Everand Logo

Welcome to Everand!

  • Discover millions of ebooks, audiobooks, and so much more with a free trial

    Only $11.99/month after trial. Cancel anytime.

    The House on the Borderland
    The House on the Borderland
    The House on the Borderland
    Ebook194 pages3 hours

    The House on the Borderland

    By William Hope Hodgson

    4/5

    ()

    Switch to audiobook
    Read preview

    About this ebook

    “A classic of the first water.” —H. P. Lovecraft

    In rural Ireland, two travelers stumble upon the ruins of a lakeside home. Inside, they discover a diary detailing the terrible final days of a man known only as the Recluse. A scholar who bought the house for its isolation, the Recluse is plagued by strange sounds and terrible hallucinations soon after he moves in. He dreams of an eerie “Plain of Silence,” where a jade-green version of the house is surrounded by ominous mountains populated with mythical beasts and gargantuan monsters. Exploring a nearby ravine known locally as the Pit, the Recluse and his loyal dog, Pepper, are attacked by a creature that appears to be half human and half swine. A fantasy reunion with his long-lost lover proves that the house has powers beyond the Recluse’s comprehension. And just when he thinks that the horror is finally over, the real nightmare begins.

    Dripping with tension and atmosphere, The House on the Borderland is a landmark of supernatural horror and one of the scariest stories ever told.
     
    This ebook has been professionally proofread to ensure accuracy and readability on all devices.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherOpen Road Media
    Release dateJul 1, 2014
    ISBN9781453264928
    Author

    William Hope Hodgson

    English author William Hope Hodgson (1877-1918) was known for his works of horror and science-fiction. His first story, The Goddess of Death, was published in 1904. The Night Land, his last printed effort, was published in 1918. Hodgson was also renowned as a photographer and a bodybuilder. He died in battle during World War I at the age of 40.

    Read more from William Hope Hodgson

    Related to The House on the Borderland

    Related ebooks

    Horror Fiction For You

    View More
    View More

    Related podcast episodes

    Related articles

    • Article

      The Quiet Boy

      Jan 28, 2019

      The Quiet Boy
      29 min read

    • Article

      Terrify Yourself with These Ten Horror Novels

      Jun 19, 2019

      A list of books so scary you definitely won't keep them on your nightstand. The post Terrify Yourself with These Ten Horror Novels appeared first on The Millions.

      4 min read

    • Article

      Find A New Home For Your Hauntings

      Oct 1, 2020

      Dark Moon Books editorial team promotes dark fiction by publishing multi-author anthologies and single author collections plus the occasional novel. They want ‘unusual and invigorating dark fiction’ which is ‘experimental, innovative, or progressive…

      1 min read

    • Article

      Just Trust Me: In Praise Of Strange Books

      Dec 23, 2017

      Author Victoria Schwab says she loves the books that can't be categorized, that fall between library-shelf categories, and that spark passionate debate among readers who either love them or hate them.

      3 min read

    • Article

      Thomas Ligotti’s Horror Doesn’t Give You an Easy Out

      Sep 26, 2018

      “It’s peculiar to me… that everybody pays so much attention to living and so little to dying,” Gloria Beatty says in the third chapter of Horace McCoy’s 1935 novel They Shoot Horses, Don’t They? “Why are these high-powered scientists always screwing

      5 min read

    • Article

      Scary Shorts And Super Creeps

      Mar 3, 2022

      Scary Shorts And Super Creeps
      6 min read

    • Article

      Home

      Dec 27, 2018

      Home
      3 min read

    • Article

      As the World Collapses

      Jul 27, 2017

      As the World Collapses
      7 min read

    • Article

      All I Want For Christmas

      Dec 16, 2020

      IT was more than an icicle. More like an icy boulder, oversized and murkily white, faceted like a cartoon jewel and, shortly, dripping. It had lurked beneath a low stone bridge at the bottom of the wood, where sycamore thickets bald for winter gave w

