{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_20034/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_20034","id":"gutenberg_20034","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/20034","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Short Stories","Folklore -- Scotland","Ghost stories, Scottish","Horror"],"text":"Produced by Jeannie Howse and the Online Distributed Proofreading\nTeam at https://www.pgdp.net\n\n\n\n\n\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n    +-----------------------------------------------------------+\n    | Transcriber's Note:                                       |\n    |                                                           |\n    | Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original     |\n    | document has been preserved.                              |\n    |                                                           |\n    | Obvious typographical errors have been corrected in this  |\n    | text. For a complete list, please see the end of this     |\n    | document.                                                 |\n    |                                                           |\n    +-----------------------------------------------------------+\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n\n                         SCOTTISH\n                      GHOST STORIES\n\n                            BY\n\n                    ELLIOTT O'DONNELL\n\n                        AUTHOR OF\n        \"SOME HAUNTED HOUSES OF ENGLAND AND WALES\"\n      \"HAUNTED HOUSES OF LONDON\" \"GHOSTLY PHENOMENA\"\n     \"TRUE GHOST STORIES\" \"DREAMS AND THEIR MEANINGS\"\n                        ETC. ETC.\n\n\n\n                         LONDON:\n          KEGAN PAUL, TRENCH, TRUeBNER & CO. LTD.\n                           1911\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\nCASE                                                         PAGE\n   I. THE DEATH BOGLE OF THE CROSS ROADS, AND THE\n        INEXTINGUISHABLE CANDLE OF THE OLD WHITE HOUSE,\n        PITLOCHRY                                               1\n\n  II. THE TOP ATTIC IN PRINGLE'S MANSION, EDINBURGH            25\n\n III. THE BOUNDING FIGURE OF \"---- HOUSE,\" NEAR BUCKINGHAM\n        TERRACE, EDINBURGH                                     41\n\n  IV. JANE OF GEORGE STREET, EDINBURGH                         55\n\n   V. THE SALLOW-FACED WOMAN OF NO. -- FORREST ROAD,\n        EDINBURGH                                              69\n\n  VI. THE PHANTOM REGIMENT OF KILLIECRANKIE                    91\n\n VII. \"PEARLIN' JEAN\" OF ALLANBANK                            105\n\nVIII. THE DRUMMER OF CORTACHY                                 117\n\n  IX. THE ROOM BEYOND. AN ACCOUNT OF THE HAUNTINGS OF\n        HENNERSLEY, NEAR AYR                                  135\n\n   X. \"---- HOUSE,\" NEAR BLYTHSWOOD SQUARE, GLASGOW. THE\n        HAUNTED BATH                                          159\n\n  XI. THE CHOKING GHOST OF \"---- HOUSE,\" NEAR SANDYFORD\n        PLACE, GLASGOW                                        173\n\n XII. THE GREY PIPER AND THE HEAVY COACH OF DONALDGOWERIE\n        HOUSE, PERTH                                          189\n\nXIII. THE FLOATING HEAD OF THE BENRACHETT INN, NEAR THE\n        PERTH ROAD, DUNDEE                                    211\n\n XIV. THE HAUNTINGS OF \"---- HOUSE,\" IN THE NEIGHBOURHOOD\n        OF THE GREAT WESTERN ROAD, ABERDEEN                   225\n\n  XV. THE WHITE LADY OF ROWNAM AVENUE, NEAR STIRLING          237\n\n XVI. THE GHOST OF THE HINDOO CHILD, OR THE HAUNTINGS OF\n        THE WHITE DOVE HOTEL, NEAR ST. SWITHIN'S STREET,\n        ABERDEEN                                              251\n\nXVII. GLAMIS CASTLE                                           263\n\n\n\n\n                          CASE I\n\n    THE DEATH BOGLE OF THE CROSS ROADS, AND THE\n      INEXTINGUISHABLE CANDLE OF THE OLD WHITE\n      HOUSE, PITLOCHRY\n\n\nSeveral years ago, bent on revisiting Perthshire, a locality which had\ngreat attractions for me as a boy, I answered an advertisement in a\npopular ladies' weekly. As far as I can recollect, it was somewhat to\nthis effect: \"Comfortable home offered to a gentleman (a bachelor) at\nmoderate terms in an elderly Highland lady's house at Pitlochry. Must\nbe a strict teetotaller and non-smoker. F.M., Box so-and-so.\"\n\nThe naivete and originality of the advertisement pleased me. The idea\nof obtaining as a boarder a young man combining such virtues as\nabstinence from alcohol and tobacco amused me vastly. And then a\nbachelor, too! Did she mean to make love to him herself? The sly old\nthing! She took care to insert the epithet \"elderly,\" in order to\navoid suspicion; and there was no doubt about it--she thirsted for\nmatrimony. Being \"tabooed\" by all the men who had even as much as\ncaught a passing glimpse of her, this was her last resource--she would\nentrap some unwary stranger, a man with money of course, and inveigle\nhim into marrying her. And there rose up before me visions of a tall,\nangular, forty-year-old Scottish spinster, with high cheek-bones,\nvirulent, sandy hair, and brawny arms--the sort of woman that ought\nnot to have been a woman at all--the sort that sets all my teeth on\nedge. Yet it was Pitlochry, heavenly Pitlochry, and there was no one\nelse advertising in that town. That I should suit her in every respect\nbut the matrimonial, I did not doubt. I can pass muster in any company\nas a teetotaller; I abominate tobacco (leastways it abominates me,\nwhich amounts to much about the same thing), and I am, or rather I can\nbe, tolerably amenable, if my surroundings are not positively\ninfernal, and there are no County Council children within shooting\ndistance.\n\nBut for once my instincts were all wrong. The advertiser--a Miss Flora\nMacdonald of \"Donald Murray House\"--did _not_ resemble my\npreconception of her in any respect. She was of medium height, and\ndainty build--a fairy-like creature clad in rustling silks, with wavy,\nwhite hair, bright, blue eyes, straight, delicate features, and hands,\nthe shape and slenderness of which at once pronounced her a psychic.\nShe greeted me with all the stately courtesy of the Old School; my\nportmanteau was taken upstairs by a solemn-eyed lad in the Macdonald\ntartan; and the tea bell rang me down to a most appetising repast of\nstrawberries and cream, scones, and delicious buttered toast. I fell\nin love with my hostess--it would be sheer sacrilege to designate such\na divine creature by the vulgar term of \"landlady\"--at once. When\none's impressions of a place are at first exalted, they are often,\nlater on, apt to become equally abased. In this case, however, it was\notherwise. My appreciation both of Miss Flora Macdonald and of her\nhouse daily increased. The food was all that could be desired, and my\nbedroom, sweet with the perfume of jasmine and roses, presented such\na picture of dainty cleanliness, as awakened in me feelings of shame,\nthat it should be defiled by all my dusty, travel-worn accoutrements.