Curious Warnings - The Great Ghost Stories Of M.R. James by M.R. James Page B

fortunately in this case, there was neither voice nor any that regarded—only the woman who, I suppose, was cleaning up the church, dropped some metallic object on the floor, whose clang startled me. Count Magnus, I think, sleeps sound enough.
    That same evening the landlord of the inn, who had heard Mr. Wraxall say that he wished to see the clerk or deacon (as he would be called in Sweden) of the parish, introduced him to that official in the inn parlor. A visit to the De la Gardie tomb-house was soon arranged for the next day, and a little general conversation ensued.
    Mr. Wraxall, remembering that one function of Scandinavian deacons is to teach candidates for Confirmation, thought he would refresh his own memory on a Biblical point.
    “Can you tell me,” he said, “anything about Chorazin?”
    The deacon seemed startled, but readily reminded him how that village had once been denounced.
    “To be sure,” said Mr. Wraxall, “it is, I suppose, quite a ruin now?”
    “So I expect,” replied the deacon. “I have heard some of our old priests say that Antichrist is to be born there. And there are tales—”
    “Ah! What tales are those?” Mr. Wraxall put in.
    “Tales, I was going to say, which I have forgotten,” said the deacon. And soon after that he said good night.
    The landlord was now alone, and at Mr. Wraxall’s mercy; and that inquirer was not inclined to spare him.
    “Herr Nielsen,” he said, “I have found out something about the Black Pilgrimage. You may as well tell me what you know. What did the Count bring back with him?”
    Swedes are habitually slow, perhaps, in answering, or perhaps the landlord was an exception. I am not sure. But Mr. Wraxall notes that the landlord spent at least one minute in looking at him before he said anything at all. Then he came close up to his guest, and with a good deal of effort he spoke:
    “Mr. Wraxall, I can tell you this one little tale, and no more—not any more. You must not ask anything when I have done.
    “In my grandfather’s time—that is, ninety-two years ago—there were two men who said: ‘The Count is dead; we do not care for him. We will gotonight and have a free hunt in his wood’—the long wood on the hill that you have seen behind Råbäck.
    “Well, those that heard them say this, they said: ‘No, do not go. We are sure you will meet with persons walking who should not be walking. They should be resting, not walking.’
    “These men laughed. There were no forest-men to keep the wood, because no one wished to live there. The family was not here at the house. These men could do what they wished.
    “Very well, they go to the wood that night. My grandfather was sitting here in this room. It was the summer, and a light night. With the window open, he could see out to the wood, and hear.
    “So he sat there, and two or three men with him, and they listened. At first they hear nothing at all. Then they hear someone—you know how far away it is—they hear someone scream, just as if the most inside part of his soul was twisted out of him. All of them in the room caught hold of each other, and they sat so for three-quarters of an hour. Then they hear someone else, only about three hundred ells off. They hear him laugh out loud. It was not one of those two men who laughed, and indeed, they have all of them said that it was not any man at all. After that they hear a great door shut.
    “Then, when it was just light with the sun, they all went to the priest. They said to him: ‘Father, put on your gown and your ruff, and come to bury these men, Anders Bjornsen and Hans Thorbjorn.’
    “You understand that they were sure these men were dead. So they went to the wood—my grandfather never forgot this. He said they were all like so many dead men themselves. The priest, too, he was in a white fear. He said when they came to him: ‘I heard one cry in the night, and I heard one laugh afterward. If I cannot forget that, I shall not be able to sleep