 The weird circle. In this cave, by the restless sea, we are met to call from out the past stories, strange, and weird. Bellkeeper, hold the bell, so all may know we are gathered again in the weird circle. Phantoms of a world gone by speak again the immortal tale, the specter of Tappington. This house, Tappington Everard, called Tappington for short, is an antiquated but commodious manor house in the English countryside of Kent. It was built by our ancestor, Sir Giles Inglisbey, who was high sheriff to Queen Elizabeth. I myself am Tom Inglisbey, 14th heir to this forbidding old house. Set on a grove of tall dark trees, legends have sprung up about it that add gloom to its sinister reputation. One autumn weekend during the grass season, every guest room in the manor house was occupied. That is, everyone except the oak chamber. Little did we know that the unexpected arrival of our distant cousin and good friend, Lieutenant Charles Seaforth, would cause the dark mysteries of that oak room to intrude themselves upon us in such a strange way. A telegram that morning had warned us of his arrival, that he was on leave, invalided home from India. So it was with glad surprise and open arms that I welcomed the young lieutenant to Tappington. Well, Charles, old chap, I say it is good to see you. Hello, Tom, how are you? Back from the land of the Rogers. What? Welcome to Tappington. Thanks, Tom. It's good to be back in England, best of all, to be here with you and... And a Carolyn. I know that mine are not the charms that bring you here, but those are my lively lovely sister. Well, here's your childhood heartstroke, almost falling down the stairs near the eagerness to greet you. Charles, Charles, my dear, how wonderful to have you here. Carolyn, you're lovelier than ever. Lovelier than I dreamed. May I kiss you? Of course, Charles. Oh, Charles, it must have been dreadful in India. Well, it was a bit of a show for a while. We heard you were on the wounded list. No, just a tap on the old bee in a touch of fever, but I'm fit now. You look wonderfully well, Charles. Thinner, perhaps just a bit older. A broth of a boy has come back to us, a man, Carolyn, and what a man. Charles, dear, we've had to put you in the oak group. Yes, it's our housekeeper old bollard's be put. The house has choked full up. I hope you don't mind, old boy. Why should I mind? Sounds very important, really. Is it an attic nook? Oh, no, it's the guest chamber, or always was until some rather weird stories began to... Oh, Charles, not now. What? What do we mean, Charles? It's simply that the oak room is very old. But I love old rooms and old houses. Oh, what a magnificent hall. This captain of yours is a baronial beauty. A perfect setting for good old Queen Bess. I can almost see her ghost moving along up there on the gallery and wafting majestically down the stairs. Charles, please. We don't like to think about ghosts here. Oh, this captain haunted. I'm afraid we've had our moments. No, as soon as I've shown you off to some of my guests, Charles, Carol and I will conduct you on a special tour of the premises. I'd like that nowhere. Good. Well, come along then into the library. I think you'll remember Jack Overton and Fanny Simpson and many of the others. Charles was fascinated by the old manor. We showed him every nook and cranny from gallery to scullery. Then, that evening after a good and jovial dinner, some of us were gathered around the library fire when the legendary specter of Tafton became the theme of the conversation. Did they show you the bloodstain? Yes, it didn't look like blood to me, Fanny. But it is blood, Charles. It's human blood. And for 300 years, no sandstone or soap has budged. Oh, cheerful little antique. Did you take him into the Glen, frowning darkly as of yore? Not yet, Jack. Oh, it's gruesome. Let's go there tomorrow before breakfast. All right. You know, they say the keeper's daughter was seen to enter it, but nothing was ever seen again. Stop, Fanny. You're breaking my heart. My nerves can't stand it. She never was seen by mortal eyes again. Oh, never. How did you like the ancestral portraits? Nightmarish old codgers, eh? Mr. Rogarton, sit down. You speak of me, ancestor. Oh, sorry, old fellow, but you must admit, Sir Giles is no rose. Yes, I've seen his like in horror films. What's his history, Tom? Well, dark and dismal tradition has it that his wicked licentiousness was above the average even for those days. What was his special vice? Murder. Oh, how thrilling. Who did he kill? Yes, tell us the story, Carolyn. Shall I, Tom? Go ahead. I'll turn off some of the lights. Tell the gory legenses. Scare them. Well, you asked for