\nI flatter myself that Miss Macdonald liked me also. That she did not\nregard me altogether as one of the common herd was doubtless, in some\ndegree, due to the fact that she was a Jacobite; and in a discussion\non the associations of her romantic namesake, \"Flora Macdonald,\" with\nPerthshire, it leaked out that our respective ancestors had commanded\nbattalions in Louis XIV.'s far-famed Scottish and Irish Brigades. That\ndiscovery bridged gulfs. We were no longer payer and paid--we were\nfriends--friends for life.\n\nA lump comes into my throat as I pen these words, for it is only a\nshort time since I heard of her death.\n\nA week or so after I had settled in her home, I took, at her\nsuggestion, a rest (and, I quite agree with her, it was a very\nnecessary rest) from my writing, and spent the day on Loch Tay,\nleaving again for \"Donald Murray House\" at seven o'clock in the\nevening. It was a brilliant, moonlight night. Not a cloud in the sky,\nand the landscape stood out almost as clearly as in the daytime. I\ncycled, and after a hard but thoroughly enjoyable spell of pedalling,\neventually came to a standstill on the high road, a mile or two from\nthe first lights of Pitlochry. I halted, not through fatigue, for I\nwas almost as fresh as when I started, but because I was entranced\nwith the delightful atmosphere, and wanted to draw in a few really\ndeep draughts of it before turning into bed. My halting-place was on a\ntriangular plot of grass at the junction of four roads. I propped my\nmachine against a hedge, and stood with my back leaning against a\nsign-post, and my face in the direction whence I had come. I remained\nin this attitude for some minutes, probably ten, and was about to\nremount my bicycle, when I suddenly became icy cold, and a frightful,\nhideous terror seized and gripped me so hard, that the machine,\nslipping from my palsied hands, fell to the ground with a crash. The\nnext instant something--for the life of me I knew not what, its\noutline was so blurred and indefinite--alighted on the open space in\nfront of me with a soft thud, and remained standing as bolt upright\nas a cylindrical pillar. From afar off, there then came the low rumble\nof wheels, which momentarily grew in intensity, until there thundered\ninto view a waggon, weighed down beneath a monstrous stack of hay, on\nthe top of which sat a man in a wide-brimmed straw hat, engaged in a\ndeep confabulation with a boy in corduroys who sprawled beside him.\nThe horse, catching sight of the motionless \"thing\" opposite me, at\nonce stood still and snorted violently. The man cried out, \"Hey! hey!\nWhat's the matter with ye, beast?\" And then in an hysterical kind of\nscreech, \"Great God! What's yon figure that I see? What's yon figure,\nTammas?\"\n\nThe boy immediately raised himself into a kneeling position, and,\nclutching hold of the man's arm, screamed, \"I dinna ken, I dinna ken,\nMatthew; but take heed, mon, it does na touch me. It's me it's come\nafter, na ye.\"\n\nThe moonlight was so strong that the faces of the speakers were\nrevealed to me with extraordinary vividness, and their horrified\nexpressions were even more startling than was the silent, ghastly\nfigure of the Unknown. The scene comes back to me, here, in my little\nroom in Norwood, with its every detail as clearly marked as on the\nnight it was first enacted. The long range of cone-shaped mountains,\ndarkly silhouetted against the silvery sky, and seemingly hushed in\ngaping expectancy; the shining, scaly surface of some far-off tarn or\nriver, perceptible only at intervals, owing to the thick clusters of\ngently nodding pines; the white-washed walls of cottages, glistening\namid the dark green denseness of the thickly leaved box trees, and the\nlight, feathery foliage of the golden laburnum; the undulating\nmeadows, besprinkled with gorse and grotesquely moulded crags of\ngranite; the white, the dazzling white roads, saturated with\nmoonbeams; all--all were overwhelmed with stillness--the stillness\nthat belongs, and belongs only, to the mountains, and trees, and\nplains--the stillness of shadowland. I even counted the buttons, the\nhorn buttons, on the rustics' coats--one was missing from the man's,\ntwo from the boy's; and I even noted the sweat-stains under the\narmpits of Matthew's shirt, and the dents and tears in Tammas's soft\nwideawake. I observed all these trivialities and more besides. I saw\nthe abrupt rising and falling of the man's chest as his breath came in\nsharp jerks; the stream of dirty saliva that oozed from between his\nblackberry-stained lips and dribbled down his chin; I saw their\nhands--the man's, square-fingered, black-nailed, big-veined, shining\nwith perspiration and clutching grimly at the reins; the boy's,\nsmaller, and if anything rather more grimy--the one pressed flat down\non the hay, the other extended in front of him, the palm stretched\noutwards and all the fingers widely apart.\n\nAnd while these minute particulars were being driven into my soul, the\ncause of it all--the indefinable, esoteric column--stood silent and\nmotionless over-against the hedge, a baleful glow emanating from it.\n\nThe horse suddenly broke the spell. Dashing its head forward, it broke\noff at a gallop, and, tearing frantically past the phantasm, went\nhelter-skelter down the road to my left. I then saw Tammas turning a\nsomersault, miraculously saved from falling head first on to the\nroad, by rebounding from the pitchfork which had been wedged upright\nin the hay, whilst the figure, which followed in their wake with\nprodigious bounds, was apparently trying to get at him with its\nspidery arms. But whether it succeeded or not I cannot say, for I was\nso uncontrollably fearful lest it should return to me, that I mounted\nmy bicycle and rode as I had never ridden before and have never ridden\nsince.\n\nI described the incident to Miss Macdonald on my return. She looked\nvery serious.\n\n\"It was stupid of me not to have warned you,\" she said. \"That that\nparticular spot in the road has always--at least ever since I can\nremember--borne the reputation of being haunted. None of the peasants\nround here will venture within a mile of it after twilight, so the\ncarters you saw must have been strangers. No one has ever seen the\nghost except in the misty form in which it appeared to you. It does\nnot frequent the place every night; it only appears periodically; and\nits method never varies. It leaps over a wall or hedge, remains\nstationary till some one approaches, and then pursues them with\nmonstrous springs. The person it touches invariably dies within a\nyear. I well recollect when I was in my teens, on just such a night as\nthis, driving home with my father from Lady Colin Ferner's croquet\nparty at Blair Atholl. When we got to the spot you name, the horse\nshied, and before I could realise what had happened, we were racing\nhome at a terrific pace. My father and I sat in front, and the groom,\na Highland boy from the valley of Ben-y-gloe, behind. Never having\nseen my father frightened, his agitation now alarmed me horribly, and\nthe more so as my instinct told me it was caused by something other\nthan the mere bolting of the horse. I was soon enlightened. A gigantic\nfigure, with leaps and bounds, suddenly overtook us, and, thrusting\nout its long, thin arms, touched my father lightly on the hand, and\nthen with a harsh cry, more like that of some strange animal than that\nof a human being, disappeared. Neither of us spoke till we reached\nhome,--I did not live here then, but in a house on the other side of\nPitlochry,--when my father, who was still as white as a sheet, took me\naside and whispered, 'Whatever you do, Flora, don't breathe a word of\nwhat has happened to your mother, and never let her go along that road\nat night. It was the death bogle. I shall die within twelve months.'