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The Peculiar Vanishing of Dame Agatha Christie, Mystery Author

If you at all enjoy the genres of mystery and detective fiction, you not only have heard tell of Dame Agatha Christie—you very likely worship her. Particularly fascinating for us, as disciples of all things dark and dastardly, are strange happenings befitting of mystery's foremost authors located within the annals of their own lives.

If you share this proclivity, then do travel back with us to the year 1926, when Agatha Christie, Mistress of Mystery and Queen of Crime, vanished into what is known colloquially as "thin air."

Christie and her first husband, Archibald (or "Archie"), shared a famously troubled union. By 1926, they had been wed for twelve years, and Archie, then thirty-seven, had requested a divorce from Christie while engaging in an affair with his secretary, a twenty-five-year-old woman named Nancy Neele. On the night of December 3, Archie departed the couple's Sunningdale home, intent on spending the evening with friends—and, very likely, his mistress—while leaving his wife behind. Following a quarrel and Archie's subsequent departure, Christie, too, left the home, placing the couple's young daughter in the care of their maid.

No hint of Christie's whereabouts was established until the following morning, when her car was discovered in some brush along a Surrey road, abandoned. The contents were thus: A suitcase placed in the back seat; with it, a fur coat; and elsewhere in the vehicle, Christie's driving license. The headlights were still illuminated.

According to a contemporaneous police report from deputy chief constable William Kenward, "The car was found in such a position as to indicate that some unusual proceeding had taken place, the Car being found half-way down a grassy slope well off the main road with its bonnet buried in some bushes, as if it had got out of control."

This peculiar set of circumstances led many to suspect foul play had befallen the mystery author, and the media soon took particular interest in the story. As is common in cases of missing women, many members of the public began to suspect her husband, Archie, of wrongdoing, while others surmised the whole matter was a publicity stunt. Even Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, creator of fictional detective Sherlock Holmes, sought the aid of a spiritual medium to ascertain Christie's whereabouts.

Why might Christie have left her house the night of December 3, only to seemingly abandon her car approximately fifteen miles away? Where had she gone, and did she plan to return? Under what circumstances, an anxious public wondered, might she be found?

To read a comprehensive account of this strange and mysterious incident, please visit The Raven Post.

If you have an original short story or poem of a mysterious nature that you would like to share, please visit our Submissions page.

Photo credit: James Emmans, Geograph, CC BY-SA 2.0; image has been cropped and tinted

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An excerpt from the short story "The Three Sisters," by W. W. Jacobs (1863–1943)

Thirty years ago on a wet autumn evening the household of Mallett’s Lodge was gathered round the death-bed of Ursula Mallow, the eldest of the three sisters who inhabited it. The dingy moth-eaten curtains of the old wooden bedstead were drawn apart, the light of a smoking oil- lamp falling upon the hopeless countenance of the dying woman as she turned her dull eyes upon her sisters. The room was in silence except for an occasional sob from the youngest sister, Eunice. Outside the rain fell steadily over the steaming marshes.

“Nothing is to be changed, Tabitha,” gasped Ursula to the other sister, who bore a striking likeness to her although her expression was harder and colder; “this room is to be locked up and never opened.”

“Very well,” said Tabitha brusquely, “though I don’t see how it can matter to you then.”

“It does matter,” said her sister with startling energy. “How do you know, how do I know that I may not sometimes visit it? I have lived in this house so long I am certain that I shall see it again. I will come back. Come back to watch over you both and see that no harm befalls you.”

“You are talking wildly,” said Tabitha, by no means moved at her sister’s solicitude for her welfare. “Your mind is wandering; you know that I have no faith in such things.”

Ursula sighed, and beckoning to Eunice, who was weeping silently at the bedside, placed her feeble arms around her neck and kissed her.

“Do not weep, dear,” she said feebly. “Perhaps it is best so. A lonely woman’s life is scarce worth living. We have no hopes, no aspirations; other women have had happy husbands and children, but we in this forgotten place have grown old together. I go first, but you must soon follow.”

Tabitha, comfortably conscious of only forty years and an iron frame, shrugged her shoulders and smiled grimly.

“I go first,” repeated Ursula in a new and strange voice as her heavy eyes slowly closed, “but I will come for each of you in turn, when your lease of life runs out. At that moment I will be with you to lead your steps whither I now go.”

As she spoke the flickering lamp went out suddenly as though extinguished by a rapid hand, and the room was left in utter darkness. A strange suffocating noise issued from the bed, and when the trembling women had relighted the lamp, all that was left of Ursula Mallow was ready for the grave.

