Written by EF Benson, and first published in Hutchinson's Magazine in February 1924; translated to modern English, otherwise left exactly the same.
Hester Ward— sitting by the open window on a hot, June afternoon— began to seriously argue with herself about the cloud of foreboding depression encompassing her. So, very sensibly, she listed the many reasons she had to be happy; she was young, attractive, privileged, healthy, and— above all— she had an adorable husband and two small, precious children. There was no break in her circle of prosperity; had a fairy offered her a wish, she would not have been able to think of one. Moreover, she did not take these blessings for granted; she appreciated and enjoyed them enormously, and she wanted all of her loved ones to share in her happiness...
Anxious to discover the cause of her ominous feelings, she deliberately reviewed each of these items, but then there was the weather to consider; London had been stiflingly hot over the last week, though— if that were the cause— why had she only started feeling this way now? Perhaps it took this long for the broiling, airless days to affect her… That was an idea, but it didn't seem like a very good one; she actually loved the heat. Dick was the one who hated it; he always said it was odd that he fell in love with a salamander.
She sat up straight in her low window-seat and summoned her courage. From the moment she woke this morning, she had known what was bothering her, and— now that she had failed to blame it on something else— she meant to face it head on. She was ashamed of her fear; it was so trivial— so excessively silly.
"Yes, I must convince myself of how silly it is! Here we go," she said, clenching her hands.
The previous night, she had a dream that she used to have over and over again as a child. The dream itself was nothing, but— when she had it— the following night would bring the true terror, and she would wake up screaming. It had been ten years since she last saw it, so the details had become dim and distant… But now that she'd had the warning dream, the nightmare was even more vivid than her most beautiful memories.
On its own, the warning dream was simple and harmless. She seemed to be walking along a high, sandy cliff covered with short grass. The cliff's edge was twenty yards to her left, and below its steep slope was the beach and the sea. The path she followed maintained a gradual incline and led through fields bordered by low hedges. She passed through a half-dozen of these while climbing over the wooden fences that separated the fields. It was always dusk, and she saw sheep grazing there but never another human; it made her feel as if it would be dark at any moment, and she had to hurry because some unknown person had been waiting many years for her.
As she continued up the slope, she saw a cluster of stunted trees growing crooked under the sea wind and knew her journey was almost complete; the nameless person who had been waiting for her was somewhere close by. Her path cut through these trees, and their tops bent over so far that it was like walking through a tunnel. Soon the woods began to thin, and she could see the gray tower of a lonely church ahead. The ruins stood in the middle of a long forgotten graveyard between the tower and the cliff's edge; it was covered in thick ivy, had gaping, round windows, and no roof.
This is where the warning dream always ended. It was troubled and uneasy, but it wasn't a nightmare. She had experienced it many times, so perhaps she subconsciously remembered the darkness was coming. Last night's vision had been identical to the ones from her childhood in every way except for the view of the churchyard. In the last ten years, the sea ate away at the cliff's edge until it was just a couple of yards away from the tower, and only one broken arch remained; the rest had vanished.
Hester knew it was the dream that had darkened her day: she feared that allowing herself to think about the awful nightmare would only further guarantee its return, and that was the last thing she wanted. It wasn't a confused jumble like ordinary nightmares; it was very simple, and it concerned the nameless person waiting for her... But the entirety of her willpower was focused on not thinking about it. Then she heard Dick's key in the front door, and he was calling to her. She went to the little, square entrance-hall, and there he was— strong, large, and wonderfully real.
"This heat is a scandal— it's an outrage— it's an abomination of desolation! What have we done to deserve being in this frying-pan? Hester! Let's defy Fate; let's drive out of this inferno and have our dinner at— I'll whisper it so he won't overhear— Hampton Court," he cried, vigorously!
She laughed; his plan suited her perfectly. They would return late after an evening of distraction, and she loved dining out at night. "I'm sure Fate didn't hear; let's go now," she said.
"Indeed. Are there any letters for me?" He walked to the table where a few dull-looking envelopes sat. "Ah, a bill receipt— just a reminder that you made the mistake of paying it… A circular, unsolicited investment advice, junk mail that begins with 'Dear Sir or Madam'; it's so rude to ask someone for money without even bothering to learn their gender first… An invitation to the private portraits viewing at the Walton Gallery, but I can't; I have business meetings all day… You might have to drop in, Hester; I heard they have some fine Van Dycks… Well, that's all; let's go."
