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Curse of the Moors
TOMB OF EVIL
Beautiful, tempestuous Zillah Ashland was the product of a tangled and tragic lineage. He mother had perished in the agonies of childbirth, and her father, a drunken, embittered man, had dies in the violence he embraced. Alone, in a weathered hut on the English moors, Zillah grew to womanhood.
Then she met Captain Richard Cates, a handsome, loving man, and was swept away to his sprawling, ancestral home. But just when she felt her fate had changed, Zillah was drawn into deeper terrors. For the house was a tomb of evil, and encased in its dank, dark hallways was a curse more horrible than death.
Beautiful, tempestuous Zillah Ashland was the product of a tangled and tragic lineage. He mother had perished in the agonies of childbirth, and her father, a drunken, embittered man, had dies in the violence he embraced. Alone, in a weathered hut on the English moors, Zillah grew to womanhood.
Then she met Captain Richard Cates, a handsome, loving man, and was swept away to his sprawling, ancestral home. But just when she felt her fate had changed, Zillah was drawn into deeper terrors. For the house was a tomb of evil, and encased in its dank, dark hallways was a curse more horrible than death.
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First published August 1, 1975
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February 28, 2020
Zillah Ashland had no recollection of her parents.
Her mother, Winifred Beckwith, drew her last breath when Zillah was only two days old. Her father, Tobias Ashland, unable to cope with a bawling, hungry baby, brought the baby to his mother’s place – Grandmama’s lone cottage on the moor, located five miles from the village of Byrnne.
Zillah’s grandmother proved to be a powerful in fluence in her life. He unassuming way of showing respect to others was one aspect of Grandmama’s character that Zillah was able to witness at a young age. For example, Grandmama always referred to the elderly Mr. Coombs as “Magistrate Coombs” even though the man had not held this title proper for many years. Grandmama referred to him by his title as a way to show respect, not to mention they were good friends.
Grandmama also taught Zillah a practical lesson in courage:
“Fear nothing, neither man nor beast,” was a saying she’d used often.
Grandmama was also a fine teacher who took it upon herself to educate her granddaughter on a wide range of subjects including: the names of the stars in the heavens, the plant life of the moor, reading, writing, cooking and sewing to name a few.
To the villagers, Grandmama was known for her herbal brews and ointments. The people of the village saw Grandma’s cures as “gypsy magic” and while mildly disapproving of the herbal crafts, tended to be a lot more forgiving when they needed a treatment for an ailment. Visitors would make unadvertised, somewhat tentative visits the remote cottage to get the help they required.
One day when Grandmama was visiting the magistrate, Zillah was offered tea by his wife. It was during that conversation that she informed Zillah that her father, Tobias “Toby” Ashland once lived with his family at Moorsend Manor. This surprised the girl, considering that she’s seen the manor, and had known it to have been boarded up and vacant for many years.
Zillah began to grow up and over time began having odd dreams, which she often shared with her grandmother. The older woman didn’t seem to think much of these girlish fancies. Then there was the time that a pony ran off and was gone for three days. Zillah dreamt that the pony was nibbling grass amongst Farmer Dowden’s sheep, and when they found it in that exact spot, Grandmama became serious.
“Zillah,” she said, “you must never tell another soul about that dream, or any like it, should you have another.”
“But why?” Zillah asked.
“They will brand you a witch.” She told her, explaining that while it is true that in a large city such as London, the practice of clairvoyance are all the fashion, but that the moors are different…the people here are superstitious and some believe that such practices are of the devil.”
Zillah listened to her grandmother but dismissed the villager’s opinions as silly.
Later, when she was older, Zillah was given a horse as a gift from her grandmother. She rode it regularly.
One day, when she was out riding, she came across her ancestral home Moorsend Manor. She noticed a thin wisp of smoke rising from the chimney, and that the shutters were open.
“Surely a straggler would not advertise his presence,” she thought.
