Original subtitles

Thank you.

Hello, darling.

You still working?

No, I've finished now.

Just going through a few old papers.

I'm sorry I couldn't come to the theatre with you tonight. What was the play

like? Oh, very good indeed.

Quite incredible story, but most amusing.

Incredible?

Well, they say that truth is stranger than fiction.

What a play that would make.

Who is it?

John Bridgman, one of my best friends at Cambridge, a famous racing motorist.

He was killed at Brooklands ten years ago.

Yes, I seem to remember reading about it.

There was an inquest, of course.

Accidental death.

Nothing could have been further from the truth.

But if I'd told them what I knew, they'd have laughed at me, said I was mad.

Do you mean it wasn't really an accident?

Something very much worse.

Fantastic, but it's true.

John Bridgman was the victim of a curse.

A curse?

You don't really mean that.

Surely it's impossible.

Why impossible?

But you must be tired.

Oh, not a bit. You've intrigued me now.

Do tell me, do you really believe? It's not so much a question of belief.

You see, the older one gets, the less one realizes one really knows.

I'll ask you a few questions.

What is the power of thought for good or evil, and where does it end?

What's the difference between the mascot that brings good luck and the thing with

a hoodoo on it that brings disaster?

Two examples in our own time.

Do you remember the expedition to the tomb of Tutankhamen? Many of those who

defiled, or shall we say explored the tomb, met tragic, violent and

inexplicable deaths.

Was that just a whim of chance, or was it the curse of the pharaohs?

And the other example?

Much nearer home.

John Bridgman.

Worst if it was in Bridgman's case, I feel the tragedy might have been

averted. Oh, yes, there were certain very definite indications of the way

things were going.

If only I'd understood them at the time.

You've heard of numerology, of course. I never can understand it. It's quite

simple. It's a very ancient study of the occult influences over our affairs as

expressed by and denoted by numbers.

The horoscope comes into it, of course, and the stars that you were born under.

I won't bother you with that just now.

Except to remark that the nine is a number of particular significance.

One strange thing you may notice about it right away, in which it differs from

all other numbers, it's the only number that reproduces itself in

multiplication. It always comes back. It can't be destroyed.

Like this.

8 and 1, 9.

7 and 2, 9.

6, 3, 9.

5, 4, 9.

Again, it is the number of the periods of the year controlled by the planets

and influencing our destinies.

Sun, Moon, Jupiter, Uranus, Mercury, Venus, and so on.

Here is the table showing the numerical value of each letter of the alphabet.

And one more thing, the most important of all.

The vibrations of the nine denote passion, violence, and destruction by

fire.

You may wonder what all this has got to do with John Bridgman.

Very much more than you may imagine.

Eighteen. Twenty-seven.

Nine.

Nine.

So you see, John was very definitely a nine.

We first met at Cambridge in the same college and soon became close friends.

He was a year younger than I. That means he was born in 1890.

Again, the double nine.

Later on, I learned that his birthday was September the 9th.

You see, the stage was set.

Anyway, to continue, he was an engineer and his greatest hobby, motoring.

With him, car designing was a craze, as you would have seen by any of his

lecture notes or even his exam papers.

He was a reckless daredevil, if ever there was one, with the fastest sports

car on the road and never happier than when he was tinkering beneath it or...

or trying to beat his own speed records on a good straight road.

I mention all this to show that he was the last man in the world to yield to

the influence of superstition.

I learned about that time that his family was a titled one, but the title

had been discarded, and I believe the name changed, though John was always

very reticent about this.

We graduated together, but he stayed on for further study.

We rather lost touch for a time.

And then a year or so later, in the spring, I had a letter from him begging

me to accompany him on a motoring tour through South America.

I have just bought a racing Mercedes.

He had planned the trip for some time.

It would be his first holiday abroad.

It was some months ahead, in the autumn, as a matter of fact, his birthday month.

The prospect appealed to me intensely. I'd never been to South America.

I made a special note in my office diary.

There it is again.

The nine.

Well, that was that.

The first significant interruption. Some influence beyond control.

You know how it is.

Man proposes, God disposes.

He was badly wounded on the Somme.

Burns from a flamethrower.

Burns?

What year was that?

1917.

Yes, the double knife.

Yes. Go on, darling.

Well, it was about this time, but I... I began to notice something unusual.

Sinister.

I met him once while he was convalescing.

You know, you have a visitor this afternoon.

Oh, I told you I didn't want to be bothered with anyone today.

No, it's a very old friend.