      18 min read

    • Article

      Peace Comes With A Smile

      Nov 11, 2019

      Peace Comes With A Smile
      8 min read

    • Article

      Five Poems

      May 1, 2019

      “My arm is so brown and so beautiful,” is a thought I haveas I’m about to turn off the lamp and go to sleep.I look at it a moment in the soft glow, and see it, briefly,as though it belonged to someone else. A reddishkind of brown, like a toasted almo

      7 min read

    • Article

      Corse I Can

      Dec 17, 2020

      Corse I Can
      9 min read

    • Article

      Writers’ Places

      Dec 17, 2019

      Writers’ Places
      14 min read

    • Article

      Twists And Turns

      Aug 19, 2019

      Twists And Turns
      2 min read

    • Article

      All In The Family

      Oct 19, 2019

      All In The Family
      6 min read

    • Article

      It Happened to Me…

      Feb 22, 2024

      It Happened to Me…
      9 min read

    • Article

      Commonplace Book

      Jun 4, 2018

      I like long walks, especially when they are taken by people who annoy me. —Fred Allen I have always wondered, in reading travels, at the childish joy travellers felt at meeting people they knew, and their sense of loneliness when they did not, in

      4 min read

    • Article

      The Eternal Adventure

      Jun 29, 2021

      The Eternal Adventure
      4 min read

    • Article

      Forever Wild

      Oct 1, 2018

      When I think of the Scarborough house, I remember the wind whipping through my salt-hardened curls and my little-girl feet bare and crusted with sand as I run through its heavy wooden doors. I was four and wild as the landscape itself. My grandparent

      3 min read

    • Article

      There’s No Place Like Home: An Artist Reconnects to the Whispers of Her Past

      Apr 7, 2023

      Estimated reading time: 13 minutes — I would be remiss in telling you how two suburbanites found home at our farm, ‘Oakhaven’, without first sharing our motives. There were a few. We had been watching the steady decline of the small towns we love fo

      8 min read

    Related categories

    Reviews for The House on the Borderland

    4/5

    23 ratings13 reviews

    What did you think?

    Tap to rate

    Review must be at least 10 words

    • 3/5
      The House on the Borderland is weird to read. In about the first half of it, things are happening: an attack by supernatural "Swine-things", which the narrator has to repel. However, the frame story is about two men on a holiday discovering the narrative written by this unnamed man, and surprisingly little is made of that. Nothing supernatural happens to them, really, and for all they know, it's simply a fantastical story made up by someone with a weird imagination, or someone who is somehow deluded. That makes their part of the story dead and unexciting, and although they have little to do with it -- their frame story seems only there to give the old man's narrative a kind of vague authenticity, in the same way that Bram Stoker's Dracula is meant to be a collection of authentic letters -- it has a rather anticlimactic effect, especially at the end.

      The unnamed narrator of the main part of the story is a relatively uninteresting character himself, and the best moments of the story are when he's fighting the creatures and, close to the end, when he struggles with himself against a compulsion to open the door. There's a wonderfully real feeling of horror when he notices the faint, luminescent scratch, as well. However, at least a third of the story is taken up with weird journeys through the cosmos, to little purpose or revelation. Some of the description is wonderful, but very little happens that's worth feeling anything about.

      One thing that did strike a note of pathos was the dog, Pepper, who I was fond of, and who deserved better.

