A Face at the Window by Hume Nisbet
“A Face at the Window” was first published in the Hume Nisbet anthology The Haunted Station and Other Stories. Set in New Zealand, it’s about a man who takes possession of a haunted bush hut and decides to live there until someone turns up and asks him to leave.
About Hume Nisbet
Hume Nisbet was an artist and novelist who was born in Stirling , Scotland, in 1849. When he was 16 years old, Nisbet traveled to Australia and remained there for around seven years pursuing creative and artistic pursuits.
Perhaps not surprisingly, many of Nisbet’s tales are set in Australia. Although his poetry and stories had a variety of themes, he produced an impressive number of ghost stories, many of which he included in his anthologies The Haunted Station (1894) and Stories Weird and Wonderful (1900).
A Face at the Window
by Hume Nisbet
(Online Text)
I remember once, while knocking about the Colonies, taking a fancy to a quiet, hermit sort of life. It was in New Zealand that this fancy came upon me, suggested by the appearance of a deserted bush hut, which afforded me a temporary shelter when overtaken by a sudden downpour of rain. This hut seemed to have been untenanted for some considerable time. It stood in the centre of a little clearing, surrounded by miles of forest of kauri fern, and the tangled intricacies of the supple-jac; just the very spot for a cynic, or a dreamer, to squat and be happy and undisturbed, with no habitation nearer than five miles as I afterwards found out, and over ten miles distant from Auckland Bay.
When I first caught sight of this ramshackle hut, the rough log door hung open slantingly upon its only leather hinge, so that I could see dimly a few yards of interior. In that first glimpse I thought that some one had taken shelter before me, for I was almost sure that I saw, amongst the bistre shadows, the figure of a man in duck trousers, and red, clay-stained shirt; indeed, so positive was I of this, that I carried the impression further as of a man, middle-aged, with a sandy-coloured beard, and unkempt, long, straggling hair. True, I only took a very rapid glance upon reaching the clearing, and then hurried forward keeping my head down, as I breasted the fierce rain-pour, yet I could almost have sworn that just before I had passed the last barricade of foliage I saw that ungainly figure sitting upon a fallen tree a few yards in front of the hanging door, bare-headed, and that he had risen as I was breaking through the close tangle, and passed inside. Indeed, I remember thinking it very odd that any one should care to sit outside under such a shower, with shelter so handy; and having the idea that he showed a little more sense by going within again, judge then my astonishment when I reached the open door to find the place empty, with every appearance about it of having been so for at least six months.
Log sides covered with green moss and mildew, with bush-spider webs festooning the roof, and a general dampness all about, suggestive of the long absence of humanity and the uninterrupted reign of nature. Grass had sprouted up through the earthen floor and in at the open crevices, while young tendrils had invaded the windows, making a very picturesque but decidedly unhome-like appearance of them, as I walked in and looked over my new possession.
Still I found everything that was strictly necessary for existence lying about, as if the last owner had left them with the full intention of coming back. In the fireplace beside the damp, dead ashes, lay a small frying-pan and “billy,” red with rust; on the roughly-sawn plank which had served as a table were a couple of tin pannikins, and a plate with knife, fork, and metal teaspoon, all thickly encrusted with the same coating of the painter Time. He had not been of a very hospitable turn this former tenant, because I found only one log set up on end beside the table, which had answered as a seat. A hermit such I intended to be until his return, for with that first look round I resolved to stay rent free until I was kicked out.
Like most bush huts this one had been erected in the most primitive fashion, and seemingly by the single owner who had worked at the clearing. His axe and saws lay in a corner beside the raised planks from which he had made his bed; tree trunks cut the needful length and laboriously sawn through, had been planted side by side and held in position by tendons of rope-like supple-jack; the roof was made up of branches interlaced and thatched with the fronds of the fern trees, in thick enough layers to resist the rain. It was partitioned into two apartments, with a doorless passage between them. The portion in which I stood had been used as bedroom and sitting-room combined, whilst the other end had been reserved to stack his firewood in, of which I discovered a good supply in clumps all cut and ready for use.
The outer doorway had been fixed in the exact centre of the front, with a large window in the side nearest the fireplace, while on the other side was placed the bed, upon which I discovered a couple of grey blankets, such as swag-men use when on the tramp. The hut owner must have left in a great hurry, I thought, as I took up these damp and half-rotten articles, to leave his swag behind him in this fashion.
In the store-room I found another little window in the end and nearly opposite the doorway, also fitted with glass; the only evidence of refinement about the place. I mention these details somewhat particularly so that you may be able to follow me in what happened afterwards.
Having made up my mind to squat here, I set to work to make myself as comfortable as possible. I got a fire set agoing, and hunting about, managed with some provisions that I had in my own swag to enjoy a good meal; after which, fixing up the door and hanging up the old blankets as a screen and window curtain, I would have passed a very comfortable day and night but for the curious impression which would not leave me of that former occupant.
