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Synopsis
Montrolfe happens upon a secret drawer containing an old journal, written by the girl whose ghost has haunted him. In its pages a strange and horrible story unfolds, a tale of murder and buried treasure, a story that will finally reveal young Pippin’s terrible fate and the origin of the Curse of the Montrolfes . . .
A spellbinding Gothic page-turner, Rohan O’Grady’s Pippin’s Journal (1962) received rave reviews on its initial publication and returns to print at last to enchant and terrify a new generation of readers.
“A story that should be read at a sitting, preferably when the wind whistles like a demon around the house and curtains are drawn against rain-splashed windows . . . O’Grady writes in the tradition of the Gothic novelists and the story she tells might have been written by Edgar Allan Poe or a Brontë . . . Sheer reading enjoyment.” - Pittsburgh Press
"An engaging tale of horror." - New York Herald Tribune
“There is a lurid fascination about the yarn, which instills a blood-chilling impatience to learn what happens next.” - Chicago Tribune
“Elegance and sinister poetry … O’Grady manages the romantic macabre with dancing gusto [and] moves naturally in the language and atmosphere of the eighteenth century of her ghosts.” – Daily Herald (London)
“Who could resist the pursuit of the Montrolfe curse? … [T]ruly in the spirit and tradition of Otranto.” – Baltimore Sun
“A natural, well-wrought, well-written shocker.” – Buffalo News
Release date: June 11, 2024
Publisher: Valancourt Books
Print pages: 235
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Pippin's Journal
Rohan O'Grady
CHAPTER ONE
Slowly, and not without a certain inexplicable feeling of foreboding, I limped up the weed-grown gravel path to the door of Cliff House.
After a wait of several minutes, the door opened reluctantly in response to my knock, and I found myself looking at the most ancient, wrinkled beldame I had ever seen.
“I am John Montrolfe,” I said, extending my hand.
She ignored the gesture, and, lifting her hideous old head, peered at me closely.
“You Mr. Nicholas’ nephew?” she asked finally, in a voice that was nearly as hoarse and deep as my own.
I nodded.
“Yer aren’t very pretty, are yer?” She rubbed one arthritic, twisted finger under her nose. “Now Mr. Nicholas, he were a handsome one, he were. You be Mr. Phillip’s son, I suppose, him what went to South Africa?”
“Canada,” I answered. “May I come in?”
She shrugged and, turning her back, walked into the house. I stood on the threshold of my inheritance, hesitant, and then took a deep breath and limped after the old lady.
The house, which was a Georgian mansion of whitewashed brick, had obviously once been a show place, but as I stepped into the main entrance hall, I realized how sadly my family had let the place fall into disrepair.
Not only was the floor covered with dust, the carpet worn to thin shreds and the pictures hanging drunkenly askew, but the main staircase, which curled down one side of the wall, showed occasional treads missing, as conspicuous as newly pulled teeth, and the bannister looked as though some mischievous boy had jerked out every second or third rung.
I stood looking about me in surprise, for my father, on the rare occasions he had spoken to me except to curse me, had led me to believe that I was the last pitiful relic of a mighty line. And Cliff House, for all its substantial exterior, inside resembled nothing so much as a poorly constructed stage setting for second-rate actors in a play without substance. Cobwebs and dust, penury and neglect were everywhere apparent as I followed the old woman from one wretched room to another, until finally we ended up in what appeared, in the dim light, to be the kitchen.
Here the old woman settled herself in a cushioned chair next to the open fireplace, and through the folds of her long skirt she began rubbing her bony knees with her twisted hands.
I stood silent, waiting for her to introduce herself, for, after all, I was the new master of this place, and I had already made one gesture of friendliness which she had chosen to ignore.
She still said nothing, but arose, and, leaning over the fire, began to stir something that bubbled in a black iron pot which hung on a hob. I stared at her, fascinated, for in all the world I had never seen such a perfect embodiment of an old witch; and as the firelight lit up her profile, showing in
relief the wispy hair, hooked nose, the pointed chin straining to reach it, the toothless old mouth puckered maliciously and the sunken eyes with sockets as hollow as a skull, I could not but feel how hellish a thing true antiquity in the human frame is, how it twists and distorts, mocking nature for not allowing a leaf to fall from the tree when autumn is over, winter done with, and only a hopeless and barren spring ahead.
