In the dim and lurid glow of the torch, the cavernous cellar had all the appearance of a medieval torture dungeon!

Several feet away, propped against one wall, loomed an object that I recognized at once as a precise replica of the infamous “Iron Maiden of Nuremburg”—a great, anthropomorphized casket whose wide-flung double lids were lined with a series of razor-sharp dagger blades. Directly to the left of this monstrous implement stood an antique wooden rack, the mere sight of whose enormous, four-handled winch—by means of which the unfortunate victim was stretched until every joint in his body was completely dislocated—sent a sickening tremor through my frame. A massive interrogation chair—its seat, arms, and back bristling with iron spikes—hulked in the shadows; while the walls were hung with infernal devices of every imaginable description: branding irons, punishment collars, scourges, thumbscrews, pincers, and more.

Was it conceivable, I wondered as I gaped at this assemblage of ghastly equipment, that the late owner of this mansion, Roger Asher, had, in reality, been a latter-day Torquemada—a being who, unbeknownst to the world at large, had spent years performing the most unspeakable atrocities on a host of unknown victims? But no! Having passed an evening in his company, I could not believe this to be the case. To engage in sustained acts of torture, a man must possess certain singular attributes, a cruel—passionate—and furious energy being foremost among them. By contrast, the pale and melancholic master of the Asher house had struck me as so hopelessly enervated and filled with ennui that the mere operation of these fiendish mechanisms would have proven beyond his capacities. It was far more probable that these diabolical artifacts—whose location in the depths of the damp and cavernous cellar had saved them from a fiery destruction—were merely a part of his collection of bizarre antiques, a portion of which Crockett and I had viewed in his drawing room on the night of our ill-fated visit.

Having resolved this issue to my satisfaction, I felt somewhat reassured. My sense of relief, however, was exceptionally short-lived; for no sooner had my initial shock subsided than I was startled anew by a resumption of the uncanny singing—only much louder, closer, and clearer than it had been heretofore!

As I stood frozen in place—my auditory faculties fully alert—I could dearly perceive that the voice was that of a woman. For the first time, I could also ascertain the words of the song, which I instantly recognized as the lamentation of the poor, grief-crazed Ophelia, following Hamlet’s uncharacteristically impetuous stabbing of her father:

“He is dead and gone, lady,
He is dead and gone,
At his head, a grass-green turf,
At his heels a stone.

“And will a’ not come again?
And will a’ not come again?
No, no, he is dead.
Go to thy deathbed,
He will never come again.”