Even now, gentlemen, on occasion I might be reminded  of that terrible autumn; a smell of rotting leaves, the dappled shadow of skeletal trees, crackles of frost underfoot. In that instant I’m transported back, and I suppose those memories have darkened my journey through life ever since.

The events that I am about to relate took place in late October of 1921, at a sprawling estate in the centre of Derbyshire. The darkness of the Great War was several years fading, and a fresh optimism had begun to seep into certain folds of society.

Staplefields was built in the 17^th century and was home to the Montague family. The master, Reginald Montague, had been in the process of renovating the grounds, which comprised of a rose garden, a hedged maze, two orchards, a shrubbery, a walled garden, and various lawns which surrounded the house, including several grass tennis courts. When I’d first arrived at the place I had been dismayed by the condition of the gardens, yet excited by the potential I’d sensed. The head gardener, Kenneth Travers, was a softly-spoken bachelor, ruddy faced and earnest, and I liked him instantly. The other three of us apprentices were much younger; in that first spring we transformed the shrubbery extensively, and as summer wore on the hedge maze was advancing well.

Part of my salary was offset by our lodging at a draughty cottage in the grounds of the estate, and I shared the place with the two other members of gardening staff. One morning towards the end of October we were awakened by the frantic knocking of Kenneth Travers.

He was ushered inside and we dressed quickly. It was still dark outside, although I noticed the beginnings of daylight tingeing the edges of the sky. Travers explained that we were needed urgently.

Several months before, the daughter of the house, Elaine Montague, had acquired a small cairn terrier by the name of Albie. He was quite an enthusiastic chap, fussing indiscriminately around both members of staff and family alike, much to the chagrin of the Montague seniors. He had a habit of chasing voles from along the banks of a thin river that meandered through the southern corner of the estate, and several weeks before he’d managed to trap himself in a disused barn, only faint barks alerting anyone to his whereabouts.

In the dim light of that October morning, I detected a suggestion of humour in Travis’s face as he explained the situation. The dog had been let out for his walk the previous evening by one of the man-servants. When he’d failed to return, the cursory search resulted in bewilderment because it had ended without success. Not wanting to alert anyone unduly, the man-servant had risen early the next morning in an attempt to correct his previous night’s misconduct. He couldn’t find the dog anywhere, but there was a great deal of evidence to suggest that he’d managed to get into the Strangled Garden.

There are many legends and myths surrounding a house as old as Staplefields, gentlemen. I’d learned of The Strangled Garden within days of accepting employment. Out on the far reaches of the estate, close to the perimeter of the forest stood a sunken garden. Originally a beautiful feature of the grounds, the garden was sealed off in 1839 following the mysterious disappearance of the master’s seven year old grandson, Oliver Montague. He was last seen playing in the extensive grounds of the sunken garden, which encompassed several acres of dense hedges and crowded vegetation. The pond was dredged, and an intense search took place for several weeks, all without success. Months later, the master’s obsession finally gave way to frustrated action. He believed that a dark curse had befallen the sunken garden, and he ordered the place to be walled up. A ten-foot barrier of stone was erected around the perimeter of the garden, sealing the place, as both a shrine to his lost grandson and a blight to be removed from view.

Over the years the garden had been allowed to grow unchecked. The vegetation had thickened and tangled, twisting into a grotesque choke that now towered over the top of the wall. In memory of the poor lost Oliver, a painting was commissioned, which was resolutely hung in the hallway of Staplefields. I had seen it on my rare forays inside the house; a cherubic, morbid-faced child staring down, dressed in a blue and white sailor’s suit. The artist had painted the eyes with his knowledge of doomed fate, I fancied.

There was certainly a revered hush surrounding the spot, which came to be known as The Strangled Garden, over the course of the intervening century. It was certainly a forbidding place. Strange bird calls sometimes echoed from beyond its walls and there was a permanent stench of rotting vegetation. I’d had a notion to explore the garden, not long after the commencement of my employ, but the atmosphere of dread and desolation penetrated anyone who wondered near to the walls, and I actually began to believe that the Strangled Garden was indeed cursed. Once while I was attending a wind-damaged birch on the southern part of the estate, I had a sense of someone watching me from behind. Whirling instantly I was left with the distinct impression that something had just ducked out of sight behind the wall.

