As It Was Written by Ulric Daubeny

“As It Was Written”  was first published in 1919 in the anthology The Elemental: Tales of the Supernormal and the Inexplicable. A little-known story, it does not appear to have been reprinted until 2017 when Fall River Press included it in the anthology Great Supernatural Stories: 101 Horrifying Tales.

About Ulric Daubeny

Ulric Evan Daubeny (1888 — 1922) is an obscure British horror author many fans of the genre may not be familiar with. Information about him is lacking.

Daubeny only wrote one anthology of supernatural fiction—The Elemental: Tales of the Supernormal and the Inexplicable. He also wrote at least one other book called Ancient Cotswold Churches (1923), which he dedicated to his wife. The book contained pen and ink illustrations provided by Cecily Daubeny. Although Cecily may have been another family member, it seems likely she was his wife.

Daubney’s most successful work of fiction is “The Sumach“—a story about a vampire tree. It has been anthologized several times and was translated into Italian for the anthology IL Sangue e la Rosa (1988).

As It Was Written

by Ulric Daubeny

(Online Text)

Millicent could never listen to the howling of a dog with equanimity. To use her own expression, it “poured cold water down her back”, and never failed to move her to take instant action, partly from compassion for the author of the outcry, but primarily to remove the cause.

The lament on this particular occasion was so insistent that she halted in mid-pace, and turned her head enquiringly in the direction from whence it came. The only habitation visible from the lane was creeper grown, and apparently unoccupied, but a repetition of the uncanny call dispelled all doubts, so she hurried towards a break in the line of hedge, which marked the entrance drive. The gate, bearing in faded characters a name, The Hermitage, pushed open stiffly, creaking upon hinges long disused, its expostulation finding an immediate echo in a further long-drawn-howl. The sound was eerie when heard at fall of day, with the drive already plunged in half-light by a tangled, overhanging growth, and as the girl stepped forward, she felt increasingly uncomfortable.

A curious silence had now fallen, broken only by the patter of feminine heels upon the moss-grown gravel. Millicent began to think her errand was to be a fool’s one, when a turn of path brought into view the house, and with it a half-bred collie, waiting at the foot of the front steps.

“What’s the matter, boy?” she hailed in soothing tones, to be met with a response as strange as it was unexpected. The dog had moved towards her, tail commencing to wave to and fro, when suddenly he turned again, and with the utmost savagery, bounded up the steps, and hackles bristling, tore at the woodwork of the door with fangs a-drip, pausing ever and again to take deep-drawn sniffs, before giving vent to a paroxysm of frenzied scratching.

Millicent, though not a coward with strange dogs, felt rather frightened. She watched awhile in doubt, then moved to retrace her footsteps along the drive, but another melancholy howl arrested her. The dismal utterance, again so unexpected, caused her very flesh to creep.

“My dear dog, what is the matter?” she beseeched, advancing tentatively, with open hand. The collie had now left the immediate doorway, and came to meet her, with troubled eyes. “Want to be let in? Come on, then!”

The animal gave an understanding whine, so lightly tripping up the steps, she seized the knocker, and gave it a resounding tap.

The sound echoed cavernously, surprising Millicent into questioning why she should be knocking at an obviously empty house, for a heap of withered leaves had accumulated against the door, which itself was scaled and dusty. Then, glancing at the dog, whose beseeching eyes asked plainly to enter, she recalled the probability of a caretaker, and knocked again.

A mass of leaden clouds began to engulf the setting sun, and a sudden perceptible tremor in the still air spoke of distant thunder; the collie’s tail was drooping, his whole attitude suggestive that a further howl was imminent. Meanwhile, all within kept silent.

The atmosphere of heavy omen, together with the deserted aspect of the house and grounds so acted upon her nerves, that the girl felt she should scream, if she remained there any longer. Still hesitating, she made as if to descend the steps, when once again the behaviour of the dog restrained her. He was staring, as if fascinated, towards the door, hackles slowly raising, and eyes ablaze. Millicent likewise turned, and in obedience to an impulse, bent to the level of the letterbox, and peered within. In this position she remained for several seconds, every muscle tense, until a sudden relaxation left her staggering backwards, and next moment she was tearing down the drive, face blanched, and eyes luminous with horror. Fortunately, the entrance gate had remained ajar, and through this she projected, her wild stampede meeting with no interruption until she voluntarily slackened pace, after the first, straggling houses of the village had been passed.

Once dropped to a walk, she soon recovered self-possession, though her breath came in long, unsteady gasps, and her heart throbbed painfully. She forged ahead until the Police Station was at hand, then, with an excited gesture, hailed the shirt-sleeved sergeant, who was working in his garden. In a miraculously short space of time he presented himself, clad in faultless uniform, and startled her as she leant with outstretched arm against the doorpost.

