” They went on and on softly vibrating all around me. I called out, “Whose there?” but the voices went on and on, “Carstairs…Carstairs…” I felt an icy terror grip me and I begged, “Please, show yourself…tell me who you are…” “Carstairs…Carstairs…” A dim, wavering light took shape above me, I wanted to scream, but no sound would come. The bed clothing seemed to float away, and I lay naked and exposed. Unseen hands held my wrists with an unyielding grip, and my arms were raised above my head and outwards. I tried to resist, but some power or constraining force seemed to have taken control of me, rendering me incapable of sound or movement. I felt something soft, yet unyielding clamp round my wrists, rendering my arms immobile. Then my legs were drawn apart and clamps came upon my ankles. I was spread wide open, helpless. The light hovered over me for a few more seconds, and then descended to my breasts. I felt what might have been icy hands grasping them and start to squeeze. I felt glacial lips close over a nipple and there was a sucking sensation. Then slowly but inexorably the light approached my genitals. The light hung over my vulva for a moment, then descended to it. I felt the outer lips moved apart, and at the same time the echoing voice or voices grew louder, more intense. “Carstairs…Carstairs…” Something entered my vagina. It was hard and cold, like a bar of steel. It moved back and forth in me, slowly at first, then with ever increasing speed until finally, with a deep thrust, I felt the discharge of what must have been ice cold semen. I was not a virgin, and had experienced the warm semen of a man on several occasions injected into me in an act of love. This ejaculation was one of hate, of revenge; it drove into me as if by so doing it would slay me. Unable to utter a sound, I was screaming inside. Shivering as waves of horror coursed through me. I felt a spinning sensation in my head and heard the voices laughing in derision. I heard one last “Carstairs” pronounced in a cry of malevolence, and I fainted away. When I came too, I had no idea of how long I had been unconscious. My arms and legs were free and the bed covers over me. The room was still dark, but faintly I could hear a sound I had found absent on my arrival. I heard bird song. It was morning. In the vain hope it might work, I reached for the lighting panel and flicked a switch. Light flooded the room. I lay bewildered and frightened then, recalling the ice-cold ejaculation, I sat up and searched the lower sheet for signs of sperm. There were none. I put my fingers into my vagina, seeking the residue of sperm I had felt pound into me. There was nothing. “My God,” I thought, “it was a nightmare. All that talk and thinking about the old stories must have been buzzing around in my brain, and I had a bad dream.” I rose and went to the window and pulled aside the curtains to let light flood the room. “A dream, a bloody dream, you silly cow,” I said aloud. I heard a rustling behind me. I whirled round. Nothing. “My God, Ushas, pull yourself together, girl, or there’s no knowing what you’ll start imagining.” Convinced though I was that I had only dreamed the terror and its penetration, I never the less took a bath, paying particular attention to cleansing my vagina. After dressing, I went down to the kitchens and breakfast. Mr.Roberts had said that “young Gresham” would be coming to go over the inventory with me. He hadn’t said what time young Gresham would be arriving, so I took a wanderer round the old pile. I quickly came to the conclusion that the place would not fetch in much cash, but whoever bought it would have to spend a heap to get it in order. “It’d have to be an American or an oil rich Arab,” I thought. I heard the clatter of a bell in what must have been the servant’s hall. “Ah, young Gresham,” I thought, and hastened to open the front door. By contrast with the surrounding dejection of the house, young Gresham was a brilliant ray light. Tall, slim and smiling, he extended his hand and asked, “Miss Carstairs-Browne?” I took his hand, which was warm and firm, as much to gain some sensation of another living being as in greeting. “Yes,” I replied, trying to return his sunny smile. “But please call me Ushas.” He hesitated for a moment, then made the comment that most people make. “If you don’t mind my saying so, that’s a most unusual name.” “Yes. Name of a Hindu goddess of the dawn. She’s also said to be a willing young wife who likes to look after the home. My father was lecturer in comparative religion, and an optimist, as I’m not sure I fit either of those descriptions.” We both laughed. “Well, you’ve certainly got a big enough home to look after here,” he said with a grin. “I