It was after a grand Christmas supper at the home of one Devon Whilshire that the guests sat around in the drawing room to tell stories.

They had gathered there that evening, as they always did every Christmas. The guests included Reginald Bentley, a youngish businessman of about 30 years, Matilda Swinson, a local seamtress, her husband Theobald, a local politician, and their children Richard, Brenton, and Cleo. There was also Clint Waterson, a young science teacher, and Herbert Morrison a noted student of the theatrical arts, both of them rich young bachelors.

They had all just completed a supper which involved a large holiday turkey, roast goose with home-cooked stuffing, rich cranberry sauce, tangy marmalade-butter, plum pudding with brandy, and of course, homemade mince pie, which happened to be a specialty of Devon’s wife, Malicent. Then there had been the homemade eggnog, with, of course, with the traditional ingredient of good old brandy, and the buttered Christmas rum.

And now, with everyone now stuffed to maximum capacity, it was time for the stories.

Everyone looked forward to this time, especially the children, to whom this was the best part of the entire evening at Wilshire’s. According to Devon, they could any sort of tale they like, so long as it was a rousingly good one.

But almost always, the tales that got told at this hour on Twelfth Night just happened to be ghost stories.

Or at least stories of an eerie or supernatural nature.

That was part of the tradition of Twelfth Night, to see who could come up with the most frightening supernatural yarn. While the stories could be (and oftimes were) concocted by the tellers on the spot, more often than not the tellers had given the matter some thought before this fateful hour came upon them; sometimes they teller would concoct a frightening yarn in advance. Sometimes stories were told that were rumored to be either wholly or partially true, generally having allegedly occurred to someone far removed from the present party, and often in the long ago. Occasionally, however, a tale would be told that purported to be an actual true-life yarn from the teller’s own past.
Such was the case on this this occasion when the turn came to Mr. Bentley. The gentleman had remained silent all evening, listening with what looked like consternation to the tales of the others. Everyone had a fabricated or purportedly true dark tale to tell, save the two youngest of the Swinson clan. Young Richard, who was twelve, had repeated a tale he’d heard form a fellow youngster at Clifton Academy, about a three mysterious knocks during a séance. Three weeks later, according to the tale, a wife who attended the séance murdered her husband.

When it came Bentley’s turn, every other member of the company had provided a tale of the weird, grotesque, and frightening.

The young businessman looked about at the expectant faces, which seemed, to everyone, to suggest that he now bore the burden to provide the finale, the most rousing tale of them all.

Bentley shifted a bit uncomfortably in his armchair and sighed.

“Well?” Devon asked. “I’m certain, Bentley, that you have something to enlighten us all with.’

“Maybe I do,” he said.

“What do you mean,’maybe’?”

“Well, it so happened that I’ve got a tale, alright, but I’ve been reluctant to actually tell it up until now.”

“Now, why in the world would that be?” Theobald said. “We’ve all told you our stories, so you might as well tell us yours.”

“Yes, certainly, do!” said his wife.

“Well, frankly,” said Bentley, “I’ve been dreading the telling of this tale right up until now. It’s a rather personal one of my fairly recent past, I’m afraid.”

“Well, there’s nothing so much the matter with that,” Mr. Wilshire said. “A modern tale makes the whole thing that much closer to home.”

“A little too close,” Bentley said, “At least for my own liking. It really happened. Less than a year ago, I’m afraid. My fear, one of them anyway, is that I may keep the lot of you from feeling ill toward me for this, as I am a participant in the tale that I am about to tell you.”

It was most evident, however, that the rest of the company appeared all the more interested because of this. Every eye in the room looked rapt and ready for the tale.

