by JOSEPH PAYNE BRENNAN
Macabre House
New Haven, Connecticut
1963
Copyright Joseph Payne Brennan 1963
[Transcriber's Note: Extensive research did not uncover any
evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
BOOKS BY JOSEPH PAYNE BRENNAN
SHORT STORIES
Nine Horrors and a Dream (1958)
The Dark Returners (1959)
POEMS
Heart of Earth (1950)
The Humming Stair (1953)
The Wind of Time (1962)
| THE HORROR AT CHILTON CASTLE |
| THE MIDNIGHT BUS |
| THE VAMPIRE BAT |
| THE SEVENTH INCANTATION |
| KILLER CAT |
| THE DUMP |
| THE TENANTS |
| THE MAN WHO FEARED MASKS |
| THE VISITOR IN THE VAULT |
| IN THE VERY STONES |
I had decided to spend a leisurely summer in Europe, concentrating, ifat all, on genealogical research. I went first to Ireland, journeyingto Kilkenny where I unearthed a mine of legend and authentic loreconcerning my remote Irish ancestors, the O'Braonains, chiefs of UiDuach in the ancient kingdom of Ossory. The Brennans (as the name waslater spelled) lost their estates in the British confiscation underThomas Wentworth, Earl of Strafford. The thieving Earl, I am happy toreport, was subsequently beheaded in the Tower.
From Kilkenny I traveled to London and then to Chesterfield in searchof maternal ancestors, the Holborns, Wilkersons, Searles, etc.Incomplete and fragmentary records left many great gaps, but my effortswere moderately successful and at length I decided to go further northand visit the vicinity of Chilton Castle, seat of Robert Chilton-Payne,the twelfth Earl of Chilton. My relationship to the Chilton-Paynes wasa most distant one, and yet there existed a tenuous thread of pastconnection and I thought it would amuse me to glimpse the castle.
Arriving in Wexwold, the tiny village near the castle, late in theafternoon, I engaged a room at the Inn of the Red Goose—the only onethere was—unpacked and went down for a simple meal consisting of asmall loaf, cheese and ale.
By the time I finished this stark and yet satisfying repast, darknesshad set in, and with it came wind and rain.
I resigned myself to an evening at the inn. There was ale enough and Iwas in no hurry to go anywhere.
After writing a few letters, I went down and ordered a pint of ale.The taproom was almost deserted; the bartender, a stout gentlemanwho seemed forever on the point of falling asleep, was pleasant buttaciturn, and at length I fell to musing on the strange and frighteninglegend of Chilton Castle.
There were variations of the legend, and without doubt the originaltale had been embroidered down through the centuries, but the essentialoutline of the story concerned a secret room somewhere in the castle.It was said that this room