So it was with a great degree of apprehension that Travers led us to the wall of the Strangled Garden on that cold October morning. The ground was hard, the meagre light glittering off the frost that coated the grass. Our head gardener carried a hurricane lantern, and he held it close to the area of the wall that the manservant had indicated. A small burrow in the grass seemed to lead under the stone base of the wall. I bent down and tried to peer below, but the darkness was too extreme. Jim, one of my fellow apprentices, balanced a wooden ladder against the wall, and I, following Travers’ gesturing, gingerly ascended the slippery rungs.

The wall ran for hundreds of feet each way. Bushes and trees sprouted fiercely above, creating an almost solid mass of tangled undergrowth. It looked impossible to penetrate. I sincerely doubted our ability to climb over the wall into the Strangled Garden, such was the density of the thorns and brambles.

Once or twice the manservant called out the dog’s name and we paused and listened, but the only sounds were the caw of birds and the whisper of wind in the trees. I scrambled down.

Being in possession of a rather cynical mind, I’d always doubted the existence of ghosts. I’d enjoyed hearing tales of spirits and spectres, and considered them a faint source of amusement. However, as Travers produced a couple of shovels and we began to dig around the base of the wall, my anxiety increased.

By the time the weak sun struggled over the eastern sky, we had widened the burrow large enough for a man to climb beneath. Our breath was visible in the cold morning air, although I felt the damp evidence of toil on my shirt. It soon became apparent that Travers, myself, and Jim were to search for the terrier inside the garden, whilst the manservant and the youngest apprentice were to remain outside in case the dog escaped through the burrow.

Travers held the hurricane lantern aloft while Jim disappeared through the hole. I took a deep breath and scrambled after him.

I drew myself up into a tight clearing, surrounded by thick walls of vine. Jim stared at me with wide-eyed fright. I smiled, attempting to allay his fear. It was almost pitch-black within the confines of the wall, and I was relieved when I glanced down and saw Travers’ arm extending up through the burrow, the lantern swinging wildly as he struggled through the narrow confine, finally emerging with a grunt of exertion.

The air was stilted and damp. Travers ushered us forward as much as was possible, the barrier of thorns seeming to press us against the cold stone of the wall. Nearby the sound of scurrying animals crackled in the undergrowth.

Travers held up the lantern and peered at Jim and me. He spoke in hushed tones, of why I was not sure. But it frightened me, nonetheless. “I’ll go along this side of the garden, you two take the other.”

“Without the light?” Jim swallowed audibly.

Travers glanced at me. “There’s two of you.”

I nodded to Jim. I was two years older than him, and I knew he looked up to me with something approaching reverence. He was a gardener because of his poor education, whereas I had chosen my career by vocation, supported by a generous allowance from my inheritance fund. Often he’d enjoyed me reading aloud in the cottage; Arthur Conan Doyle, Wilkie Collins or Dickens frequently kept us amused.

Travers turned and shuffled away, the light from the lantern casting yellow warmth through the thicket. I took the lead and edged the opposite way, feeling Jim following closely. We reached the edge and turned the corner, plunging into the darkness of the undergrowth.

We had to duck most of the way. I felt sharp thorns tear at my clothing and rake my hair. It was extremely dark beneath the confines of the garden, the vegetation above us like a thick canopy, trapping the frost within. We pushed our way through the impenetrable thicket, softly calling the dog’s name, exertion leaving us breathless.

I could hear the sounds of twigs snapping over on the far side of the garden as Travers fought his way through. The bushes and thorns separating us were so thick that the light from his hurricane lantern was not visible.

I stumbled a few times, noticing the uneven ground was at a declining gradient. Twisted roots protruded from the soil. There was a strong smell of putrid water in the air. I estimated we were heading towards the sunken pond so I tried to peer into the darkness, fearful of stumbling into the stagnant water. Jim’s ragged breathing behind me disorientated me slightly. Suddenly, from somewhere to our left, rose a weird cackling laugh, freezing my veins.

I peered into the darkness, still as a rock. The unnerving laugh echoed again, sending shivers up my frame. I suddenly felt overwhelmingly frightened as a black shape rose up, flapping dark wings in a panicked arc. The raven disturbed the air around us as we ducked, escaping through the twigged branches as it rushed free.

Silence descended upon us suddenly. I could no longer hear Travers. Behind me, Jim’s breathing was shallow and nervous.

In the darkness of the twisted foliage, between the thorns and vines of the Strangled Garden, something moved gently at the periphery of my sight. I snapped my head to the left, but the shape merged into the tangle of vegetation.

I sensed Jim had spotted something, for a low moan escaped his mouth. I glanced in the direction he was looking and saw only long grass swaying gently in the still air, as if recently disturbed. A mounting gag of panic began to itch at my scalp.