\nAnd he did.\"\n\nMiss Macdonald paused. A brief silence ensued, and she then went on\nwith all her customary briskness: \"I cannot describe the thing any\nmore than you can, except that it gave me the impression it had no\neyes. But what it was, whether the ghost of a man, woman, or some\npeculiar beast, I could not, for the life of me, tell. Now, Mr.\nO'Donnell, have you had enough horrors for one evening, or would you\nlike to hear just one more?\"\n\nKnowing that sleep was utterly out of the question, and that one or\ntwo more thrills would make very little difference to my already\nshattered nerves, I replied that I would listen eagerly to anything\nshe could tell me, however horrible. My permission thus gained--and\ngained so readily--Miss Macdonald, not without, I noticed, one or two\napprehensive glances at the slightly rustling curtains, began her\nnarrative, which ran, as nearly as I can remember, as follows:--\n\n\"After my father's death, I told my mother about our adventure the\nnight we drove home from Lady Colin Ferner's party, and asked her if\nshe remembered ever having heard anything that could possibly account\nfor the phenomenon. After a few moments' reflection, this is the story\nshe told me:--\n\n\nTHE INEXTINGUISHABLE CANDLE OF THE OLD WHITE HOUSE\n\nThere was once a house, known as \"The Old White House,\" that used to\nstand by the side of the road, close to where you say the horse first\ntook fright. Some people of the name of Holkitt, relations of dear old\nSir Arthur Holkitt, and great friends of ours, used to live there. The\nhouse, it was popularly believed, had been built on the site of an\nancient burial-ground. Every one used to say it was haunted, and the\nHolkitts had great trouble in getting servants. The appearance of the\nhaunted house did not belie its reputation, for its grey walls, sombre\ngarden, gloomy hall, dark passages and staircase, and sinister-looking\nattics could not have been more thoroughly suggestive of all kinds of\nghostly phenomena. Moreover, the whole atmosphere of the place, no\nmatter how hot and bright the sun, was cold and dreary, and it was a\nconstant source of wonder to every one how Lady Holkitt could live\nthere. She was, however, always cheerful, and used to tell me that\nnothing would induce her to leave a spot dear to so many generations\nof her family, and associated with the happiest recollections in her\nlife. She was very fond of company, and there was scarcely a week in\nthe year in which she had not some one staying with her. I can only\nremember her as widow, her husband, a major in the Gordon Highlanders,\nhaving died in India before I was born. She had two daughters,\nMargaret and Alice, both considered very handsome, but some years\nolder than I. This difference in age, however, did not prevent our\nbeing on very friendly terms, and I was constantly invited to their\nhouse--in the summer to croquet and archery, in the winter to balls.\nLike most elderly ladies of that period, Lady Holkitt was very fond of\ncards, and she and my mother used frequently to play bezique and\ncribbage, whilst the girls and I indulged in something rather more\nfrivolous. On those occasions the carriage always came for us at ten,\nsince my mother, for some reason or other--I had a shrewd suspicion it\nwas on account of the alleged haunting--would never return home after\nthat time. When she accepted an invitation to a ball, it was always\nconditionally that Lady Holkitt would put us both up for the night,\nand the carriage used, then, to come for us the following day, after\none o'clock luncheon. I shall never forget the last time I went to a\ndance at \"The Old White House,\" though it is now rather more than\nfifty years ago. My mother had not been very well for some weeks,\nhaving, so she thought, taken cold internally. She had not had a\ndoctor, partly because she did not feel ill enough, and partly because\nthe only medical man near us was an apothecary, of whose skill she had\na very poor opinion. My mother had quite made up her mind to accompany\nme to the ball, but at the last moment, the weather being appalling,\nshe yielded to advice, and my aunt Norah, who happened to be staying\nwith us at the time, chaperoned me instead. It was snowing when we\nset out, and as it snowed all through the night and most of the next\nday, the roads were completely blocked, and we had to remain at \"The\nOld White House\" from Monday evening till the following Thursday. Aunt\nNorah and I occupied separate bedrooms, and mine was at the end of a\nlong passage away from everybody else's. Prior to this my mother and I\nhad always shared a room--the only really pleasant one, so I thought,\nin the house--overlooking the front lawn. But on this occasion there\nbeing a number of visitors, belated like ourselves, we had to squeeze\nin wherever we could; and as my aunt and I were to have separate rooms\n(my aunt liking a room to herself), it was natural that she should be\nallotted the largest and most comfortable. Consequently, she was\ndomiciled in the wing where all the other visitors slept, whilst I was\nforced to retreat to a passage on the other side of the house, where,\nwith the exception of my apartment, there were none other but\nlumber-rooms. All went smoothly and happily, and nothing interrupted\nthe harmony of our visit, till the night before we returned home. We\nhad had supper--our meals were differently arranged in those days--and\nMargaret and I were ascending the staircase on our way to bed, when\nAlice, who had run upstairs ahead of us, met us with a scared face.\n\n\"Oh, do come to my room!\" she cried. \"Something has happened to Mary.\"\n(Mary was one of the housemaids.)\n\nWe both accompanied her, and, on entering her room, found Mary seated\non a chair, sobbing hysterically. One only had to glance at the girl\nto see that she was suffering from some very severe shock. Though\nnormally red-cheeked and placid, in short, a very healthy, stolid\ncreature, and the last person to be easily perturbed, she was now\nwithout a vestige of colour, whilst the pupils of her eyes were\ndilated with terror, and her entire body, from the crown of her head\nto the soles of her feet, shook as if with ague. I was immeasurably\nshocked to see her.\n\n\"Why, Mary,\" Margaret exclaimed, \"whatever is the matter? What has\nhappened?\"\n\n\"It's the candle, miss,\" the girl gasped, \"the candle in Miss Trevor's\nroom. I can't put it out.\"\n\n\"You can't put it out, why, what nonsense!\" Margaret said. \"Are you\nmad?