That night the survivors passed together. The dead woman had been a firm believer in the existence of that shadowy borderland which is said to form an unhallowed link between the living and the dead, and even the stolid Tabitha, slightly unnerved by the events of the night, was not free from certain apprehensions that she might have been right.

With the bright morning their fears disappeared. The sun stole in at the window, and seeing the poor earth-worn face on the pillow so touched it and glorified it that only its goodness and weakness were seen, and the beholders came to wonder how they could ever have felt any dread of aught so calm and peaceful ... All that was left of Ursula was placed by the father and mother who had taken that self-same journey some thirty years before.

... The bulk of the dead woman’s property had been left to Eunice, and [Tabitha's] avaricious soul was sorely troubled and her proper sisterly feelings of regret for the deceased sadly interfered with in consequence.

“What are you going to do with all that money, Eunice?” she asked as they sat at their quiet tea.

“I shall leave it as it stands,” said Eunice slowly. “We have both got sufficient to live upon, and I shall devote the income from it to supporting some beds in a children’s hospital.”

“If Ursula had wished it to go to a hospital,” said Tabitha in her deep tones, “she would have left the money to it herself. I wonder you do not respect her wishes more.”

“What else can I do with it then?” inquired Eunice.

“Save it,” said the other with gleaming eyes, “save it.”

Eunice shook her head.

“No,” said she, “it shall go to the sick children, but the principal I will not touch, and if I die before you it shall become yours and you can do what you like with it.”

“Very well,” said Tabitha, smothering her anger by a strong effort; “I don’t believe that was what Ursula meant you to do with it, and I don’t believe she will rest quietly in the grave while you squander the money she stored so carefully.”

“What do you mean?” asked Eunice with pale lips. “You are trying to frighten me; I thought that you did not believe in such things.”

Tabitha made no answer, and to avoid the anxious inquiring gaze of her sister, drew her chair to the fire, and folding her gaunt arms, composed herself for a nap.

For some time life went on quietly in the old house. The room of the dead woman, in accordance with her last desire, was kept firmly locked, its dirty windows forming a strange contrast to the prim cleanliness of the others ... As the winter came on, bringing with it the long dark evenings, the old house became more lonely than ever, and an air of mystery and dread seemed to hang over it and brood in its empty rooms and dark corridors. The deep silence of night was broken by strange noises for which neither the wind nor the rats could be held accountable. Old Martha, seated in her distant kitchen, heard strange sounds upon the stairs, and once, upon hurrying to them, fancied that she saw a dark figure squatting upon the landing, though a subsequent search with candle and spectacles failed to discover anything. Eunice was disturbed by several vague incidents, and, as she suffered from a complaint of the heart, rendered very ill by them. Even Tabitha admitted a strangeness about the house, but, confident in her piety and virtue, took no heed of it, her mind being fully employed in another direction.

Since the death of her sister all restraint upon her was removed, and she yielded herself up entirely to the stern and hard rules enforced by avarice upon its devotees. Her housekeeping expenses were kept rigidly separate from those of Eunice and her food limited to the coarsest dishes, while in the matter of clothes, the old servant was by far the better dressed. Seated alone in her bedroom this uncouth, hard-featured creature revelled in her possessions, grudging even the expense of the candle-end which enabled her to behold them. So completely did this passion change her that both Eunice and Martha became afraid of her, and lay awake in their beds night after night trembling at the chinking of the coins at her unholy vigils.

One day Eunice ventured to remonstrate. “Why don’t you bank your money, Tabitha?” she said; “it is surely not safe to keep such large sums in such a lonely house.”

“Large sums!” repeated the exasperated Tabitha, “large sums! what nonsense is this? You know well that I have barely sufficient to keep me.”

“It’s a great temptation to housebreakers,” said her sister, not pressing the point. “I made sure last night that I heard somebody in the house.”

“Did you?” said Tabitha, grasping her arm, a horrible look on her face. “So did I. I thought they went to Ursula’s room, and I got out of bed and went on the stairs to listen.”

“Well?” said Eunice faintly, fascinated by the look on her sister’s face.

“There was something there,” said Tabitha slowly. “I’ll swear it, for I stood on the landing by her door and listened; something scuffling on the floor round and round the room. At first I thought it was the cat, but when I went up there this morning the door was still locked, and the cat was in the kitchen.”

“Oh, let us leave this dreadful house,” moaned Eunice.

“What!” said her sister grimly; “afraid of poor Ursula? Why should you be? Your own sister who nursed you when you were a babe, and who perhaps even now comes and watches over your slumbers.”