      It's a weird story -- again, part fantasy, part horror, part speculative fiction, perhaps even more of a blend of those genres than The Boats of the Glen Carrig. Interesting, and weird, but not exactly emotionally engaging.
    • 3/5
      This book is actually both a two-star book and a four star book. There is a decent framing device (two friends on a fishing trip find a manuscript in a setting that for no reason they find unsettling). The manuscript is a partial diary of an unknown individual recording the ominous and other-worldly experiences in his house. The first events are deliciously creepy, with some unreliable narration thrown in, reminiscent of Turn of the Screw. Then there is the middle section, which is an odd, disjointed, vision/journey reuniting the narrator with the soul of a lost love followed by a bizarre pseudo-scientific vision/journey through space and time. And then we are thrown back into the sequence of occurrences with which the diary started. So, although this is a quite a short book, I strongly recommend making it even shorter by skipping the middle section.
    • 4/5
      This book confused me at first. I'd heard that it was similar to a Dying Earth novel, yet at first glance, it is much more similar to Lovecraft. It's not until the last portion where the plot suddenly changes that similarities appear.

      The first 2/3 of the book is the threat of a giant looming pit and eldritch lurking pig-like monsters. The last 1/3 of the book covers a dream-like journey through time where the Earth falls into the sun, the sun burns out and falls into the center of the universe, and the universe consists of a giant looming star and eldritch lurking god-like nebulas. Very weird, creepy and disquieting - especially in the last 1/3. And VERY Lovecraftian, where the best solution is to hold your breath and hope you're never noticed because you're just that insignificant.