\"\n\n\"It is as true as I sit here, miss,\" Mary panted. \"I put the candle on\nthe mantelpiece while I set the room to rights, and when I had\nfinished and came to blow it out, I couldn't. I blew, and blew, and\nblew, but it hadn't any effect, and then I grew afraid, miss, horribly\nafraid,\" and here she buried her face in her hands, and shuddered.\n\"I've never been frightened like this before, miss,\" she returned\nslowly, \"and I've come away and left the candle burning.\"\n\n\"How absurd of you,\" Margaret scolded. \"We must go and put it out at\nonce. I have a good mind to make you come with us, Mary--but there!\nStay where you are, and for goodness' sake stop crying, or every one\nin the house will hear you.\"\n\nSo saying, Margaret hurried off,--Alice and I accompanying her,--and\non arriving outside my room, the door of which was wide open, we\nperceived the lighted candle standing in the position Mary had\ndescribed. I looked at the girls, and perceived, in spite of my\nendeavours not to perceive it, the unmistakable signs of a great\nfear--fear of something they suspected but dared not name--lurking in\nthe corners of their eyes.\n\n\"Who will go first?\" Margaret demanded. No one spoke.\n\n\"Well then,\" she continued, \"I will,\" and, suiting the action to the\nword, she stepped over the threshold. The moment she did so, the door\nbegan to close. \"This is curious!\" she cried. \"Push!\"\n\nWe did; we all three pushed; but, despite our efforts, the door came\nresolutely to, and we were shut out. Then before we had time to\nrecover from our astonishment, it flew open; but before we could cross\nthe threshold, it came violently to in the same manner as before. Some\nunseen force held it against us.\n\n\"Let us make one more effort,\" Margaret said, \"and if we don't\nsucceed, we will call for help.\"\n\nObeying her instructions, we once again pushed. I was nearest the\nhandle, and in some manner,--how, none of us could ever explain,--just\nas the door opened of its own accord, I slipped and fell inside. The\ndoor then closed immediately with a bang, and, to my unmitigated\nhorror, I found myself alone in the room. For some seconds I was\nspellbound, and could not even collect my thoughts sufficiently to\nframe a reply to the piteous entreaties of the Holkitts, who kept\nbanging on the door, and imploring me to tell them what was happening.\nNever in the hideous excitement of nightmare had I experienced such a\nterror as the terror that room conveyed to my mind. Though nothing was\nto be seen, nothing but the candle, the light of which was peculiarly\nwhite and vibrating, I felt the presence of something inexpressibly\nmenacing and horrible. It was in the light, the atmosphere, the\nfurniture, everywhere. On all sides it surrounded me, on all sides I\nwas threatened--threatened in a manner that was strange and deadly.\nSomething suggesting to me that the source of evil originated in the\ncandle, and that if I could succeed in extinguishing the light I\nshould free myself from the ghostly presence, I advanced towards the\nmantelpiece, and, drawing in a deep breath, blew--blew with the\nenergy born of desperation. It had no effect. I repeated my efforts; I\nblew frantically, madly, but all to no purpose; the candle still\nburned--burned softly and mockingly. Then a fearful terror seized me,\nand, flying to the opposite side of the room, I buried my face against\nthe wall, and waited for what the sickly beatings of my heart warned\nme was coming. Constrained to look, I slightly, only very, very\nslightly, moved round, and there, there, floating stealthily towards\nme through the air, came the candle, the vibrating, glowing, baleful\ncandle. I hid my face again, and prayed God to let me faint. Nearer\nand nearer drew the light; wilder and wilder the wrenches at the door.\nCloser and closer I pressed myself to the wall. And then, then when\nthe final throes of agony were more than human heart and brain could\nstand, there came the suspicion, the suggestion of a touch--of a touch\nso horrid that my prayers were at last answered, and I fainted. When I\nrecovered, I was in Margaret's room, and half a dozen well-known forms\nwere gathered round me. It appears that with the collapse of my body\non the floor, the door, that had so effectually resisted every effort\nto turn the handle, immediately flew open, and I was discovered lying\non the ground with the candle--still alight--on the ground beside me.\nMy aunt experienced no difficulty in blowing out the refractory\ncandle, and I was carried with the greatest tenderness into the other\nwing of the house, where I slept that night. Little was said about the\nincident next day, but all who knew of it expressed in their faces the\nutmost anxiety--an anxiety which, now that I had recovered, greatly\npuzzled me. On our return home, another shock awaited me; we found to\nour dismay that my mother was seriously ill, and that the doctor, who\nhad been sent for from Perth the previous evening, just about the time\nof my adventure with the candle, had stated that she might not survive\nthe day. His warning was fulfilled--she died at sunset. Her death, of\ncourse, may have had nothing at all to do with the candle episode, yet\nit struck me then as an odd coincidence, and seems all the more\nstrange to me after hearing your account of the bogle that touched\nyour dear father in the road, so near the spot where the Holkitts'\nhouse once stood. I could never discover whether Lady Holkitt or her\ndaughters ever saw anything of a superphysical nature in their house;\nafter my experience they were always very reticent on that subject,\nand naturally I did not like to press it. On Lady Holkitt's death,\nMargaret and Alice sold the house, which was eventually pulled down,\nas no one would live in it, and I believe the ground on which it stood\nis now a turnip field. That, my dear, is all I can tell you.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"Now, Mr. O'Donnell,\" Miss Macdonald added, \"having heard our\nexperiences, my mother's and mine, what is your opinion? Do you think\nthe phenomenon of the candle was in any way connected with the bogle\nboth you and I have seen, or are the hauntings of 'The Old White\nHouse' entirely separate from those of the road?\"\n\n\n\n\n                         CASE II\n\n    THE TOP ATTIC IN PRINGLE'S MANSION, EDINBURGH\n\n\nA charming lady, Miss South, informs me that no house interested her\nmore, as a child, than Pringle's Mansion, Edinburgh. Pringle's\nMansion, by the bye, is not the real name of the house, nor is the\noriginal building still standing--the fact is, my friend has been\nobliged to disguise the locality for fear of an action for slander of\ntitle, such as happened in the Egham Case of 1904-7.\n\nMiss South never saw--save in a picture--the house that so fascinated\nher; but through repeatedly hearing about it from her old nurse, she\nfelt that she knew it by heart, and used to amuse herself hour after\nhour in the nursery, drawing diagrams of the rooms and passages,\nwhich, to make quite realistic, she named and numbered.