The Ghastly Secret of Bludmanton Castle
Is Revealed in a Harrowing Way in
The Cup of Blood
A Condensed Novel
By OTIS ADELBERT KLINE
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IT WAS after the close of the World War that Anderson and I decided to tour Scotland afoot.
As my purpose is not to chronicle the details of that trip in toto, but rather to relate the story of how it was brought to a most abrupt and fearful termination, I will state, as briefly as possible, the incidents which Jed to that fateful and eventful night at Bludmanton Castle.
After two weeks of pleasant tramping and camping, with every night spent under canvas, we were strolling through a quaint little village late one afternoon, hot, tired and thirsty, when Anderson’s roving eye spotted a sign that gave promise of sundry and assorted liquid refreshments of a most inviting nature. Straight for that sign we sped at double quick, eased our packs to the floor of the cool taproom, and were soon washing the dust from our parched throats,
My buddy is quick at scraping acquaintances, and it was not long before he had started a conversation with old Sandy Magrader who sat at the table next to ours. He was not loath to join us in a mug or two of ale, at Anderson’s invitation, and we found him exceedinly interesting.
I presume there is scarce a village, town or hamlet anywhere in the world that has not some individual landmark or curiosity which its inhabitants will point out with pride to strangers. In San Antonio they ask "Have you seen the Alamo?" in New Orleans, "Have you been through the French Market?” In Rome, "Have you visited the Catacombs?" And so it goes.
In this case it was a haunted castle. Bludmanton Castle, so Sandy assured us, was haunted by "Gibberin’ ghaists and shrickin’ houlets, and mayhap the Auld Nick himsel’."
I was disposed to argue the possibility of there being any such creatures as gibbering ghosts, but Anderson kicked my shins sharply under the table and plied the old fellow with questions that brought out a remarkable legend concerning the ancient ruins.
It seems that, many years before, Bludmanton Castle had been the stronghold of Sir Malcolm Blud, Laird of Bludmanton, a cruel and inhuman monster who was despised and hated the countryside over, both for his servile cringing to those above him and his heartless and tyrannical treatment of those about him who had the misfortune to be of humble birth.