The old lady seemed to read my thoughts, for she suddenly turned her head, and in that rusty croak, lisped, “Yer ain’t so pretty yerself, young man, like I said. And Nanny Beckett’s good for a hundred, she is, for we live long in these parts. My granny, she was a hundred and three when she died, so don’t be plannin’ on being rid of me for another ten years, for Mr. Nicholas said in his will I was to stay here for the rest of my natural life, if it so pleased me. And two pounds a week I gets, too. Don’t be anxious to be rid of Nanny Beckett, for you’ll be all alone here when she’s gone.”
“So you are ninety-three, and your name is Nanny Beckett,” I said, seating myself on a bench by the fire.
“And you are John Montrolfe. How old would you be now, Mr. John?”
I made no reply.
“Yer not much like Mr. Phillip,” she said, raising the spoon to her mouth and smacking her lips with the repulsive greediness of old age. “He were a handsome one. I remember him when he left. Eighteen he were, and a bonny looking boy, too. Just too full of life to stay in these parts. Had to be off to see the world. And what did he ever do in that there Africa?”
“Canada,” I said, lighting a cigarette, the only solace nature allows me.
“Well, I knew it was one of them colonies,” she croaked. “Canada, maybe. And so you’re his son. Well, well.”
She turned her face full to me and I was surprised at the sharpness and brilliance of her black eyes.
“Yer not like yer father.”
“You’ve already said that.” I know well enough what I look like, and though her appearance
was far from prepossessing, I could never play pots and kettles with her. I loathe peppery old ladies who make uncalled for remarks. Why they think age entitles them to be inexcusably rude is something I can’t fathom.
“So you knew my father?” I said abruptly.
“Knew him? Why, I saw him come into this world, I did, upstairs in the master’s bedroom there. And his brother Nicholas too, and I helped midwife at your grandfather’s birth, and that would be, let me see, seventy-seven years ago. And I waited on your great-grandfather.”
“My great-grandfather?” I asked in surprise.
“Aye,” she said, ladling out a bowl of slop from the iron pot and seating herself on her cushions. “Aye, I come into this house in service when I was ten years old, and that’s eighty-three years ago, and my mother had been here for thirty years then, and her mother and granny before her. Her granny was with the first Mr. Montrolfe, him they called Mr. Guy.”
My feeling of repugnance changed to one of wonder; there was something uncanny about those wrinkled, clawlike hands, clutched around a bowl and spoon—hands that had helped guide into the world a newborn infant who would be an old man were he alive today.
“Yes,” she said, sipping her gruel, “three generations I seen of them, and you the fourth, and judging from the look of you, the last of them.”
I winced and turned my face to the fire. It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t fair. What had I ever done to deserve the monstrous form nature had seen fit to bestow upon me?
“I suppose you’re hungry?” she peered maliciously at me out of the corner of her eye.
I nodded.
“Well,” she said, “you won’t get no fancy food here. I eats plain. Have to when you reach ninety. All I can stomach is gruel, and I’m not a cook, neither, so if
you’re hungry, you’ll either have to eat gruel or get someone else in to do your cooking.”
I felt a surge of something akin to pleasure as I replied to this, for in all things there is some measure of compensation, and I answered truthfully: “Don’t look so happy about not waiting on me or cooking, Nanny Beckett. It so happens I have been on a restricted diet from earliest infancy, and all I can digest are milk and egg puddings and gruel, with bread soaked in it, and an occasional bit of broiled meat which I’ll be quite content to prepare for myself.”
“What!” she said, as surprised as I knew she would be. “Old woman’s food for a man your size? Why, you must be six and a half feet tall!”
“Six feet four,” I replied.
“And what would you weigh?” she asked in wonder.
“Two hundred and fifty pounds,” I replied.
“Bah, you and your foreign ways, how many stone?”
“Nearly eighteen.”
“Well, well,” she cackled, “well, well.” And then she pointed her spoon at my feet and said, “And what’s the matter with them?”
I clenched my jaws and stared straight at her.
“I have two club feet, Nanny Beckett. Does that make you happy?”
“Well, well,” she clucked, “well, well. The Montrolfe curse truly fell on you, didn’t it?”
“Curse?” I said. “Were there other Montrolfes with club feet?”
“No, no, dearie,” she answered, in a placating voice, treating me for the first time as though I were a child she had known for years. “No, no. Not club feet, but they has never been a happy lot. Well, well. You needn’t worry about your food, dearie, Nanny Beckett will see to you.”
“Perhaps I’d prefer to get someone in from the village,” I answered stiffly.
“Hah!” she cackled, “you won’t find none in Forsham who’ll do service in Cliff House.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“Why, they’re too afraid of him.”
