Free The Seance by John Harwood

meeting another human being, attended only by the lonely cries of seabirds and occasional glimpses of a grey and tumbling sea. Because of the way the land lies, the forest remains hidden until you crest a slight rise and find your way barred by a dark expanse of foliage. I was gazing at this prospect on a chill afternoon in the spring of 1864, and wondering whether the dogs were really as savage as I had once believed, when it occurred to me that I now had a legitimate reason to visit the Hall.
    I prevailed upon my father to write to Cornelius Wraxford – from whom we had not heard for several years – introducing me as his new man of business and requesting an interview. A week later came the reply: Mr Wraxford would continue the association for the time being, but sawno necessity of meeting. So far as my father was concerned, that was the end of it. But my old curiosity had been roused, and I began to make enquiries. I had a friend in the poaching line – a man I had met red-handed while I was out sketching very early one morning, and had not betrayed – and in a quiet corner of the taproom at the White Lion I learned that so much of the outer wall had now collapsed that the few remaining dogs were kept chained by the old stables at the rear of the house. The keeper – who acted mostly as groom and coachman – was given to drink, and seldom ventured forth at night, or so my informant had heard; the poaching fraternity, he told me, still gave the Hall a wide berth, especially after dark.
    The moon that night was almost at the full, and after I left the White Lion I stood for a long time on the strand, watching the play of light upon the water. I had thought that I would never again hear the sound of waves upon shingle without being overwhelmed by grief and remorse, but time had worn away the edge and the lines that came to me were not ‘Break, break, break’ but ‘the sword outwears its sheath, and the soul wears out the breast . . .’ The night was mild and clear, and it struck me as I stood there that it would be an interesting exercise to sketch the Hall by moonlight. Business was quiet, and my father was always happy to grant me sketching leave, and so I set off the very next day.
    It was early in the afternoon before I stood once more upon the ridge overlooking Monks Wood. From there I made my way northward along the edge of the forest until I came to a rutted track, and plunged beneath the canopy. A few minutes later I passed between the crumbling pillars which marked the boundary of the estate. The original oaks had been much overrun by firs, which grew very close, shutting out the light. As I went deeper into the wood, I became aware that the usual chatter of birds seemed strangely muted, and if there was game afoot, it kept well out of sight. The conviction that I had taken a wrong turning grew upon me until, without any warning, the path swerved around the trunk of a gigantic oak and emerged on to a ragged expanse of long grass and thistles which must oncehave been lawn. On the far side of the clearing, perhaps fifty yards off, stood a large manor house, in the Elizabethan style, with drab greenish walls cross-hatched by blackened timbers and crowned by numerous gables. The sun was already sinking toward the treetops on my left.
    The path continued on through the wilderness towards the front entrance, with a branch leading away to my left towards a tumbledown cottage, perhaps the keeper’s abode. Behind the cottage was a row of decrepit outbuildings, half hidden by the encroaching trees; and further off still, glimpses of stonework and a steeply sloping roof, presumably the chapel. Wraxford Hall, my father had told me, had once possessed a park of several acres, but the forest had swallowed everything except the house and its immediate surroundings. There was no sign of life; all was still and silent.
    I turned my attention to the main house. Symptoms of long neglect were apparent even at this distance: