I asked.
His smile dissolved.
'I had decided that I would implicate one of the boys in the thefts, Edgar. For some perverse reason I decided that I would choose . . . William: the one boy I had any fellow feeling for. To this day I cannot say why.'
'And did it work?' I said, surprised by how cold my voice sounded.
'Yes,.' said Uncle Montague grimly. 'The boys were only too ready to accept it. William came to me, pleading with me to make them understand that he was innocent. I reassured him that I would do everything in my power, but of course I did nothing at all.' Uncle Montague looked straight into my eyes, his face like a carved mask. 'He was badly beaten.
'Parents demanded that something be done about this thief. I wrote to William's lawyers, explaining the circumstances and requesting, with great regret, that they place William at another school.'
'And what happened to him, sir?' I asked.
Uncle Montague sighed. The children scurried forward a few inches.
'William came to my study. He was distraught. His face was bruised. He had been beaten again. I could not bear to see him in that state and know that I was the cause, but instead of standing up and putting an end to his misery, I sent him away. I told him that he must face these things and be a man.'
'And then?' I asked, fearing the answer. My uncle made no response. Every silhouetted face turned to his, and they seemed to be urging him silently to answer.
'What happened then?' I said again.
'He took his own life, Edgar.'
I gasped with horror.
'Yes! He took his own life, driven to it by my lies and vile trickery. No one knew my part in his death, but the suicide was enough to persuade parents to take their children away from the school and soon it was empty of all but the most unloved boys, and there were few signs of attracting new blood.
'William's death had shaken me, of course, but I had no idea of the journey I was yet to embark on. Gambling was at the root of all my problems, but so addicted was I that instead of simply stopping, I decided to let chance decide my fate. I swore that if Fortune let me win, then I would dedicate myself to needy children hereabouts. If I lost, then I would give myself up to the authorities and answer for my past misdeeds.
'I found a whistle I used to wear around my neck in happier times. It was a whistle I used to rally the boys when we were engaged in one of our many nature trails or historical outings. I had not used it in many a year and I put it in my pocket as a lucky charm. Gamblers are as superstitious as sailors, Edgar.
'I decided I would take all the money I had squir-relled away to a rather dubious club in town and play the cards one last time.
'As I reached the door of the club and was about to climb the dimly lit steps to its entrance, I saw out of the corner of my eye a group of shabbily dressed children standing some way off in the shadows on the other side of the road. The presence of those urchins should have served as a reminder of my purpose as I entered the club, but I was already forgetting my oath.
'Much to my surprise, my luck had changed. I could not lose. One by one, my fellow gamblers cashed in and left as the pot grew larger and larger. Other customers of the club came to watch. I had never won so much money in all my days of gambling. As I left the club, loaded with cash and promissory notes I looked for the children, but there was no sign of them. I took the whistle from my pocket and gave it a grateful kiss. I hailed a cab, spent the night in the Savoy and returned to the house the following day.
'My final night of gambling was nothing of the sort, of course. No gambler wins like that and stops. Instead, I spent some of my winnings on fine clothes and tried my luck at another, more salubrious club near Piccadilly.
'Once again, as I paid the cab and tapped the pavement with my silver-tipped cane, I saw a group of children standing some way off in the shadows. It seemed a strange coincidence, and I took their presence as a good sign.
'So it turned out to be. I won again and handsomely. In fact, I won every time I went to the card tables. I won so often that I was accused of cheating, but though I would not have been above such a thing, I just seemed to be having a run of the most extraordinary luck. The clubs began to refuse me entry, of course. They could not prove that I was cheating; it was enough that I was ruining their businesses.
'My gambling club days were over. So I invested some of my winnings and discovered that I had the same good fortune in my investments that I had enjoyed at the card table. I seemed unable to lose. I was soon rather rich and I must say I enjoyed it. I was now perfectly placed to pursue the course I had promised myself - to engage in an act of benevolence and educate the unfortunates of the local area. But I had not changed, Edgar.
'In fact, I closed the school and sent the few remaining children away. All thoughts of my promise to school the local children had left my mind. I returned the house to the grand residence it had been in former times and began to receive the attentions of a relative - a nephew who lived nearby, whose interest in me just happened to coincide with my new-found fortune.'