don’t think I shall be doing much ‘looking after’, I want to sell it as soon as I can.” “So Edgar told me.” “That’s Mr.Roberts, is it?” “Sorry, yes. We have an inventory of what’s in the place, but I’m afraid I have to ask you to check everything, and then sign. It’s going to be a big job.” “How long? Three or four hours?” He laughed. “More like three or four days, I’m afraid.” I was somewhat disgruntled by this. I wanted to get out of the place as soon as possible, not wanting to spend another night there. “Look, couldn’t I just sign and go.” “I’m sorry Ushas, but we have to cover ourselves. Look, I’ll get us through it as fast as I can, but it has to be done thoroughly, I mean, we have had people who have accused us of stealing their property and selling it on the side…” “All right Peter, I understand. Where do we start, from the top down or the bottom up?” “Let’s start from the top.” I had not ventured up into the servants quarters, and when we got there I felt compassion for those whose only privacy was in their wretched room, and who had to sleep in it. With a couple of exceptions, they were sparsely furnished with iron bedsteads, a single hard chair and a small table with a mirror over it. There was only one bathroom and one toilet for what at one time must have been a staff of at least fifteen. The two exceptions were rooms with title plates on the doors, “Butler” “Housekeeper.” These had more space, better beds, one armchair and one hard chair, desks, and proper dressing tables. Most of the rooms looked as if they had not been in use for decades, thus indicating the decline in the Carstairs fortune. One of the rooms presented Peter and I with a puzzle. Hanging up on a hook was a uniform. It was the sort of garb you see on footmen in historical films, and certainly not an item any modern servant would wear, yet it looked almost new. “That’s odd,” said Peter, riffling through his papers. “We don’t seem to have any record of this. We went over the place very carefully, I don’t understand how we missed such an obvious thing. Oh well, I’ll write it in now. You see why we have to get you to check with us?” “Yes,” I murmured thoughtfully. “It must have been worn by a footman ages ago.” I took the uniform off the hook and turned it round. In the back was slit surrounded by a huge stain. Peter had been gazing at his lists, so I called his attention to the stain. He stared at it intently for a moment, then said, “You know, that stain looks like blood. Pity, we might have got a very good price for it. Wonder if we could get it cleaned and mended?” I heard the rustling behind me again and turned quickly. “What’s the matter?” Asked Peter. “Didn’t you hear it, Peter? A sort of rustling sound.” “No. Might have been or mouse or something.” The Ancient Curse I decided to leave it at that, so I said, “Yes, you’re probably right.” For the rest of the day, we plodded our way through what seemed like endless lists of items to be checked. Boring as it was, the cheerful companionship of Peter helped to make the task less onerous, but by late afternoon, we were still not half way through. “Time to call a halt for today,” Peter said. The sun had not yet set, but a late afternoon gloom began to pervade the generally dismal house. If one went outside, one was bathed in the late afternoon sun. Going back into the house, it was as if night had already descended upon it. Peter was gathering his things together prior to leaving, and I felt a shiver of apprehension pass through me. I would be alone in the house all evening and night, and with the telephone unconnected, no outside contact. I suddenly did not want to lose Peter’s company. I spoke to him cautiously. “Peter, have you got a wife to go home to, or something you have to do?” He looked up at me from his paper shuffling and smiled. “No, I don’t have a wife, unfortunately, and I have nothing in particular I have to do. Why?” “Well, I know it’s a bit impertinent, but I don’t want to spend all evening alone in this dismal hole. I wondered, if I offered to pay, and if there’s anywhere decent to eat, you would have dinner with me?” He looked at me with frank amazement for a moment, then seemed to recover and said, “I’d love to have dinner with you. The local pub, “The Orb and Sceptre”,” turn on a very good meal, but I don’t know about you paying. I mean, I’d be very happy to pay for the company of such a pretty lady.” That began one of those fruitless arguments that often arise in such circumstances, but we finally settled it by agreeing that if I paid for the meal, Peter would buy the wine.” I raced up to the bedroom and put on the one decent set of clothing I had brought with me, a fawn slack suit, did a quick makeup