Sometimes when I went to the window to look at the falling rain for a brief second, I seemed to see that figure on the log; or if I turned about quickly while boiling my billy he seemed to be beside the table, an impression which always vanished at once, yet invariably left a creepy sensation behind it.
Still I was not going to be scared out of my quarters by a mere impression, so I resolutely spread out my own blankets, shut my eyes, and went to sleep, waking up next morning more firmly resolved than ever to live rent free as long as I could.
The rain having cleared away I tramped back to Auckland, and, laying in a stock of provisions, paper, books, and other necessaries, borrowed a horse from a friend who wished it put to grass for a month or two, and returned to my new home; feeling that at last I would have peace to think and work. In a week I was fairly settled down, and even used to my impression; so that at such moments when I paused with my pen in my hand, and looked up for a fresh thought, it would have startled me if I had not met that fleeting image at the fireside; or when I opened the front door in order to get fresh water from the stream, to see that log unoccupied would have been as great a surprise as had been my first discovery that I was alone in that deserted hut; I had got used to the man in the old red shirt and duck trousers, and did not mind his fantastic habits in the least.
During the day at least these were my feelings upon the subject, but when night fell over the forest and the time came for me to blow out my candle, I was not so sure but that I could have dispensed with his company. It was always as the light was puffing out, that, my eyes encountered the shape most vividly over beyond it; then a moment of horror would seize me lest I might see him in the dark, and that he would stay with me then and not vanish as he did during the light. It was this nameless horror which made me shut my eyes and keep them so, until I fell asleep.
He never once visited me in my dreams, although each night I went to sleep thinking that he would do so; also he had the good taste never to look in at the window upon me, another thing that I constantly dreaded might come to pass; although why, I cannot say—but first thing in the morning when I opened my eyes, and all the day long whenever I glanced hastily at the place where I had first seen him, he was always to be discerned vanishing in a wink—leaning upon the table, stooping over the fire, or sitting on the log outside. He was most methodical in his habits, and not to be got rid of.
In this fashion I lived from week to week for about two months, riding down to Auckland when I wanted anything, and getting on with my work, without seeing the face of another human being to disturb my solitude. No one came to dispute my right there, except my ‘“impressionist” friend, and he never stayed long enough to say whether he was pleased or otherwise at my intrusion.
One day I found myself getting short of candles and manuscript papers, and had made up my mind to ride to town, but was forced to postpone the visit as the rain came on just as I was about to start, and soon showed that it meant to be both a long and a strong New Zealand storm, which is not a state of weather to be braved with impunity; so tying my borrowed steed inside the shed which I had managed to build for him at the side of the hut, I went myself indoors and fastened the door up, to finish the few sheets which I had still left, in the daylight.
When night came, the storm was raging outside wilder than ever. The wind shrieked and whirled about the hut and through the forest as if ten thousand furies were out and determined to wreck creation; the crashing of trees and branches, as the swift flashes of forked lightning cut them asunder and sent them headlong to the earth; rain rushing down without intermission, as if from a mighty watering-pot ; and thunder-peals, resounding after each rapid blaze of flame, before the echoes of the last peal had time to rumble off to the far distances—such a day and night of stupendous grandeur and majestic gloom as I have seldom witnessed.
I finished my writing and got up a blazing fire. In spite of the spluttering waterfall which rushed down the chimney, my clumps of wood were dry and caught fire quickly and blazed up merrily, and then getting my small stock of books on to the table, I lit my last of two candles, also lit my pipe, and sat down to enjoy myself in my own way inside, as the Storm King seemed to be enjoying himself in his favourite style outside. The first volume which I lifted up was not, perhaps, the best under the circumstances, although the surroundings were singularly appropriate to its contents. It was Poe’s Tales of Mystery and Imagination. I had not read the book before; indeed, to my shame, I must admit that I did not know anything at all about his prose works, although I had read some of the author’s poetic works. But, with my vanishing friend by the side of the fire, and the awful turmoil going on outside, I thought that “Edgar Allen” could not be studied under finer conditions, and so, without looking further, I began at once at the beginning — “The Adventures of one Hans Pfaall.”
The first story of Edgar’s is an insinuating one, a kind of mild prelude to what is to follow. Even with my silent companion over against me, the repeated flashes of lightning which darted through the room about as quickly as he himself vanished, and my first candle gradually being consumed, I did not feel much more than the ordinary horrors which I usually felt of an evening alone with my ghostly friend, or host, and without the storm outside, or the unfortunate weird genius of America—indeed, I was rather tickled than otherwise with that first story.
But I read on, and my only remaining candle had to be lighted. I got through “The Gold-Bug,” “Valdemar,” “The Descent into the Maelstrom,” “The Murders in the Rue Morgue,” “Marie Roget,” “The Purloined Letter,” and had just dived into the horrors of “The Black Cat,” when the candle guttered and went out, with a wild flare, which revealed to me my vanishing host, and the fact that my fire was getting low, with no wood on the hearth, and that awful journey into the blackness of the back room before I could get more fuel.