      Looking at the blurb (which I only read after finishing) this book was actually a huge influence on Lovecraft which makes perfect sense now that I've read it. And, yes, he did use the word "eldritch."
    • 4/5
      The House on the Borderland starts like a conventional horror story. Two men take a fishing trip to a remote region of western Ireland. They enter an area that the locals avoid. There they come upon a vast pit in the ground into which an underground river appears to flow. On the edge of the pit are the crumbled ruins of a building of some sort. Among the debris they find a manuscript. It is damaged but mostly readable. They retire to their tent and spend the entire night reading an incredible tale.The manuscript is the work of a Recluse who built an estate in this wild and forbidding region to which he might retire with his spinster sister. The Recluse first tells of a strange vision in which he is taken on a journey to the stars. Then he begins to live the events of his vision, only in much greater and more frightening detail. What begins as an earthly battle against a horde of terrifying creatures eventually turns into a cosmic journey to the very end of time and space itself.What are we to make of all of this? What is the connection between the creatures that swarm up from the pit and the Recluse’s ultimate vision of the deaths of worlds? There may be a deeper meaning to all this, or it may be just mind-stretching entertainment.
    • 4/5
      Two friends embark on a fishing trip to an isolated part of Ireland. In the ruins of an ancient stone house they find the diary of an elderly man who lived alone with his sister and their pets. The fascinating tale that unravels in the diary is about battles with pig/human like monsters, some cryptic lost love of an unknown form, and the extraordinary acceleration of time and the end of the world. This was certainly a departure from anything I have been reading. I enjoyed how some parts of the story I would be reading at face value, but then little doubts would start to creep in and I would have to question what was happening to the narrator or how he was writing such a tale. The language describing the end of the world was phenomenal and some of the battles with the pig creatures had me on the edge of my seat. I’m not rating this higher because some parts of the story dragged on. The narration was also very choppy with several parts of the story not relating to or being useful to the overall plot (assuming there was supposed to be a plot).
    • 4/5
      When I downloaded House on the Borderland (1908) I was expecting a gothic horror tale, and at first it did fit into that kind of gothic horror mold, but then it changed, and became something quite strange! Basically its a tale about an old manuscript discovered in an old house, kind of a journal which describes the character's adventures in and around the house. There is a strange pit in the garden which also leads to the house's cellar. There are strange 'swine faced beasts' and a journey into space! I'm not quite sure where this story fits genre wise but it was quite entertaining! Think Edgar Allan Poe meets the Time Machine meets the stargate sequence in 2001 A space Odyssey! Odd but fun!
    • 3/5
      If you couldn't make it through The Night Land, never fear. The House on the Borderland is much shorter, much faster paced, and in places quite exciting. The framing device, so common to stories a century ago, is fairly quickly told. The meat is the tale told in a found volume, written by the Recluse who lives in the titular house, with a sister who makes so few appearances that for chapters at a time it's not clear if she still lives. Two primary sequences dominate: the siege of the house by swine-people, and an extended visionary voyage to the far far future and the eventual death of the solar system. Interestingly, a third sequence is referred to, involving a reunion with a long-lost love. This sequence though is part of the "lost" pages manuscript. Why Hodgson chose to do this is not clear, but from the painful to read remnants that are presented, these are pages well lost. Virtually nothing is explained. Once, it didn't seem to matter to authors that things remained beyond our ken. The over-written prose still manages to evoke a sense of fear, in the first half, and amazement in the second.
    • 3/5
      'The House on the Borderland' is widely acknowledged as a turning-point in gothic fiction, influencing later writers including perhaps Lovecraft himself. For this reason alone it is worth reading, and the language is not nearly as difficult for a modern reader as other works from that era, so there's not much to lose. However, if it were not for the historical place that this work holds, I doubt that it would attract the attention that it does.As several reviewers have noted here, the story does not form a coherent and satisfying whole. Several disparate plot elements are introduced and either insufficiently explored or seemingly abandoned. And one element in particular (the lover) is developed too late in the narrative to justify the significance that it is then given. The reader will not only be left with many unanswered questions, but a sneaking suspicion that they are not so-much "questions" as "holes in the plot". Nevertheless, most parts of the work are either conceptually interesting or genuinely creepy. The second half of the story is particularly interesting for its astronomical scope, something that fans of Lovecraft will recognise and enjoy.
    • 3/5
      This 1908 was recommended in the A Reader's Guide to Fantasy on the "Seven-League Shelf" list of the cream of the fantasy genre. It's even on the "1001 Books to Read Before You Die" list of significant literary fiction. So, definitely a book that has classic status, and if you believe the Wiki, a "milestone" in the transition from traditional Gothic to "cosmic horror" that influenced Lovecraft. It's framed as the first person account of a gentleman on a fishing holiday with his friend in Ireland. They come upon a crumbling ruin and his friend finds a partly damaged manuscript, which forms the bulk of the story. Parts are definitely creepy but several things thwarted my involvement in the story. The narrator, known only by an editorial footnote as "the recluse" is a misanthrope. He lives in an ancient pile with his sister Mary--who doesn't get one line of dialogue--and we learn he's suffered a bereavement--it's his lost love that gets the 3 or so lines of the only dialogue in the book. It makes it really hard to care about him--in fact, I'd say by far the most appealing, heart-tugging character in the book is the narrator's dog Pepper--unfortunately, there's not enough of him, or Tip the cat, to redeem the novel. And there's far, far, far too much of a vision of the heat death of the universe that takes up a third of the novel.Perhaps if I were a literary scholar of Gothic and Horror literature, I'd better appreciate how this work is seminal. As a reader, it mostly left me cold.