“Very well,” said Bentley, “It was late last February, with an early spring thaw coming on that the company to which I am employed hired a new man by the name Rupert Manning. He was younger than me, about 23 or 24, I think. He was a thin, sprightly fellow, with alert blue eyes, hair the color of a red fox, and a noticeable abundance of freckles. And also a confident, almost haughty air about him, and brisk walk. I got on well enough with him at first, at the time he and I met. But shortly thereafterward, I think it might have been early March at this point, that I was riding home from work, and I caught sight of Manning walking along the side of a bridge which I pass everyday on my way home, and he had a lady friend with him. Well, that was nothing so remarkable in itself, of course, save for the fact that as we drove on past, I became more certain than ever that I recognized her. Now, part of me insisted that I must have been mistaken in this. The young fellow I’d seen had most certainly been Rupert Manning; he had, after all, left his office shortly before I had. It was nothing so unusual that he should be escorting a lady friend home. From my short acquaintance of him, I could remember nothing of his mentioning any sort of romantic interest in his life. But for a young and fairly good-looking fellow, I should have been surprised, perhaps, if he hadn’t been seeing someone. It was the object of his seeming affections that had aroused my consternation, however. Perhaps my senses were deceiving me; but I was certain, in that instance, at least, that the girl was nonother than Constance Brunhilde Thatcher, the same young lady whom I had, myself, been seeing for sometime. I told myself at first, that it had been a case of mistaken identity, that Constance was not the sort of girl to be dating such a young, arrogant, and lacking-in- experience young man as this Rupert Manning fellow. Manning might be quite the ladies’ man among some or many of the feminine species, but not my Constance. She just wasn’t right for him. It was even difficult, at first at least for me to imagine the two of them together.

But what I had seen would not leave me alone. In fact, when I got home, I tried everything to rid my mind form the prying influence of what I’d glimpsed by the river. But there was nothing that quite worked. And I began to realize, correctly, that now that I considered it, Constance had been seeing me less and less of late. We still went out occasionally, and we usually attended a fine restaurant or theatre. I had grown worried over it some, but there were many other things connected with the business at the time that I had been giving less and less thought to Constance and myself, and to our projected future marriage. But no longer. I had not, I realized, seen or even heard from Constance for weeks at the time. When last we had dated, she had told me nothing, I thought, that suggested that she desired to end our relation. But the longer I pondered the more I became convinced that indeed, it was she, and no other whom I had spied sharing affection with my new co-worker. I recognized her blue and white dress, and the way she did her dark hair, her walk, everything. Yes, it had been Constance, right enough.

The following day, at work, I considered confronting Rupert about the matter. But suppose I was wrong about what I had seen? No, I mustn’t be hasty, I told myself. I must catch the two of them together, as I had done before. And even though by now I was certain, I would have to see for longer than the bare glimpse I had had, to be without the shadow of a doubt that Constance was truly the woman I had seen with Manning. I was uncertain that if they were, indeed, seeing one another behind my back, that they would pick the same spot as they had only yesterday. One or both of them might have seen or recognized my carriage. However, I was glad at the end of the day that I not divulged my secret to Rupert; if I were to catch the two of them together, it must be unawares. I made certain that I departed my office that evening at precisely the same minute, as nearly as I could time it. And sure enough: as we were passing the bridge I spied them, in almost the exact spot where they had been before. I immediately ordered my coachman to turn the carriage around. We parked at the stone pathway leading up to the bridge. Gripping my cane like a weapon (though honestly I can’t say if I truly intended on attacking the fellow with it), raced up the walkway to the bridge. Rupert and Constance had not seen me; they had at this moment ceased their stroll, and were now, each holding hands, standing at the rail of the bridge, and facing away from me, apparently watching the ducks out on the lake.

At that point I stopped momentarily, uncertain at just how I should go about confronting them. As I stood there, clutching my cane and breathing deeply, the woman must have heard me, and she turned around. Oh, it was Constance, sure enough! I had found them out. The look on her face told me everything. She was being intimate with this man, who had scarcely graduated from the academy.

‘Reginald!’ she gasped.

‘Glad to see you still remember my name.’ I told her.

‘You don’t understand…’ she said.

‘I understand enough,’ I told her. By this time her lover had turned around as well. He looked at me with a certain stern haughtiness in his alert eyes.

