(This tale was narrated by me at The Green Dragon Friday roleplaying in the Shire on 2nd February, 2024)
The Tale of the Ghost of Hugo Longbuck
(This tale forms part of a larger work in progress which I am calling ‘The Ghosts of the Shire’. For a fuller understanding of the circumstances under which the tale was told to me I would refer the reader to my ‘Introduction’ to that work.)
What I am about to tell you is a ghost story. Many such are told, but this narrative is unusual in one very particular respect. It was told to me by the ghost itself as I sat before that spirit in a locked stone chamber, lit only by candlelight. As it spoke, I wrote down all it told me, and from the notes I made in that cold and dire place, along with a little subsequent research of my own, I fashioned my tale.
In a grassy rise, half-hidden by overgrown vegetation, is set a door. It is in a place a little way east of the edge of Bindbole Wood, that dense and dangerous area of woodland which is the haunt of spiders and goblins. It lies a good way north of that sleepy stream known just as The Water, and that ancient thoroughfare the Great East Road, where it passes through the Shire. It is west of the little path that runs between the settlements at Budgeford and Scary, and quite a few miles to the south of the village of Brockenborings.
The grassy countryside thereabouts is dotted with solitary trees, in whose trunks may be found the roosts of the many bats which frequent those parts, while wild boar lurk in the bushes and tangled undergrowth. There are few residences nearby, but one might imagine that the hobbits in those parts would venture there to hunt, for game is plentiful, or to collect the wild berries and fruits that grow there, or maybe just to enjoy a stroll, basking in the beauty and breathing in the healthy fresh air of the Shire.
One might think too that the presence of that half-hidden door would arouse some curiosity in the local hobbitry, yet none who had heard the stories of that place would venture near it, by day or night. Should you, one evening, take yourself down to the Plough and Stars in Brockenborings and ask after that place it is likely that you would be met by a silence, accompanied by nervous glances, and the person you asked might make their excuses and move to another seat in the taproom. Yet, with a little persistence and prompting, and furnished with a generous supply of Halson Tubwort’s best Wooly-foot Stout, you might learn something of the accounts given by the few who had dared to approach that mysterious portal.
It had always been known by the locals as ‘Longbuck Hall’, though none knew why. For as long as any could remember there had come reports of screams and wailings heard by any hobbit going within a few hundred yards of that place, and stories too of flickering lights, or even of a ghostly figure, moving around outside the doorway. One tale tells of an especially curious and adventurous or, as some might say foolish, hobbit named Everard Twofoot. It seems that despite knowing all the stories and emboldened by having consumed several flagons of Master Tubwort’s finest, he convinced himself that a great treasure might be found within and set off to discover it for himself. It is not certain that he ever crossed that threshold, for it is said that he never again spoke a word of sense and that on his return his hair was as white as a winding sheet. In any event, in recent years none have ventured near that place save a few unsuspecting strangers. Their garbled reports, telling of a variety of terrifying experiences, only confirmed the reputation of ‘The Hall’ as somewhere to stay well away from.
Only now can I reveal to the world the secret of Longbuck Hall, told to me by the ghost which has haunted that place for many hundreds of years.
When the story begins the Longbuck family had already lived at the Hall for a number of generations and it was one of the larger smials in that region, comprising many rooms joined by tunnels which extended a good way back into the hillside. A good number of family members had once lived there, but for one reason or another only three now remained. These were the brothers, Hugo and Mungo, and their father, Adalgrim Longbuck. Sadly, the boys’ mother had passed away when they were both very young.
Adalgrim was a greatly respected member of the local community, held in high esteem by all round about. Despite his advanced years, he still held the office of honorary shirriff and helped to organise the local Bounders in their efforts to catch the bands of brigands who had been waylaying and robbing travellers on the Great East Road. He was as upright a hobbit as one could hope to meet, and he was extremely proud of the honour which attached to his family’s name. He had single-handedly raised his two boys and they were the apple of his eye. It was his greatest wish that they should maintain the high regard in which the Longbuck name was held. Hugo was the eldest, by little more than a year, and though both grew up to be strong and good-looking lads, in personality they couldn’t have been more different.
Hugo was everything his father could have hoped for. He was honest and kind, always ready to help others and to obey his father’s wishes. In every respect he behaved honourably and looked to maintain the Longbuck family’s good reputation. His brother Mungo, however, had been a wilful and disobedient child, given to temper tantrums and sullenness if he did not get his own way. In his tweens he grew wild, spending long hours in the inns round about and often staying out all night long. Often too he would ask his father for money and for a long time the old man did not have the heart to refuse him. Before long, Adalgrim began to hear stories of drunken fights, of gambling and angry debtors, and, to his great shame, complaints from the outraged fathers of innocent maidens too. It was rumoured as well that Mungo had fallen in with some very bad company and the old man fell into despair.