    • 3/5
      The House on the Borderland (1908) is a landmark in horror fiction. An obvious inspiration to Lovecraft and a bunch of his Weird Tales cronies. It broke away from the old Gothic horrors and introduced cosmic terror.A couple of guys on a sporting holiday in secluded Northern Ireland stumble across the ruins of an old structure on the edge of a large pit. In the wreckage they find a tattered and damaged diary which makes up the rest of the narrative.The ruins used to be a large, oddly designed house and the diary belonged to its owner, an unnamed narrator who lived there with his spinster sister. They got the manor cheap as it has a reputation for being haunted. We follow the narrator and his strange experiences both inside the house and in a large and growing pit in his back garden.I enjoyed Hodgson's writing. The language is a little antiquated, but it isn't that purposely archaic and baroque H.P. Lovecraft stuff that grates after a while. He did a very good job creating an uncomfortable atmosphere. His word choice creates a general sense of eeriness that really worked, even when nothing outright 'scary' is happening. There is some very strong work where our narrator encounters visitors from the pit. At this point, the book was rockin'.But then we fall in to an extended scene where our narrator stares out the window as the house reveals the future of the universe. I know that this may count as a spoiler, but it has to be part of the review as this section is the weight around the book's neck. It is page after page of repetitive description that (ironically considering what the book is describing) drags on and on. Reading through this section really made me want to give up on the book. I have very little patience for stories where the disembodied hero floats along describing weird goings-on. It's like the StarGate section of the film 2001 but stretched out beyond my ability to care. That's also why I don't like Lovecraft's 'dream' stories.The last twenty pages of the book were back on track and it did have a strong finish.The book has a few quirks that should be pointed out: Hodgson is an atmospheric writer as I mentioned. But, I've noticed, the author, William Hope Hodgson, has a love affair, with the comma, that makes me want to break out a red pencil, as I read it. The commas were often unnecessary and out of place, and I found myself reading the booking in the rhythm it was written in, pausing at each comma. It could become... hypnotic after a while.Also, I know the unnamed narrator was a gimmick of a lot of early twentieth century horror, but it made it very hard to connect with the character. Hodgson would also throw in major plot twists from out of nowhere, which made it feel like he was making up the tale as he went along.If anyone is considering reading the book, but is unsure, I'd recommend it. Just understand that my rec is based more on its short length and its place in horror history than its quality of writing, characterization or story telling.
    • 4/5
      This is a strong page-turner that I'm still processing. A mix of psychological suspense and horror, the book combines eery situations and beautiful images to create an atmosphere that's enthralling. What seems fairly nondescript at first is a plot and set of situations that quickly become engrossing, drawing you along even when you can't quite tell why you're so fascinated by what's going on in front of you. Structurally, Hodgson formed this perfectly to keep readers both attached and believing in what's going on, despite themselves. If you're looking for a creepy read that you may well finish in one eery sitting, I highly recommend this. For the depth and beauty of language and reading, I'll be revisiting it in the future.
    • 1/5
      Okay. So these 2 chums go on a fishing expedition in a strange little town. They find a creepy old brokedown house and an old journal and take it back to the tent. The next 90% of the book is the legible contents of the journal.The journal relates a tale of woe by the former occupant of the house. He runs into a bunch of scary monsters and has some adventures with them. Then he embarks on a journey through time and space where he catches a glimpse of the heretofore unmentioned love of this guy's life. And we're back to the fishing buddies who wonder briefly if the writer is nuts, but then decide ohhh, no, OF COURSE it was real. Uhh, yeah. This is supposed to be a "classic tale of fantasy and horror". I dunno. I have to say I truly enjoyed the parts where the scary dudes were storming the castle - I thought "wow, this book doesn't suck after all." But, then the scary dudes went away and the time warp part of the story started. How unfortunate that reading about time moving very very quickly can make my own time move very very slowly. Every agonizing detail - and it was the same every day - was eked out, over and over and over again. The sun rose. It flashed across the sky. It disappeared in the west. The moon rose. It flashed across the sky. It disappeared again. The sun rose. Yadda yadda yadda, ad infinitum. Oh man it was tedious. Every few pages he'd make an interesting discovery (like formerly live things turning to dust), but otherwise he just stood at the window for a bunch of centuries and watched. I just don't get it. This book has been given a whole boatload of 4 and 5 star ratings by readers who clearly have a lot more patience than I do. The story as a whole is interesting, true, but the drudgery of getting through it for me was unbearable. I'm going to give it one point for having some good ideas. This is a true 1/2-pointer for me, but I'll give up the other 1/2 just because it's supposed to be a "classic."
    • 4/5
      This is an interesting story, best thought of as two short stories. The first half deals with an old house under seige from otherworldly creatures and makes an entertaining read. The second half, which goes off the deep end of pre-Lovecraftian "fear of insignificance" themes, is too dense to be enjoyed, but worth reading nonetheless.