Oh, he's waiting now.

John, boy, it's good to see you again. It's you, Robert.

Nice of you to come.

I hear you've had a pretty bad time. Well, that's nothing to worry about.

Anyway, thank heaven it's all over.

Over?

I wonder.

Of course. What are you worrying about?

This won't happen to me.

Birds.

Good Lord, anything but this.

I'd rather have lost an arm or a leg.

Anything rather than this should have happened.

Oh, so messy talking about. Show me.

I should have liked to have heard what my old grandfather would have said if

he'd lived to see it.

Burns.

He'd have gone stark staring mad.

Grandfather? What's he got to do with it?

Lots.

He was a superstitious old bounder, if ever there was one.

I had no time for him.

It was he who threw over the family title and said no one must ever call him

anything but plain John Bridgman.

Heaven's sake, why?

I used to love it, all that nonsense.

I'm beginning to wonder if the old devil wasn't right after all.

What exactly was it you used to laugh at?

Oh,

the old family curse.

Curse? On the line of Dupont.

That was the name before my grandfather changed it to Bridgman.

Changed it in order to throw off the curse?

Oh, good, surely.

Oh, what's the use? Let's forget it.

Okay, John, can't you tell me more about it? There may be some way I could help.

I said let's forget it.

Medicine time.

Nice of you to come, Robert.

See you when the war's over.

They say the last ten years are the worst.

Goodbye, John.

Though puzzled and... Not a little mortified at John's unusual behaviour, I

wasn't inclined to take him too seriously.

But I'd just begun to take an interest in numerology, and it occurred to me it

would be interesting to discover his dominating influence.

It was then I first became aware of the nine, and its significance.

Then it occurred to me to try out Dupont, the name that had been

discarded.

A harmless seven.

Irony of the whole thing suddenly dawned on me.

The superstitious old grandfather, in changing the name, had unwittingly

played right into the hands of fate.

A nine.

Passion, violence, destruction by fire.

After the war was over, I found he had developed his favourite hobby and taken

up motor racing.

He was soon earning quite an excellent reputation on the track.

A few years later, his father died, leaving him sole heir to a magnificent

country estate.

To the surprise of his friends, he gave up racing and decided to retire down

there, apparently quite content to lead the life of a quiet country gentleman.

Well, I gradually lost touch.

Oh, he frequently asked me down there, but, well, times weren't so good for me,

and I didn't want him to find out.

So I declined again and again.

I was sorry for this afterwards, because the invitation ceased with a certain

abruptness.

And I got a strange presentiment that all was not well.

As far as I knew, we had no cause for worry in all the world, and yet it

seemed that a sinister shadow had in some indefinable way crept over his

affairs.

This magnificent country estate, what sort of place was it?

One large wing had at some time or other been completely burned out, leaving only

the shell standing.

There were more recent additions, of course. The whole place was picturesque,

yet compelling.

Not to say sinister.

Rambling, new wings built onto ancient halls, paved courtyards and haunted

passages.

You seem to know all about it. You must have been there.

I was just coming to that.

You see, here there's a gap of a few years in the story.

John had become more and more inaccessible.

And I began to hear strange rumors.

It seems that the outdoor sportsman I'd known as a boy had become a

recluse.

prowling about alone in strange parts of the castle, delving into old records of

the place.

and disappearing for days on end into the East Wing, which no one was

permitted to enter.

It seems that some people were even beginning to... to doubt his sanity.

Then, one day... James Gregson?

James?

Oh, yes, of course, John's old butler.

Yes, is he not here?

Yeah, all right, show me.

You'll pardon me, sir. I had to come. I didn't know who else to turn to.

Is anything wrong?

No, sir. Not exactly.

That is... Well, if you won't sit down.

Thank you, sir.

Now, tell me, how is Mr. John?

That's just it, sir.

He acts so very strangely.

I hardly see anything of him at all.

He's in that east wing alone all hours of the day and night.

Well, there's no harm in that, is there?

You wouldn't ask that, sir, if you'd been with me yesterday.

I saw Mr.

John. He'd just come out of the East Wing.

He was dazed and moved as if in a dream.

He slumped against the wall.

Then suddenly he turned and saw me.

His eyes flashed murder.

I hurried to his side, but he turned on me angrily. He accused me of spying on

him. I must keep away from there. Had I forgotten his orders?

I'd seldom heard him talk like that or look so strange.

I was completely at a loss what to do.

Something terrible goes on there, sir.

I'm sure of it.