Once, Hugo overheard a terrible argument taking place in his father’s study. Mungo had returned to the house earlier that morning looking very much the worse for wear, presumably after another heavy night spent in some tavern or other. As their voices grew louder it became clear that Mungo had once more gone to his father to ask for gold, but that this time Adalgrim had refused him. As the door to the study flew open Hugo heard his father saying: “Not a copper coin more!” and as the red-faced and angry Mungo stormed from the burrow, he snarled this reply: “So be it. I will find the means to procure the gold for myself, then!”
Hugo did what he could to comfort his father in the days which followed, and they saw very little of Mungo who paid only occasional visits to the Hall, sometimes at dead of night. On these occasions he retired at once to his own room where he remained until he left. Hugo observed too that his brother now wore a leather scabbard from which protruded the handle of a silver dagger.
Then, one dark night, Hugo was woken by the sound of a cry outside his window, followed by a series of oaths. Recognising his brother’s voice, he assumed that he had returned from some late-night drinking and as he heard the front door opening and then closing, he thought to go back to sleep. He was intrigued though when he heard what sounded like something heavy being dragged across the hallway outside his own door and he heard his brother’s heavy breathing.
He rose from his bed and looked out into the hallway. Clearly, he was not the only one to have been disturbed for he saw his father standing outside Mungo’s closed door. As Hugo joined him there, Adalgrim thrust the door open wide and there at the centre of the room stood Mungo, a dark mask covering his face and at his feet the emptied contents of a large sack which still hung limply in his hands. There at his feet was a collection of jewellery and coins, some rich silk clothing, and fine furs.
Adalgrim’s face at first turned pale and Hugo detected for a moment an expression of deep sorrow in his father’s visage, but it quickly turned to one of anger. “Hugo, go quickly and bring the Watch to arrest this thief,” was the curt instruction. “He is no son of mine!” And with this the old hobbit turned his face away from the dumbstruck Mungo and went to his study, shutting the door behind him.
Hugo, though thrown into confusion, instinctively made to obey his father and moved towards the front door but as he did so he saw his brother spring forward and, throwing open the door, enter his father’s study, from where a series of muffled cries were at once heard. Turning back, Hugo followed and on entering the room, to his horror, he found Mungo with his hands around the old man’s throat as he held him down across his writing desk. As Adalgrim’s life slipped away, choked at the hands of his own son, Hugo snatched the heavy poker which rested next the fireplace and with a violent swing brought it down with a terrible crack upon his brother’s skull, but Mungo had seen the blow coming and had drawn the silver dagger from the scabbard at his belt. At the same moment as the fire iron split his skull, he plunged that blade deep into Hugo’s chest.
In the few moments that Hugo Longbuck, the last of his line, lay there dying next to the bodies of his father and his brother, just one thought entered his head. He imagined in that moment the shame and dishonour it would bring when the bodies were found, murdered at each others’ hands, and not far away the treasures plundered from innocent travellers on the road. He remembered too the oath he had sworn to his father to honour the family name.
So it was that in the coming days when they were missed and friends came to enquire about what had happened to the family, they were greeted with wailings and visions conjured by the ghost of Hugo Longbuck terrible enough to convince even the most curious that they really didn’t need to know. For hundreds of years the ghost has maintained his vigil that none may know his family’s secret shame – yet I believe that with the telling of this tale, it ends.
You may wonder, as I did, what prompted this sad spirit to end it now. The ghost who told his tale to me in that cold chamber was both sad and weary, for I think the realisation had come to him that none now know or care who the Longbucks were, and that the name is only spoken now to describe a haunted hall, a place to shun.
The night before I placed this tale before the world, I had a dream.
First, I saw a half-hidden door in a grassy bank, and before it stood a dark figure which I recognised, for it was that creature which had taken me to the place where the ghost told me its tale. I saw it raise its hand and as it did so it seemed that the earth above the doorway slipped and fell, covering it entirely, and new grass sprang up where the new earth had fallen, so any coming there would never guess that the entrance to an ancient smials lay concealed there.
Next in my dream came to me the shimmering form of Hugo Longbuck’s ghost. with which I had once sat for many hours as it stood before me and told me its tale. It seemed to me that it gave a slight bow before it uttered just two words – “Thank ye” – before it vanished forever.
Finally, I dreamed I heard hooves in the yard outside my burrow and when I went to look, I saw there a black pony, and sitting astride it was that emaciated hobbit servant who had attended upon me during my stay in that stone chamber where I had heard the ghost’s tale.
“My master sends you thanks,” he croaked. “Until next time!”