    Book preview

    The House on the Borderland - William Hope Hodgson

    Dead

    INTRODUCTION

    Many are the hours in which I have pondered upon the story that is set forth in the following pages. I trust that my instincts are not awry when they prompt me to leave the account, in simplicity, as it was handed to me.

    And the MS. itself—You must picture me, when first it was given into my care, turning it over, curiously, and making a swift, jerky examination. A small book it is; but thick, and all, save the last few pages, filled with a quaint but legible handwriting, and writ very close. I have the queer, faint, pit-water smell of it in my nostrils now as I write, and my fingers have subconscious memories of the soft, cloggy feel of the long-damp pages.

    I read, and, in reading, lifted the Curtains of the Impossible that blind the mind, and looked out into the unknown. Amid stiff, abrupt sentences I wandered; and, presently, I had no fault to charge against their abrupt tellings; for, better far than my own ambitious phrasing, is this mutilated story capable of bringing home all that the old Recluse, of the vanished house, had striven to tell.

    Of the simple, stiffly given account of weird and extraordinary matters, I will say little. It lies before you. The inner story must be uncovered, personally, by each reader, according to ability and desire. And even should any fail to see, as now I see, the shadowed picture and conception of that to which one may well give the accepted titles of Heaven and Hell; yet can I promise certain thrills, merely taking the story as a story.

    WILLIAM HOPE HODGSON

    December 17, 1907

    I

    THE FINDING OF THE MANUSCRIPT

    RIGHT AWAY IN THE west of Ireland lies a tiny hamlet called Kraighten. It is situated, alone, at the base of a low hill. Far around there spreads a waste of bleak and totally inhospitable country; where, here and there at great intervals, one may come upon the ruins of some long desolate cottage—unthatched and stark. The whole land is bare and unpeopled, the very earth scarcely covering the rock that lies beneath it, and with which the country abounds, in places rising out of the soil in wave-shaped ridges.

    Yet, in spite of its desolation, my friend Tonnison and I had elected to spend our vacation there. He had stumbled on the place by mere chance the year previously, during the course of a long walking tour, and discovered the possibilities for the angler in a small and unnamed river that runs past the outskirts of the little village.

    I have said that the river is without name; I may add that no map that I have hitherto consulted has shown either village or stream. They seem to have entirely escaped observation: indeed, they might never exist for all that the average guide tells one. Possibly this can be partly accounted for by the fact that the nearest railway station (Ardrahan) is some forty miles distant.

    It was early one warm evening when my friend and I arrived in Kraighten. We had reached Ardrahan the previous night, sleeping there in rooms hired at the village post office, and leaving in good time on the following morning, clinging insecurely to one of the typical jaunting cars.

    It had taken us all day to accomplish our journey over some of the roughest tracks imaginable, with the result that we were thoroughly tired and somewhat bad tempered. However, the tent had to be erected and our goods stowed away before we could think of food or rest. And so we set to work, with the aid of our driver, and soon had the tent up upon a small patch of ground just outside the little village, and quite near to the river.

    Then, having stored all our belongings, we dismissed the driver, as he had to make his way back as speedily as possible, and told him to come across to us at the end of a fortnight. We had brought sufficient provisions to last us for that space of time, and water we could get from the stream. Fuel we did not need, as we had included a small oil-stove among our outfit, and the weather was fine and warm.

    It was Tonnison’s idea to camp out instead of getting lodgings in one of the cottages. As he put it, there was no joke in sleeping in a room with a numerous family of healthy Irish in one corner and the pigsty in the other, while overhead a ragged colony of roosting fowls distributed their blessings impartially, and the whole place so full of peat smoke that it made a fellow sneeze his head off just to put it inside the doorway.

    Tonnison had got the stove lit now and was busy cutting slices of bacon into the frying pan; so I took the kettle and walked down to the river for water. On the way, I had to pass close to a little group of the village people, who eyed me curiously, but not in any unfriendly manner, though none of them ventured a word.