“Anything the matter, Miss?” he queried sharply, apprising her with a searching look. She stared stupidly for a time; then the reply was uttered in a dry, hard whisper—

“Yes. Murder at The Hermitage!”

The sergeant goggled at her in astonishment. He made as if to speak, but failing, swallowed awkwardly, and without comment, led the way into the office.

A steaming cup of tea, proffered by the sergeant’s kindly wife, did much to restore Millicent’s equilibrium, and after a short interval, she found herself commencing to recount the adventure with unanticipated calm. But as the story advanced, she became increasingly flustered by the peculiar attitude of the sergeant. He seemed obviously distrait, and more than once she surprised in him a look of introspective wonder, suggesting an incredulity of what she said. The position grew more and more intolerable, until finally she hesitated, and broke off.

“Well, Miss?” the sergeant prompted, after a short pause. His tone was almost what one would use in speaking to a child—or idiot. “Well, Miss, what was it you saw inside the letterbox?”

Making an effort, she pulled herself together, and the words continued breathlessly.

“As I was about to tell, something prompted me to bend until my eyes were level with the opening, when I found myself looking into an entrance hall, with staircase ascending slightly to one side. At the bottom, crumpled in a horrible position, lay the body of an old lady—dead. But it was not that which held me terror-stricken. Feet were approaching into view, stockinged feet, creeping softly down the carpeted stairs. Step by step they advanced, tip-toeing cautiously; then trousered legs appeared, then a man’s body. Ah, the memory of that cruel face, and those dreadful, gloating eyes!”

The girl paused for a moment to regain her breath. Her voice, was hoarse, when once again she took up the narrative.

“The murderer’s gaze was shifting, shifting towards the door, towards the letterbox. . . . I noticed that his hand was wet with blood; blood trickled onto the linoleum in the hall. . . . Then I ran.”

She broke off finally, and with an unsteady hand, reached for the remainder of the cup of tea. The sergeant continued motionless, idly fingering a pencil, and without making any attempt to move. His listless attitude astonished Millicent. To her excited fancy, the interview was assuming all the unreal horror of a nightmare.

“Why do you stare like that?” she flashed impatiently. “Are you not going to—to do something?”

“Certainly, Miss, I’ll go up and see about it, if you wish,” he replied civilly. “But it’s like this. There can have been no murder at The Hermitage, because the house is empty!”

“But I tell you, I saw the people! They may be caretakers. I saw the blood upon the carpet—”

“That’s another thing, Miss. There is no carpet or linoleum. The place has been untenanted for the past five years. We keep the keys ’ere, at the Station, and go up regular, to see that everything’s all right. I was up there day before yesterday, and—”

“You don’t believe a word I say!” Millicent interposed excitedly. “No, don’t apologize. You think I am either mad or dreaming, but you are wrong. I saw everything exactly as I have described it. Besides, the dog knew that something was the matter, or he would never have attracted my attention. . . . Of course, Sergeant, if you choose to neglect your duty”

The man rose quickly, reaching for his helmet, and a bunch of keys.

“I am going up to The Hermitage at once,” he announced stiffly. “If you care to remain here, or in the parlour, you may do so, Miss. I’d like you to wait for my report.”

“Indeed, no! I am not now afraid. I am coming with you!”

Expostulations would be unavailing, decided the sergeant, as without further parley the two set off at a brisk pace.

Darkness was falling swiftly as they passed together up the desolate drive, and approached the front door of The Hermitage. A sudden shadow emerging from the bushes startled both, but it was only the collie, who trotted towards Millicent with deep grunts of welcome.

“Farmer Burrows’ dog,” the sergeant volunteered shortly. “He is always wandering around this house.”

They had now come to the front steps, where the girl hung back, breath catching painfully in her throat. The collie stood close by, gazing silently towards the door, to which the sergeant advanced without the slightest hesitation. Next moment it was standing open. The policeman flashed his lantern on the interior, the dog fled yelping down the drive, tail tightly wedged between his legs—and Millicent swayed from side to side, as if she were about to fall.

Yet there appeared not the remotest reason for alarm. There were no indications of humanity, either living or dead—merely an empty house, the bare boards of hall and ascending staircase thickly dust-covered. With a slight shrug, the sergeant set about making a formal examination of the house, and then, quietly closing the door behind him, presented his negative report.

“Are you quite satisfied, Miss?” he added, good-naturedly.

The girl just nodded. She felt too dazed to speak.

