Chapter Text
The Death of Andromeda Ashton
Now darling, you know that there is a big empty house on this property, away up past the formal gardens; you can just see it from your window when the leaves are down from the trees. Ashton Manor is its name, so called because my ancestor, Joseph Ashton, built it centuries ago, when Queen Anne ruled this isle. A solid English manor house, with wings stuck on it during the reign of the Georges, built of grey stone and with hundreds of windows peering down at us like so many curious eyes. It is the country seat of the Ashton family and has been for almost three hundred years. But we do not live there. Not anymore.
I can see impatience in your face. I know all this, is what you’re thinking. Patience, dear one, for I am going to tell you why.
They were great collectors, the old Ashtons were, and as the years went on they filled the Hall with all manner of treasures, ancient books and paintings and sculptures from far off lands where strange gods were worshipped and men look nothing like you’d believe. Every generation of Ashtons contributed to the Collection, until one day, one of them brought home something monstrous.
The house is empty now, its windows stare unseeing; its treasures are locked up and guarded by an aging caretaker. All know that it is abandoned, most of its treasures still inside, though some were safely moved to London around the time Queen Victoria died. But never, in eighty years, has anyone broken in to steal anything. There are too many stories about the place. You’ve heard some of them, of course. The crying that can be heard in the east wing. The singing heard on stormy nights. The dark figure that prowls the corridors and the woods by the park, thinning the packs of rabbits that live there. The woman sinking into the lake. Yes, I can see by your eyes that you know of what I am speaking.
Her name is Andromeda Ashton. She lived here many years ago, when the house was an open and happy place. She was the darling petted baby daughter of older parents, born when her elder siblings were almost grown and had thought their parents were passed the age of engendering children. Her eldest sibling, Henry, was already well into his first year at Cambridge, her sisters away at school. The closest brother in age was Edward, seven years older than she, a quiet and thoughtful boy.
Now, because she was the baby, and in no small part because she was a beautiful, intelligent little thing, Andromeda was given license to behave in ways that were most unusual for a girl of her class in that time. She had a governess and a tutor, learned Greek and Latin from childhood, and could always be found prowling the family Collection or reading books by great explorers and renowned antiquarians. By the time she was eighteen, Andromeda was widely considered to be one of the brightest Ashtons for a generation. What a shame, people said, that she was not a boy and could then use that pretty head of hers. What a shame such remarkable intelligence was all for naught.
They need not have feared, for Andromeda had plans for making her mark upon the world, in the form of her family’s Collection. She may not be allowed to attend Cambridge like her brothers or study theology like Edward, but she was allowed and encouraged to contribute something to the Collection. And it would be more than just her portrait, which showed a slim, wind-pale girl with dark hair and eyes, gazing at the painter with a fiery intensity. No, Andromeda had not spent her life reading the tales of antiquarians for nothing.
Now dearie, you know that there are many stories of ghosts and legends in these parts. The hills are as dotted with stories as they are with sheep. On the eve of her nineteenth year, Andromeda began to collect them. With her father’s blessing and the help of her former governess, a project was begun: to compile the county’s folktales. It was no small task. For months, Andromeda could be seen riding from farm to farm, speaking to laborers and landowners alike, and writing down their stories. The Crone of Tetley. The Wailing Well of St. Edmund’s. The Fenbury Witch. She recorded them all, never realizing that she herself would one day become such a whispered story.
“I don’t know how you sleep at night, after hearing these tales,” her mother said once.
Andromeda smiled. “They are not true, Mother! They’re silly superstitions that came about because people in the past had no learning. People tell stories to ascribe meaning to what they do not understand, that’s all. There’s no truth to them.”
This, my dear, was Andromeda’s firm belief: that superstition had given way to science, and that all the ghostly tales of the past, while amusing and interesting, had a rational explanation. It was to be her undoing.
Now, as is sometimes the case with amateur antiquarians, Andromeda began to be curious as to the truth behind these stories. There was one in particular that caught her fancy, and that was of the Chalice of Tilbury St. Bartholomew. What’s that? The what? I knew you would ask; it’s certainly not talked about anymore. Not since-no, I’m getting ahead of myself.
The story goes like this: centuries before, at the time the plague first appeared in England, there was an alchemist who thought he could escape the illness by coming to the countryside. And where did he come? Why here, of course. Tilbury St. Bartholomew, though in those days the name was rather different. It was whispered that this gentleman-I use that term lightly, for he was no such thing-continued his strange experiments in his cottage, and that he not only practiced alchemy, but the dark arts as well. You’re skeptical, I see. So was Andromeda. What were considered the dark arts then is known as science now, of course. But for all that, the villagers were afraid of him. It was said that he conjured devils, and that one such devil was contained in a silver cup he kept with him in his bedroom, ready to do his master’s bidding. Village maidens dreamed of a dark shape coming into their beds at night, bending over them and stroking their hair. The alchemist leered at them in church on Sundays, leading to speculation that his demon was kept for the hunting of women. Unease and unrest grew in the village, yet the alchemist continued his work unmolested.