Hester had a thoroughly reassuring evening. She thought of telling Dick about the dream just so she could hear the big laugh he would give her but ultimately decided against it; nothing he could say would soothe her fears like his general good cheer. Plus, she would also have to explain the disturbing effect it's had on her since childhood and the nightmare that follows it. She would neither think of— nor mention— them; it was much wiser to soak up his extraordinary sanity and wrap herself in his affection.
They dined outdoors at a riverside restaurant and took a stroll afterwards. It was nearly midnight when they returned home; she felt soothed by the cool, fresh air and his strong companionship. She went inside while he took the car to the garage, and the unpleasant mood that had plagued her all day seemed distant and unreal; she felt as if she had dreamed of a shipwreck and woke up in a safe garden where no raging waves could ever reach… But was there perhaps the dimmest sound of those very waves in the distance?
Dick slept in the dressing-room which was connected to her bedroom, and the door between them was left open for the sake of keeping the rooms cool. She fell asleep and began dreaming the instant her light went out, while his lamp continued to burn.
She was standing on the seashore, and she could tell the tide was out by the line of washed-up garbage glimmering in the sunset. Though she had never seen this place, it was awfully familiar. At the head of the beach there was a steep sand-cliff with a gray church tower perched on the edge. The sea must have washed away the church's main body; she saw its masonry blocks strewn along the bottom of the cliff. Some of the gravestones were also down there while others remained in place, silhouetted against the sky. To the right of the church, a cluster of stunted trees were combed sideways by the sea wind, and she knew there was a path along the cliff leading through them and into the churchyard.
She saw all of this at a glance and waited for the terror that was going to reveal itself. She already knew what it was, and she tried to run away, but it was too late. She frantically tried to move, but she could not even raise a foot from the sand. Then she tried— and failed— to look away from the sand-cliffs before the horror could manifest. It came in the form of a pale, oval light the size of a man's face, glowing dimly in front of her. Short, reddish hair grew low on the forehead, and two gray eyes— set very close together— regarded her with a fixed and steady gaze. Both ears stood a noticeable distance from the head, and the jaw-lines met in a short, pointed chin. The nose was straight and rather long; below it was a hairless lip, and, lastly, the mouth took shape— the crowning terror. One side of it— soft and beautiful— curled into a smile; the other side— bundled together by some deformity— was stuck in a sneer.
The whole face was dim at first but a clear outline gradually came into focus; it was the lean, pale face of a young man. The lower lip dropped a little to show the glint of teeth, and then it moved closer to her as it spoke, "I will soon come for you."
Its smile broadened, and the full, hot blast of the nightmare consumed her. Again, she tried to run; again, she tried to scream, and, now, she could feel that terrible mouth's breath upon her. Then, with a crash, she broke the spell and heard her own voice yelling.
While feeling for the lightswitch, she saw the room was not dark; Dick's door was open, and he came to her, still dressed. "My darling, what is it? What's the matter?"
She desperately clung to him, still distraught with terror. "Ah, he was here again! He says he will come for me soon; keep him away, Dick!"
For a moment, he was overcome with fear and found himself glancing around the room. "But what do you mean?" he said. "No one has been here."
She raised her head from his shoulder. "No, it was just that dream; I was terrified... You haven't undressed yet. What time is it?"
"You haven't even been in bed for ten minutes, dear. You had only just put out your light when I heard you screaming."
She shuddered. "Oh, it was awful, and he will come back."
He sat next to her. "Tell me all about it."
She shook her head. "No, we can never talk about it; that would only make it more real. I suppose the children are alright, aren't they?"
"Of course they are. I checked on my way upstairs."
"That's good. I'm better now, Dick... There's nothing real about a dream, is there? It doesn't mean anything?" He was quite reassuring on this front, and she soon quieted down; the next time he checked on her, she was asleep.
Hester was stern with herself when Dick went to work the next morning. She told herself that she was frightened by nothing more than her own fear. How many times had that ominous face appeared in her dreams, and what significance had it ever possessed? Absolutely none at all, except to make her afraid. She was guarded, sheltered, and wealthy… So what if a childhood nightmare returned? It holds no meaning now…
Despite herself, she began thinking about the vision again. It was grimly identical to all of the other dreams, except... With a sudden chill, she recalled what those terrible lips had said all those years earlier; "I will come for you when you are older." But, last night, they said, "I will come for you soon."