\n\nThere was the Admiral's room, Madame's room, Miss Ophelia's room,\nMaster Gregory's room, Letty's (the nurse's) room, the cook's room,\nthe butler's room, the housemaid's room--and--the Haunted Room.\n\nThe house was very old--probably the sixteenth century--and was\nconcealed from the thoroughfare by a high wall that enclosed it on all\nsides. It had no garden, only a large yard, covered with faded yellow\npaving-stones, and containing a well with an old-fashioned roller and\nbucket.\n\nWhen the well was cleaned out, an event which took place periodically\non a certain date, every utensil in the house was called into\nrequisition for ladling out the water, and the Admiral, himself\nsupervising, made every servant in the establishment take an active\npart in the proceedings. On one of these occasions, the Admiral\nannounced his intention of going down the well in the bucket. That was\na rare moment in Letty's life, for when the Admiral had been let down\nin the bucket, the rope broke!\n\nIndeed, the thought of what the Laird would say when he came up,\nalmost resulted in his not coming up at all. However, some one,\nrather bolder than the rest, retained sufficient presence of mind to\neffect a rescue, and the timid ones, thankful enough to survive the\nexplosion, had to be content on \"half-rations till further orders.\"\n\nBut in spite of its association with such a martinet, and in spite of\nher ghostly experiences in it, Letty loved the house, and was never\ntired of singing its praises.\n\nIt was a two-storeyed mansion, with roomy cellars but no basement.\nThere were four reception-rooms--all oak-panelled--on the ground\nfloor; numerous kitchen offices, including a cosy housekeeper's room;\nand a capacious entrance hall, in the centre of which stood a broad\noak staircase. The cellars, three in number, and chiefly used as\nlumber-rooms, were deep down and dank and horrid.\n\nOn the first floor eight bedrooms opened on to a gallery overlooking\nthe hall, and the top storey, where the servants slept, consisted\nsolely of attics connected with one another by dark, narrow passages.\nIt was one of these attics that was haunted, although, as a matter of\nfact, the ghost had been seen in all parts of the house.\n\nWhen Letty entered the Admiral's service she was but a bairn, and had\nnever even heard of ghosts; nor did the other servants apprise her of\nthe hauntings, having received strict injunctions not to do so from\nthe Laird.\n\nBut Letty's home, humble though it was, had been very bright and\ncheerful, and the dark precincts of the mansion filled her with\ndismay. Without exactly knowing why she was afraid, she shrank in\nterror from descending into the cellars, and felt anything but pleased\nat the prospect of sleeping alone in an attic. Still nothing occurred\nto really alarm her till about a month after her arrival. It was early\nin the evening, soon after twilight, and she had gone down into one of\nthe cellars to look for a boot-jack, which the Admiral swore by all\nthat was holy must be found before supper. Placing the light she had\nbrought with her on a packing-case, she was groping about among the\nboxes, when she perceived, to her astonishment, that the flame of the\ncandle had suddenly turned blue. She then felt icy cold, and was much\nstartled on hearing a loud clatter as of some metal instrument on the\nstone floor in the far-off corner of the cellar. Glancing in the\ndirection of the noise, she saw, looking at her, two eyes--two\nobliquely set, lurid, light eyes, full of the utmost devilry. Sick\nwith terror and utterly unable to account for what she beheld, she\nstood stock-still, her limbs refusing to move, her throat parched, her\ntongue tied. The clanging was repeated, and a shadowy form began\nslowly to crawl towards her. She dared not afterwards surmise what\nwould have happened to her, had not the Laird himself come down at\nthis moment. At the sound of his stentorian voice the phantasm\nvanished. But the shock had been too much for Letty; she fainted, and\nthe Admiral, carrying her upstairs as carefully as if she had been his\nown daughter, gave peremptory orders that she should never again be\nallowed to go into the cellar alone.\n\nBut now that Letty herself had witnessed a manifestation, the other\nservants no longer felt bound to secrecy, and soon poured into her\nears endless accounts of the hauntings.\n\nEvery one, they informed her, except Master Gregory and Perkins (the\nbutler) had seen one or other of the ghosts, and the cellar\napparition was quite familiar to them all. They also declared that\nthere were other parts of the house quite as badly haunted as the\ncellar, and it might have been partly owing to these gruesome stories\nthat poor Letty always felt scared, when crossing the passages leading\nto the attics. As she was hastening down one of them, early one\nmorning, she heard some one running after her. Thinking it was one of\nthe other servants, she turned round, pleased to think that some one\nelse was up early too, and saw to her horror a dreadful-looking\nobject, that seemed to be partly human and partly animal. The body was\nquite small, and its face bloated, and covered with yellow spots. It\nhad an enormous animal mouth, the lips of which, moving furiously\nwithout emitting any sound, showed that the creature was endeavouring\nto speak but could not. The moment Letty screamed for help the\nphantasm vanished.\n\nBut her worst experience was yet to come. The spare attic which she\nwas told was so badly haunted that no one would sleep in it, was the\nroom next to hers. It was a room Letty could well believe was\nhaunted, for she had never seen another equally gloomy. The ceiling\nwas low and sloping, the window tiny, and the walls exhibited all\nsorts of odd nooks and crannies. A bed, antique and worm-eaten, stood\nin one recess, a black oak chest in another, and at right angles with\nthe door, in another recess, stood a wardrobe that used to creak and\ngroan alarmingly every time Letty walked a long the passage. Once she\nheard a chuckle, a low, diabolical chuckle, which she fancied came\nfrom the chest; and once, when the door of the room was open, she\ncaught the glitter of a pair of eyes--the same pale, malevolent eyes\nthat had so frightened her in the cellar. From her earliest childhood\nLetty had been periodically given to somnambulism, and one night, just\nabout a year after she went into service, she got out of bed, and\nwalked, in her sleep, into the Haunted Room. She awoke to find herself\nstanding, cold and shivering, in the middle of the floor, and it was\nsome seconds before she realised where she was. Her horror, when she\ndid discover where she was, is not easily described. The room was\nbathed in moonlight, and the beams, falling with noticeable\nbrilliancy on each piece of furniture the room contained, at once\nriveted Letty's attention, and so fascinated her that she found\nherself utterly unable to move. A terrible and most unusual silence\npredominated everywhere, and although Letty's senses were wonderfully\nand painfully on the alert, she could not catch the slightest sound\nfrom any of the rooms on the landing.