it, my friends. Here it is. One night, long, long ago, a stranger guest came to Tapton. Though he and Sir Giles met in apparent friendship, the scowl on the squire's brow showed the visitor to be unwelcome. Nevertheless, the banquet was not spared. The wine circulated freely. Too freely, perhaps, for the servants heard loud and angry quarrelling. The stranger, cold menace in his voice, was heard to say that there were documents within his pocket which could disprove Sir Giles' right to Tapton. Documents that proved his inheritance? Oh, don't interrupt, Jack. Go on, Carolyn. Who was the stranger? Rumour was right. It seems the old retainers had heard talk in their youth that an heir who disappeared in early life had left a son in foreign lands. So... So you and Tom may not be the rightful owners of Tapton after all. That's right. Some long lost cousin from far off lands may come to clean it. Sure, huh? You're a distant cousin, Charles. And from a foreign land. Oh, no, I assure you, I have no documents of my travels. But go on, go on with the legend. What happened? The revelers finished their party and sought their beds. The stranger fell into drunk and sleep in the oaken chamber. In my room? Your room. The next morning he was found a swollen and blackened corpse. No marks of violence, but his lips were livid and dark-colored spots appeared on his skin. The word poison was whispered, but no one dared say it aloud. See, was it murder? Sir Giles' personal leech pronounced it an apoplexy, and the nameless stranger was buried in haste. It's a ghastly story, Carolyn. Wait, I haven't told you the most curious part of the legend. Huh? The mysterious disappearance of the stranger's trunk. His trunks? His bridge is stupid. The supposed hiding place of the documents. Oh. His clothes were all there, jerkin, waistcoat, cloak, but no sign of those puffed, velvet short pants for Elizabethan's war. They say the evil one was in the oak room that night. And I am to sleep in this self-saved oaken wood-warher? Well, how about ghosts? Oh, some medical mongers have it that the ghost of Sir Giles has been slipping out by the post turn gate to the glen, searching and digging and wringing his hands. Did they ever find the bridges? Well, years ago, Godiners doing some work in the glen dug up an ancient garment with bits of gold embroidery and outfell some papers, perfectly illegible from dampen age. Did they really belong to the nameless stranger? Who knows? Perhaps they did. I've just been telling you the legend of Taster. I must say you've given me a fine build-up for a peaceful night's sleep. I shan't dare turn out the light in my room. Well, spooks or no spooks, it's early up in the morning, so I'm off to slumberland. Ghostly dreams do you all. Good night, Penny. Good night. Well, strange cousin from foreign lands, remember the legend. After all, you may be the real owner of the manor. Oh, Rod, I don't want your old manor if I can have its lady. Is this a proposal, Charles, dear? What do you think? I see this is my cue to exit. Good night, you love birds. Good night, Tom. And it might be a good idea to lock your door, Charles. Thanks. I will, never fear. I myself wasted a few moments of healthy sleep worrying best Callen's story had disturbed my guests. But as far as I knew, a peaceful night had blessed Old Tappington. And then, the next morning as I was on my way down to breakfast, I was practically knocked down by our man McGuire bumping into me. Take it easy, McGuire. Sorry, sir. The tendency for us wringing like one beside himself. Go ahead and see what he wants. Carry on. Certainly, sir. Sorry, sir. I followed McGuire to the landing and stood watching as he knocked on the door. Come in. Oh, McGuire at last. Yes, sir. Where are my trousers? You're, uh, you're British, sir? Yes. What have you done with them? Me, sir? Why, never a thing, sir. Well, it must have been the devil, then. I put them on that armchair when I got into bed and by heaven now they're gone. Uh, would it be Miss Callen or Miss Fanny play in some sort of a joke, sir? Oh, not probable, McGuire. Not possible, in fact, because I locked myself in. Wait. Is there any other entrance to this room? Well, there is the secret staircase to the post office, sir. Over there? Of course. That's the way they must have come. I'll go and see. See her. No, no, no chance, McGuire. Two heavy bolts both fastened on the inside. I must say it's all very strange. Funny, it is indeed, sir. Funny, McGuire? No, not too funny. We had almost finished breakfast when Charles appeared. I noticed he wore a mecculately tailored riding britches, perfect for a day on the saddle, but scarcely the