job, then deciding I looked satisfactory, muttered, “Thank God I’m out of this place for a few hours.” There was a rustling behind me. I did not turn round, but went hastily out of the door to the waiting Peter. We went to the village in his car, and although I am normally a fairly independent sort of woman, I felt secure in his presence. The Orb and Sceptre proved to be one of those low beamed, “Queen Elizabeth the First slept here,” sort of pubs. As Peter had said, it turned on a very good but plain meal. Peter bought a very expensive bottle of red wine, which, while pleasant enough to drink, did not live up to its price or pretentious label. Yet, even if the meal had been mediocre, which it wasn’t and the wine less pleasant, I would still have enjoyed the company of the cheery Peter. He regaled me with the history of the pub (“First opened in 1586”). Then went on to details of village life, what he thought of the political scene both national and international, and then wanted to know how many novels I had written, was I working on one now and, “I’d better read one of them hadn’t I?” He was one of the most entertaining companions I had ever had, even though he hardly flattered my writer’s ego. Towards the end of the evening, the landlord of the pub came across to have a word. Peter introduced us, and at the sound of my name, the landlord sucked in air through his teeth. “You baint astoppin at the Manor, be ee?” When I answered in the affirmative, he shook his head. “You baint there alone, be ee?” When I again answered in the affirmative, he said, “I baint afeared of man nor beast, but ee wouldn’t get me astoppin there alone. ‘Ave ee seed the mad footman yet?” “No.” “Here, stop it Fred,” Peter laughed, “You’ll have the lady frightened going on like that.” “Ah well,” said Fred ambiguously, “I’ll bid ee goodnight then.” He retired to the saloon bar still shaking his head. “Take no notice of Fred,” Peter said, “He just likes to revel in the gory details of local history.” I almost told Peter about my dream, if it was a dream, of the night before, and of the rustling sounds I had so frequently heard, but I thought he might be like most males, and write me off as an “hysterical female.” He drove me back to the Manor, and I think even the cheery Peter sensed something of what I now felt to be its sinister brooding quality. “Ushas,” he asked with a note of concern in his voice, “would you like me to come in with you for a while?” Had it been most men and in other circumstances, I would have suspected that this was an attempt to get into my bed. With Peter, I felt no such suspicion. He was so open and honest. Had he decided to try and bed me, I felt sure he would come straight out with it, saying something like, “Could I have a sexual intercourse with you?” The thought flashed through my mind, “If only a man like him would love me.” Then I stamped on the thought. “You’re being ridiculous, my girl, you’ve known him less than a day. It’s all this dreaming and talk of mad footmen that’s getting to you. Pull yourself together, you’re living in the twentieth century, not in the Dark Ages.” Putting on the mask of the “Now” woman, I thanked Peter for his offer, but said I would be perfectly okay, then felt constrained to soften the refusal by saying, “I’ll look forward to seeing you tomorrow.” “Goodnight then,” he said. “And thank you for the evening. I really enjoyed being with you.” I got out of the car, bade him good night, then as he drove away I put on a bold front and strode into the house. Immediately I felt as if I was being watched. “Imagination, Ushas, imagination,” I told myself, but I made sure I switched on all the lights I could find as I proceeded to the bedroom, and left them on. As I entered the bedroom, the feeling of being watched intensified. I settled for a hasty bath, then with the curtains left open, and all the lights switched on, I put on my underwear as if cladding myself in a suit of armour, and lay on the bed. I did not read, but lay there, determined that if what I had experienced the previous night was a dream, I would not dream tonight. If it was not a dream, and the story of the ghost was true, it would not find me such an easy victim. I struggled to stay awake, and several times, I almost dropped off to sleep, jerking myself awake again just in time. The house was silent – oppressively silent. Then, after what seemed hours, the lights flickered. I became alert, but they steadied up again. “Power fluctuation,” I thought. Then they flickered again, and this time they began very slowly to dim until the room was in total darkness. I had noted that the night was moonlit but no moonbeam penetrated the windows. It was as if they too had been