Read Online Uncle Montague's Tales of Terror by Chris Priestley - Free Book Online
Authors: Chris Priestley
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painted by a young doctor,.' said Uncle Montague from his armchair. 'He had real talent, I think.'
'It has a strange atmosphere,.' I remarked.
'Yes,.' said Uncle Montague. 'Yes, it does. Come and rejoin me by the fire, Edgar, and I shall tell you why.'
The vicarage of Great Whitcot in Suffolk was a rather grand house, built in the 1750s, of warm marmalade-coloured bricks and pantiles. The house bulged forward in two curved bays and the windows of this bow front were tall and wide, separated into a grid of smaller, white-framed panels that looked out on to the gravelled driveway and the orchard plot with its fallen walnut tree. Between them nestled a claret-coloured door with white columns either side.
The grounds of the house were girded all around by a brick wall of such height that it created its own twilight in the areas of the garden that fell into the gloom of its shadow - a gloom only deepened by the towering beech trees at the back of the house.
The wall was pierced in only two places: by a small arched door leading into the graveyard of the enormous and very fine medieval church, and by the entrance to the drive, where the wall curved gracefully down to the two pillars bearing large stone spheres.
Robert Sackville took all this in as he stood by one of the pillars, watching his father marshalling the men who were shuffling back and forth with furniture, boxes and trunks from the large wagon parked on the dirt road beyond the gate.
Robert's mother scurried about, gasping and calling out as chair legs struck doors and the sound of broken glass came tinkling from the morning room. Robert's father stood relatively impassively - his hands behind his back, one slapping the back of the other as was his wont - only becoming animated when the men began shifting boxes of his precious books, shepherding them to the library and watching their every move like a hawk.
Robert, as usual, felt superfluous to proceedings and wondered to himself just how long it would be before anyone would notice were he to simply walk out through the gate and across the field of swaying barley beyond.
He drifted aimlessly towards the gloomy rear of the house, picking up a willow wand left by the gardener, and flicking it through the air with a whistle. As he walked to the back door he stopped, suddenly struck by a feeling that he was being watched. He peered into the shadows but could see nothing. He swished the willow wand again but nothing moved. With a shrug Robert opened the door and went in.
No sooner had the furniture been placed in the appropriate rooms than a procession of locals croc-odiled down the drive, holding baskets and parcels wrapped in muslin or old newspapers.
'Oh dear,.' sighed Robert's father. 'I suppose this is my flock.' He shook his head wearily and went to open the front door as the head of the crocodile reached the steps. Robert went to his bedroom window and looked down.
Hats and caps were snatched from heads and clasped to chests as his father opened the door.
Robert could hear muffled conversation through the thick window panes and saw his father self-consciously take possession of the various gifts being offered. Robert's mother appeared in the doorway and heads were bowed respectfully as she thanked them all for coming.
'God bless you all,.' Robert heard his father say and there was a succession of bows and nods and near-curtseys from the ladies and then hats were replaced and brims tugged in farewell before the delegation crunched its way back down the gravel drive and out of the gate.
'Merciful heavens!' Robert's father was saying as Robert came downstairs. He recoiled from a newspaper parcel that lay, half unwrapped, on the table in the hall. Robert went over to have a closer look as his father backed away. There was a dead rabbit in the newspaper. A note was pinned to the fur, saying: Well come to Whitcot. Fresh kild this morning.
'Oh my Lord,.' said Robert's father. 'I daren't open the
'It has a strange atmosphere,.' I remarked.
'Yes,.' said Uncle Montague. 'Yes, it does. Come and rejoin me by the fire, Edgar, and I shall tell you why.'
The vicarage of Great Whitcot in Suffolk was a rather grand house, built in the 1750s, of warm marmalade-coloured bricks and pantiles. The house bulged forward in two curved bays and the windows of this bow front were tall and wide, separated into a grid of smaller, white-framed panels that looked out on to the gravelled driveway and the orchard plot with its fallen walnut tree. Between them nestled a claret-coloured door with white columns either side.
The grounds of the house were girded all around by a brick wall of such height that it created its own twilight in the areas of the garden that fell into the gloom of its shadow - a gloom only deepened by the towering beech trees at the back of the house.
The wall was pierced in only two places: by a small arched door leading into the graveyard of the enormous and very fine medieval church, and by the entrance to the drive, where the wall curved gracefully down to the two pillars bearing large stone spheres.
Robert Sackville took all this in as he stood by one of the pillars, watching his father marshalling the men who were shuffling back and forth with furniture, boxes and trunks from the large wagon parked on the dirt road beyond the gate.
Robert's mother scurried about, gasping and calling out as chair legs struck doors and the sound of broken glass came tinkling from the morning room. Robert's father stood relatively impassively - his hands behind his back, one slapping the back of the other as was his wont - only becoming animated when the men began shifting boxes of his precious books, shepherding them to the library and watching their every move like a hawk.
Robert, as usual, felt superfluous to proceedings and wondered to himself just how long it would be before anyone would notice were he to simply walk out through the gate and across the field of swaying barley beyond.
He drifted aimlessly towards the gloomy rear of the house, picking up a willow wand left by the gardener, and flicking it through the air with a whistle. As he walked to the back door he stopped, suddenly struck by a feeling that he was being watched. He peered into the shadows but could see nothing. He swished the willow wand again but nothing moved. With a shrug Robert opened the door and went in.
No sooner had the furniture been placed in the appropriate rooms than a procession of locals croc-odiled down the drive, holding baskets and parcels wrapped in muslin or old newspapers.
'Oh dear,.' sighed Robert's father. 'I suppose this is my flock.' He shook his head wearily and went to open the front door as the head of the crocodile reached the steps. Robert went to his bedroom window and looked down.
Hats and caps were snatched from heads and clasped to chests as his father opened the door.
Robert could hear muffled conversation through the thick window panes and saw his father self-consciously take possession of the various gifts being offered. Robert's mother appeared in the doorway and heads were bowed respectfully as she thanked them all for coming.
'God bless you all,.' Robert heard his father say and there was a succession of bows and nods and near-curtseys from the ladies and then hats were replaced and brims tugged in farewell before the delegation crunched its way back down the gravel drive and out of the gate.
'Merciful heavens!' Robert's father was saying as Robert came downstairs. He recoiled from a newspaper parcel that lay, half unwrapped, on the table in the hall. Robert went over to have a closer look as his father backed away. There was a dead rabbit in the newspaper. A note was pinned to the fur, saying: Well come to Whitcot. Fresh kild this morning.
'Oh my Lord,.' said Robert's father. 'I daren't open the
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