Millicent despatched a warning telegram that night, and returned home next morning, looking little better for her holiday. The extraordinary experience—vision—she knew not how to describe it—absorbed every waking thought for many days. Though scarcely a believer in the supernatural, she was not a sceptic, and came in time to form the definite conclusion that what she had seen could be nothing other than a very elaborate form of a “ghost.” This idea took such possession of her, that in order to regain her peace of mind, she wrote a private letter to the sergeant, inquiring if in the past any deed of violence had been perpetrated at The Hermitage. The reply came by return of post, conclusive, and to the point.

 

Madam,

In answer to your enquiry, I can testify from personal knowledge, that no such occurrence as you suggest has taken place at The Hermitage, since it was built.

Respectfully yours, P. Smith, Sergeant.

 

Two years had passed, and now the memory of that dread experience seldom, if ever recurred to Millicent. Indeed, it is doubtful whether it had crossed her mind for many weeks, prior to that day on which the chance sight of an illustrated paper recalled the vision in all its pristine horror.

She had been travelling in an omnibus, and gazing half consciously at the pictures in a newspaper, which the passenger opposite was reading. Suddenly the reproduction of a portrait seemed to stand out in relief upon the printed page. Millicent gave vent to a suppressed cry, and for a moment felt like swooning. The reader opposite dropped his paper, glancing above it with round eyes of surprise, but the girl had already staggered to her feet, motioning for the vehicle to stop.

Outside, in the fresher air, she soon recovered, feeling furiously mortified that her nerves should play her false, but presently a paper shop proved irresistible, so blaming her stupidity, she went inside, and bought the offending sheet.

With admirable strength of mind, she kept the journal until she had reached home, and was safe within the privacy of her bedroom. Then, biting her lip until the blood commenced to trickle, she turned to the pictorial back page. There was no denying the likeness to her visionary murderer. It was strikingly exact, and with growing perturbation, she read the short description—VILLAGE MYSTERY: Mr Tale, stepson of the murdered lady, who in company with a friend, discovered the crime.

Over the page were printed full particulars, headed by three lines of heavy type: THE HERMITAGE MYSTERY Fingerprint Clue. Police Still Baffled.

Millicent held herself in leash for three whole days, and then, as no sign came of a solution to the mystery, she took her courage in both hands, and set off for the country. Arriving at her destination, she found a pony trap at the station, which carried her along the peaceful lane towards the village.

Her breathing became uneven as The Hermitage drew near. With some surprise, she found difficulty in recognizing the situation: trees had been cut down, the house repainted, also the entrance gate, and she noticed that the carriage drive no longer tunnelled beneath a too luxuriant growth. Then, as a bend in the lane was about to shut the ill-omened house from view, the sun could be seen shining upon drawn blinds. The Hermitage was now a dwelling of the dead.

Arrived at the rustic Constabulary Branch, she stated her business to a young policeman, who admitted her to the parlour, with a request that she should wait. Some time elapsed before voices sounded in the passage, and a man, heavily bandaged about the neck, stepped rapidly past the parlour window. That fleeting glimpse sufficed. Millicent was left, pressing both hands against her bosom, and desperately fighting for her breath, Next moment the door opened, and a man stood on the threshold; she turned to meet the sergeant, whom she had first seen on that never-to-be-forgotten afternoon.

“The—the murderer! Why don’t you arrest him?’ she choked, nodding her head towards the roadway.

“Beg pardon, Miss, but that is Mr Tale, the gentleman who found his murdered step-mother. He has just called to complain of Farmer Burrows’ dog, who has bitten him badly about the throat!”

“Ah! do you not remember that evening, two years ago, when I came to tell you what I had seen inside The Hermitage? You, of course, did not believe me, but I understand all now. It was a vision—You must admit that I described the unfortunate woman exactly as now reported in the papers?”

The sergeant nodded.

“Well, he, that man, was the man who murdered her. I say it, for I should know the face among a million.”

“Impossible, Miss. Not the least suspicion is attached to Mr Tale. He had been away from home, and was met by a chance acquaintance in the village, who accompanied him to the house. It was those two who discovered the poor lady.”

“But the fingerprints? Have his been compared?”

“The public know the evidence as well as I do, Miss. Bloodstained prints were found upon the dress, and elsewhere, but having no grounds to suspect the gentleman, we naturally cannot ask for an impression of his fingers.”

“But you must! He is the murderer, I tell you! In the vision, I saw that his hand was wet.”

An authoritative tap at the door cut short the sentence. The sergeant moved towards it with alacrity, and next moment ushered in the detective from Scotland Yard.

* * *

A few days later, the gutter-press journals were black with smudgy photographs and vulgar headlines. “HERMITAGE MYSTERY SOLVED,” the latter variously ran. “Murderer Stepson. Fingerprints Obtained by Ruse. Prisoner Pleads Guilty. Latest Details!”

Ulric Daubeny (1888 — 1922)

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