But when the plague finally came to Tilbury St. Bartholomew-for no part of the country was left untouched-the villagers said it was the judgments of God upon them for allowing an evil sorcerer to live unhampered in their midst. The alchemist was dragged from his home and burned at the stake. The village maidens breathed sighs of relief, for though the plague raged about them, the dark creature came to their chambers no more. The alchemist’s cottage was burned, too, and the silver chalice was lost. No one knew what became of it.
Andromeda, though, had her suspicions. She was a learned young lady, and figured that there had to be some record somewhere of a necromancer and his effects. I don’t know what sort of research she did, but one summer evening, when her brother Edward was visiting from his Cambridge seminary, she asked him to ride out with her. No one knows where they went, but when they came back, Andromeda looked quite pleased, and shortly thereafter presented an ancient silver goblet to the family.
Why did she want it, you ask? Why, if such demonic stories were attached to the thing, would a young lady wish to bring such an object into her home? Come, child, haven’t you been listening? Andromeda was not a believer in such things as demons. She was an active and intelligent young lady, and it rankled that she could not use her brains to their fullest capacity. A book was all very well and good, you see, but a treasure such as this cup was a real asset to the Collection, and it gave her a measure of fame, besides. She wrote the card for it herself. Silver chalice, English, circa 1330. What a find! Everyone in the family and many people outside of it admired the discovery.
All of this is common knowledge. You can find Andromeda’s book in any bookshop in the county, and the local historians will tell you about the silver goblet. They will also tell you that the goblet has been lost under strange circumstances, and when pressed for an answer, they will sigh and tell you it was a great tragedy. For you see, darling, very few people know exactly what happened to the Ashton family in the months following Andromeda’s discovery.
Most of what I know comes from Edward’s personal diaries, and they are to be treated with much caution. He lost his mind that year, you know. But I think he was saner than anyone knew.
Nothing went right for the Ashtons after Andromeda’s discovery. First Mrs. Ashton, who had never been strong after the birth of her daughter, succumbed to illness, soon followed by Mr. Ashton, so that Henry, the eldest son, living in London, found himself head of the family. That was in September. Then there began to be problems with the livestock. Horses went mad, sheep began to die for seemingly no reason, and the gamekeepers reported outrageous amounts of dead rabbits and birds in the woods. The servants began to complain that tricks were being played upon them, for it seemed as though they were being pinched and grabbed at by unseen hands. Edward recorded in the days that followed his mother’s funeral, was the sense of being watched when you knew you were alone, of a cold breath at the back of your neck, the creak of a chair that only creaked when sat in. There was a presence in the house, he said, and everyone knew it. But no one spoke of it.
Andromeda was not spared. Alone in her room at night, as she lay in bed, she felt the gentle caress of fingers across her cheek, in her hair, running over her body, cold as a breath of winter air. She told herself that she only imagined the icy kisses on the back of her neck, on her shoulders and breastbone. They were the products of a fevered mind, surely, imaginations brought about by grief at the death of her parents. She ignored the caresses. What’s that, darling? She must have been very brave? Yes, or very foolish.
By late November, the events had become too real to ignore. When serving tea to visitors, Andromeda would feel whispery fingers on her thighs, and moments later her stockings would loosen as her garters untied themselves. Something tugged her hair as she brushed it, or grasped her hand as she reached for a pen. At night, the sensation of someone cuddling close to her became unbearable, until she jumped for a light, gasping. And then she would hear it: a soft, cold laugh.
At last, after one such night, Andromeda swallowed her pride and told Edward what was happening. He was a priest, or nearly so; of course he would help her.
“It has only been since we brought home my goblet that this has happened,” she told him as they walked through the portrait gallery. “But artefacts cannot truly contain demons. Can they?”
Edward rubbed his hand through his hair, eyes straying to Andromeda’s portrait, swinging in its frame against the far wall. “We cannot know what devilry a sorcerer can conjure when he goes against God. I fear we made a mistake in unearthing that cup, Meda.”
“What must we do?”
“We must put it back where it was. As soon as possible.”
They agreed that Edward would write to one of his teachers, Reverent Dr. Padgett, to come assist them in exorcising the demon. The letter was duly dispatched. The reply came by telegram the next morning: Dr. Padgett would arrive that evening on the six-thirty train. They would commence their business immediately.
That afternoon, Andromeda asked the servants to leave the house for the night. She found them eager to do so. None of them liked to say how relieved they were to be away from the house and its unseen occupant. At half past six, the head footman was dispatched to the station to collect Dr. Padgett. In the back of the carriage was his own trunk, for he had no intention of remaining alone with the family in the house once he had safely delivered the doctor. It was a cold, windy evening, and later he said that his master and mistress could not have picked a worse night to be alone in that house.