\n\nThe night was absolutely still, no breath of wind, no rustle of\nleaves, no flapping of ivy against the window; yet the door suddenly\nswung back on its hinges and slammed furiously. Letty felt that this\nwas the work of some supernatural agency, and, fully expecting that\nthe noise had awakened the cook, who was a light sleeper (or pretended\nshe was), listened in a fever of excitement to hear her get out of bed\nand call out. The slightest noise and the spell that held her prisoner\nwould, Letty felt sure, be broken. But the same unbroken silence\nprevailed. A sudden rustling made Letty glance fearfully at the bed;\nand she perceived, to her terror, the valance swaying violently, to\nand fro. Sick with fear, she was now constrained to stare in abject\nhelplessness. Presently there was a slight, very slight movement on\nthe mattress, the white dust cover rose, and, under it, Letty saw the\noutlines of what she took to be a human figure, gradually take shape.\nHoping, praying, that she was mistaken, and that what appeared to be\non the bed was but a trick of her imagination, she continued staring\nin an agony of anticipation. But the figure remained--extended at full\nlength like a corpse. The minutes slowly passed, a church clock boomed\ntwo, and the body moved. Letty's jaw fell, her eyes almost bulged from\nher head, whilst her fingers closed convulsively on the folds of her\nnight-dress. The unmistakable sound of breathing now issued from the\nregion of the bed, and the dust-cover commenced slowly to slip aside.\nInch by inch it moved, until first of all Letty saw a few wisps of\ndark hair, then a few more, then a thick cluster; then something white\nand shining--a protruding forehead; then dark, very dark brows; then\ntwo eyelids, yellow, swollen, and fortunately tightly closed; then--a\npurple conglomeration of Letty knew not what--of anything but what\nwas human. The sight was so monstrous it appalled her; and she was\novercome with a species of awe and repulsion, for which the language\nof mortality has no sufficiently energetic expression. She momentarily\nforgot that what she looked on was merely superphysical, but regarded\nit as something alive, something that ought to have been a child,\ncomely and healthy as herself--and she hated it. It was an outrage on\nmaternity, a blot on nature, a filthy discredit to the house, a\nblight, a sore, a gangrene. It turned over in its sleep, the cover was\nhurled aside, and a grotesque object, round, pulpy, webbed, and of\nleprous whiteness--an object which Letty could hardly associate with a\nhand--came grovelling out. Letty's stomach heaved; the thing was\nbeastly, indecent, vile, it ought not to live! And the idea of killing\nflashed through her mind. Boiling over with indignation and absurdly\nforgetful of her surroundings, she turned round and groped for a stone\nto smash it. The moonlight on her naked toes brought her to her\nsenses--the thing in the bed was a devil! Though brought up a member\nof the Free Church, with an abhorrence of anything that could in any\nway be contorted into Papist practices, Letty crossed herself. As she\ndid so, a noise in the passage outside augmented her terror. She\nstrained her ears painfully, and the sound developed into a footstep,\nsoft, light, and surreptitious. It came gently towards the door; it\npaused outside, and Letty intuitively felt that it was listening. Her\nsuspense was now so intolerable, that it was almost with a feeling of\nrelief that she beheld the door slowly--very slowly--begin to open. A\nlittle wider--a little wider--and yet a little wider; but still\nnothing came. Ah! Letty's heart turned to ice. Another inch, and a\nshadowy something slipped through and began to wriggle itself\nstealthily over the floor. Letty tried to divert her gaze, but could\nnot--an irresistible, magnetic attraction kept her eyes glued to the\ngradually approaching horror. When within a few feet of her it halted;\nand again Letty felt it was listening--listening to the breathing on\nthe bed, which was heavy and bestial. Then it twisted round, and Letty\nwatched it crawl into the wardrobe. After this there was a long and\nanxious wait. Then Letty saw the wardrobe door slyly open, and the\neyes of the cellar--inexpressibly baleful, and glittering like\nburnished steel in the strong phosphorescent glow of the moon, peep\nout,--not at her but _through_ her,--at the object lying on the bed.\nThere were not only eyes, this time, but a form,--vague, misty, and\nirregular, but still with sufficient shape to enable Letty to identify\nit as that of a woman, tall and thin, and with a total absence of\nhair, which was emphasised in the most lurid and ghastly fashion. With\na snakelike movement, the evil thing slithered out of the wardrobe,\nand, gliding past Letty, approached the bed. Letty was obliged to\nfollow every proceeding. She saw the thing deftly snatch the bolster\nfrom under the sleeping head; noted the gleam of hellish satisfaction\nin its eyes as it pressed the bolster down; and watched the murdered\ncreature's contortions grow fainter, and fainter, until they finally\nceased. The eyes then left the room; and from afar off, away below, in\nthe abysmal cellars of the house, came the sound of digging--faint,\nvery faint, but unquestionably digging. This terminated the grim,\nphantasmal drama for that night at least, and Letty, chilled to the\nbone, but thoroughly alert, escaped to her room. She spent her few\nremaining hours of rest wide-awake, determining never to go to bed\nagain without fastening one of her arms to the iron staples.\n\nWith regard the history of the house, Letty never learned anything\nmore remarkable than that, long ago, an idiot child was supposed to\nhave been murdered in the haunted attic--by whom, tradition did not\nsay. The Admiral and his family left Pringle's Mansion the year Letty\nbecame Miss South's nurse, and as no one would stay in the house,\npresumably on account of the hauntings, it was pulled down, and an\ninexcusably inartistic edifice was erected in its place.\n\n\n\n\n                         CASE III\n\n    THE BOUNDING FIGURE OF \"---- HOUSE,\" NEAR\n      BUCKINGHAM TERRACE, EDINBURGH\n\n\nNo one is more interested in Psychical Investigation Work than Miss\nTorfrida Vincent, one of the three beautiful daughters of Mrs. H. de\nB. Vincent, who is, herself, still in the heyday of life, and one of\nthe loveliest of the society women I have met. Though I have known her\nsisters several years, I only met Torfrida for the first time a few\nmonths ago, when she was superintending the nursing of her mother, who\nhad just undergone an operation for appendicitis. One day, when I was\nvisiting my convalescent friend, Torfrida informed me that she knew of\na haunted house in Edinburgh, a case which she felt sure would arouse\nmy interest and enthusiasm. \"It is unfortunate,\" she added somewhat\nregretfully, \"that I cannot tell you the number of the house, but as\nI have given my word of honour to disclose it to no one, I feel sure\nyou will excuse me. Indeed, my friends the Gordons, who extracted the\npromise from me, have got into sad trouble with their landlord for\nleaving the house under the pretext that it was haunted, and he has\nthreatened to prosecute them for slander of title.