She also remembered that— previously— the sea had only encroached upon the old church, and now, it had demolished it entirely. There was an awful consistency about these two variations in the otherwise identical dreams. It was no use scolding herself; if she dwelled on the vision, she would only be consumed by terror. It was far wiser to stay busy and starve the fear. Instead of acknowledging it, she focused on household chores and took the children to the park; then— determined to leave no moment unoccupied— she set off to the private viewing at the Walton Gallery. Afterwards, she would go to lunch and a matinée; by then, Dick would be home, and they could drive down to his little weekend house at Rye. There, she would play golf and allow the fresh air and exercise to purge the dread of her nightmares...
The gallery was crowded, but she found friends among the sightseers and enjoyed cheerful conversation while inspecting the pictures. There were a few fine Raeburns and a couple Sir Joshuas, but the three Vandycks hanging in their own small room were the real gems. She strolled in with her catalog and first on display was the portrait of Sir Roger Wyburn… Upon seeing it, her heart hammered into her throat and froze there. Her very soul felt sick; in front of her was the man who would soon be coming for her. He had the reddish hair, large ears, greedy eyes, and his mouth formed that half smile, half menacing sneer that she knew so well. It was as if the painter used her very nightmare as a model.
"Ah, what a portrait— what a brute! Look, Hester, isn't that marvelous?" Her friend said.
With some effort, she was able to gain control of herself; to give into the panic now would be allowing the nightmare to invade her waking life, and that would surely lead to madness. She forced herself to look at it again… Its steady, eager eyes regarded her, and its mouth seemed ready to move. The crowd around her bustled and chattered, but she felt entirely alone with Roger Wyburn.
She reasoned that the picture should have reassured her; if he was painted by Vandyck, then he must have been dead for nearly 200 years. How could he harm her, now? Had she happened to see that portrait as a child? Had it made some kind of dreadful impression that lingered in her subconscious? Psychologists believed that these early impressions poison the mind like a hidden abscess.
That night, the warning dream came to her again, and the nightmare followed after. Clinging to her husband as the terror subsided, she admitted that which she had resolved to keep private. It was so outrageously fantastical that simply telling him brought a measure of comfort, and— when the visions recurred on their return trip to London— he took her straight to the doctor.
"Tell him, darling, or I will; I can't have you worried over this nonsense, and doctors are wonderful at curing nonsense," he said.
She turned to him. "Dick, you're frightened," she said quietly.
He laughed. "I'm nothing of the kind, but I don't like waking up to your screams; it's not my idea of a peaceful night… Ah, here we are."
The medical report was clear and decisive; she was perfectly healthy. There was nothing whatsoever to be alarmed about, but she was overly tired. These disturbing dreams were likely a symptom of her condition rather than the cause. Dr. Baring recommended a complete change of scenery— some quiet place she had never been— like the east coast with its cool, sea air. Yet— for some reason— her husband could not go; he must send her away to be in complete solitude. No long walks, no baths— just a dip and a beach chair in the sand— a lazy life.
"How about Rushton?" The doctor recommended; he had no doubt that it would set her right again. Then— perhaps after a week or so— her husband might be able to visit. Nevermind the nightmares— all she needed was plenty of sleep and fresh air.
To her husband's surprise, Hester immediately agreed, and— the following evening— she arrived at a little hotel. Since the tourist rush had not yet begun, it was almost empty, and she spent all day relaxing on the beach. She no longer felt compelled to fight the malignant terror and wondered if she had somehow yielded to it; at any rate, she slept without dreams and woke to another quiet day.
Every morning, there was a message from Dick with good news about himself and the children, but her family felt far away— like memories of a distant time; something had come between them— as if she were seeing them through a pane of glass— but the same could be said for her memory of Roger Wyburn. It was blurred and indistinct because the dreams had not returned.
Though her mind was soothed with a sense of security, her body grew weary of her extended inactivity. The village lay on the edge of a small stretch of land; the featureless north marsh stretched away into the distance, and the southern hills descended into a wooded shore. As her health improved, she began to wonder what lay beyond the ridge obstructing her view, until— one afternoon— she strolled up its slopes. It was a windless day; the invigorating sea-breeze had died, and she looked forward to feeling the fresh gusts of air atop the rise. To the south, a dark cloud mass lay across the horizon, but there was no immediate threat of a storm.
The slope was easily climbed; it took her to the edge of a wooded pasture, and the path continued out into more open country where a few sheep grazed on empty fields… And there— not a mile in front of her— was a cluster of slanted trees leaning away from the sea-wind's push; then, just visible over the next rise was the top of a gray church tower. Hester's heart stood still as she recognized the awfully familiar scene, but then a wave of courage and resolution poured over her.