blackened to exclude all light. I tried to leap from the bed, but the frightening paralysis had me in its grip again. Then the echoing voice or voices began, “Carstairs…Carstairs.” The light hovered over me. The underwear I had put on seemed to drift away from my body. The irresistible bondage, the cold, malevolent penetration, the icy venomous sperm thrust into me. Then the light hovered over me briefly, then it faded and I was released from my confinement. The lights slowly came on to illuminate the room. I was terrified and exhausted by the ordeal, but I gathered enough of my scattered wits to penetrate my vagina with my fingers, feeling for any trace of sperm. Once more, there was nothing. “I’m going mad!” I thought. “If I told anyone what I was experiencing, they’d have me put away.” I wanted to telephone someone – Peter – but even if the telephone was working, I did not have his number. I recalled the stories of the Carstairs women who had been driven insane, and now I knew why. I huddled in the bed until morning trying to fight off sleep, but towards the dawn I was overcome and went into a fitful doze. A thunderous knocking awakened me. “Peter!” I had overslept. Utterly drained I dragged myself from the bed, and having no dressing gown, I put on my coat. I staggered down to the front door and opened it. Peter started to say, “Saw your car and knew you must still…” He stopped, then, “My God Ushas, you look terrible. What’s wrong? Are you okay?” I longed to tell him what had happened, but knew it would sound crazy, so I said, “Had a bad night. Couldn’t get to sleep.” “Do you want to cancel our work today?” I wanted to get out of the house as soon as possible. If we didn’t continue the trek through the inventory, it would only delay my departure. “No Peter. If you can give me half an hour I’ll be ready and we can carry on.” “Are you sure, Ushas?” “Yes. I’ll be with you as soon as I can.” We continued our task, but by mid-afternoon we had only completed a little over half the house. As I thought ahead about the night to come, I felt a creeping dread start to take control of me. In desperation, I turned to Peter. “Peter, I don’t want to stay in the house tonight. Is there somewhere I could get a room?” He looked at me with a quizzical smile. “Haven’t seen the ghost of the mad footman, have you?” “No,” I replied, not willing to reveal what I had seen and felt. “It’s just that the place is so gloomy and oppressive, I feel I must get out of it.” “Well,” he said, “There is the Orb and Sceptre. They have rooms there…” “Somewhere else, Peter. Fred might start his talk about ghosts again.” “If you don’t mind travelling a bit further, there’s the “Ploughman” in Colford. That’s quite good and it's only ten miles away. I live in Colford, so I could drive you there and bring you back with me in the morning.” “That will be fine, Peter. I’ll just get my things, and we can be off.” I wanted to be out of the house before the evening, when night seemed to enter the house long before it was evident outside. I hastily packed and looking around the room, as I was about to leave it, I said aloud, “I’ve spent my last night in here.” There was a sound. Not the rustling this time but a sinister laugh. I fled from the room and down the stairs, but the laughter seemed to follow me, reverberating round the walls, in the air all around me. I almost rushed past Peter, but he grabbed me saying, “Hey, what’s the hurry?” “Did you hear anything?” I quavered. He looked puzzled. “Not a thing. The place seems as quiet as a tomb. Why, did you hear something?” “It must have been the wind,” I lied. We went outside and I hoped Peter would not notice that there was no wind. I locked the door with a sigh of relief and we left for Colford. Arriving at Colford, we went straight to the Ploughman. It was much more elegant than the Orb and Sceptre and I was soon ensconced in the warm embracing environment of a pleasant room. Peter had come with me to the room, carrying my luggage, and he asked, “Could we have dinner together again tonight?” I was at first inclined to say no as I was so tired, but thought, “You must eat something, Ushas, so why not in the congenial company of Peter?” So, I replied: “I’d love to have dinner with you Peter, but I am very tired, so if we can just make it the dinner with no long conversation after, yes.” “Fine,” he smiled, “I’ll book a table here and as soon as we’ve finished eating you can go straight up to bed.” We arranged that I would meet him in the foyer at seven o’clock. I had a shower, and feeling a little refreshed changed into my pants suit, and went to meet Peter. As we had planned, we ate our meal and after arranging for him to pick me up in the morning, we