Heavens! what a tempestuous night outside, and what a fascination of horror was upon me as I looked at the dull red glow of that dying fire, and thought upon that dark, back room, with its little square window, the room at present covered from me by that old, mouldy blanket, which I must lift up and drop behind me before I could get at these clumps of firewood.
But it had to be done, for I dare not permit that fire to go out this night of all nights. I dare not think of what each of these blinding flashes might reveal to me, and so drive me mad. That fire must be replenished at once, and kept blazing brightly until I fell asleep; for it was not only my weird host that I feared, but a thousand unformed and nameless horrors, which seemed to be crowding that darkly lurid space, each instant so appallingly lighted up and plunged again into worse than total darkness. At last I plucked up a desperate courage, and with a wild gasp I staggered past that woollen curtain, my nerves in an acute state of tension and my heart strained with agony.
I stooped over the stack with my eyes shut, and hastily grabbed at the nearest clumps, filling my arms as quickly as I could, when a fierce blaze of lightning forced me to open my eyes and look towards that window in spite of my efforts not to do so.
What was it I saw in that rapid illumination at the window? A face ghastly like death staring in upon me as I knelt beside the logs!
I could not be sure of that, but I was paralysed and could not move, yet knelt with the clumps sliding from my useless arms, and my eyes fixed upon that window, surrounded with such a blackness as only the Egyptian night could compare with.
Another blinding flash, and again I saw the face, white behind the glass, and staring at me with awful black eyes; then an interval of darkness, which seemed longer than usual, while my starting eyes strove to penetrate past the window frame into the night beyond.
That interval of darkness saved my reason I think, because, as my eyes grew accustomed to the dark, I saw, or thought I saw, a lighter shade of space around a dark object like a human head.
It was palpable and solid. Then it must be a living mortal, and no ghostly visitor. Why I reasoned in this most illogical fashion at such a time, I cannot say. Only that it comforted me, and sent my blood once more coursing through my veins, calming my throbbing brain, and giving me some of the courage which I had lost so completely.
Then I waited for the next flash, picking up the wood quietly as I did so. When it came, I saw more than last time—a white face, with staring black eyes, and long hair hanging loosely about the blanched cheeks. Enough, it was no ghost, whatever it might be, so, without looking up again, I went back to the front room to feed my fire and think it all out.
My first action was to put about a dozen of the clumps upon the red ashes, thereby plunging the place into as complete darkness as the other room had been. Then I felt about the corner of the room until I got hold of the axe.
“Marie Roget” and “The Black Cat” were completely forgotten in my present exhilarating excitement. I felt that I had not to face a ghost, but an enemy lying in wait to surprise and perhaps murder me, so I determined to take the bull by the horns and surprise them whoever they might be instead.
When I had secured the axe, I opened the door. It did not matter how much noise I made with that tempest raging outside, and as the curtain had dropped between me and the other room. Then when I got outside I stole gently towards the back, feeling my way along the rough planks as I went, my axe ready in hand in case of a surprise.
What I was mostly frightened for was the lightning. If a flash came now, I might be revealed. However, fortunately for me, one flash came just as I turned the front of the house, and then I felt sure that I could reach the back before another came.
I felt along until I came to the turn at the rear, and then I went more cautiously, stretching out my arms at full length and feeling in advance.
Ha! I had touched the body of my visitor—a wet loose garment of some sort. I did not wait to find out what it was, but, with a sudden leap forward, caught up the entire bundle somewhere as near the waist as I could calculate, half dragged, half carried it through the rain and mire, round the end and side of the house, on to the front, bang through the open door; then, pushing it with all my strength from me into the room, I drew the door shut behind me with one hand, while with the other I hove up the axe, and waited for the attack.
One more flash of lightning came, during which I saw a confused bundle of wet rags lying against a corner of the room motionless, and then once more darkness, during which I was delighted to see that my clumps of firewood were beginning to take light. Little tongues of blue flame had begun to shoot out between the clumps, and in a few moments more I knew I would have light on the subject.
* * *
I do not think that I can tell you much more that is interesting about this ghost adventure. You see I didn’t have the necessity of killing anyone that night. I married that bundle of wet rags instead, for when the fire blazed out, it got up and showed me as pretty a Maori face as ever I care to look upon. She was just sixteen then, and had been moved with her sex’s curiosity to see what I was up to, all alone by myself in that lonesome hut, and so had left her camp night after night for about a fortnight past to watch at my back window, and try to find out. They all thought that I was a wizard of some sort, and would you believe it, she is unsophisticated enough to think so still, in spite of all that she must have found out about me since! However, she very soon banished the “impressionist” with the duck trousers and red shirt, and altogether made a wonderful alteration in that old hut.
Hume Nisbet (1849 — 1923)
__________________________