“Of whom?”
“Why, Mr. Guy, the first Montrolfe, of course.”
“And why should they be afraid of him? I should think I would frighten them far more.”
“Ah, but at least you’re alive, even if you ain’t so pretty, my love. And you won’t find none in Forsham who’ll take a chance of meetin’ him, prowling along the cliffs.”
“And are you not afraid?” I asked teasingly.
The old lady laughed, an ancient, mirthless, toothless laugh, and stood up. She took two candles from the mantle and lit them at the fire.
“I expect, Mr. John, you’ll be wanting to see your room now, and rest after your journey. To be sure, it’s a long way from that there Africa.”
“Canada,” I replied, as I followed her up the dark and broken stairs.
“Aye, Canada,” she said. She opened a door and held her candle up for me to see my bedroom. “Aye, Canada, and when you live to be ninety-three, why, there’s little in this world or the next that frightens an old body much, Mr. John.”
At birth, my father had wanted to destroy me, but my mother, with a woman’s perverse instinct, had refused, and weeping, had clutched me to her.
From that minute until her death when I was five, she had never left me alone, always fearful that perhaps he might renege on his promise to let me live.
He kept his promise, but I remained an only child, my father fearful, I suppose, that if the first were as malformed as I, nature might be capable of producing even more dreadful monsters from his loins.
So, like Nanny Beckett, who, at the age of ninety-three, had nothing to fear from either this world or the next, I at the age of thirty-three was unafraid as I walked slowly around my huge bedroom, exploring it with my candle.
The room was magnificently furnished and, considering the state of the chambers I had seen
below, it was in a remarkably good state of preservation and cleanliness.
Just as Mr. Nicholas had left it, Nanny Beckett said, except that she had changed the sheets. I drew down the heavy brocade bedspread and fleecy blankets, and there they were: clean, crisp, white linen.
There was, I hoped, a bathroom on the second floor; I set out to find it. It was two doors down the hall, a typical Victorian horror, added about a hundred and fifty years after the house was built.
I returned downstairs and brought up my luggage, two suitcases in all, and unpacked. Then, taking my toothbrush, candle and towel, I went down to the bathroom and brushed my teeth and washed.
Coming out, I had half a mind to explore, but decided against it, for I was very tired, and since the house had no electricity and I could see little by candlelight, I decided to wait until morning.
I was in my pajamas, sitting in bed and ready to blow out the candle when there was a knock on the door and Nanny Beckett walked in.
“Here’s your gruel,” she said, handing me a porringer such as children use. “And don’t think I’m climbin’ those stairs every night. It’s only because you’ve traveled so far.”
I thanked her and took the bowl, and as I began to spoon it, the old lady went to the fireplace and lit it.
“Why are you doing that?” I asked. “It’s summer.”
“Bah!” she said, throwing the match into the flames. “First night you’re here, don’t want you catching your death, straight out from that there Africa.”
I finished the gruel and handed her the porringer.
She stood with one hand on the doorknob, an old, old crone, bent double with age.
“Not afraid of Mr. Guy, Mr. John?”
I lit a cigarette and smiled bitterly.
“No, Nanny Beckett. I am beyond fear.”
She stood hesitant, then said, “Mr. John, what’s the matter with your neck? Why do you
walk with your head twisted over to one side that way?”
“Get out,” I said.
CHAPTER TWO
For all of my various ailments, most of which doctors lightly classify as hypochondria, not being saddled with them themselves, I have trained myself to do one thing, and that is to sleep soundly.
I awoke refreshed, my slumber completely undisturbed by my ghostly ancestor, and walking to the casement windows, I threw them wide open.
For the first time, in the fragrance of early dawn, I saw the countryside which had bred Montrolfes for two hundred years.
Before me was the ocean, jewel clear and sparkling in the morning sun, and leaning out the window I saw that the house was built within fifteen feet of the cliff’s edge.
The house was situated on a bay, flanked on either side by several miles of rolling surf, and across the bay I could see the fishing boats of the village of Forsham, bobbing and tugging at their moorings. By water it would be about a mile to Forsham, but by foot I could see that the route was much longer. The coast line was jagged, and I judged it would be a good five miles by land.
After washing and dressing I found my way down the broken stairs and through dusty corridors to the kitchen. Nanny Beckett was also an early riser; either that or she never slept at all, for I found her as I had seen her the night before, huddled like a featherless old crow on her cushions by the fire, one bright and beady eye on the black pot that bubbled over the fire.