    As I returned with my kettle filled, I went up to them and, after a friendly nod, to which they replied in like manner, I asked them casually about the fishing; but, instead of answering, they just shook their heads silently, and stared at me. I repeated the question, addressing more particularly a great, gaunt fellow at my elbow; yet again I received no answer. Then the man turned to a comrade and said something rapidly in a language that I did not understand; and, at once, the whole crowd of them fell to jabbering in what, after a few moments, I guessed to be pure Irish. At the same time they cast many glances in my direction. For a minute, perhaps, they spoke among themselves thus; then the man I had addressed faced ’round at me and said something. By the expression of his face I guessed that he, in turn, was questioning me; but now I had to shake my head, and indicate that I did not comprehend what it was they wanted to know; and so we stood looking at one another, until I heard Tonnison calling to me to hurry up with the kettle. Then, with a smile and a nod, I left them, and all in the little crowd smiled and nodded in return, though their faces still betrayed their puzzlement.

    It was evident, I reflected as I went toward the tent, that the inhabitants of these few huts in the wilderness did not know a word of English; and when I told Tonnison, he remarked that he was aware of the fact, and, more, that it was not at all uncommon in that part of the country, where the people often lived and died in their isolated hamlets without ever coming in contact with the outside world.

    I wish we had got the driver to interpret for us before he left, I remarked, as we sat down to our meal. It seems so strange for the people of this place not even to know what we’ve come for.

    Tonnison grunted an assent, and thereafter was silent for a while.

    Later, having satisfied our appetites somewhat, we began to talk, laying our plans for the morrow; then, after a smoke, we closed the flap of the tent, and prepared to turn in.

    I suppose there’s no chance of those fellows outside taking anything? I asked, as we rolled ourselves in our blankets.

    Tonnison said that he did not think so, at least while we were about; and, as he went on to explain, we could lock up everything, except the tent, in the big chest that we had brought to hold our provisions. I agreed to this, and soon we were both asleep.

    Next morning, early, we rose and went for a swim in the river; after which we dressed and had breakfast. Then we roused out our fishing tackle and overhauled it, by which time, our breakfasts having settled somewhat, we made all secure within the tent and strode off in the direction my friend had explored on his previous visit.

    During the day we fished happily, working steadily upstream, and by evening we had one of the prettiest creels of fish that I had seen for a long while. Returning to the village, we made a good feed off our day’s spoil, after which, having selected a few of the finer fish for our breakfast, we presented the remainder to the group of villagers who had assembled at a respectful distance to watch our doings. They seemed wonderfully grateful, and heaped mountains of what I presumed to be Irish blessings upon our heads.

    Thus we spent several days, having splendid sport, and first-rate appetites to do justice upon our prey. We were pleased to find how friendly the villagers were inclined to be, and that there was no evidence of their having ventured to meddle with our belongings during our absences.

    It was on a Tuesday that we arrived in Kraighten, and it would be on the Sunday following that we made a great discovery. Hitherto we had always gone up-stream; on that day, however, we laid aside our rods, and, taking some provisions, set off for a long ramble in the opposite direction. The day was warm, and we trudged along leisurely enough, stopping about mid-day to eat our lunch upon a great flat rock near the riverbank. Afterward we sat and smoked awhile, resuming our walk only when we were tired of inaction.

    For perhaps another hour we wandered onward, chatting quietly and comfortably on this and that matter, and on several occasions stopping while my companion—who is something of an artist—made rough sketches of striking bits of the wild scenery.

    And then, without any warning whatsoever, the river we had followed so confidently, came to an abrupt end—vanishing into the earth.

    Good Lord! I said, who ever would have thought of this?

    And I stared in amazement; then I turned to Tonnison. He was looking, with a blank expression upon his face, at the place where the river disappeared.

    In a moment he spoke.

    Let us go on a bit; it may reappear again—anyhow, it is worth investigating.