“Oh!” said Eunice, pressing her hand to her side, “if I saw her I should die. I should think that she had come for me as she said she would. O God! have mercy on me, I am dying.”

She reeled as she spoke, and before Tabitha could save her, sank senseless to the floor.

“Get some water,” cried Tabitha, as old Martha came hurrying up the stairs, “Eunice has fainted.”

...It was clear to the old servant that this state of things could not last much longer, and she repeatedly urged her mistress to leave a house so lonely and so mysterious. To her great delight Eunice at length consented, despite the fierce opposition of her sister, and at the mere idea of leaving gained greatly in health and spirits. A small but comfortable house was hired in Morville, and arrangements made for a speedy change.

It was the last night in the old house, and all the wild spirits of the marshes, the wind and the sea seemed to have joined forces for one supreme effort. When the wind dropped, as it did at brief intervals, the sea was heard moaning on the distant beach, strangely mingled with the desolate warning of the bell-buoy as it rocked to the waves...

Eunice was in bed, awake. A small nightlight in a saucer of oil shed a sickly glare upon the worm-eaten old furniture, distorting the most innocent articles into ghastly shapes. A wilder gust than usual almost deprived her of the protection afforded by that poor light, and she lay listening fearfully to the creakings and other noises on the stairs, bitterly regretting that she had not asked Martha to sleep with her. But it was not too late even now. She slipped hastily to the floor, crossed to the huge wardrobe, and was in the very act of taking her dressing-gown from its peg when an unmistakable footfall was heard on the stairs. The robe dropped from her shaking fingers, and with a quickly beating heart she regained her bed.

The sounds ceased and a deep silence followed, which she herself was unable to break although she strove hard to do so. A wild gust of wind shook the windows and nearly extinguished the light, and when its flame had regained its accustomed steadiness she saw that the door was slowly opening, while the huge shadow of a hand blotted the papered wall. Still her tongue refused its office. The door flew open with a crash, a cloaked figure entered and, throwing aside its coverings, she saw with a horror past all expression the napkin-bound face of the dead Ursula smiling terribly at her. In her last extremity she raised her faded eyes above for succour, and then as the figure noiselessly advanced and laid its cold hand upon her brow, the soul of Eunice Mallow left its body with a wild shriek and made its way to the Eternal...

To read the entirety of this classic tale and bask in its ghoulish glory, please do pay a visit to The Raven Post.

To contribute your own short story to The Raven Post's library, please visit our Submissions page.

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An Abridged Excerpt from Edgar Allan Poe's "The Masque of the Red Death" (1842)

"The 'Red Death' had long devastated the country. No pestilence had ever been so fatal, or so hideous. Blood was its Avator and its seal—the redness and the horror of blood. There were sharp pains, and sudden dizziness, and then profuse bleeding at the pores, with dissolution. The scarlet stains upon the body and especially upon the face of the victim, were the pest ban which shut him out from the aid and from the sympathy of his fellow-men. And the whole seizure, progress and termination of the disease, were the incidents of half an hour.

"But the Prince Prospero was happy and dauntless and sagacious. When his dominions were half depopulated, he summoned to his presence a thousand hale and light-hearted friends from among the knights and dames of his court, and with these retired to the deep seclusion of one of his castellated abbeys … The external world could take care of itself. In the meantime it was folly to grieve, or to think. The prince had provided all the appliances of pleasure. There were buffoons, there were improvisatori, there were ballet-dancers, there were musicians, there was Beauty, there was wine. All these and security were within. Without was the 'Red Death.'

"It was toward the close of the fifth or sixth month of his seclusion, and while the pestilence raged most furiously abroad, that the Prince Prospero entertained his thousand friends at a masked ball of the most unusual magnificence.

"It was a voluptuous scene, that masquerade. But first let me tell of the rooms in which it was held. There were seven—an imperial suite … [The] windows were of stained glass whose color varied in accordance with the prevailing hue of the decorations of the chamber into which it opened. That at the eastern extremity was hung, for example, in blue—and vividly blue were its windows. The second chamber was purple in its ornaments and tapestries, and here the panes were purple. The third was green throughout, and so were the casements. The fourth was furnished and lighted with orange—the fifth with white—the sixth with violet. The seventh apartment was closely shrouded in black velvet tapestries that hung all over the ceiling and down the walls, falling in heavy folds upon a carpet of the same material and hue. But in this chamber only, the color of the windows failed to correspond with the decorations. The panes here were scarlet—a deep blood color … But in the western or black chamber the effect of the fire-light that streamed upon the dark hangings through the blood-tinted panes, was ghastly in the extreme, and produced so wild a look upon the countenances of those who entered, that there were few of the company bold enough to set foot within its precincts at all.