costume for our planned ground shooting. However, I made no comment. As his manner was so strange, he stood on smiling in the doorway at the dining room, staring at the girls. Carolyn seemed annoyed. Come, Charles, the tea is absolutely cold. Your breakfast will be spoilt. Why are you so late? Sorry. What became of our excursion to the Glen? When I was a young man, punctuality was required of all well-willed men. When you were a young man, sir, young ladies didn't play practical jokes. Whatever you're talking about, Charles. Oh, don't mind me, Carolyn. I've just been made a fool of, that's all. Obviously, something was troubling Charles. Occasionally, he doubted our penetrating glance at the girls. However, a glorious day on the field seemed to snap him out of this troubled mood. As a matter of fact, Charles took a leading part in planning the picnic we were to have the next day. There was no talk of ghosts nor any mention of legends. It had rained during the night and turned much colder, so you will understand the amazement it caused when Charles came down to breakfast next day in his uniformed tropical shorts. Charles! You're surely not going to ride through our lanes in such targary as that. You do surprise us with your costume changes. Well, what the well-willed rest men will wear. He thinks he's back in the jungle, that's all. Poor lad, he's quite barmy. Look here, Ogleton, I'll thank you to... It's above, Charles. Won't you get very wet after all the rain? You'd better drive in the carriage with me. Thank you, Fanny. I'll ride as planned with my cousins. During this banter, Carolin said not a word. I could see she was worried sick over Charles. However, the picnic was a great success. I wanted away from my guests because I... I wanted to be alone for a while and see if I could think out any reason for Charles' eccentric behavior. I was worried. Frankly worried that maybe his head wound had been more serious than he realized. I must have dozed off, for I was suddenly aware that I was a Neve's jumper on my sweet sister Carolin and her adored Charles. I started to speak, but the tone of their conversation kept me silent. Carolin, I know you mean these crazy trousers of mine. Well, you must admit they are a bit odd. Why ever did you wear them? I'm not wearing these wretched things because I want to be different. Carolin, my dear, something strange is going on in the Oak Room. Pair by pair, my trousers are being stolen. Oh, Charles, dear, how simply fantastic! For heaven's sake, darling, you must be dreaming. Carolin, please listen to me. I'm beside myself. I was not dreaming. The first morning I thought McGuire to take out my trousers to press them. Then I even thought you girls or Tom were playing some childish joke on me. But night before last and again last night, I saw the ghost. The ghost? Charles, this is too much. There isn't any ghost. You mean the specter? I mean just that. I saw the specter of Tapton, that blue-beared ancestor of yours. Sir Giles? Yes, Sir Giles. Walking in my bedroom with his velvet cloak-long rapier and his roly-looking hat and feather just like his portrait. But there was one difference. What was that? His legs were the legs of a skeleton. Oh, Charles! After taking a turn about the room, seemingly looking for something, he took up my britches and whipped his bony legs into them. Then he strutted up to the glass and studied himself. Why didn't you call out? I tried to, but I... I couldn't somehow speak. Oh, my poor darling. It was an awful dream. It was no dream, Carolyn. It was definitely the ghost. For then he turned and showed me the grimest, most dreadful-looking death's head. It grinned hideously at me and then strutted out of the room suddenly. How ghastly! Oh, I blame myself so for telling you that silly legend. It's given you these nightmares. This was no nightmare, Carolyn. But dear, Tapton isn't haunted. You're just remembering that stupid story I told you. You never said one word about Sir Giles' ghost in the Oak Room. Not one word about his skeleton legs, not one syllable about it. Charles, darling, you're overtired. You're talking rubbish. Carolyn, I expected sympathy and understanding from you. I'm not talking rubbish. I tell you, I saw the ghost. My britches are gone, vanished in thin air. And if the ghost didn't take them, who did? I had never thought seriously there could be a ghost at Tapton. That legend, Carolyn, had told our guests that night, had been intended as a joke more than anything else. In fact, since childhood, we have liked to spoof about our family's spook. But it was evident that the story of Sir Giles had made a dreadful impression on Charles' mind. His