‘Constance?’ Rupert said. ‘What’s going on? Who is this man?’

‘It-it’s Reginald Bentley. A friend of mine.’ Then to me: ‘Reggie, I’d like you to meet Rupert. We met just a month ago.’

‘We already know each other,’ I snapped. I demanded her to tell me what they were doing together. She told me, as you might imagine, that they were only friends and that there was nothing between them.

Rupert plainly told me that it was none of my business, and that Constance was not committed to anyone. I’m afraid that’s the moment when I snapped. I lunged toward the younger man with my cane. Rupert was spry and quick, but I outweighed him by several pounds, and I am a good deal more muscular. Though my conduct appalls me in hindsight, in spite of the fact of Constance’s unfaithfulness to me, I easily overpowered Manning. After catching him in the side with my cane, I belted him hard in the stomach. The fellow crashed to the ground as though he’d been pole-axed. I flew upon him, thrashing him savagely with my cane.”

At this point in the tale, Bentley paused to seize up a glass half-filled with Christmas punch on the side table, and downed it. For several seconds more, he remained silent, breathing rather heavily, as though reliving the incident of which he spoke with no small amount of lividery.

Everyone was starring at him, wide eyed. At last young Richard Swinson implored him, “What happened next, Mr. Bentley?”
“I don’t rather like to say,” Bentley said, “but the fact of the matter was that I killed him.”

“Killed him!” Mrs. Swinson gasped.

“It was not my intention, let me assure you! My blood was up, I was almost frothing with rage, but taking the man’s life, however this affair had slighted me, was never my intention. But in that moment I had lost my reason. Constance was screaming at me to desist. I was aware, momentarily of her gripping my arm, trying to pull me off the fellow. But she was, of course, no match for a well-muscled man like myself, and I easily cast her off. It was only when I had nearly succeeded in beating the poor fellow to death that I noticed what I should have earlier; Rupert Manning was thrashing about on the ground in a manner that suggested epilepsy, or some like disorder. At that moment I regained at least part of my senses, and stepped back , gazing at Manning in horror. Constance cried Rupert’s name passionately. That fired my blood once again, but by now Rupert had staggered to his feet, but was still thrashing wildly out of control. I was afraid to approach him at this point. But when he stumbled to the edge of the bridge, Constance shrieked and ran to him, certain, as I was, as to what was about to happen. Seeing this, I joined her, but we were too late to prevent the tragedy. Rupert Manning fell into the lake and drowned. Oh, I dove into the water to save him. I’ll admit that it was more out of guilt that I had caused this than any concern for the man himself. But I could not save him. By the time I’d managed to pull him for the water, it was too late.

Constance ran away sobbing. We haven’t seen or written to each other since. Oh, I was never charged with anything. The constables took into account that I had attacked on impulse, and that I knew nothing all of Rupert’s epilepsy. The guilt has haunted me ever since. It will not leave me alone. I feel for Constance, whose lover I killed, unfaithful though she was. And though I have no love for Manning on the account of his affair with her, would gladly bring back to life if it meant I could undo all of that. He was fine young fellow with a promising career ahead of him.”

Here it was that Bentley stopped.

“Well,” Mr. Wilshire said ”That certainly was quite a tale. I can see from your complexion, Reginald, that you’ve been meaning to get this story out of your system for some time, and so now you have. It kept us all entertained, I am sure. The tale of a tragic death resulting from a jilted lover is always intriguing to the listener. It just wasn’t what we were expecting, it being twelfth Night and all. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. I’ve made it plain that any story will do, even if there is no hint at all of ghosts or goblins.’

“No ghosts or goblins?” said Bentley. “That may not exactly be true I rather fear.”

“So…are going to tell us the ghost of this man has been haunting you?”

“No,” said Bentley “not at all. I’ve seen not a hide nor a hair of poor Rupert’s ghost. Maybe if I had, I could somehow make amends. The guilt over the incident however, certainly has haunted me. So much, in fact, that I’ve been reluctant to attend our annual party this year.”