She pressed close to the window, seeing a handsome young man, sitting in a chair, gazing at the ceiling while leisurely smoking. She allowed her eyes to rest on the man, imaging him a dashing pirate, (complete with the eye patch). She reacted to the sight of this striking man, her cheeks flaming along with a queer excitement that shook inside her. As she gazes through the window, a man named Malcolm Culpepper shocks her by tapping on her shoulder.
He asks her name.
“Zillah Ashland, you must be a cousin,” he declares in a good-natured tone of voice, extending his hand.
Culpepper explains that he is spending the night at Moorsend before making his way to Cambridge to read for the law. It was a one-night visit, and there was no plan to reopen the manor.
They spoke on, soon realizing that they had an aunt in common, Aunt Faith, who was known to be beautiful, fashionable and temperamental…
Malcolm explains, once again, that he’s just passing through, but that he wanted to check in on Moorsend Manor, after all, he was the owner of this estate.
“You own it, even though it is I that is an Ashland?” Zillah inquires.
“The estate is ‘entailed male’ Culpepper explains, which meant the heir could only be a male from the family.
“Would you like to go inside?” Malcolm asks.
Suddenly, Zillah is aware of her muddied, horseback riding attire, and how she would not wish to present herself to the handsome man inside while being in such an unpresentable state.
“The man I saw sitting in the room, is he a relative?” Zillah shyly inquires.
Malcolm then explains that he hardly knows the man, and that he’s just met him when they shared a train car. He’d offered him a place to sleep for the night.
“Who is he?” Zillah asks.
“His name is Richard Cates…Captain Richard Cates to be exact. He was on his way to claim his inheritance, a place called Wurthersfield.”
“Cates and Wurthersfield…” she considers, perhaps even then a small part of her sensing that those two particular names were to play a tragic part in her future…
This story was fast paced, the chapters flying by quickly. There were so many twists and turns, including: Witch-hunts, A frightening mansion, A lifesaving clairvoyance, a very odd cast of characters that were actually a staff of servants, glimpses of dark scuttling shapes, swinging nooses in unexpected places and the misty mysterious kind of features one would associate with the storied moors, one such place was called Nuncie’s Bog.
There were also several idioms and word usages that I loved, including:
“As unpopular as a weasel at a tea party.”
And…
“Fol-de-rol” predictions of exotic foreign travel and marriage to a French count.
And then there was the aspect of this story that thrilled me most. The wonderfully suspenseful scenes that are characteristic of these “Gothic Mysteries” of the 1960’s and 1970’s. Author Florence Hurd has a special talent for writing these kinds of scenes, “Curse of the Moors” was no exception.
Here’s one from this book that I particularly liked:
Zillah and her husband Richard have been living in Wuthersfield Manor, a home he inherited that had been in his family for many generations. The home, for numerous reasons, is in a state of disrepair when the newlyweds move in. There are many renovations required and more than one source of discomfort, but for Zillah, there is one particular issue that stands out in particular:
The draft and the cold.
Here’s the scene:
“The hall especially was like an icehouse. Several times I felt that particular earthy draft…
One afternoon I thought I would make the rounds of the upper regions of the house to see if there were any broken or open windows which could be sealed against the ever increasing cold. I took a lamp and went up the back Stairs. The unused portion of the house was a crazy warren of passages and rooms, shuttered, airless, smelling of dust and neglect. I had the feeling that I was the first human who had trod those creaking floorboards for at least a hundred years. Some of the rooms were completely empty, some had furnishings shrouded in yellow sheets, the carpets rolled up and pushed to a side.
One room, however, was neither shrouded nor empty. A strange, eerie room, it contained a large bed, the canopy hung with cobwebs, the silken coverlet faded and partially eaten away by rats and mice, two hardwood chests embellished with low relief designs, and a clouded, gilt framed mirror sitting on a cross legged table.
It seemed to me a girl’s, or a young woman’s room because of an array of murky glass bottles placed in front of the mirror. The coverlet on the bed was turned down, as if the occupant had been on her way to bed when something or someone had suddenly changed her mind. I wondered if this faded, decaying boudoir had once belonged to Gwendolyn Cates, the supposed witch who had cheated the hangman.