The last of the servants left yesterday.

I'm all on my own now with Mr. John.

What do you want me to do?

I'm very glad if you could come down, sir.

You're his friend.

You were all together at college.

Perhaps you could... No, he might resent the intrusion. He probably would.

Well, I mean, I can... I know it's very difficult, sir.

I've served the family now ever since Mr. John was a baby.

I've never known anything like it.

Now, James, I expect the old place is getting on your nerves. It can't be as

bad as all that.

I think the master is in some very great danger, sir.

What danger?

I don't know.

But I had to come.

I had to confide in someone.

Well, look, I'll see what I can do.

I should be very busy for the next two or three days, but, well, I promise I'll

try.

Much obliged, you two.

You know the way out.

I

tried

to dismiss James's visit as a little account, but I shared his presentiment

and was strangely uneasy about it all.

A few days later, acting on a sudden impulse, I packed and went.

I was down there nearly a week.

I shall never forget it as long as I live.

John was away.

He left suddenly for abroad, as you'll see in a moment.

I arrived just in time for a thunderstorm.

When at last the storm had subsided, the fields in the valley were flooded, and

here and there was evidence of the violence of the storm.

Ghostly vapors rose through the trees and enshrouded the valleys in mist. It

seemed to me a natural expression of some great emotion.

if only I was receptive enough to interpret it.

Here in this region, strange forces held sway.

I tried to deny it, but in vain.

Perhaps it was the earth, the trees, the wind, the sky, who knows?

But it was there all the same, and I was under its spell.

I had read of places being haunted, but never a whole region.

My reason rebelled, and yet the more I pondered it, the less I could deny it.

Here in Sussex was a story that went back thousands of years, a record of

centuries of turmoil and endless conflict, all centred around this one

spot, the most violent expression of human emotions, lost in the mists of

time.

But were they lost?

Or did they still remain?

As if to challenge the logic of my own reasoning, I wrote down the word Sussex

on a piece of paper with its appropriate numerals.

I pretended not to be surprised at the result.

I tried every other county in England.

A four, a six, a three, an eight, a seven.

Sussex was the only one.

A nine.

It was on the second day of my visit that I finally located my friend's

estate.

The turmoil of an old water mill arrested my attention.

I followed the stream along its banks.

There, through the tangled undergrowth, I suddenly came upon it in all its

sinister magnificence.

I was soon to learn that there could be no happier hunting ground in all England

for lovers of the gruesome and macabre, and there before me was the burnt-out

wing.

The merry sounds of feasting and laughter that once resounded through it

and echoed round the courtyard beyond were long since departed.

But it was not silence that remained.

Strange noises continued to be heard down the empty stairways, and soon it

was openly confessed that evil spirits had taken possession.

There were stories of sudden and tragic death, of imprisonment in the castle

dungeons where men died raving mad, of grim secrets drowned beneath the dark

waters of the castle moat.

But all this, of course, was hearsay of a superstitious countryside.

I had seen nothing with my own eyes.

About my third day down there, I felt a strange and sudden impulse to explore

the burned-out ruins of the one wing I told you about, although for the life of

me I could see no reason why this should assist my quest.

It was a gaunt and hollow shell that stood out naked and desolate against the

sky.

I felt my steps drawn towards the dim entrance.

There, over the porch, was the decayed crest of the proud Norman barrens, The

ancient line of Dupont, now so humbly represented by my friend John Bridgman.

There was a cold chill in the dark shadows of the porch and an overwhelming

sense of decay.

A riot of weeds fringed the ancient paving and clung around the broken

walls.

Suddenly I thought I heard the sound of a girl's voice singing softly.

but dismissed it as an idle fancy.

Then it came again.

This time there was no mistake.

It had a strange, unnatural sound.

Of course, it was nothing very unusual to find a visitor in the ruins which

were more or less open to the casual passer-by, but this strange song was

different. It was a plaintive tune, completely unknown to me.

that seemed to belong to another age.

The sound had led

me up a steep flight of broken steps.

And suddenly I came face to face with... I must have stared rather hard, for she

smiled and said... You look as if you had seen her ghost.

Well, I... I don't believe in them.

Then you haven't been here very long.

Only a few days.

And you haven't seen Lady Beatrice?

Who is Lady Beatrice?

Anyone around here can tell you that.

It was intended that she should marry John Dupont.

John Dupont.

Only son and heir of Sir William.