parted company, he to where he lived, me to my room. I stripped off and fell into bed, and looking at the illuminated bedside clock, I noted it was nine p.m. Turning off the bed reading lamp, I was instantly swallowed up by sleep. I came awake slowly, blearily wondering what the time was, and I glanced over at the bedside clock, but could not see it. I reached for the switch of the reading light and flicked it on. Nothing happened. Safe in what was virtually a public building, with people sleeping in rooms around me, and a night staff on duty, I had no fear of a repeat of the past two nights, but then I heard malignant laughter seeming to hang in the air. I tried to scream, “Oh God, not again, please.” But the numbness had already taken hold of me. I could neither move nor speak of my own volition, a prisoner of whatever power was assailing me. Once more, I was forcibly spread-eagled on the bed, the cold, hard shaft thrust into me, working itself in and out of me until the explosion of the freezing sperm, smashing with relentless force against the top of my vagina. Whatever it was that penetrated me was withdrawn and a voice whispered, “No escape, Carstairs, no escape until the day you die…unless…unless…” The voice died away and having turned on the light switch before my ordeal, the light slowly flickered on, gradually increasing in intensity, and the clock re-illuminated. I broke out into hysterical weeping. “No escape” the voice had said. I knew now. Once I had entered that frightful house, the ghost, spirit, power or whatever it was had united itself with me. Now, wherever I went, it would be with me until the day I died. Every night from now on, I was to be defiled by that cold penetration and icy ejaculation. Still weeping, I seemed to fall into a black hole, and was mercifully engulfed by sleep. Next morning Peter was waiting for me in the foyer. He took one look at me and asked, “Another bad night?” “Yes.” I didn’t tell him how bad. I didn’t care now whether I went to the Manor or not. There was no escape for me, except in death. I even began to contemplate suicide and recalled the ravished serving girl who had flung her self from an upper window of the east wing. We continued the interminable task of going through the inventory and when we called a halt, we still had not completed the task. “A three or four hours tomorrow should see it done,” Peter said. I no longer cared. My life, what ever was left of it, would from now on be a perpetual hell. I was destined to live in a constant state of stygian emotional darkness, dreading the coming of every night. Peter asked me to have dinner with him again, and in my state of not caring one way or the other, I agreed. I must have been a wretched companion for him. I could not converse or engage in any of those niceties that go with being with an attractive man. Peter was very concerned for me, asking if I felt unwell, was I just tired, could he help. I made lethargic responses as my mind was now focused on the night to come and what I must endure. I heard Peter say, “If you’re still around tomorrow evening, I’m afraid we won’t be able to have dinner together, as much as I’d like to. I’ve got a club meeting, and I’m the secretary, so I can’t miss it.” “What club,” I asked, not really caring. “It’s an athletic club, running. You know, racing round the track or over the fields. Helps to keep me fit. It’s called, ‘The Footmen Fliers’.” He grinned. “Corny, isn’t it. The members are called a ‘Footman’. I’m Footman Gresham, would you believe?” Something seemed to explode in my head. “Footman Gresham”! “May all Carstairs women be defiled as my sister has been defiled, until the day a Carstairs women surrenders her body to a footman.” The words resounded in my head. My apathy dropped away from me – “Surrenders her body to a footman”. If…if I were to…if Peter would…How could I ask him? What would he think of me? Would he be…” What did it matter, I had nothing to lose except his good opinion of me, and in the face of my nightly torment it was worth the risk. I looked over the table at him, struggling to find the words I needed. “Peter, would you do something for me?” “Of course, if I can Ushas.” He looked so caring and in earnest, it seemed a pity that he must soon think ill of me, but I must ask him. “Peter, I know this may sound awful, but would you come to my room and have a sexual intercourse with me?” He stared at me, for a moment he seemed unable to find the words to respond. Then he began to stammer: “Ushas, did…did… you say…have a…a sexual…sexual…” “Intercourse,” I said finishing his sentence for him. “But Ushas…I mean…I don’t…we’ve only known…” He seemed to recover some degree of composure and spoke