As I stood there gazing about me, I heard the wind sigh and tap upon the shuttered window and sigh again, a sigh so sad, so human it sent a shiver down my spine. A dark shadow scurried across the floor; a shadow similar to the ones which I now knew belonged to the many rats infesting the house. They and the spiders were masters here now. It made me want to weep.
Turning, I went out into the passage again and paused for a moment, trying to get my bearings. All the doors looked alike to me, the passage exactly the same as many others I had wandered through. I had the exasperated yet uneasy feeling that I was lost.
I hesitated a few moments in the silence when suddenly my ears caught the sound of a scraping hinge.
A low rusty squeak.
My heart leapt to my mouth, my eyes rolling slowly first to the left then to the right. The silence ticked; a board settled itself. Was someone behind one of those anonymous doors secretly watching me through a crack?
I thought of the girl witch who had died by her own hand and cheating the hangman, their spirits restless, forever haunting the corridors of Wuthersfield. I thought too of a host of others, people who had long ago spoken, laughed, loved, cried, slept in these rooms, people whose ghosts might resent me as an intruder, an alien.
The hinge scraped again.
A shutter creaking in the wind? Most of the shutters were in disrepair, broken, their fastenings long since rusted away. Surely that noise was made by nothing more than a shutter, I thought, my ears straining for another sound.
It came. A small indrawn breath.
Panic swept like an icy tide through my veins. I picked up my skirts and ran down the passage, taking the first staircase, stumbling downward in my haste.
I had no idea who or what was behind me; I did not wish to know. My only thought was to flee to the safety of the kitchen. As luck would have it, I missed the last step and went staggering across the landing, clutching at the opposite wall with one hand (the other grimly hanging on to the lamp) to keep from falling. To my amazement, a panel in the wall began to slowly open, revealing a drafty passage beyond.
From it came the strong scent of newly turned earth…”
Just love these settings…especially those that take place in long forgotten, unused and neglected wings of large mansions such as this one. The whole idea of visiting indoor places that no one may have occupied, or even walked through in decades intrigues me. What untold stories lay within the walls of these rooms; what clues are hidden inside these corridors? What evidence of the past generations of owners can be found in such places? And if the person exploring these unknown corners of a home are relatives of past owners, how can these places help them to connect to these ancestors?
Lastly, what frightening experience for the seeker to tread upon these long-forgotten halls and rooms, especially when no one else has the courage to so?
For me, such an important element of true “Gothic Mysteries” of this era. And once again, Florence Hurd did not disappoint!
The final chapters held me in their intriguing grasp, right to the finish. This is my second Florence Hurd book, the first being the exceptional, “Terror at Seacliff Pines.”
I’ll be seeking out more of her work.
A fill five stars!
Her mother, Winifred Beckwith, drew her last breath when Zillah was only two days old. Her father, Tobias Ashland, unable to cope with a bawling, hungry baby, brought the baby to his mother’s place – Grandmama’s lone cottage on the moor, located five miles from the village of Byrnne.
Zillah’s grandmother proved to be a powerful in fluence in her life. He unassuming way of showing respect to others was one aspect of Grandmama’s character that Zillah was able to witness at a young age. For example, Grandmama always referred to the elderly Mr. Coombs as “Magistrate Coombs” even though the man had not held this title proper for many years. Grandmama referred to him by his title as a way to show respect, not to mention they were good friends.
Grandmama also taught Zillah a practical lesson in courage:
“Fear nothing, neither man nor beast,” was a saying she’d used often.
Grandmama was also a fine teacher who took it upon herself to educate her granddaughter on a wide range of subjects including: the names of the stars in the heavens, the plant life of the moor, reading, writing, cooking and sewing to name a few.