All of this is fact; you can find the records in the village police archives, if you’ve a mind to. But what I’m about to tell you know, darling, are the words of a madman. You see, the only two people who know what happened in that house are Andromeda and Edward, and the latter was in no fit state to speak coherently of what happened for some months afterwards. Besides, his tale was dismissed by doctors and magistrates alike as being too unbelievable to come from a sound mind.
What Edward said was this: believing that Padgett would soon arrive, he and Andromeda set about making preparations for the exorcism. The house was empty, but the air around them seemed heavy, oppressive. As there were no servants to light the lamps, they sat in near-darkness. Their black mourning clothes must have made the scene even darker. Once or twice, Edward felt as though something touched the back of his neck, but there was no one there but Andromeda, sitting on the sofa by the window, peering out into the windy dusk.
“Perhaps we should bring the cup here,” she said, at last. “Perhaps Dr. Padgett will be willing to go out with us immediately.”
“Certainly,” said Edward. “Shall I go for it?”
“No.” Andromeda stood, smoothing her black skirts. Edward says that her hands were shaking. “I feel certain it has to be me.”
Though neither of them said it, the fact hung in the air that Andromeda was the one to have meddled in what she should not. Still, Edward, being a kind soul, rose from his seat and put her arm through his.
“We will go together. Come now, little sister, chin up. Everything will be all right.”
The silver cup was in one of the many rooms that housed the Collection, deep in the bowels of the cold house. I’ll show it to you one day, if you like, through the window. Night was falling fast as they walked through the halls, the strong wind driving dark clouds before it as it screamed around the manor. The lamp in Edward’s hand flickered in the draught, and his diary says that it was with some relief that they gained the Collection rooms. Leaving Andromeda by the door, Edward moved across the room to light the lamps, thinking to bring some cheer to the evening, if cheer were at all possible.
It was as he was lighting the lamps that Edward heard the screams. He ran to the door to see Andromeda lying in the corridor, beating at something unseen with both hands. He ran to assist her and all at once found himself picked up and flung back into the room he had come from. Undaunted, he picked himself up and made to run to his sister, only to again be thrown down by the unseen creature. It must have been terrible, fighting such a force while Andromeda’s shrieks echoed through the halls. Edward says that she twisted this way and that as though grappling with something. He made for her a third time--and this time, Andromeda was thrown down on the floor, gasping, and the thing, the monster, the demon, grabbed Edward by the neck and dragged him back into the Collection room. He was sure it would kill him. But it did not. A moment of white hot pain, and Edward found himself pinned to the floor with an arrow through the leg. Where the dart came from, he did not know. He could not move. Apparently satisfied that the young priest would prove no further nuisance, the thing returned to Andromeda. Helpless, crying with pain and horror, Edward heard his sister’s screams renew, growing more and more awful until they were drowned by a low, terrible laugh. Then there came the sound of a body dragging, and Andromeda’s shrieks faded as she was carried away.
Dr. Padgett, arriving an hour later, found Edward, alive but in a terrible state. Having asked his driver to wait at the door, Padgett was able to send for a medical doctor, and a search was made for Andromeda. It did not take them long to find her, for though the wind continued to buffet the county, there was no rain. You know where they found her, of course, my dear, for you can see her there still, some nights. She was in the lake, just under the water, her dark hair a loose cloud around her, her heavy black frock covered in hundreds of tiny gashes, her shoes and stockings gone. Her eyes were closed, her skin bleached of color in the green water. She was quite dead.
For months afterwards Edward screamed in the night, howling that the monster had come for him. Certainly in the mornings he was covered in scratches that had not been there the day before. A team of doctors agreed that his mind had been shattered by his sister’s murder, for they did not believe that anything but a mortal man could have done such a vicious thing to the Ashton children. The best thing for him, they told Henry, was to retire to the coast in the care of a nurse. And so Edward never returned to Ashton Hall.
And the cup that had started the horror? Dr. Padgett conducted a search for it, but it was nowhere to be seen, though Edward swore it was in the room when they were attacked. No one knows what became of it. Perhaps it had gone, and the demon with it. I see the doubt in your eyes, dearest, and I have to agree with you.
Ever after, the servants whispered that there was something still haunting the rooms and corridors of the hall, and the gardeners swore they saw Andromeda slipping out of the lake on icy winter nights. Henry’s family certainly never felt comfortable in the Hall, and so it was shut up. And so it has remained for these eighty years, and who knows if we will ever return to live in it? But one thing I know for certain: on nights when the wind blows and the moon is dark, shapes can be seen moving in the windows of the Hall. And out in the lake, a dark-haired Victorian lady floats just underneath the water. Watching. Waiting.