\"\n\nThe house in question has no claim to antiquity. It may be eighty years\nold--perhaps a little older--and was, at the time of which I speak, let\nout in flats. The Gordons occupied the second storey; the one above\nthem was untenanted, and used as a storage place for furniture; the\nfirst floor and ground floor were divided into chambers and offices.\nThey had not been in their new quarters more than a week, when Mrs.\nGordon asked the night porter who it was that made such a noise, racing\nup their stairs between two and three in the morning. It had awakened\nher every night, she told him, and she would be glad if the disturbance\nwere discontinued. \"I am sorry, Madam, but I cannot imagine who it can\nbe,\" the man replied. \"Of course, it may be some one next door, sounds\nare so often deceptive; no one inhabits the rooms above you.\" But Mrs.\nGordon was not at all convinced, and made up her mind to complain to\nthe landlord should it occur again. That night nothing happened, but\nthe night after she was roused from her sleep at two o'clock, by a\nfeeling that something dreadful, some dire catastrophe, was about to\ntake place. The house was very still, and beyond the far-away echoes of\na policeman's patrol on the hard pavement outside, nothing, absolutely\nnothing, broke the universal, and as it seemed to her, unnatural\nsilence. Generally at night-time there are sounds one likes to assure\noneself are too trivial to be heard during the day--the creaking of\nboards, stairs (nearly always stairs), and the tapping of some leaf (of\ncourse some leaf) at the windows. Who has not heard such sounds, and\nwho in his heart of hearts has not been only too well aware that they\nare nocturnal, exclusively nocturnal. The shadows of evening bring with\nthem visitors; prying, curious visitors; grim and ghastly visitors;\ngrey, esoteric visitors; visitors from a world seemingly inconsequent,\nwholly incomprehensible. Mrs. Gordon did not believe in ghosts. She\nscoffed at the idea of ghosts, and, like so many would-be wits,\nunreasonably brave by day, and the reverse by night, had hitherto\nattributed banshees and the like to cats and other animals. But\nnow,--now when all was dark,--pitch dark and hushed, and she, for aught\nshe knew to the contrary, the only one, in that great rambling\nbuilding, awake, she reviewed again and again, in her mind, that\nrushing up the stairs. The wind! It could not have been the wind. The\nwind shuts doors, and rattles windows, and moans, and sighs, and howls\nand screeches, but it does not walk the house in boots. Neither do\nrats! And if she had imagined the noises, why did she not imagine other\nthings; why, for example, did she not see tables dance, and tea-urns\nwalk? All that would be fancy, unblushing, genuine fancy, and if she\nconjured up one absurdity, why not another! That was a conundrum for\nany sceptic. Thus did she argue, naturally and logically, in the quite\nsensible fashion of a lawyer, or a scientist; yet, all the while, her\nsenses told her that the atmosphere of the house had undergone some\nprofoundly subtle and unaccountable change,--a change that brought with\nit a presence, at once sinister and hostile. She longed to strike a\nlight and awake one of her daughters--Diana, by preference; since Diana\nwas the least likely to mind being disturbed, and had the strongest\nnerves. She made a start, and, loosening the bedclothes that she always\nliked tightly tucked round her, thrust out a quivering toe. The next\ninstant she drew it back with a tiny gasp of terror. The cold darkness\nwithout had suggested to her mind a great, horny hand, mal-shaped and\nmurderous, that was lying in wait to seize her. A deadly sickness\novercame her, and she lay back on the pillow, her heart beating with\noutrageous irregularity and loudness. Very slowly she recovered, and,\nholding her breath, sidled to the far edge of the bed, and with a\ndexterous movement, engendered by the desperation of fear, made a\nlightning-like dab in the direction of the electric bell. Her soft,\npink finger missed the mark, and coming in violent contact with the\nwall, bent the carefully polished nail. She bit her lips to stop a cry\nof pain, and shrinking back within the folds of her dainty lace\nembroidered nightdress, abandoned herself to despair. Her consciousness\nof the Unknown Presence increased, and she instinctively felt the thing\npass through the closed door, down on to the landing outside, when it\ndashed upstairs with a loud clatter, and, entering the lumber-room\nimmediately overhead, began bounding as if its feet were tied together,\nbackwards and forwards across the floor. After continuing for fully\nhalf an hour, the noises abruptly ceased and the house resumed its\naccustomed quiet. At breakfast, Mrs. Gordon asked her daughters if they\nhad heard anything in the night, and they laughingly said \"No, not even\na mouse!\"\n\nThere was now an intermission of the disturbances, and no further\ndemonstration occurred for about a month. Diana was then sleeping in\nher mother's room, Mrs. Gordon being away on a visit to Lady Voss, who\nwas entertaining a party of friends at her shooting-box in Argyle. One\nevening, as Diana was going into her bedroom to prepare for dinner,\nshe saw the door suddenly swing open, and something, she could not\ntell what--it was so blurred and indistinct--come out with a bound.\nTearing past her on to the landing, it rushed up the stairs with so\nmuch clatter that Diana imagined, though she could see nothing, that\nit must have on its feet, heavy lumbering boots. Filled with an\nirresistible curiosity, in spite of her alarm, Diana ran after it,\nand, on reaching the upper storey, heard it making a terrific racket\nin the room above the one in which she now slept. Nothing daunted,\nhowever, she boldly approached, and, flinging open the door, perceived\nits filmy outline standing before a shadowy and very antique eight-day\nclock, which apparently it was in the habit of winding. A great fear\nnow fell on Diana. What was the thing? And supposing it should turn\nround and face her, what should she see? She was entirely isolated\nfrom her sisters, and the servants--alone--the light fading--in a big,\ngloomy room full of strange old furniture which suggested\nhiding-places for all sorts of grim possibilities. She was assured now\nthat the thing she had followed was nothing human, neither was it a\ndelusion, for when she shut her eyes and opened them, it was still\nthere--and, oddly enough, it was now more distinct than it was when\nshe had seen it downstairs. A curious feeling of helplessness stole\nover Diana; the power of speech forsook her; and her limbs grew rigid.