“How so?” Devon inquired.

Bently sighed. He looked around at the flickering shadows beyond the flare of the candles in the room. “Is it not the case,” said he at last, “that there is a spirit of sorts known as the Wellwode, which is known to haunt certain houses such as this one?”

At the mention of this the host’s eyes grew wide, and the hairs on the back of his neck appeared to stand on end. “Why yes…yes, I believe there is,” Devon’s wife looked expectantly at her husband.

“And is it not also true that Wellwode, if it exists, is invisible to the naked eye, but under certain circumstances, can take on the semblance of a solid form?”

Devon, who remained staring wide-eyed, nodded slowly.

“The Wellwode,” said Bently, speaking now purposefully, as though reciting an encyclopedic entry on such spirits, “lurks in old houses, and remains invisible, existing in some dimension unperceivable to the human eye. But it can be percieved occasionally in the mirror, or other reflective surface. Or sometimes it may appear as a moving shadow. And perhaps other ways as well. But when it does make itself known, the Wellwode always assumes a form other than its own shape.” Here he paused, as though for affect.

“Which is…?” one of the children prompted.

“The form of some human who has been wronged. A victim of a crime, for example. In fact, the most common shape a Wellwode is rumored to take is that of a man or woman who was murdered or killed as result of foul play or some sort of evil. The Wellwode is not the ghost of that person. It is a spirit that never was alive, but which takes on the physical form of a once-living person to take revenge on who ever has wronged that person, or caused his or her death.”
All at once, all the party gathered in that room heard the wind moan savagely out in the night, rattling the eves. The shadows at the corners of the room seemed to grow a little darker.

“And one is rumored to reside right here, in this very house.”

Everyone looked around the room, and at the other guest, as though seeking some confirmation or denial of Bentley’s concluding remark.

At last, Devon said, “Yes…yes, that’s right. How did you know? I did not know you were aware of this house’s history.”
The guests were now all starring at their host in surprise. None, it seemed were aware of the legend. Not even Devon’s wife.

“I know a bit more than you think,” Bentley said. “But now I’ve said all I need to say.”

The company were silent for a few further moments, listening to the stillness of the house. Then there was nervous laughter among them, then a low muted conversation, as to the history of the house, and had anyone ever heard of Wellwodes, and were there other houses rumored to be so haunted, and so forth. They were soon chatting jovially over the whole matter. Young Richard and Brenton Swinson were giggling and joking. The conversation then turned to the matter of spirits and spooks and generally and then to the matter of all the tales told at this gathering.

At about that time, Malicent, the host’s wife, bade everyone to be quiet, and to prepare for the final event to be enacted on Twelve Night. The company had had their games on Christmas Eve. But there was one final game to be played, and that they reserved for Twelfth Night, the concluding event before all members of the gathering retired to bed.
The game of Snap-Dragon.

Mrs. Wilshire went into the kitchen, as the party of guests waited in rapt anticipation. Then, she bad all the candles in the drawing room blown out, a task designated to the children, who gleefully accomplished their task.

As darkness engulfed the entire company, Malicent entered, bearing a large bowl filled with flaming brandy. Though they looked forward to this climactic event every year, there were murmurs of awe throughout the partiers, as the bright blue flames sent eerie shadows dancing over the walls.

She set the bowl on a table in the center of the room. With their surroundings no cloaked in deep darkness, the company now gathered around the flickering blue flames. Each partier’s continence was now painted garishly by the wavering fire. Beneath the surface of the hissing brandy lay the prizes: raisins scattered over the bottom of the punchbowl. Whoever captured and ate the most of them would procure good fortune in the year to come. But the task appeared, as it always did, dreadfully hazardous.