To the villagers, Grandmama was known for her herbal brews and ointments. The people of the village saw Grandma’s cures as “gypsy magic” and while mildly disapproving of the herbal crafts, tended to be a lot more forgiving when they needed a treatment for an ailment. Visitors would make unadvertised, somewhat tentative visits the remote cottage to get the help they required.
One day when Grandmama was visiting the magistrate, Zillah was offered tea by his wife. It was during that conversation that she informed Zillah that her father, Tobias “Toby” Ashland once lived with his family at Moorsend Manor. This surprised the girl, considering that she’s seen the manor, and had known it to have been boarded up and vacant for many years.
Zillah began to grow up and over time began having odd dreams, which she often shared with her grandmother. The older woman didn’t seem to think much of these girlish fancies. Then there was the time that a pony ran off and was gone for three days. Zillah dreamt that the pony was nibbling grass amongst Farmer Dowden’s sheep, and when they found it in that exact spot, Grandmama became serious.
“Zillah,” she said, “you must never tell another soul about that dream, or any like it, should you have another.”
“But why?” Zillah asked.
“They will brand you a witch.” She told her, explaining that while it is true that in a large city such as London, the practice of clairvoyance are all the fashion, but that the moors are different…the people here are superstitious and some believe that such practices are of the devil.”
Zillah listened to her grandmother but dismissed the villager’s opinions as silly.
Later, when she was older, Zillah was given a horse as a gift from her grandmother. She rode it regularly.
One day, when she was out riding, she came across her ancestral home Moorsend Manor. She noticed a thin wisp of smoke rising from the chimney, and that the shutters were open.
“Surely a straggler would not advertise his presence,” she thought.
She pressed close to the window, seeing a handsome young man, sitting in a chair, gazing at the ceiling while leisurely smoking. She allowed her eyes to rest on the man, imaging him a dashing pirate, (complete with the eye patch). She reacted to the sight of this striking man, her cheeks flaming along with a queer excitement that shook inside her. As she gazes through the window, a man named Malcolm Culpepper shocks her by tapping on her shoulder.
He asks her name.
“Zillah Ashland, you must be a cousin,” he declares in a good-natured tone of voice, extending his hand.
Culpepper explains that he is spending the night at Moorsend before making his way to Cambridge to read for the law. It was a one-night visit, and there was no plan to reopen the manor.
They spoke on, soon realizing that they had an aunt in common, Aunt Faith, who was known to be beautiful, fashionable and temperamental…
Malcolm explains, once again, that he’s just passing through, but that he wanted to check in on Moorsend Manor, after all, he was the owner of this estate.
“You own it, even though it is I that is an Ashland?” Zillah inquires.
“The estate is ‘entailed male’ Culpepper explains, which meant the heir could only be a male from the family.
“Would you like to go inside?” Malcolm asks.
Suddenly, Zillah is aware of her muddied, horseback riding attire, and how she would not wish to present herself to the handsome man inside while being in such an unpresentable state.
“The man I saw sitting in the room, is he a relative?” Zillah shyly inquires.
Malcolm then explains that he hardly knows the man, and that he’s just met him when they shared a train car. He’d offered him a place to sleep for the night.
“Who is he?” Zillah asks.
“His name is Richard Cates…Captain Richard Cates to be exact. He was on his way to claim his inheritance, a place called Wurthersfield.”
“Cates and Wurthersfield…” she considers, perhaps even then a small part of her sensing that those two particular names were to play a tragic part in her future…
This story was fast paced, the chapters flying by quickly. There were so many twists and turns, including: Witch-hunts, A frightening mansion, A lifesaving clairvoyance, a very odd cast of characters that were actually a staff of servants, glimpses of dark scuttling shapes, swinging nooses in unexpected places and the misty mysterious kind of features one would associate with the storied moors, one such place was called Nuncie’s Bog.
There were also several idioms and word usages that I loved, including:
“As unpopular as a weasel at a tea party.”
And…
“Fol-de-rol” predictions of exotic foreign travel and marriage to a French count.