strange costumes had merely amused us. But now, even our guests were beginning to wonder. Next morning, as we were lingering at the breakfast table over that last bit of muffin and jam, Ogleton said, I say, what makes Charles so touchy? He built it from the room just now as if the old boy himself were after him. I'm sorry I giggled at him. But, Tom, I couldn't help it. Full dress uniform at breakfast. I say, is it shell-shocked, Tom? I wish I knew. When I asked him why the fancy dress, he bit my head off. I can still hear him saying, it's the regimental dress of the Royal Bombay Lancers, Fanny. It was regal. Blue tunic, red striped trousers, and gold ray. I haven't seen the like since the coronation. It wasn't funny to Caroline though. She was almost in tears when she ran after him. She looked positively stricken. Yes. My poor sister was teary-eyed all that miserable day. As for Charles, though he seemed to be making an effort to be more companionable, it only resulted in his being distantly polite. To add to my own distress in the matter, I learned that McGuire, the valet, was picking up quite a bobbery below stairs, boasting that on the evening before he'd seen a ghost. McGuire had overheard some of our conversations, but this cat trap about ghosts had to be stopped. So that night after our house guests had retired, I rang for McGuire. You rang, sir? Yes, sir. Close the door. Yes, sir. Now, see here, McGuire. What's this I hear about you having seen a ghost last night? Dive a lie, will I tell you of honor, but last night I saw a ghost. Don't talk what rot. Don't spread its nonsensical stories. Where do you think you saw this thing? Well, sir, we went last night for a bit of a stroll to the glen. We? Miss Elf and one of the maids, sir. Yes, yes, yes. Get on, get on. To see the moon it was, sir, but we saw more than the moon, sir. In the shadows was a terrible ghost. What sort of a ghost, man? A tall gentleman he was, sir, all in white with a shovel on the shelter of him and a big torch in his fist. But what he wanted to do that, it's Miss Elf can't tell for his great eyes were like diglamps. The maids creed holding murder and run off with herself and we after her. And the ghost after you, I suppose. No, sir. The ghost vanished in a flame of fire. Now, McGuire, don't try giglamps and flames apart on me. You're making all this up. Jove, I believe you're the speck to yourself. Me, sir. Is it Miss Elf, then, that's a play act and ghost in your honor's thinking? What your purpose is, I can't guess. Stealing the tenant's seaforth trousers on all of them. I don't have a soul, sir. I stole nothing. No, but you're mixed up in some way with the disappearance. Just the ghost, sir. I know it is. I saw him. There isn't any ghost, McGuire. And don't go about frightening my guests with any such tale. That's all for now. Yes, sir. Good night, sir. I felt a strong compulsion then to go to the oak room. I wanted to know if Charles was all right. Immediately, McGuire had gone. I left my room hallowedly and ran up the short flight of stairs to the oak room. I listened a moment, then wrapped loudly on seaforth's door. Charles! Charles! Yes, sir. It's I, Tom. And I was just about to turn in. What's up? You all right? Of course, why? Well, Carolyn's told me about this ghosty visitor of yours. Look here, you haven't seen him tonight, have you? No, no, no. Forget it, Tom. I'll make out. Don't bother about me. Go on to bed. All right. Cheerio, old man. Just wanted to make sure the goblins hadn't got you. Good night. And then, the very next morning as I was shaving, my door was flung open and in burst Charles. English bee, this is now past a joke. Where are my trousers? Good grief, Charles. What's the idea of yelling at me? You've made me cut my chin. Oh, confound, you stupid chin. Another pair of trousers are gone again. Ha, ha, ha. This is too good. Don't tell me the ghost got the regimentals too. Laugh, if you will. They're gone. Now, I've looked everywhere. What have you done with my clothes? I? Charles, I'm as mystified as you are. In all seriousness, Tom, aren't you putting over one of your famous hoaxes? I swear to you, I've no hand in this skull duckering. Well, then your ancestor's ghost has, and I've had all I can stand. Now, you'll simply have to lend me a pair of your trousers. Well, take all my trousers. Get out of here. You're in no mood to talk, Saint. All right. As you so politely put it, I'll get out and in your trousers. In spite of the ties that hold me here, I'm leaving captain today. I see for it. Wait a moment. Now, I was really afraid that Charles' mind was unhinged. I dressed hurriedly and rushed