Twigs began to rustle all around us, faint cracking of branches, escalating the feeling of disorientation. It reached a peak and I suddenly felt Jim brushing against me. And then I heard, from somewhere in the thickest part of the choked garden, a rising scream.

There was a shrillness to the tone, gentlemen, which implied pure unadulterated terror. I began to push through the thorny branches as quickly as I could, unconscious of the barbs that were tearing into me. The darkness was loosening, pale light spilling through the overhead mantle, faintly illuminating the mossy ground underfoot. Blindly, I crashed through the bushes towards where I gauged the scream to have been.

At the last moment I halted, realising just in time that I was almost upon the sunken pond. Only the curling leaves betrayed their true presence, drifting idly on the surface of the fetid pool. My mind probed the notion that this was where poor Oliver Montague had met his end. Could I picture him floating face down in the water, weed encircling his pale body, grotesquely bloated in the cloth of his sailor-suit? For several minutes I poked around, realising I was holding my breath, exhaling swiftly with a gasp.

My attention was suddenly captured by an orange flame, blooming like an arc through the tangle of vegetation. I bent to peer through the brambles. The hurricane lantern lay smashed on the ground, tongues of fire lapping upward. Travers was nowhere to be seen.

Frustrated by the pond ahead of me, and a little fearful of wading through its black water, I edged my way back towards the wall. I realised suddenly that I had lost Jim.

“Jim?” My voice sounded weak in the confines of the walled garden. I ducked beneath a looping bramble and emerged back into the narrow clearing. Ahead of me a figure suddenly appeared, backing into my view. It was Jim.

He was staring at something that lay beyond my view, slowly edging backwards, wide-eyed and aghast, a severe tic flickering across his face. And then panic erupted in his body and he burst into movement, running blindly past me, crashing carelessly through the sharp thorns. Not stopping to see what had caused his terror, I followed, hysteria coursing through my own body.

By the time I had reached the perimeter of the wall, Jim was nowhere to be seen. Behind me I could hear something enormous pursuing, the crackle of twigs sounded deafening. At the wall I peered back, realising with a mounting sense of fear that the crackling noise was not something chasing, but the sound of fire spreading swiftly through the vegetation. I threw a final glimpse before finding the hole we’d dug, and disappearing into it.

The manservant and the other gardening lad, Wilfred, grasped me with chilly hands, dragging me clear of the burrow. I allowed myself to be led away, absently noting the presence of Jim, standing like a lost soul beneath an oak tree, staring at the walls of the Strangled Garden with unseeing eyes.

My body tingled with shock, gentlemen, and I’m ashamed to say that I was completely useless in the events that occurred next.

Thick plumes of smoke rose from the garden, staining the morning sky; the air was alive with crackles and pops. I remember thinking afterwards how strange it was that the flames had spread, such was the damp frostiness of the vegetation. Wilfred ran to summon help from the house.

By the time men arrived carrying buckets of water, the Sunken Garden was a raging inferno. We had to move back, watching the blaze from a distance, whilst the men tried unsuccessfully to quell the flames. Jim began laughing wildly, unhinged, pointing at the sight.

The fire totally devastated the walled garden, razing the forsaken expanse to the ground, demolishing parts of the old walls with the heat. It took hours for the blaze to die out. Nothing was left except an enormous charred square. The remains of Travers were sadly lost among the burnt remnants of trees and bushes. Albie, the terrier, appeared during the melee, yapping around our feet as we attended the blaze. His whereabouts for the previous seven hours were never established.

In the weeks following these events, reality was almost irrevocably lost. Jim’s sanity had been broken forever by whatever he had witnessed. His hair had turned snow-white overnight and he stared blankly into the middle distance, as if he was recalling something ungodly and grotesque. The doctors declared him insane, offering weakness of mind as the reason for his behaviour. He was committed to a state run asylum shortly after, where he spent the rest of his days in a slack-jawed fugue; as if the horror had damaged his mind irrevocably.

And for me? I didn’t need to witness anything physical to warp my sensibilities against things unseen. It was there in the face of my younger colleague, Jim; in his wide eyes and white hair, in the screams that echoed round that garden that morning, in the panic that snapped itself into sheer blind terror. And in something else I saw myself, which has since altered my outlook on life.

Just before I too, ran screaming from The Strangled Garden, in those final moments before panic stirred movement, I witnessed something that has haunted my nightmares ever since.