She gave me no greeting, so I ignored her. Going to the dresser, I got myself a porringer and spoon and ladled out some of the gruel, which she prepared excellently.
I looked up from my food to find that malevolent old eye bent upon me.
“Tea?” she asked.
I shook my head. I have tasted tea and coffee only once in my life, and each made me violently ill.
“Just like Mr. Nicholas,” she said contentedly. “All you Montrolfes got weak stomachs. Stop thinking about yourselves so much and your bellies wouldn’t bother you.”
“Have you any eggs?” I asked.
She looked at me suspiciously.
“I’ve got some. You want to buy them from me?”
“In the future I shall be buying all the supplies for this house. Your food will cost you nothing. Bring the eggs.”
She lifted the top of a stone jar in the corner and brought out four, which she placed before me reluctantly.
“Is this all? I generally eat a dozen for breakfast.”
She hobbled back and brought out eight more.
“Give me a bowl,” I said.
“Now, now, I’ll fix them for you. Just tell me how you like them.”
“Beat them in a bowl with a cup of milk and a pinch of salt,” I said.
“You eat them raw?”
I nodded.
“Ugh.” But she did as I bade her, only mumbling, as she handed me the bowl, that it was no more than she expected from someone brought up among them heathens in Africa.
“Now, Nanny Beckett,” I said, when I had finished, “there are going to be some changes made around here.”
“Eh?” she said, cupping her hand behind her ear.
“You heard me,” I said. “Probably at your age you don’t welcome changes, but you’ll just have to get used to them. First of all, there’s quite a bit of carpentry to be done. I don’t intend to break my neck, twisted as it is, on those stairs. All those old carpets must go, and this place is going to be kept free of dust.”
“What? This house has over thirty rooms. Do you think at my age I’m going to get down on my knees and scrub? Mr. Nicholas had some respect for his poor old Nanny, he wouldn’t expect a body of over ninety to work like a navvy.”
“I don’t expect you to do anything,” I replied. “I’m going into Forsham today to order lumber and tools, and to hire a couple of servants. The house is far too big for the two of us, but we can keep six or seven rooms habitable and clean with a bit of help and close off the rest.”
“You won’t find no help in Forsham, like I told you last night. Nor no carpenter to work here, neither.”
“Nonsense,” I said. “People will work anywhere for a good wage, and that’s what I intend to pay. As for the carpentry, I’ll do it myself. Tell me, Nanny, how could Nicholas let this place fall into such disrepair? I know he was a very wealthy man, because he left me his entire fortune. Why didn’t he use some of his money to restore the house?”
Nanny settled herself in her chair again. “Mr. Nicholas rarely left his room. He had other things on his mind, he did. And you needn’t go talking about him that way. You young people think you know everything. Well, you’ll find out, dearie. You’ll find out, when you’ve lived here a while, that there’s a great deal you don’t know. And you won’t find no help in Forsham.”
“Is
there a boat here, or do I have to walk?”
“There’s no boat,” she said. “Young Tommy Parker rides on his wheel from the village to bring supplies twice a week. I suppose though, with all that money of yours, you could buy a boat.”
It took me three hours to walk to Forsham, but then I am a slow walker.
Nanny was right about the people of Forsham. Whether it was my appearance or their superstitious fear of Cliff House, I was treated with suspicion verging on hostility wherever I went.
I managed to buy some supplies and a boat, but no one, man nor woman, would agree to work at Cliff House at any price.
For about a week I worked with a false burst of energy. I repaired the stairs and partially cleared the library of dust and cobwebs. But before the job was half done, I fell away from the crest of energy and in another week I was drowned in a slough of inertia.
There was something enervating about Cliff House; a slow, stealthy ennui seeped into the blood, but so slowly that I was hardly conscious of it. Its influence was so subtle that, like the lost traveler who lies down in the snowstorm, I was lulled by its deceitful comfort almost to sleep.
I cannot quite explain it, but there was a certain timelessness about Cliff House—not as if the clocks had all suddenly stopped, for there was no overt drama about it, but as if they had never started to tick.
It must have been about two weeks after my first night in Cliff House that the two crates of my books and papers arrived from Canada. In Canada these had been to me like beloved children, but here, in the land of the lotus-eaters, I had to force myself to carry them up to my bedroom and unpack them.
Nanny Beckett poked her head in the door and stood watching me.
“Lor,” she said finally, “a whole library of books downstairs rotting for want of someone to read ’em, ...
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