THE NIGHT VISITOR AT
LOCKWOOD INN
As Told By David R. Scott

Tucked away in the corner of a New England village sat the Lockwood Inn, an old stone mansion owned by the Blanchfords. The Blanchfords had inherited a vast expanse of wealth from their deceased relatives, and because the mid-1700s were a dark time overrun by pillaging thieves, the Blanchfords were extremely careful about whom they allowed to stay at their Inn.

One night, William Blanchford and his son Craig were playing an ardous game of chess, while Martha Blanchford busied herself with her knitting needles. Every now and then she would chuckle at her husband, who cursed as Craig continued to destroy him in their game.

Outside the wind whipped the tops of the trees, and could be heard howling down the cobblestone chimney and blowing the coals to a deep glowing red within the hearth. The rains pounded the roof top, and an occasional flash of lightning would illuminate the dimly lit den. Beatrice Whitfield, the inn's maid, who had served the Blanchfords for over 35 years, stirred the coals beneath the cast-iron tea kettle.

"A bit more tea, Mrs. Blanchford?" the maid pleasantly asked.

"Why yes, thank you, Beatrice," Martha Blanchford responded with a radiant smile. "It most certainly is a dreadful night, don't you think so?"

"Aye, that it is, ma'am. Pleases the soul to be within the confines of a warm and cheery den," the maid said as she filled Mrs. Blanchford's tea cup.

Just then a heavy knock came forth from the inn's massive oak doors.

All faces stared down the corridor. "Now, who do you suppose that could be out in this dreary weather?" Beatrice said, walking down the lamplit corridor.

"Best let me answer it, Beatrice. Something may be wrong." William Blanchford stated impatiently, angered that someone would interrupt his game of chess.

William held the oil lamp in one hand, and opened the door just a crack to see a black-cloaked figure with a hood drawn loosely over the visitor's head. The drops of rain framed the hood with liquid beads, and the visitor's split leather boots were well-worn from travel. In one hand he clung to a knotted walking cane, and in the other was a small burlap sack.

"Please…please…I beg of you sir. Share with me the warmth of your fire and tea. Have mercy on a pitiful old man who has nothing." The old man's voice stuttered and cracked as it came forth from his lips.

William stood silently without expression while the chilling winds filled the warm room. He had sympathy for the old man, yet he was still rather apprehensive about letting strangers into his home.

"Oh William, can't you see the old man is freezing? Let him in," Martha said over her husband's shoulder.

William opened the door.

"I'm sorry, old boy, but one can never be too sure anymore around here." William explained. "You do understand, don't you?"

"Aye, them bandits prowl on a night like tonight, yet all I ask for is a warm place by the fire, and a hot cup a' tea, then I shall be on my way," the old man said as he limped his way through the door. All eyes stared at the man's rather strange walk.

"Aye, 'tis proof that them scum roam the village on nights like this. One slit the back of me leg three months ago, and stole all I had," the old man solemnly said.

"Oh, you poor dear, sit down by the fire, and Beatrice will get you some tea," Martha said while helping the old man into a chair. Beatrice poured the old man a spot of tea, still not trusting his "good nature."

Soon the old man stopped shivering, and politely asked for another cup. Craig and William went off to their quarters, and Martha continued to pamper the visitor.

"Well, Beatrice, I am off to bed. Sir, if there is anything you need, Beatrice will help you," Martha finally said.

"Thank you ma'am, you are too kind," the old man said with a sinister smile.

In a few short moments, Martha's echoing footsteps were swallowed by the drone of the storm, and the only audible sound remaining was that of the dry wood popping as it burned in the hearth.

"Well my dear, where is it that you sleep? Do you not have your own quarters in such a lofty abode?" the visitor asked inquisitively.

"Yes of course, but I shall sleep here on the settee in case you need my assistance…good night sir."

"Good night," the old man said with a disappointed tone.

Beatrice laid on the settee pretending to be asleep. She breathed in a deep rhythmic pattern, and let her eyes open only as slits. She did not trust the old man in the black cloak; something about him drew her suspicion. Perhaps she was being foolish. Maybe he was simply an old man with no place to go. Maybe he was telling the truth, and maybe he did simply need the comfort and care of loving people such as the Blanchfords.

However, after an hour, her instincts proved not to be fiction. The old man slowly turned and stared with cold eyes for a long time into the eyes of the maid. She managed not to break her rhythmic breathing, and kept her face expressionless. She watched as the old man stood from his resting place and moved across the room, never limping once. In the flickering firelight, he grabbed his small burlap sack and untied the twine that sealed its opening. Beatrice watched as the night visitor reached within the sack, and then she froze in terror.

The old man had pulled from the sack a severed human hand, and placed it on the wooden table near the stone hearth. Beatrice bit deep into her lower lip to prevent herself from screaming. She wanted to run and fetch Mr. Blanchford and his son, but she figured her best bet was to stay put. The old man retrieved a candle from the fireplace's mantel, and poured the hot wax into the palm of the hand on the table. He then placed the candle in the wax to prevent it from tipping. Again he looked deep into the face of the old maid, but she appeared to be fast asleep.