And then there was the aspect of this story that thrilled me most. The wonderfully suspenseful scenes that are characteristic of these “Gothic Mysteries” of the 1960’s and 1970’s. Author Florence Hurd has a special talent for writing these kinds of scenes, “Curse of the Moors” was no exception.
Here’s one from this book that I particularly liked:
Zillah and her husband Richard have been living in Wuthersfield Manor, a home he inherited that had been in his family for many generations. The home, for numerous reasons, is in a state of disrepair when the newlyweds move in. There are many renovations required and more than one source of discomfort, but for Zillah, there is one particular issue that stands out in particular:
The draft and the cold.
Here’s the scene:
“The hall especially was like an icehouse. Several times I felt that particular earthy draft…
One afternoon I thought I would make the rounds of the upper regions of the house to see if there were any broken or open windows which could be sealed against the ever increasing cold. I took a lamp and went up the back Stairs. The unused portion of the house was a crazy warren of passages and rooms, shuttered, airless, smelling of dust and neglect. I had the feeling that I was the first human who had trod those creaking floorboards for at least a hundred years. Some of the rooms were completely empty, some had furnishings shrouded in yellow sheets, the carpets rolled up and pushed to a side.
One room, however, was neither shrouded nor empty. A strange, eerie room, it contained a large bed, the canopy hung with cobwebs, the silken coverlet faded and partially eaten away by rats and mice, two hardwood chests embellished with low relief designs, and a clouded, gilt framed mirror sitting on a cross legged table.
It seemed to me a girl’s, or a young woman’s room because of an array of murky glass bottles placed in front of the mirror. The coverlet on the bed was turned down, as if the occupant had been on her way to bed when something or someone had suddenly changed her mind. I wondered if this faded, decaying boudoir had once belonged to Gwendolyn Cates, the supposed witch who had cheated the hangman.
As I stood there gazing about me, I heard the wind sigh and tap upon the shuttered window and sigh again, a sigh so sad, so human it sent a shiver down my spine. A dark shadow scurried across the floor; a shadow similar to the ones which I now knew belonged to the many rats infesting the house. They and the spiders were masters here now. It made me want to weep.
Turning, I went out into the passage again and paused for a moment, trying to get my bearings. All the doors looked alike to me, the passage exactly the same as many others I had wandered through. I had the exasperated yet uneasy feeling that I was lost.
I hesitated a few moments in the silence when suddenly my ears caught the sound of a scraping hinge.
A low rusty squeak.
My heart leapt to my mouth, my eyes rolling slowly first to the left then to the right. The silence ticked; a board settled itself. Was someone behind one of those anonymous doors secretly watching me through a crack?
I thought of the girl witch who had died by her own hand and cheating the hangman, their spirits restless, forever haunting the corridors of Wuthersfield. I thought too of a host of others, people who had long ago spoken, laughed, loved, cried, slept in these rooms, people whose ghosts might resent me as an intruder, an alien.
The hinge scraped again.
A shutter creaking in the wind? Most of the shutters were in disrepair, broken, their fastenings long since rusted away. Surely that noise was made by nothing more than a shutter, I thought, my ears straining for another sound.
It came. A small indrawn breath.
Panic swept like an icy tide through my veins. I picked up my skirts and ran down the passage, taking the first staircase, stumbling downward in my haste.
I had no idea who or what was behind me; I did not wish to know. My only thought was to flee to the safety of the kitchen. As luck would have it, I missed the last step and went staggering across the landing, clutching at the opposite wall with one hand (the other grimly hanging on to the lamp) to keep from falling. To my amazement, a panel in the wall began to slowly open, revealing a drafty passage beyond.
From it came the strong scent of newly turned earth…”
Just love these settings…especially those that take place in long forgotten, unused and neglected wings of large mansions such as this one. The whole idea of visiting indoor places that no one may have occupied, or even walked through in decades intrigues me. What untold stories lay within the walls of these rooms; what clues are hidden inside these corridors? What evidence of the past generations of owners can be found in such places? And if the person exploring these unknown corners of a home are relatives of past owners, how can these places help them to connect to these ancestors?