more connectedly. “Ushas, I don’t want to sound pompous, but I probably will, but, you see…Well, I know about one night stands, casual and so-called recreational sex, but I don’t…I mean it’s important…or it is to me…it’s…er…well…its love.” “Peter, you do like me, and you don’t find me repulsive, do you?” “Well no. I think you’re lovely…and…and if I’d dared to I might have hoped that…Well, we might one day…” “I’d like to tell you why I’m asking this of you, Peter, and I might be able to in the future, but if I say it’s absolutely vital that you have sex with me…” “I can’t imagine why it’s so important to you, Ushas, but of course, it would be easy for me…I mean…I’d want to…if…” “I’m begging you, Peter.” “Ushas, you don’t have to beg. You would never have to beg any man. I’ll come with you to your room.” We went together to my room, and rather shyly took off our clothes. Peter looked at me appreciatively and said, “You are lovely, Ushas.” When we got on to the bed he started to kiss me and fondled my breasts, but I wanted him to penetrate me quickly. I needed to break the curse in that instant. “Please, Peter, just come straight into me. Take me quickly.” He penetrated me and I lay there, submissive, waiting to receive his seed. He shot into me, and as he did this, I heard a hissing sound, “Sssss,” that faded away into the distance. I am sure Peter did not hear it. After waiting about a minute I said, “Thank you, Peter. I hope one day I shall be able to tell you what a wonderful thing you have done for me.” I felt that the poor man would find that hard to understand, having had sex with something resembling a lifeless rag doll. Realising he was being dismissed he rose from the bed and dressed. I wanted to tell him I was not always so unresponsive and ungiving, but I dared not at that moment. I wanted him to leave me alone to face the night, so I could discover whether the curse was broken. “I went to him and kissed him on the cheek, thanking him again. He left me, I believe, a very puzzled man.” I lay awake, the light on, waiting to find out what would happen. Would my malevolent spirit come once more to invade me, or had I broken the curse? In the early hours of the morning the light began to flicker, then fade. I wanted to scream with terror and frustration. The curse was not broken and only complete insanity or death lay in front of me. There were no echoing voices this time, only the faint rustling I had heard before. The light came to hover over me, and although I could not move or make a sound, I was not spread-eagled to receive the penetration of my sex organ. The light continued to hover for some time, and I felt it was looking at me, scrutinizing my body with unseen eyes. Then, with the hissing sound I had heard before, it seemed to dissolve, the electric light came on and I was freed from restraint. Weak from fatigue, I slept. Next morning I joined Peter in the foyer and we were off to the Manor. We started plodding our way through the remaining inventory items. We had hoped to finish by lunchtime, but there were still a few more items to check. Peter suggested we went to the Orb and Sceptre to eat, and I agreed. During the lunch the landlord came and spoke to us. “Still baint seen the mad footman, then?” “No.” T’was a vile deed and terrible curse, so t’was. How’d in go now, ah…” I quoted it for him. “May all Carstairs women be defiled as my sister has been defiled, until the day a Carstairs women surrenders her body to a footman.” The Ancient Curse “Ah yes, but that baint all the curse.” “You mean there was more?” Oh, yes. Now ‘ow did it go? “May all Carstairs women be defiled as my sister has been defiled, until the day a Carstairs women surrenders her body to a footman, and remains his bondwoman until death parts them.” Having enjoyed his gruesome moment, he bade us good cheer and departed. Peter was staring at me over the table, his eyes narrowed. “So that was it? ‘Surrenders her body to a footman’. Footman Gresham. You have experienced the mad footman, then? I nodded miserably. “I hoped it worked for you.” There was hurt in his voice, and I understood why. I had used him in the most intimate physical relationship possible between a man and women, a relationship that had deep meaning for him. Gently I said to him, “It worked in part, Peter, and I wondered why it did not work completely. Now I know.” “Why did it not work completely?” “You heard the rest of the curse – the bit I didn’t know. ‘And remain his bondwoman until death parts them’.” “Yes.” I went on speaking very quietly. “I know you’re hurt, Peter, because you think I only used you to break the curse. We did something that is important…sacred to you…and I feel that way myself…I’m not