'My father?' I said.
'Your father?' said Uncle Montague. 'No - your grandfather, I think. It has been so long I cannot recall. I was never a family man.'
'But that would make you -' I began.
'Very old indeed,.' said Uncle Montague. 'Yes. The house keeps me alive, Edgar - after a fashion.' A strange expression played across his face. 'But I did not know that then. I was still in a state of blissful ignorance. I was so wealthy that I did not care. I could do what I liked now. Or so I thought.'
'What do you mean, sir?'
'One day, Edgar,.' said Uncle Montague, 'I was standing in the grounds of my house - the gardens were quite lovely then - and realised that I still had my old school whistle in my pocket - my lucky charm from my gambling days. I felt a tiny pang of regret for breaking my promise, but it passed like a bout of indigestion. I took the whistle from my pocket and put it to my lips. I had a sudden urge to hear its cheerful trill once more.
'I blew, but no sound came. I told myself that the whistle was broken, but I came to realise that it was not broken but altered; it had become akin to one of those special whistles only dogs can hear. Though I heard no sound, I was aware of some vibration in the air that rippled outwards. The sky clouded over and the temperature dropped. I shuddered, and not only with the cold . . .'
'Uncle?' I said, for he seemed to have drifted into a kind of daze.
'Ah yes,.' he said. 'That was when they began to come: to come in answer to the whistle's silent call.'
'The children?' I asked, looking at the group gathered about us and wondering how it could be that they would hear a whistle my uncle could not and why they would come to its sound. I feared for my uncle's sanity more than ever.
'The children, yes,.' said Uncle Montague. 'They are my punishment, Edgar.'
'Your punishment, sir?' I said, wondering what hold these local boys could possibly have over him, though he seemed at ease in their company and had no qualms in sharing the shocking details of his life with them.
'The house is an accursed place, Edgar,.' he said.
'You must have felt it.'
'There is a strange atmosphere, sir,.' I said. 'It is a little cold.'
Uncle Montague chuckled at this and I saw the children flinch.
'A little cold?' he repeated. 'Yes, Edgar. It is a little cold. Is that not right, children?' This was the first time he had addressed them and they became agitated, though they remained silent throughout.
'You have still not explained what these children are doing here, Uncle,.' I said.
'Can you not guess, Edgar?' he asked.
'No, sir,.' I said. 'I cannot. Are you educating the village children to make amends for what happened at your school?'
He smiled grimly and shook his head.
'These are not village children, Edgar. I think that in your heart you know that.'
'Sir?' I said, determined to cling to the rational.
'What do you mean?'
'They tell me their tales, Edgar,.' he said. 'They come to me and tell me their tales. They bring me some token of their story and these accursed objects now litter my house - a house now utterly drenched in a strange otherness that contaminates the walls and grounds and the man you see before you. It is a magnet for creatures of a twilight world, Edgar, a world you cannot imagine. The house calls to them as lamplight calls to a moth.'
'But if the house is so awful, sir,.' I said, doing everything in my power to avoid looking back towards the shadowy children. 'Why do you not leave?'
'Oh, Franz would not like that, Edgar,.' he said.
'And it does not do to upset Franz.'
'But I do not understand, Uncle,.' I said. 'Franz is your servant.'
'Franz used to be my servant long ago, when he was fully alive . . .'
'When he was fully alive, Uncle?' I said. 'But what can you mean? Either someone is alive or he is . . .' I could not bring myself to finish the sentence. My uncle's guilt had clearly unhinged his mind.
'The house has changed Franz utterly,.' he said. 'There is no way he would let me leave, Edgar, even if I had the will to try. He is more jailer than servant now. But it is no more than I deserve. There are many breaking rocks and rotting in stinking jails for far lesser crimes than I have committed.' He paused. 'But strange to say, Edgar, I no longer fear my visitors as I once did. I am at peace. I have accepted my fate. It is my punishment for those years of not listening to my pupils, for not listening to William.'
'You cannot mean to say, sir . . .' I began. 'You do not mean to say that the stories you tell me are from these children's lips?'