    I agreed, and we went forward once more, though rather aimlessly; for we were not at all certain in which direction to prosecute our search. For perhaps a mile we moved onward; then Tonnison, who had been gazing about curiously, stopped and shaded his eyes.

    See! he said, after a moment, isn’t that mist or something, over there to the right—away in a line with that great piece of rock? And he indicated with his hand.

    I stared, and, after a minute, seemed to see something, but could not be certain, and said so.

    Anyway, my friend replied, we’ll just go across and have a glance. And he started off in the direction he had suggested, I following. Presently, we came among bushes, and, after a time, out upon the top of a high, boulder-strewn bank, from which we looked down into a wilderness of bushes and trees.

    Seems as though we had come upon an oasis in this desert of stone, muttered Tonnison, as he gazed interestedly. Then he was silent, his eyes fixed; and I looked also; for up from somewhere about the center of the wooded lowland there rose high into the quiet air a great column of hazelike spray, upon which the sun shone, causing innumerable rainbows.

    How beautiful! I exclaimed.

    Yes, answered Tonnison, thoughtfully. There must be a waterfall, or something, over there. Perhaps it’s our river come to light again. Let’s go and see.

    Down the sloping bank we made our way, and entered among the trees and shrubberies. The bushes were matted, and the trees overhung us, so that the place was disagreeably gloomy; though not dark enough to hide from me the fact that many of the trees were fruit trees, and that, here and there, one could trace indistinctly, signs of a long departed cultivation. Thus it came to me that we were making our way through the riot of a great and ancient garden. I said as much to Tonnison, and he agreed that there certainly seemed reasonable grounds for my belief.

    What a wild place it was, so dismal and somber! Somehow, as we went forward, a sense of the silent loneliness and desertion of the old garden grew upon me, and I felt shivery. One could imagine things lurking among the tangled bushes; while, in the very air of the place, there seemed something uncanny. I think Tonnison was conscious of this also, though he said nothing.

    Suddenly, we came to a halt. Through the trees there had grown upon our ears a distant sound. Tonnison bent forward, listening. I could hear it more plainly now; it was continuous and harsh—a sort of droning roar, seeming to come from far away. I experienced a queer, indescribable, little feeling of nervousness. What sort of place was it into which we had got? I looked at my companion, to see what he thought of the matter; and noted that there was only puzzlement in his face; and then, as I watched his features, an expression of comprehension crept over them, and he nodded his head.

    That’s a waterfall, he exclaimed, with conviction. I know the sound now. And he began to push vigorously through the bushes, in the direction of the noise.

    As we went forward, the sound became plainer continually, showing that we were heading straight toward it. Steadily, the roaring grew louder and nearer, until it appeared, as I remarked to Tonnison, almost to come from under our feet—and still we were surrounded by the trees and shrubs.

    Take care! Tonnison called to me. Look where you’re going. And then, suddenly, we came out from among the trees, on to a great open space, where, not six paces in front of us, yawned the mouth of a tremendous chasm, from the depths of which the noise appeared to rise, along with the continuous, mistlike spray that we had witnessed from the top of the distant bank.

    For quite a minute we stood in silence, staring in bewilderment at the sight; then my friend went forward cautiously to the edge of the abyss. I followed, and, together, we looked down through a boil of spray at a monster cataract of frothing water that burst, spouting, from the side of the chasm, nearly a hundred feet below.

    Good Lord! said Tonnison.

    I was silent, and rather awed. The sight was so unexpectedly grand and eerie; though this latter quality came more upon me later.

    Presently, I looked up and across to the further side of the chasm. There, I saw something towering up among the spray: it looked like a fragment of a great ruin, and I touched Tonnison on the shoulder. He glanced ’round, with a start, and I pointed toward the thing. His gaze followed my finger, and his eyes lighted up with a sudden flash of excitement, as the object came within his field of view.

    Come along, he shouted above the uproar. "We’ll have a

    Enjoying the preview?
    Page 1 of 1