It was young Brenton Swinson who claimed the first prize, much to the surprise of his elders. The watched in admiration as the youngster reached testily out, snatched forth a raisin, triumphantly popping the hot sweet into his mouth. Richard snatched the next, not wanting to be outdone by his younger sibling. Theobald a managed the next, then his wife, then Herbert, then Clint. Before long, the entire company had joined in the fun and frolic. They were now laughing merrily, flitching out the raisons from the sizzling, fizzing beverage, giving vent to brief exclamations of excitement or delight. As each partier competed as to who ate the most, they began to notice that Bentley didn’t seem to be participating.

“Reginald, aren’t you playing?” Herbert Morrison asked

At this prompting, Bentley did reach toward the bowl. No one else tried at that moment, everyone seeming to agree that Reginald was not quite himself this evening and was needing some encouragement to join in. But before Bentley’s fingers could touch the burning brandy, he stopped. The company starred at him in silence, as the man gazed back at the ring of weird blue goblin-faces in the blackness. He looked at each one of them in turn.

Bentley screamed and jumped back. “No!”

In the corner of the room, someone relit a candle, driving back the shadows. They saw that Bentley had collapsed into his chair, and was breathing heavily. Devon, and two of the other partiers rushed to his side. “We should call a doctor!” Mrs. Swinson said.

“No, no!” said Reginald said, “I’m alright. I just felt a bit faint, that’s all.”

“It looked as though you were frightened by something,” Clint said.

“I thought I saw…”

“What?”

“I’m…not sure now. It looked like there might have been one more person here than was there a minute ago.” At that moment he looked around again at everyone in the room, as though to assure himself that no new member had joined the party.

For several moments, everyone was quiet.

“Well…,”Devon said slowly. “I think everyone is accounted for. For the sake of the party, I’d say we should resume playing. Bentley, if you’d prefer to wait the game out…”

“No, no,” Reginald said quickly. “I probably endulged a bit more rum than I intended, that is all.”

Once again the candle was wuffed out and darkness descended on the partiers. Once more the blue flames created a delightfully weird spectacle, painting their faces in its wild goblin-light. More raisons were snatched, and it was looking awfully like young Brenton Swinson would be this year’s winner, though even his sister Cleo managed to snatch one for herself. The game was nearing its end, however, and they held off just a bit to allow Reginald another try. It seemed again, that the man was reluctant, as fired up as he’d seemed upon his recovery. Bentley, seeming to know what the others were expecting him to do reached out again. This time his fingers touched the brandy. But he withdrew them at once, with a terrible scream.

Everyone though that he’d burned himself, and the candle was relit once again. Bentley had fallen back into the armchair. This time he was gasping and shaking, one arm through over his face.

“What’s wrong?” Devon asked him.

“HIS FACE!” cried Bentley in such a voice of abject terror that the entire company was affected. “I saw it! I swear I saw Rupert Manning’s face!”

“Where did you see it?” Herbert Morrison asked.

“Next to yours! In the light of the fire! He was standing right next to you, staring at me!”

The man’s obvious fright carried such conviction that the rest of them looked around, not entirely unconvinced that some sinister figure had entered their company unobserved, to slyly slip in among them when they lights were blown out. But there was no one else about that anyone could see.

Bently uncovered his face and sat up, staring straight and wild-eyed at Herbert. “He was standing right next to you. I saw him!”

“No you didn’t,” said Herbert, “Because there was no one there. Don’t you think I would have noticed?”

After a few moment, they had managed to calm Bentley down.

“Devon, blow out that candle again,” said Mrs. Wilshire, “I want to show Mr. Bentley there’s nobody in this room besides us.”

Bentley, though he had calmed somewhat, started in fear. But Devon had already extinguished the candle.

“Now look,” she said, “Who else do you see in the light?”

Bentley gazed tremblingly toward the light, at the demonically-lit ring of faces. “It’s him!”

Devon relit the candle.

Bentley had covered his face again. “Where is he? I saw him!”

“There was no one there,” Herbert insisted again.

“No, wait.” Clint said. “I’m not so sure…”

Herbert whirled on him. “Now, man! Don’t tell us you’re seeing ghosts as well!”

