The Macabre Megapack. Lafcadio Hearn
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the blood of the victims. In a few minutes the whole house was on fire, and the neighbors crowded to the spot. The flames were seen of different colors in different parts of the building; and small quantities of combustible material successively exploded as the fire reached them, like the minute guns of a wreck at sea. A human form was seen flitting from place to place amidst the conflagration, not to save, but to destroy; and when all was consumed, it was observed moving with supernatural swiftness towards the rocks which overhung the Devil’s Well.
This was conjectured to be the last of the Ormonds; and the next morning every search that humanity could suggest was made for him; the rocks were examined—the woods—the glens; the lake, at length, was dragged—and all in vain—
Days flowed days—moons rolled on moons away
But Conrad comes not—came not since that day.
THE MYSTERIOUS WEDDING: A DANISH STORY, by Heinrich Steffans
(1847)
In the north-west of Zealand stretches a small fertile peninsula, studded with hamlets, and connected with the mainland by a narrow strip of waste ground. Beyond the only town which this little peninsula possesses, the land runs out into the gloomy Cattegat, and presents an awfully wild and sterile appearance. The living sands have here obliterated every trace of vegetation; and the hurricanes which blow from all points of the ocean are constantly operating a change on the fluctuating surface of the desert, whose hills of sand rise and fall with a motion as incessant as that of the waves which roll around them. In traveling through this country, I spent upwards of an hour in this district, and never shall I forget the impression which the scene made upon my mind.
While riding along through the desolate region, a thunderstorm rose over the ocean towards the north—the waves roared—the clouds scudded along in gloomy masses before the wind—the sky grew every instant more dark, “menacing earth and sea”—the sand began to move in increasing volumes under my horse’s feet, a whirlwind arose and filled the atmosphere with dust, the traces of the path became invisible—while air, earth, and ocean seemed mingled and blended together, every object being involved in a cloud of dust and vapor. I could not discern the slightest trace of life or vegetation around the dismal scene—the storm roared above me—the waves of the sea lashed mournfully against the shore—the thunder rolled in the distance—and scarcely could the lurid lightning-flash pierce the heavy cloud of sand which whirled around me. My danger became evident and extreme; but a sudden shower of rain laid the sand, and enabled me to push my way to the little town. The storm I had just encountered was a horrid mingling of all elements. An earthquake has been described as the sigh which troubled nature heaves from the depth of her bosom; perhaps not more fancifully might this chaotic tempest have typified the confusion of a widely distracted mind, to which pleasure and even hope itself have been long strangers—the cheerless desert of the past revealing only remorse and grief—the voice of conscience threatened like the thunder, and her awful anticipations casting a lurid light over the gloomy spirit—till at last the long-sealed-up sources of tears open away for their floods, and bury the anguish of the distracted soul beneath their waves.
In this desolate country there existed in former times a village called Roerwig, about a mile distant from the shore. The moving sands have now buried the village; and the descendants of its inhabitants—mostly shepherds and fishermen—have moved their cottages close to the shore. A single solitary building, situated upon a hill, yet rears its head above the cheerless shifting desert. This building—and the village church—was the scene of the following mysterious transaction:
In an early year of the last century, the venerable cure of Roerwig was one night seated in his study, absorbed in pious meditations. His house lay at the extremity of the village, and the simple manners of the inhabitants were so little tinged with distrust, that bolts and locks were unknown among them, and every door remained open and unguarded.
The lamp burned gloomily, and the sullen silence of the midnight hour was only interrupted by the rushing noise of the sea, on whose waves the pale moon shone reflected, when the cure heard the door below opened, and the next moment the sound of men’s steps on the stair. He was anticipating a call to administer the last offices of religion to some parishioners on the point of death, when two foreigners, wrapped up in white cloaks, entered the room. One of them, approaching, addressed him with politeness: “Sir you will have the goodness to follow us instantly. You must perform a marriage ceremony; the bride and bridegroom are already waiting your arrival at the church. And this sum,”—here the stranger held out a purse full of gold—“will sufficiently recompense you for your trouble, and the alarm our sudden demand has given you.”
The cure stared in mute terror upon the strangers, who seemed to carry something fearful, almost ghastly, in their looks, and the demand was repeated in an earnest and authoritative tone. When the old man had recovered from his surprise, he began mildly to represent that his duty did not allow him to celebrate so solemn a rite without some knowledge of the parties, and the intervention of those formalities required by law. The other stranger here-upon stepped forward in a menacing attitude; “Sir,” said he, “you have your choice; follow us and take the sum we now offer you—or remain, and this bullet goes through your head.” Whilst speaking, he leveled his pistol at the forehead of the venerable man, and coolly waited his answer; whereupon the cure rose, dressed himself, and informed his visitants—who had hitherto spoken Danish, but with a foreign accent—that he was ready to accompany them.
The mysterious stranger now proceeded silently through the village, followed by the clergyman. It was a dark autumn night, the moon having set; but when they emerged from the village, the old man perceived with terror and astonishment, that the distant church was all illumined. Meanwhile his companions, wrapped up in their white cloaks, strode hastily on before them through the barren plain. On reaching the church they bound up his eyes; he then heard a side door open with a well-known creaking noise, and felt himself violently pushed into a crowd of people whose murmuring he heard all around him, while close beside him some persons carried on a conversation in a language unknown to him, but which he thought was Russian. As he stood helpless and blindfolded, he felt himself seized by a man’s hand, and drawn violently through the crowd. At last the bandage was removed from his eyes, and he found himself standing with one of the two strangers before the altar. A row of large tapers, in magnificent silver candlesticks, adorned the altar, and the church itself was splendidly lighted by a profusion of candles. The deepest silence now reigned through the whole building, though the side passages and all the seats were crowded to excess; but the middle passage was quite clear, and he perceived in it a newly dug grave, with the stone which had covered it leaning against a bench. Around him were only male figures, but on one of the distant benches he thought he perceived a female form. The terrible silence lasted for some minutes, during which not a motion could be detected in the vast assembly. Thus when the mind is bent on deeds of darkness, a silent gloomy brooding of soul often precedes the commission of the horrid action.
At last a man, whose magnificent dress distinguished him from all the rest, and bespoke his elevated rank, rose and walked hastily up to the altar; as he passed along, his steps resounded through the building, and every eye was turned upon him; he appeared to be of middle stature, with broad shoulders and strong limbs—his gait was commanding, his complexion of a yellowish brown, and his hair raven black—his features were severe, and his lips compressed as if in wrath—a bold aquiline nose heightened the haughty appearance of his countenance, and dark shaggy brows lowered over his fiery eyes. He wore a green coat, with broad gold braids, and a brilliant star. The bride, who also approached, and kneeled beside him at the altar, was magnificently dressed. A sky blue rose, richly trimmed with silver, enveloped her slender limbs and floated in large folds over her graceful form—a diadem sparkling with diamonds, adorned her fair hair—the utmost loveliness and beauty might be traced in her features, although despair now expressed itself in them—her cheeks were pale as those of a corpse—her features unanimated—her lips were blanched, her eyes dimmed—and her arms hung motionless at her side as she kneeled before the altar; terror seemed to have wrapped her consciousness as well as her vital powers in deep lethargy.
The cure now discovered near him an old ugly hag, in a parti-colored dress, with a blood-red turban on her head, who stood gazing with