"It was in this apartment, also, that there stood against the western wall, a gigantic clock of ebony. Its pendulum swung to and fro with a dull, heavy, monotonous clang; and when the minute-hand made the circuit of the face, and the hour was to be stricken, there came from the brazen lungs of the clock a sound which was clear and loud and deep and exceedingly musical, but of so peculiar a note and emphasis that, at each lapse of an hour, the musicians of the orchestra were constrained to pause, momentarily, in their performance, to harken to the sound; and thus the waltzers perforce ceased their evolutions; and there was a brief disconcert of the whole gay company; and, while the chimes of the clock yet rang, it was observed that the giddiest grew pale, and the more aged and sedate passed their hands over their brows as if in confused revery or meditation. But when the echoes had fully ceased, a light laughter at once pervaded the assembly; the musicians looked at each other and smiled as if at their own nervousness and folly, and made whispering vows, each to the other, that the next chiming of the clock should produce in them no similar emotion; and then, after the lapse of sixty minutes, (which embrace three thousand and six hundred seconds of the Time that flies,) there came yet another chiming of the clock, and then were the same disconcert and tremulousness and meditation as before...

"[It] was [Prince Prospero's] own guiding taste which had given character to the masqueraders. Be sure they were grotesque. There were much glare and glitter and piquancy and phantasm ... There were arabesque figures with unsuited limbs and appointments. There were delirious fancies such as the madman fashions. There were much of the beautiful, much of the wanton, much of the bizarre, something of the terrible, and not a little of that which might have excited disgust. To and fro in the seven chambers there stalked, in fact, a multitude of dreams. And these—the dreams—writhed in and about, taking hue from the rooms, and causing the wild music of the orchestra to seem as the echo of their steps. And, anon, there strikes the ebony clock which stands in the hall of the velvet. And then, for a moment, all is still, and all is silent save the voice of the clock. The dreams are stiff-frozen as they stand. But the echoes of the chime die away—they have endured but an instant—and a light, half-subdued laughter floats after them as they depart. And now again the music swells, and the dreams live, and writhe to and fro more merrily than ever, taking hue from the many tinted windows through which stream the rays from the tripods. But to the chamber which lies most westwardly of the seven, there are now none of the maskers who venture; for the night is waning away; and there flows a ruddier light through the blood-colored panes; and the blackness of the sable drapery appals; and to him whose foot falls upon the sable carpet, there comes from the near clock of ebony a muffled peal more solemnly emphatic than any which reaches their ears who indulge in the more remote gaieties of the other apartments...

"And thus too, it happened, perhaps, that before the last echoes of the last chime had utterly sunk into silence, there were many individuals in the crowd who had found leisure to become aware of the presence of a masked figure which had arrested the attention of no single individual before. And the rumor of this new presence having spread itself whisperingly around, there arose at length from the whole company a buzz, or murmur, expressive of disapprobation and surprise—then, finally, of terror, of horror, and of disgust…

"The figure was tall and gaunt, and shrouded from head to foot in the habiliments of the grave. The mask which concealed the visage was made so nearly to resemble the countenance of a stiffened corpse that the closest scrutiny must have had difficulty in detecting the cheat. And yet all this might have been endured, if not approved, by the mad revellers around. But the mummer had gone so far as to assume the type of the Red Death. His vesture was dabbled in blood—and his broad brow, with all the features of the face, was besprinkled with the scarlet horror..."

– Edgar Allan Poe, 1842

To read the entirety of this classic tale and bask in its ghoulish glory, please do pay a visit to The Raven Post.

To contribute your own short story to The Raven Post's library, please visit our Submissions page.

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Writers, Lend an Ear (or, Rather, a Quill):

Do you have a Gothic tale dark and terrible? Or, perhaps, a twisted and tempting poem? If so, you are in luck, for those are our bread and butter—and we’re ever so hungry.

Allow us to introduce ourselves: We are the humble staff of The Raven Post, an entirely electronic anthology of ghoulish tales and grim poetry from antiquity and the present day. Within our many pages, you’ll find tales from Poe, Blackwood, Wharton, and others (including our loyal readers), as well as the occasional bit of news from our esteemed Editor-in-Chief.

We are currently seeking to grow our anthology and are thus accepting short-story and poetry submissions from writing hobbyists with a knack for the macabre and morose. If this sounds as though it’s up your (dark, grimy, and likely haunted) alley, do visit our Submissions page for further information and instruction.

Please, take a peek if you dare—we're simply dying to have you.

Warmest regards, The Raven Post Staff