And then, he chanted in a whispering tone:

"Ancient hand from forest deep;
Bring all within a soundless sleep.
Grant them sleep throughout this night;
To not awake till morning light.
Allow your fingers to unfold;
And point me to the Lockwood gold.
In silence now I watch and stand;
Now point, now point your hallow hand."

Suddenly the fire flared, and a flash of blue lightning filled the tiny room, followed moments later by a deep crash of thunder. The candle's flame grew brighter within the open hand, and soon its fingers moved. The index finger pointed straight while the others slowly closed, and then the hand began to spin on the small oak table. It spun around the room twice, slowed, and pointed not toward the gold's hiding place, but directly at the maid. Beatrice bit again into her lip, till it was bleeding within her mouth, yet still continued to breath rhythmically.

The old man seemed puzzled and repeated his chant. Beatrice could now clearly see the accents of his gaunt facial features in the flickering candlelight. His beady eyes were wide and wild with greed, and his teeth seemed to grind as he repeated the chant. His body was hunched over the candle and silhouetted by the fire, and his bony hands stretched skyward over the flames of the candle.

Again the somewhat withered hand spun around the table, only to slow and stop with its long wrinkled finger pointing in the direction of Beatrice. The night visitor slowly looked away from the candle at the maid, squinting from the blindness of staring intensely into the steady flame. She did not break her rhythm, even though her head was begging for oxygen.

The old man carefully picked up the hand, which was still pointed at Beatrice, and slowly crossed the room toward where she lay. Using the candle within the palm of the hand as an added source of light, the night visitor crept toward the maid. Then, suddenly, he stopped when he heard a noise in the next room that startled him.

Quickly, he turned to see what had caused the noise, only to discover that it was the Blanchford's cat. Yet, when he turned the pointing hand away from Beatrice, he made another discovery -- the outstretched index finger had folded and closed.

Slowly, he turned and again faced the sleeping maid, and upon doing so, the index finger pointed at her once more. Her heart pounded and her mouth went dry. The old man slowly turned the hand away again, making an effort to watch both the hand and the maid as he did so. Sure enough the finger closed, yet when he aimed the hand at the maid, it opened once more, pointing directly as the needle on a compass.

Certainly, if the old man realized that she was awake he would kill her, yet she remained motionless and watched as the old man drew nearer. A wry smile painted its way across his lips, and his steel black eyes twinkled in the flickering candlelight.

Soon he stood hunched over the old woman, staring at her with the intensity of a hungry falcon. The candlelight seemed to lick her face, and the only thing visible through her partially open eyes, was the long bony finger protruding from the hand on which the candle was perched. It was, of course, aiming directly between her eyes.

The old man continued to study her face. Certainly he knew that she was not asleep…was he merely playing a game with her, or was he genuinely deceived. The old woman did not know. He seemed to stare for an eternity, and then finally retreated to the table near the stone hearth. Slowly, he placed the hand upon the old table and again said his chant, but the finger continued to point toward Beatrice Whitfield. She knew that she would eventually have no other alternative but to flee. Her mind raced and her heart beat wildly within the prison of her rib cage. The old man's eyes shortly fell once again upon the maid, waiting for her to move, when at last she did. She exploded from the settee and ran up the massive staircase quickly as her legs would carry her. Behind she heard the night visitor coming after her, yet he wasn't running, he was merely walking, almost as though he knew he would capture her. Beatrice blasted the Blanchford's bedroom door nearly off its hinges, and shook both of them violently, but neither stirred. She screamed into their ears, but no avail. She could hear the heavy footsteps echo throughout the long hollow corridor, yet still they were not running, simply walking.

She ran to another hallway that led back down some winding stairs. She was about to run out of the front door when she glanced into the sitting room and noticed the hand pointing its gnarled finger and following her every step. Quickly, she lunged out and cast the hand within the flames of the hearth, and then headed for the door. The hand suddenly burst into flames with a violent explosion and the old man screamed in apparent pain. She heard a commotion upstairs as the Blanchfords suddenly awakened from their spell.

The old man fumbled with the front door and staggered through it into the blustery night outside, never to be seen again.

Beatrice was honored for her intuition and her bravery. It pays not only to have common sense, but the courage to back it up.


STORY OUTLINE

I. An old man is let into an inn owned by a family called the Blanchford on a stormy night long ago in New England.

II. The housemaid, Beatrice, does not trust the old man and tell him that she will sleep in the main room with him "in case he needs anything."

III. Beatrice fools the old man into thinking that she is asleep. He pulls a severed hand from a bag, placing a spell on the family to make them all sleep. Then he asks the hand to point out the inn's treasure. The hand points at Beatrice.

IV. Beatrice sees her chance and runs for the owners' bedroom, but they are in a deep sleep.

V. She grabs the severed hand and throws it into the fire, causing the old man much pain, allowing the Blanchfords to awaken, and thus saving herself and their fortune.

The moral of the story is: use common sense and have the courage to back it up.