a…a slut. I don’t give myself easily, but if it’s any comfort to you, I have thought, ‘If only he could love me’. We’ve only known each other a few days, but if, somehow, we could have gone on meeting, talking and learning about each other, I could have…I would have…” “Made love with me?” “Yes. If you could have forgiven me…and been patient with me…and I’m not really the…unresponsive woman you were with last night. I was under a terrible strain and I saw you as my saviour. If one day I can tell you what I’ve been through, and you wanted to hear…just a little time…” His hand was resting on the table, and I reached across to touch it with mine. He took it and held it. “Whatever time you need, Ushas.” We sat, holding each other’s hand, looking into each other’s eyes. The landlord, Fred, came past, stopped for a moment looking at us, and said, “Ee make a right ‘andsome couple,” and laughing, moved on. “His bondwoman until death parts them,” I quoted. Peter gently squeezed my hand. “Until death.” We shook ourselves out of our tender trance, rose, and headed back to the Manor. There was little left to do, and with only a few items left to be checked Peter said, “There’s something I want to look at, Ushas. You just check the last items and I’ll be back shortly.” He went off and I continued working. In a few minutes, he was back wearing a puzzled look. “Ushas, that footman’s uniform we saw the other day in the servants room, did you move it?” “No, why?” “It’s not there. I looked in the other rooms in case I was mistaken about which room, but it’s gone, vanished. Unless someone broke in and stole it, but…” “It doesn’t really matter, darling” (The ‘darling’ slipped out without my thinking about it). “Perhaps we only imagined we saw it.” I laughed, but I had a strong suspicion I knew what had happened to it. “Well, it’s your property my love. (Did that slip out unnoticed too?) “But I know we saw it. I was going to take it to the cleaners in Colford to see if it could be cleaned and repaired. Very odd.” We finished the last of the items; I signed the documents, and breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank God that’s over,” I said. “What about dinner in Colford tonight?” “Thought you’d never ask,” he grinned. “You can pay for the lot this time, after all, even if the market value is down on this sort of property, you’re going to be a well off woman when it is sold.” He suddenly looked gloomy and I understood why. He was not the sort to “take advantage” of a woman with money. I decided to settle that aspect right away.” “Yes, I suppose I shall be fairly rich. Of course, money is at its best when it’s shared with someone. You know, someone you love.” I put my arms round him and kissed him, making sure the kiss communicated my feelings of warmth for him. Pressed against him, I could feel his penis starting to harden and I was starting to get wet between the legs. If he had made the suggestion, I think I would have let him take me there and then, perhaps using the bedroom I had occupied but, “No,” I thought. “Wait Ushas, wait until you can make it really beautiful for him.” “Come on Peter, I said briskly, your bondwoman is hungry, and she has yet to bathe herself so she may be a delight in the eyes of her lord.” Laughing we left the mouldering pile, hand in hand, and on the drive to Colford I sat with my head on his shoulder. It was some week later, and in the intervening period, I had received no more nightly visitations. I had gone back to my flat in the city, and settled down to finishing my novel. I went down to Colford at weekends, stopping at the Ploughman, while Peter and I went through the “getting to know you” phase of our growing relationship. For those of prurient disposition, I can say that we had engaged in no further sexual intercourse. It had been decided that most of the removable items in the Manor would go up for auction. I did not wish to attend the auction, but I did have to see Mr.Roberts prior to that event. Mr.Roberts had become aware that there was what he called, “An understanding” between Peter and I, so on my arrival he called in Peter to his office. After some brief discussion about the auction, and the setting of reserve prices on some of the more valuable items, Mr.Roberts went to a cupboard and drew out a large cardboard box. “When the men were bringing up the items in the cellar,” he said, “They came across an old trunk we seem to have overlooked – I have added it to the inventory of course. In the trunk they found this.” He took off the lid of the box, and there lay a mouldering old uniform – a footman’s uniform. It must have been very ancient. It was in fact a decayed duplicate of the uniform we had seen in the