Sixteenth Baron.

of fiends and bam lord of the manor it was a marriage of convenience she was in

love with john but unfortunately he was in love with someone else

on the morning of the marriage ceremony lady beatrice was found at the bottom of

a steep flight of cellar steps leading to the dungeons dead it was thought for

some time that john was responsible

That was over 300 years ago.

You mean that the ghost of Lady Beatrice now owns this castle?

Have you seen the old elm tree in the main courtyard?

Sometimes you may see no more than a misty vapor that hesitates to take form,

that floats around the tree and then disappears in the night air.

Whilst in the distance, strange ghostly forms are seen floating across the dark

waters of the castle moat.

Then when times and conditions are more favourable, the misty vapour can be seen

crossing the courtyard and hurrying down the stairs towards the castle dungeons.

Here her weary spirit seeks once more to enter the lovely form, that it inhabited

centuries ago before the fatal night when she fell or was thrown to her

death at the foot of the stone steps.

She alone knows the secret.

And then you will see her face take form.

It is sad and strangely beautiful.

It lingers for a moment with lowered eyes as if in despair.

At last, with some semblance of the human form she had sought to inhabit,

she wanders again through the deserted courtyard as if still seeking her long

-lost lover.

The ancient doorway is no longer there, but Lady Beatrice knows it only as it

was centuries ago and passes through the castle wall.

And the ghostly shapes that hover around the castle float over the waters of the

moat and disappear.

But of course, You don't believe in ghosts.

Really, I... I don't know what to believe.

You only believe what you can see.

Well, you can see all this.

You can believe all this.

The witch's curse, fire and water.

Lady Beatrice was only part of the story.

There was a gypsy girl, a fortune teller, young and very beautiful.

It was she who was loved by John.

He begged her to marry him.

She was denounced by Sir William as a sorceress who had cast spells upon his

son. She was burned as a witch! But before she...

I soon got busy and unearthed all the old records of the place.

And soon I was able to piece the story of the curse together.

It appears that Sir William Dupont, the 16th Baron, was of Norman stock.

Rather a nasty bit of work.

He ruled over his domains with harsh brutality.

Well, he'd planned the marriage of his son, John, with Lady Beatrice to improve

his prestige and curry favour with the Queen.

Of course, John wasn't in love with Beatrice and...

soon consoled himself by stealing away from his friends to visit a little gypsy

fortune teller.

She was young and treacherously beautiful, and he fell violently in love

with her.

She obviously couldn't consent to marry him, and there seems to have followed

some illicit association until one day this was discovered.

The rest I already knew, except the curse that the poor unfortunate girl had

called down upon the name of Dupont before she herself died in the flames.

It was this.

As she had perished by fire, so would his descendants suffer by fire and

water.

And in the ninth generation, the lion would be extinct.

Note again, the nine.

We know what happened to Lady Beatrice.

Well, a few months later, Sir William was drowned.

And simultaneously, the castle caught fire. And the one wing was completely

burnt out.

I also made a further discovery, the most alarming of them all.

John had never married, and he was an only son. If anything happened to him,

the family would be extinct.

And John was... was the ninth generation.

Well, matter now assumed a certain urgency.

As I was puzzling what best to do, I...

I suddenly thought of that east wing that no one was allowed to enter.

I had noticed this east wing from the outside while looking around the

grounds. And the first thing that arrested my attention was a tall window

of the most curious construction.

In fact, the closer I examined it, the more interesting it became.

The stonework appeared to be of incredible age.

Well, I got hold of James.

He was very reluctant at first, as it was strictly against orders.

So at last, with obvious misgivings, he gave me the key and I let myself in.

Everything struck me as odd, if not actually sinister.

It was a large room, like an old, disused library.

The more I examined the design of the window from the inside, the more curious

it seemed.

I had never seen anything quite like it, and could not dismiss the impression

that there was something supernatural about it, quite impossible to define.

The window threw curious shadows across the ancient panelled walls.

Even more disturbing was the strange collection of old books heaped

carelessly together, which had obviously had my friend's earnest attention.

In fact, it was known that he had secluded himself for hours while he

pored over them.

Significant on one of the pages...

was a rough sketch of the design of the window.

As I turned some of the pages, I discovered an ancient copy of The

Witch's Curse, loose between the leaves.

But most remarkable of all was a diary.

which left no further doubt that he had become obsessed by the strangest fancies

and had been urged to put them on record.

As I turned the pages at random, my interest turned to amazement and a cold

chill went down my spine.

The night was dark and a faint ghostly mist was gathering across the fields.

It took strange, fantastic forms.

