century—or perhaps fallen foul of the authorities or the monarch himself—for its name simply cannot be discovered. It would seem that for some reason, most probably serious dishonour, the family name has been erased from all contemporary records and documents!
“Prior to the fire which razed the main building to the ground in 1618, there had been a certain intercourse and intrigue of a similarly undiscovered nature between the nameless inhabitants, the de la Poers of Exham Priory near Anchester, and an obscure esoteric sect of monks dwelling in and around the semi-ruined Falstone Castle in Northumberland. Of the latter sect, they were wiped out utterly by Northern raiders—a clan believed to have been outraged by the ‘heathen activities’ of the monks—and the ruins of the castle were pulled to pieces, stone by stone. Indeed, it was so well destroyed that today only a handful of historians could even show you where it stood!
“As for the de la Poers, well, whole cycles of ill-omened myth and legend revolve around that family, just as they do about their Anchester seat. Suffice it to say that in 1923 the Priory was blown up and the cliffs beneath it dynamited, until the deepest roots of its foundations were obliterated. Thus the Priory is no more, and the last of that line of the family is safely locked away in a refuge for the hopelessly insane.
“It can be seen then that the nameless family that lived here had the worst possible connections, at least by the standards of those days, and it is not at all improbable that they brought about their own decline and disappearance through just such traffic with degenerate or ill-advised cultists and demonologists as I have mentioned.
“Now then, add to all of this somewhat tenuously connected information the local rumours, which have circulated on and off in the villages of this area for some three hundred years—those mainly unspecified fears and old wives’ tales that have sufficed since time immemorial to keep children and adults alike away from this property, off the land and out of the woods—and you begin to under stand something of the aura of the place. Perhaps you can feel that aura even now? I certainly can, and I’m by no means psychic….”
“Just what is it that the locals fear?” Turnbull asked. “Can’t you enlighten us at all?”
“Oh, strange shapes have been seen on the paths and roads; luminous nets have appeared strung between the trees like great webs, only to vanish in daylight; and, yes, in connection with the latter, perhaps I had better mention the bas-reliefs in the cellar.”
“Bas-reliefs?” queried Lavery.
“Yes, on the walls. It was writing of sorts, but in a language no one could understand—glyphs almost.”
“My great-grandfather had just bought the house,” David Marriot explained. “He was an extremely well-read man, knowledgeable in all sorts of peculiar sub jects. When the cellar was opened and he saw the glyphs, he said they had to do with the worship of some strange deity from an obscure and almost unrecognized myth cycle. Afterwards he had the greater area of the cellar cemented in—said it made the house damp and the foundations unsafe.”
“Worship of some strange deity?” Old Danford spoke up. “What sort of deity? Some lustful thing that the Romans brought with them, d’you think?”
“No, older than that,” I answered for Lord Marriot. “Much older. A spider-thing.”
“A spider?” This was Lavery again, and he snorted the words out almost in contempt.
“Not quite the thing to sneer at,” I answered. “Three years ago an ageing but still active gentleman rented the house for a period of some six weeks. An anthropologist and the author of several books, he wanted the place for its solitude; and if he took to it he was going to buy it. In the fifth week he was taken away raving mad!”
“Eh? Harumph! Mad, you say?” Old Danford repeated after me.
I nodded. “Yes, quite insane. He
“Prior to the fire which razed the main building to the ground in 1618, there had been a certain intercourse and intrigue of a similarly undiscovered nature between the nameless inhabitants, the de la Poers of Exham Priory near Anchester, and an obscure esoteric sect of monks dwelling in and around the semi-ruined Falstone Castle in Northumberland. Of the latter sect, they were wiped out utterly by Northern raiders—a clan believed to have been outraged by the ‘heathen activities’ of the monks—and the ruins of the castle were pulled to pieces, stone by stone. Indeed, it was so well destroyed that today only a handful of historians could even show you where it stood!
“As for the de la Poers, well, whole cycles of ill-omened myth and legend revolve around that family, just as they do about their Anchester seat. Suffice it to say that in 1923 the Priory was blown up and the cliffs beneath it dynamited, until the deepest roots of its foundations were obliterated. Thus the Priory is no more, and the last of that line of the family is safely locked away in a refuge for the hopelessly insane.
“It can be seen then that the nameless family that lived here had the worst possible connections, at least by the standards of those days, and it is not at all improbable that they brought about their own decline and disappearance through just such traffic with degenerate or ill-advised cultists and demonologists as I have mentioned.
“Now then, add to all of this somewhat tenuously connected information the local rumours, which have circulated on and off in the villages of this area for some three hundred years—those mainly unspecified fears and old wives’ tales that have sufficed since time immemorial to keep children and adults alike away from this property, off the land and out of the woods—and you begin to under stand something of the aura of the place. Perhaps you can feel that aura even now? I certainly can, and I’m by no means psychic….”
“Just what is it that the locals fear?” Turnbull asked. “Can’t you enlighten us at all?”
“Oh, strange shapes have been seen on the paths and roads; luminous nets have appeared strung between the trees like great webs, only to vanish in daylight; and, yes, in connection with the latter, perhaps I had better mention the bas-reliefs in the cellar.”
“Bas-reliefs?” queried Lavery.
“Yes, on the walls. It was writing of sorts, but in a language no one could understand—glyphs almost.”
“My great-grandfather had just bought the house,” David Marriot explained. “He was an extremely well-read man, knowledgeable in all sorts of peculiar sub jects. When the cellar was opened and he saw the glyphs, he said they had to do with the worship of some strange deity from an obscure and almost unrecognized myth cycle. Afterwards he had the greater area of the cellar cemented in—said it made the house damp and the foundations unsafe.”
“Worship of some strange deity?” Old Danford spoke up. “What sort of deity? Some lustful thing that the Romans brought with them, d’you think?”
“No, older than that,” I answered for Lord Marriot. “Much older. A spider-thing.”
“A spider?” This was Lavery again, and he snorted the words out almost in contempt.
“Not quite the thing to sneer at,” I answered. “Three years ago an ageing but still active gentleman rented the house for a period of some six weeks. An anthropologist and the author of several books, he wanted the place for its solitude; and if he took to it he was going to buy it. In the fifth week he was taken away raving mad!”
“Eh? Harumph! Mad, you say?” Old Danford repeated after me.
I nodded. “Yes, quite insane. He
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