





                          SCREAM AT MIDNIGHT

                        By JOSEPH PAYNE BRENNAN

                             Macabre House

                        New Haven, Connecticut

                                 1963

                  Copyright Joseph Payne Brennan 1963

      [Transcriber's Note: Extensive research did not uncover any
  evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] BOOKS BY JOSEPH PAYNE BRENNAN


                             SHORT STORIES

                    Nine Horrors and a Dream (1958)
                       The Dark Returners (1959)


                                 POEMS

                         Heart of Earth (1950)
                       The Humming Stair (1953)
                        The Wind of Time (1962)




                               CONTENTS


                          The Horror at Chilton Castle

                          The Midnight Bus

                          The Vampire Bat

                          The Seventh Incantation

                          Killer Cat

                          The Dump

                          The Tenants

                          The Man Who Feared Masks

                          The Visitor in the Vault




                     THE HORROR AT CHILTON CASTLE


I had decided to spend a leisurely summer in Europe, concentrating, if
at all, on genealogical research. I went first to Ireland, journeying
to Kilkenny where I unearthed a mine of legend and authentic lore
concerning my remote Irish ancestors, the O'Braonains, chiefs of Ui
Duach in the ancient kingdom of Ossory. The Brennans (as the name was
later spelled) lost their estates in the British confiscation under
Thomas Wentworth, Earl of Strafford. The thieving Earl, I am happy to
report, was subsequently beheaded in the Tower. From Kilkenny I traveled to London and then to Chesterfield in search
of maternal ancestors, the Holborns, Wilkersons, Searles, etc. Incomplete and fragmentary records left many great gaps, but my efforts
were moderately successful and at length I decided to go further north
and visit the vicinity of Chilton Castle, seat of Robert Chilton-Payne,
the twelfth Earl of Chilton. My relationship to the Chilton-Paynes was
a most distant one, and yet there existed a tenuous thread of past
connection and I thought it would amuse me to glimpse the castle. Arriving in Wexwold, the tiny village near the castle, late in the
afternoon, I engaged a room at the Inn of the Red Goose--the only one
there was--unpacked and went down for a simple meal consisting of a
small loaf, cheese and ale. By the time I finished this stark and yet satisfying repast, darkness
had set in, and with it came wind and rain. I resigned myself to an evening at the inn. There was ale enough and I
was in no hurry to go anywhere. After writing a few letters, I went down and ordered a pint of ale. The taproom was almost deserted; the bartender, a stout gentleman
who seemed forever on the point of falling asleep, was pleasant but
taciturn, and at length I fell to musing on the strange and frightening
legend of Chilton Castle. There were variations of the legend, and without doubt the original
tale had been embroidered down through the centuries, but the essential
outline of the story concerned a secret room somewhere in the castle. It was said that this room contained a terrifying spectacle which the
Chilton-Paynes were obliged to keep hidden from the world. Only three persons were ever permitted to enter the room: the presiding
Earl of Chilton, the Earl's male heir and one other person designated
by the Earl. Ordinarily this person was the Factor of Chilton Castle. The room was entered only once in a generation; within three days after
the male heir came of age, he was conducted to the secret room by the
Earl and the Factor. The room was then sealed and never opened again
until the heir conducted his own son to the grisly chamber. According to the legend, the heir was never the same person again after
entering the room. Invariably he would become somber and withdrawn; his
countenance would acquire a brooding, apprehensive expression which
nothing could long dispell. One of the earlier earls of Chilton had
gone completely mad and hurled himself from the turrets of the castle. Speculation about the contents of the secret room had continued for
centuries. One version of the tale described the panic-stricken flight
of the Gowers, with armed enemies hot on their flagging heels. Although
there had been bad blood between the Chilton-Paynes and the Gowers, in
their desperation the Gowers begged for refuge at Chilton Castle. The
Earl gave them entry, conducted them to a hidden room and left with a
promise that they would be shielded from their pursuers. The Earl kept
his promise; the Gowers' enemies were turned away from the Castle,
their murderous plans unconsummated. The Earl, however, simply left
the Gowers in the locked room to starve to death. The chamber was not
opened until thirty years later when the Earl's son finally broke the
seal. A fearful sight met his eyes. The Gowers had starved to death
slowly, and at the last, judging by the appearance of the mingled
skeletons, had turned to cannibalism. Another version of the legend indicated that the secret room had been
used by medieval earls as a torture chamber. It was said that the
ingenious instruments of pain were yet in the room and that these
lethal apparatuses still clutched the pitiful remains of their final
victims, twisted fearfully in their last agonies. A third version mentioned one of the female ancestors of the
Chilton-Paynes, Lady Susan Glanville, who had reputedly made a pact
with the Devil. She had been condemned as a witch but had somehow
managed to escape the stake. The date and even the manner of her death
were unknown, but in some vague way the secret room was supposed to be
connected with it. As I speculated on these different versions of the gruesome legend, the
storm increased in intensity. Rain drummed steadily against the leaded
windows of the inn and now I could occasionally hear the distant mutter
of thunder. Glancing at the rain-streaked panes, I shrugged and ordered another
pint of ale. I had the fresh tankard halfway to my lips when the taproom door burst
open, letting in a blast of wind and rain. The door was shut and a tall
figure muffled to the ears in a dripping greatcoat moved to the bar. Removing his cap, he ordered brandy. Having nothing better to do, I observed him closely. He looked about
seventy, grizzled and weather-worn, but wiry, with an appearance
of toughness and determination. He was frowning, as if absorbed in
thinking through some unpleasant problem, yet his cold blue eyes
inspected me keenly for a brief but deliberate interval. I could not place him in a tidy niche. He might be a local farmer, and
yet I did not think that he was.