I saw them gather before the window.

There was now no doubt that they were being slowly drawn towards its center.

Inside the library, the center star of the window suddenly became alive.

A curious light flashed through the star.

And then shadows began to creep slowly along the walls.

Stonework taken from the burnt-out castle ruins.

Some strange druid symbol.

But the greater mystery remains.

Why is this phenomenon only visible to me?

Shall I destroy the window before I learn more? But that would merely

destroy the means of expression.

The strange forces that operate in this region will operate still.

There is more to discover. I have not yet seen the full cycle.

What are the favourable conditions?

The nine periods of the year.

Tonight it happened. I saw the window complete its full cycle.

The strange forms across the fields were even more fantastic than any I had yet

seen. They gathered, drawn towards the centre of the window.

Inside, as I watched the star, I distinctly saw...

The ghostly gathering in the courtyard seemed to seek out the dungeons,

revealing their terrible secrets.

And then the spirit of fire, the infernal dance of flame that sought once

more the burnt-out wing of the castle, reenacting the old curse of destruction

by fire.

Away from this strange place where the very stones take on the character of

those that raised them, where the spirit of evil endures and the past invades the

present.

The line of Dupont is accursed.

It was apparently after this last entry that my friend went abroad for an

indefinite period.

Amongst other things, James showed me a letter he had just received and was

rather worried about, a reckless sort of letter for a man of his age to write, in

which he remarked that he was shooting the rapids on one of the Canadian

rivers.

It struck me as of some significance, perhaps in the nature of a challenge,

the curse of fire and water.

I'm afraid there's nothing much more to tell you.

John had left no address.

He may stay abroad, might well be indefinite.

There was nothing I could do.

But there was one thing that worried me very considerably on my way home.

A simple thing, but I couldn't get it out of my mind.

The year was 1935.

One, three and five.

Exactly.

Again, the fateful nine.

An ominous year for some serious development.

For some months, I was very fully occupied.

I was officiating at the opening of a new college up north, and my immediate

concerns had driven everything else from my mind, when suddenly, one morning, I

noticed a paragraph in the paper.

John was actually back in England and had taken up motor racing again.

He was racing at Brooklyn's the next day, Saturday.

The news affected me strangely.

It seemed on the face of it a good omen, like the John of old times, and yet...

Yet I couldn't help feeling certain misgivings.

I must see John at once.

So I decided to get up to town the following morning, in time to motor over

to Brooklyn's, surprise him and wish him luck.

Then afterwards we would see.

But fate was against me.

One thing after another detained me and when I finally arrived at the track, the

race had started.

Gradually, I became aware that John was in the lead.

And at the same time, I made a further discovery that took my breath away.

A simple thing, perhaps, yet it froze the blood in my veins.

Was it pure accident, ignorance, or deliberate defiance? The answer to that

I shall never know. My first wild impulse was to find some way of stopping

the race, but how?

Then suddenly, John pulled into the pits. There was still a chance, a wild

hope he might retire from the race.

Then, the rain.

And with it a mounting fear as if a sinister plan was relentlessly being

carried out.

My worst fears were confirmed.

John was off again.

And as the water splashed sky high to the challenge of speed, a deep

depression came over me.

Only one thing beat in my brain. The witch's curse of fire and water.

John was now regaining the lead. I saw the leading car flash past. Then John

following it. A sudden swerve and... What did he see?

There it was on the bonnet.

The fateful nine.

So.

Triumph of mind over matter.

The power of human passion.

Where the ultimate end of good or evil.

The benediction or...

Or the curse that goes on down the centuries?

Well,

what's the answer?

I should like to see that window in the east wing.

That brings me to the most surprising thing of all.

A few years ago, I went down there with the express purpose of examining the

window again.

The whole place was closed, of course, and looked quite derelict.

The east wing was intact.

But the amazing thing was, I couldn't find the window.

It was no longer there.

It had completely disappeared.

Disappeared? But then... Then how can you explain... Only that the window was

an evil creation from the past, as a means of supernatural expression.

Maybe the curse brought it into being.

John Bridgman died.

The line of Dupont was extinct.

The curse was fulfilled.

You mean with it the power of evil ceased?

Yes.

Go down and examine the east wing today and you'll find nothing but a fine

example of English carving.

Similar to many another in old country mansions.

Then this fantastic story becomes even more incredible.

Because it has nothing to prove it.

Ah, my dear. You're beginning to learn wisdom.

The greatest truths in the world are the most incredible.

And those we cannot prove.