downstairs. Hearing noises in the library, I went quietly to the door and listened. Darling, please don't leave for my sick. Please. Carol, I can't stay, I tell you. As surely as I love you, that spectral anatomy came to my room last night, grinned in my face, and the gain walked off with my trousers. Obviously, Charles. It's an insane trick. If it is a trick. What do you mean? I've decided that all has to do with the ownership of captain. What? Yes. As you and Tom both said, I am your cousin. I have been in foreign lands. But I'm not claiming captain. One of you is trying by inhuman means to frighten me to death. Poison. Yes, mental poison. But you won't get away with it. You won't. Stop, darling. You believe such things. Oh, Tom, I'm so glad you were listening. Talk to him, please. Charles, Charles. Oh, man, you're so wrong. Why, you're my oldest friend, and Carol loves you. You know that. Now come on. Forget these black thoughts. Go for a walk and let the sun and the wind drive this fog from your mind. Please, Charles, don't talk anymore about leaving. Let's fight this thing out together. I... I don't know what's gotten to me. Very well, Carol. I'll stay. That's fine. Don't worry, Carol and dear. I'll try to be a model guest. See you at lunch, then, darling. Oh, Tom, isn't it awful? Whatever will we do? I do love him, so. I was mad clear through and determined to scotch this ghost business once and for all. I knew that the Oak Room had a secret cupboard in the paneling, so that night I decided I must hide there and spy on Charles. I slipped away from my guests and tipped towing through the dark loom of the Oak Room. I... I groped my way into the closet. Suddenly, my... my hands touched soft human flesh. Good Lord. Tom, you've scared me so. Oh, we had the same idea, huh? Yes, to protect Charles. Of course. But we may have a long way to this. I won't mind. Tom, I'm so scared. Quiet, quiet. My poor girl. Charles got himself ready for bed, started to take off his trousers, then suddenly put him on again and flung himself into bed. He had left the nightglam on, which was lucky, as thus we could see more easily. After waiting for what seemed ours, Carolyn suddenly clutched my arm. Look, he's sitting up. No, not yet. He's turning this way. Good Lord. He's asleep. Yes. His eyes are wide open, but they stare senselessly, like dead eyes. He's out of bed. What did you see looking for? He's got a torch. Why, he's looking at himself in the mirror. Tom, he's going to the secret staircase. He's opening the door. Come along, we've got to follow him. Not too closely. Hurry, hurry, please. We hurried after him down the stairs and out to the post turn gate. Once we came closer, there was Charles with a spin, digging. Whatever is he doing? A large hole. The earth is soft. He's been digging here before. Look, he's removing his trousers and... and banging them. Oh my God, standard is too gruesome. Let's call out. No, no, no, wait a minute. Sleepers have to be shoved out of their trance. I awaken as he turns daughters. Don, you killed him. I hadn't killed him, though I had hit him hard and then I realized. We called for help and carried him to the great hall. He was still unconscious when Dr. Austin arrived. We waited anxiously during his examination. Finally, the doctor came towards us. Well, Tom, my young lieutenant is coming around nicely. Oh, what a relief. Oh, Doctor, is he going to be all right? Of course, my dear. Then it was show shock, Doctor? Not exactly. I think that head wound and the fever combined to give a subconscious overactive control of his mind. And when I hit him, best thing you could have done. You put that subconscious in its place. I think it's safe to say that he won't sleepwalk anymore. Look at Charles. He's sitting up. What? Where? Why are you all staring? Why am I here? Oh, my jaw. Don't try to speak, dear. You're all right now. Well, I should say I was. I feel as if a load had been lifted from my heart. Oh, I remember my trousers. Yes, Charles, you've been busy burying trousers. Neat layers. Riding britches, shorts and even those beautiful regimentals. Then I've been haunting myself. Yes, dearest. You are the specter of Taffan. Oh, my love. Can you ever bring yourself to marry a specter? Darling, I love ghosts. Oh, I begin to catch on. Whitting bells are in the offering. Yes, and with my blessing. But Charles, if ever again you feel inclined to jump out of bed and ramble out of doors, there's one thing I'd like to suggest. What's that, old boy? I recommend that Caroline wear the trousers. From the time worn pages of the past, we have heard the immortal tale, the specter of Taffington. Bellkeeper, Oh, the bell.