servant’s room. I glanced at Peter, and he gave a bewildered shrug of his shoulders. I went to pick the uniform up out of the box, and Mr.Roberts said quickly, “Careful, it’s very decayed and could fall apart easily.” Very delicately, I turned the uniform over to display the back. There was no slit and no bloodstain. “Interesting,” I commented, trying to sound casual. “Not worth keeping, is it?” “A museum might be able to do something with it,” Mr.Roberts said doubtfully. “Let me have it, Mr.Roberts. I might have a use for it.” “Can’t imagine what, Miss Carstairs-Browne, but it is yours.” He put the lid on the box and handed it to me. When we left the office, I asked Peter, “Can you get away for a couple of hours?” “Yes, why?” “I want to go out to the Manor. There’s something I have to do. There are some tools in the garage, aren’t there?” “Yes. Why, what are you going to do?” “Wait and see.” We drove out to the Manor, and to my surprise, it seemed to have taken on a more friendly aspect. I got Peter to collect a spade, pick axe, hammer and chisel and a crowbar. We went down to the cellars and searching around I found a likely spot. “Darling, lever those bricks up, will you?” “If you say so.” He took up a couple of dozen bricks to reveal bare earth beneath. “Dig a hole, darling.” He dug, and when he had got down to box size, I put the box with the uniform into the hole. “Cover it up, Peter.” When he had done so, and replaced the bricks, I stood for a moment in silent prayer. I asked that the souls of that long ago murdered footman and his sister now be allowed to rest in peace. When I had finished my little prayer, I asked Peter, “Will you marry me?” “You bet I bloody will, was Peter’s response.” “You see,” I whispered to the place where we had buried the box, “His bondwoman until death parts us.” There was a faint hiss in the air. “What was that noise?” asked Peter. “You heard it too?” “Yes, what was it?” “Just someone acknowledging your bondwoman’s surrender.” “What are you talking about?” “I’ll tell you one day, my darling.” Yes, for those that want to know, that night Peter and I began our lovemaking in earnest. The Manor was sold, not as I had predicted, to an American or oil rich Arab, but to a company that runs unusual tourist hotels. The auction didn’t take place because before it could happen the people buying the Manor made an offer for the lot. They wanted, as they said, “The authentic gear.” I made a lot of money out of the deal, but I believe the “Carstairs Manor Hotel” is making a packet by spreading the story about the mad footman. They even have people who don’t really know anything about the place or the footman story, taking groups of guests over the place, telling them anything they can make up. I sometimes wish the ghost still walked (or hovered), and frightened the life out of those tour guides. Peter and I decided to have our wedding ceremony in the Carstairs le Moor church. One evening we had been chatting with the Rector about the arrangements in the vestry, and when we had finished, I took a wander round the church. As I did, I came across one of those tombs one finds in old churches. The inscription read, “Sir Lucas Carstairs. Died 17th of December in the year of Our Lord 1810.” Nothing more. There was an effigy of Sir Lucas on top of the tomb; his hands folded in an attitude of prayer. The Rector was standing behind me and he said, “It’s an odd thing, but just take a look at the eyes.” I looked and saw stains running from the eyes of the effigy and down his cheeks. “It’s strange,” the Rector continued, “those stains only appeared a few months ago. It’s almost as if he’s weeping.” “Repenting his sins,” I murmured. “I beg your pardon?” said the Rector. “Oh, nothing,” I replied. “I suppose we should clean the stains off.” “Perhaps he wants them to remain.” “Hmm, perhaps so.” When Peter and I married, I was around two months pregnant. Mr.Roberts gave me away, and Fred was best man. As the rector pronounced the final blessing, I could have sworn I heard a faint rustling in the air. Our first baby was a girl, and we found the name of another Hindu goddess for her, Uma goddess of light. She was almost born on the first day of the twenty-first century, but delayed her entrance by one day. I am now pregnant with our second child. We hope it might be a boy. I wonder what name of a Hindu god we can find for him? Thinking of pregnancies, I have sometimes wondered about those three Carstairs women who claimed to have been made pregnant by a ghost. Remembering my own experiences with the ghost and the absence of any sperm in my vagina after the penetration…? “I was right, they had been naughty girls.” I chuckled. Did I hear an echoing chuckle?