Uncle Montague nodded.
'But how can that be?' I asked, faltering slightly as the children craned forward, seemingly hanging on my every word. 'Surely that would mean . . .'
'Yes, Edgar?'
'Surely that would mean these children - some of these children, at least - were . . . dead?'
At that word the figures all around us leaped away and disappeared into the trees, peering out from behind the trunks, and though they were beshadowed as before, I knew that every eye was trained on me.
'They do not like that word, Edgar,.' said Uncle Montague. 'It disturbs them.'
'It disturbs them?' I said, only the fear of running headlong into one of these phantoms stopping me from fleeing that instant.
'They bring me their tales and I listen,.' my uncle went on. 'William was the first, though I knew his tale all too well, of course. Ever since then, they have been coming to me. I am like a strange cousin of the Ancient Mariner, Edgar. Do you know the poem?'
The children were regrouping around us now.
'Yes, sir,.' I said. 'Samuel Taylor Coleridge. We had to learn great pieces of it by heart last term.'
'I am doomed, not as he was to tell his own terrible tale, but to listen to the tales of these lost children. It is my punishment and my penance.'
One of the children now reached out a tentative hand towards me and, despite my sympathy for their suffering, I let out an involuntary whimper of fear.
'NO!' boomed my uncle in a terrifying voice that opened an unwanted window on to the figure he must have struck in his days as headmaster. I recoiled instinctively and the shadow children did likewise.
'He is not yours,.' said my uncle. He turned to me again and his voice mellowed. 'Forgive them, Edgar. They are drawn to your beating heart, to your body's warmth. They have a terrible hunger for life. They mean no harm, but their touch . . . can chill to the bone. It is time you went home, Edgar.'
'Yes, Uncle,.' I said, but still remained where I was, unable to turn my back on those spectral creatures.
'Come, children,.' said Uncle Montague, gathering them about him as if they were setting off on a nature ramble. 'I don't suppose I shall be seeing you again, Edgar.'
'I do not know, sir,.' I said.
'I would quite understand,.' said Uncle Montague with a sad smile. 'Though I should miss your visits. It has been a comfort to me to have someone to share those tales with. Farewell, Edgar.'
With that he turned away, and the children followed him along the path. I watched, heart pounding, until the glow of his lantern became a firefly in the distance.
I realised now that the names he had spoken when he first appeared - Joseph and Matthew - were names of boys from the tales: Joseph, who had been the victim of the creature who guarded the elm tree, and Matthew, who had fallen to his death after being confronted by his own horribly disfigured self.
As I watched, one of the children turned and began to walk back towards me. I say 'walk', but it was a grim mockery of a walk - a strange lurching hobble. I knew who it was before my uncle spoke his name.
'Matthew!' he called reproachfully. 'Come along.
Leave Edgar be, there's a good lad.'
The beshadowed spectre came to a halt a few yards from me and seemed to cock his head quizzically. He shuffled a little closer and I had a dread that I might see that terrible face, the face that had driven the living Matthew to his death.
'Matthew!' called my uncle again, more forcefully this time. Matthew turned and hobbled away. Air rushed back into my lungs and I realised I had been holding my breath.
Finally I gained the courage to turn and head homewards. Uncle Montague had put 'The Rime of the Ancient Mariner' in my head and a verse came back to me as I hurried along, head bowed, hungry for the dull normality of my parents and my home: Like one, that on a lonesome road Doth walk in fear and dread, And having once turned round walks on, And turns no more his head; Because he knows, a frightful fiend Doth close behind him tread.
Because he knows, a frightful fiend Doth close behind him tread.
Chris Priestley is the acclaimed author of the spine-tingling Uncle Montague's Tales of Terror and Tales of Terror from the Black Ship. His other books include New World, The White Rider, Redwulf 's Curse and Death and the Arrow. Chris is also an illustrator, painter and cartoonist. He lives in Cambridge.
David Roberts is an award-winning illustrator who has worked with a huge variety of authors, including Philip Ardagh and Georgia Byng. He is the creator of the Dirty Bertie series. David lives in London.
end.