Lastly, what frightening experience for the seeker to tread upon these long-forgotten halls and rooms, especially when no one else has the courage to so?
For me, such an important element of true “Gothic Mysteries” of this era. And once again, Florence Hurd did not disappoint!
The final chapters held me in their intriguing grasp, right to the finish. This is my second Florence Hurd book, the first being the exceptional, “Terror at Seacliff Pines.”
I’ll be seeking out more of her work.
A fill five stars!
July 13, 2019
As many already know(from my constant bitching), this finally went below $10, but never arrived. I was bummed, because it's been 6+ years trying to get an affordable copy on paperback. I found another on EBay for $14 and went with it. It arrived in no time, beautifully packaged in balloon wrapping paper, a silken white bow, and a note that read something to the effect of: I hope you enjoy this book as much as I did. I thought I would keep my books FOREVER, but...... (assuming the further explanation meant she had to downgrade due to space?), and it was so saddening, because I've been there, but for other reasons. Anyhow, when I begin digitizing, it'll be this golden nugget(all out of royalties), because of its insane price AND, hopefully, I can send an e-copy to the seller. Another relic of hers, price of diamonds in a queen's cache, Moorsend Manor, was equally outrageous and had been on my radar for 6+ years likewise. I love Moors themes, and all that entails. With Florence Hurd, AKA Fiona Harrowe & Flora Hiller; with her spurs earned in bodice rippers under those pseudonyms, I knew these two held the post potential for beloved settings, characterization, and Gothic thrillz. I read her literal family legacy Gothic, Legacy and thought it was truly epic. Also, I don't like generational sagas, either, but somehow they're acceptable in her writing styles. With a lot of her Gothics and BRs being generational sagas, and I'm surprised that Moorsend Manor & Curse of the Moors weren't as well. They're actually stand-alone, but originate from the same Ashland family. It wasn't even suggested that they were books #1 & #2.
As for Curse of the Moors itself(sorry I got distracted by embellishing the author and my hefty love for her BRs/work), I enjoyed it immensely and read up till 2 a.m. till I finished it. It scared me shitless! It had an psychological thriller overlay that you couldn't shake off. It started off with engaging Foreshadowing that entices, instead of hints; the speckled through Foreshadowing to me the better, because I HAVE TO KNOW! So few I've read bring it to justice, because that fine line between Little Did He Know skating to flimsy suspense. Two of the books that stand out as foreshadowing masterpieces are Sweet Jael & Domino, and it's so rare, I think, that authors can execute that tantalizing device to lure me in. Legacy also maintained Foreshadowing, but not overwhelming the story as the generational theme introduced each new heroine and her own Foreshadowing piecemeal.
As for Curse of the Moors itself(sorry I got distracted by embellishing the author and my hefty love for her BRs/work), I enjoyed it immensely and read up till 2 a.m. till I finished it. It scared me shitless! It had an psychological thriller overlay that you couldn't shake off. It started off with engaging Foreshadowing that entices, instead of hints; the speckled through Foreshadowing to me the better, because I HAVE TO KNOW! So few I've read bring it to justice, because that fine line between Little Did He Know skating to flimsy suspense. Two of the books that stand out as foreshadowing masterpieces are Sweet Jael & Domino, and it's so rare, I think, that authors can execute that tantalizing device to lure me in. Legacy also maintained Foreshadowing, but not overwhelming the story as the generational theme introduced each new heroine and her own Foreshadowing piecemeal.
July 7, 2023
A very nicely written gothic romance evoking a deep sense of poinancy in me. Very much like a tragic lovestory ruined by misunderstandings, enemies, and murder. Though at times the killer/culprits were too obvious in my opinion, the revealed motive behind the horrific happenings was surprising. Nonetheless, I will definitively read more books by this writer.
Displaying 1 - 4 of 4 reviews