At last, here was the scene of that warning dream, and now she had a chance to dispel it. Her mind was instantly made up; under the strange twilight of the shrouded sky, she walked swiftly through the familiar fields and up to the cluster of trees— beyond which, he waited for her.
Ignoring the clanging bell of terror, she entered the dark tunnel of woods. Soon, the trees began to thin, and she saw the church tower close at hand. A little further, and she found herself in the long abandoned graveyard. The cliff's edge was close to the tower, and only a broken arch covered in ivy remained between them. As she went around it, she saw the ruin of fallen stones below; the sand was littered with rubble, and the graves at the cliff's edge were already cracked and falling…
Yet there was no one here; no one was waiting for her. The churchyard was as empty as the fields she just traversed. She was filled with elation; her courage had been rewarded, and all of her fears became meaningless phantoms… But there was no time to linger, for the storm was drawing near. A blink of lightning flashed on the horizon followed by a crackling peal of thunder. Just as she turned to leave, she saw a tombstone balanced on the cliff's edge, and it read, "here lay the body of Roger Wyburn."
Fear rooted her to the spot, and she stared at the moss-grown letters in stricken amazement. She almost expected to see that terrifying face rise and hover over his grave. Then, that same fear sped her way down the arched path, into the woods, and back through the fields. Only when she reached the ridge above the village did she turn back to confirm she had not been followed. The sheep— frightened of the oncoming storm— were huddling under the stunted hedges for shelter.
She wanted to leave at once, but the last train for London had departed an hour before. Besides, what was the point of running from a spirit? Gaining distance from the place his bones lay would not offer any protection... But she longed for Dick's presence. He was arriving tomorrow, but there were still many long, dark hours before then, and who knew what perils the night would bring… However, if he began his journey that evening, he would arrive between 10 and 11:00, so she wrote an urgent telegram. "Come at once; don't delay."
The storm now came on quickly with an explosion of appalling violence. There had been only a few raindrops on the roadway when she left the post-office, but— just as she reached the hotel— the light drizzle became a roaring downpour. Overhead, flares of lightning lit the sky with echoing crashes of thunder. The village street was a torrent of sandy, turbulent water, and there— floating in the dark before her very eyes— was the tombstone of Roger Wyburn; it was already tottering at the edge of the church tower's cliff. With rains such as these, acres of the cliffs were loosened; she could almost hear the sliding sand that would precipitate the fall of those haunted tombs to the beach below.
By 8:00, the storm was subsiding, and Hester was having dinner when she received a telegram from Dick. He was already on the way and should be with her by 10:30. Strange how— only a few days ago— the thought of him had become distant and dim, yet now she counted the minutes to his arrival. Soon, the rain stopped entirely and— looking out of her sitting-room window— she saw a tawny moon rising over the sea. Before it reached its peak, Dick would be there.
It had just struck 10 when there came a knock at her door, and a bellhop announced that a gentleman had arrived. Her heart leapt at the news; she had not expected Dick for another half-hour, but now the lonely vigil was finished.
She ran downstairs to see a figure standing on the steps outside; his face was turned away— likely to speak with the chauffeur— but his shape was outlined against the white moonlight, and his hair received a warm, reddish tint from the gaslight above his head.
She ran across the hall to him. "Ah, my darling! It was good of you to come, and so quick!"
Just as she laid her hand on his shoulder he turned and threw his arm around her. She looked into a face with close-set eyes and a mouth that only smiled on one side; the other was bunched together by some deformity that resulted in the appearance of a thick sneer. The nightmare was upon her; she could neither run nor scream, and he dragged her into the night.
Dick arrived thirty minutes later and was amazed to learn that his wife had left with another man not long before. The boy who had taken the stranger's message had never seen him, and Dick's surprise deepened into alarm. Enquiries were made outside of the hotel, and a couple of witnesses saw Hester walking along the beach— arm-in-arm with the mysterious man. Though neither witness knew him, one was able to describe his face.
The direction of the search was narrowed down, and their lanterns soon revealed a set of footprints likely belonging to Hester, but there were no signs of anyone walking with her. Still, they followed these for a mile until they ended at a great landslide of sand that had fallen from the old churchyard. Half of the tower came down with it, along with the gravestone of Roger Wyburn… His body lay by the marker, untouched by corruption or decay for over 200 years. Even with the high tides gradually washing it away, it took a week to search through the landslide, but no further discoveries were made.
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