“I’m not telling you anything. But I just thought I saw…”

“What?”

Clint was silent. He looked about the room uncomfortably. “When the light went out this last time I looked toward the mirror on the wall over there…”

“So? And?” asked Herbert.

“I could have sworn when I did look that I did see someone else.”

“Are you sure you’re not having a go at us?”

“I’m sure,” Clint said. “It really looked like there was another face in the firelight.”

“Well, was there then?”

“There was. I couldn’t identify who. But I know for sure that it was none of us.”

Reginald was shaking and shivering his eyes, looking horribly haunted.

“Should we blow out the light again then, “Herbert suggested, “and have ourselves another look? Maybe—“

“NO!” Bentley shrieked. The man had gone almost wild with terror; it took several more moments to calm him down.

By now it was evident that Bentley’s fearful condition had an effect over the entire party. Even Herbert, their most skeptical member, appeared concerned. The three Swinson children were now clinging to their mother’s dress. Clint suggested that the entire house be searched, just to make certain that they were harboring no unseen prowler. While reluctant to take seriously any notion that a genuine spook was lurking somewhere in the house, they at least considered the possibility that Bentley and Waterson must have seen something other than the effect of an overindulgence in buttered rum.

While Bentley, along with the women and children, waited in the well-lighted drawing room, the men searched the entirety of the premises, all the rooms, upstairs and down, every closet and secret room and passage. Malicent and Matilda kept dreading the sound of scream, or some other commotion form one of the upper rooms. But nothing like that occurred, and at last all the men returned to the drawing room, having found nothing.

“There’s no one here,” Devon said, as he took his wife in his arms and kissed her on the cheek. After several more moments of calming one another, the general spirit brightened. They were soon seated once again in their chairs. The evening, of course, had now drawn itself to a close, though it hadn’t ended quite as expected. By default, Brenton Swinson was named winner of this year’s Snap-Dragon. There was some brief conversation, before they began to make preparations for bed.

Bentley had remained silent through all this.

When Clint asked him which of the guest rooms he would be staying him, he said, “I’m not staying another moment in this house.”

“You’re not?”

“Of course not! I told you I almost did not come here tonight. I now know I that was right. I am leaving at this moment.”

There was some protest by the men to stop him, but Bentley wasn’t listening. He was already putting on his hat, scarf and coat, and had soon hurried out the door.

Clint, Herbert, and Devon gazed out after him.

It was freezing weather, the countryside was covered in snow, and the drifts on each side of the road were high. Bentley, bundled against the chill was already striding away down the path to the road in the blue winter landscape.

“But your carriage doesn’t arrive until tomorrow morning!” Clint called after him.

Bentley was far past caring.

The men went back inside and closed the door.

They sat down in the drawing room chairs, while the others went off to bed.

“I don’t understand,” said the practical Herbert. “Is that man having a bit of fun with us, or has he really scared himself silly with his own ghost stories?”

“I don’t think it’s either,” Clint said. “I really did think I saw someone in the mirror.’

“Well, who could you have possibly seen?” Herbert said dryly. “We know there’s nobody here besides us!”

“I don’t know,” said Clint, “maybe you’re right. Maybe we both had too much to drink tonight, and after those scary tales, we’re really starting to believe them.”

The wild wind moaned out there in the night.

Devon, who had made no comment either way as to the night’s strange events, said, “I suppose its best that we get to bed.” Within minutes, the three of them had joined the others upstairs.

The next day, the local newspaper revealed what had become of Reginald Bentley. He had been found drowned in the ice-choked river, not far from his home. The local inspector’s opinion was that the man had been pushed in, since there wasn’t much chance that a grown man in full possession of his facilities could have just tumbled in by himself. But if he had been followed form the Wilshire house, the snow had long since covered the tracks of whoever it might have been.

And it was the final year that Clint Waterson, for one, ever attended the Wilshire’s annual party.

© Copyright 2011 Sean Phillips
5022 words