\nShe was so fearful, too, of attracting the notice of the mysterious\nthing that she hardly dare breathe, and each pulsation of her heart\nsent cold chills of apprehension down her spine. Once she endured\nagonies through a mad desire to sneeze, and once her lips opened to\nscream as something suspiciously like the antennae of a huge beetle,\nand which she subsequently discovered was a \"devil's coach-horse,\"\ntickled the calf of her leg. She fancied, too, that all sorts of queer\nshapes lurked in the passage behind her, and that innumerable unseen\neyes were malignantly rejoicing in her terror. At last, the climax to\nher suspense seemed at hand. The unknown thing, until now too busy\nwith the clock to take heed of her, paused for a moment or so, as if\nundecided what to do next, and then slowly began to veer round. But\nthe faint echo of a voice below, calling her by name, broke the\nhypnotic spell that bound Diana to the floor, and with a frantic\nspring she cleared the threshold of the room. She then tore madly\ndownstairs, never halting till she reached the dining-room, where she\nsank on a sofa, and, more dead than alive, panted out to her amazed\nsisters a full account of all that had transpired.\n\nThat night she shared her sister's bedroom, but neither she nor her\nsister slept.\n\nFrom this time till the return of Mrs. Gordon, nothing happened. It\nwas one evening after she came back, when she was preparing to get\ninto bed, that the door of her own room unexpectedly opened, and she\nsaw standing, on the threshold, the unmistakable figure of a man,\nshort and broad, with a great width of shoulders, and very long arms.\nHe was clad in a peajacket, blue serge trousers, and jack-boots. He\nhad a big, round, brutal head, covered with a tangled mass of yellow\nhair, but where his face ought to have been there was only a blotch,\nunderlying which Mrs. Gordon detected the semblance to something\nfiendishly vindictive and immeasurably nasty. But, in spite of the\nhorror his appearance produced, her curiosity was aroused with regard\nto the two objects he carried in his hands, one of which looked like\na very bizarre bundle of red and white rags, and the other a small\nbladder of lard. Whilst she was staring at them in dumb awe, he swung\nround, and, hitching them savagely under his armpits, rushed across\nthe landing, and, with a series of apish bounds, sprang up the\nstaircase and disappeared in the gloom.\n\nThis was the climax; Mrs. Gordon felt another such encounter would\nkill her. So, in spite of the fact that she had taken the flat for a\nyear, and had only just commenced her tenancy, she packed up her goods\nand left the very next day. The report that the building was haunted\nspread rapidly, and Mrs. Gordon had many indignant letters from the\nlandlord. She naturally made inquiries as to the early history of the\nhouse, but of the many tales she listened to, only one, the\nauthenticity of which she could not guarantee, seemed to suggest any\nclue to the haunting.\n\nIt was said that a retired Captain in the Merchant Service, many years\npreviously, had rented the rooms she had occupied.\n\nHe was an extraordinary individual, and, despite the fact that he had\nlived so far inland, would never wear any but nautical clothes--blue\njersey and trousers, reefer coat and jack-boots. But this was not his\nonly peculiarity. His love of grog eventually brought on delirium\ntremens, and his excessive irritability in the interval between each\nattack was a source of anxiety to all who came in contact with him. At\nthat time there happened to be a baby in the rooms overhead, whose\ncrying so annoyed the Captain that he savagely informed its mother\nthat if she did not keep it quiet, he would not be answerable for the\nconsequences. His warnings having no effect, he flew upstairs one day,\nwhen she was temporarily absent, and, snatching up the bread knife\nfrom the table, decapitated the infant. He then stuffed both its head\nand body into a grandfather's clock which stood in one corner of the\nroom, and, retiring to his own quarters, drank till he was insensible.\n\nHe was, of course, arrested on a charge of murder, but being found\n\"insane\" he was committed during His Majesty's pleasure to a lunatic\nasylum.\n\nHe eventually committed suicide by opening an artery in his leg with\none of his finger-nails.\n\nAs the details of this tragedy filled in so well with the phenomena\nthey had witnessed, the Gordons could not help regarding the story as\na very probable explanation of the hauntings. But, remember, its\nauthenticity is dubious.\n\n\n\n\n                         CASE IV\n\n    JANE OF GEORGE STREET, EDINBURGH\n\n\n\"The news that, for several years at any rate, George Street,\nEdinburgh, was haunted,\" wrote a correspondent of mine some short time\nago, \"might cause no little surprise to many of its inhabitants.\" And\nmy friend proceeded to relate his experience of the haunting, which I\nwill reproduce as nearly as possible in his own words. I quote from\nmemory, having foolishly destroyed the letter.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nI was walking in a leisurely way along George Street the other day,\ntowards Strunalls, where I get my cigars, and had arrived opposite No.\n--, when I suddenly noticed, just ahead of me, a tall lady of\nremarkably graceful figure, clad in a costume which, even to an\nignoramus in fashions like myself, seemed extraordinarily out of date.\nIn my untechnical language it consisted of a dark blue coat and\nskirt, trimmed with black braid. The coat had a very high collar,\nturned over to show a facing of blue velvet, its sleeves were very\nfull at the shoulders, and a band of blue velvet drew it tightly in at\nthe waist. Moreover, unlike every other lady I saw, she wore a small\nhat, which I subsequently learned was a toque, with one white and one\nblue plume placed moderately high at the side. The only other\nconspicuous items of her dress, the effect of which was, on the whole,\nquiet, were white glace gloves,--over which dangled gold curb\nbracelets with innumerable pendants,--shoes, which were of patent\nleather with silver buckles and rather high Louis heels, and fine,\nblue silk openwork stockings. So much for her dress. Now for her\nherself. She was a strikingly fair woman with very pale yellow hair\nand a startlingly white complexion; and this latter peculiarity so\nimpressed me that I hastened my steps, determining to get a full view\nof her. Passing her with rapid strides, I looked back, and as I did so\na cold chill ran through me,--what I looked at was--the face of the\ndead. I slowed down and allowed her to take the lead.\n\nI now observed that, startling as she was, no one else seemed to\nnotice her. One or two people obviously, though probably\nunconsciously, possessing the germs of psychism, shivered when they\npassed her, but as they neither slackened their pace nor turned to\nsteal a second look, I concluded they had not seen her. Without\nglancing either to the right or left, she moved steadily on, past\nMolton's the confectioner's, past Perrin's the hatter's. Once, I\nthought she was coming to a halt, and that she intended crossing the\nroad, but no--on, on, on, till we came to D---- Street. There we were\npreparing to cross over, when an elderly gentleman walked deliberately\ninto her. I half expected to hear him apologise, but naturally nothing\nof the sort happened; she was only too obviously a phantom, and, in\naccordance with the nature of a phantom, she passed right through him.\nA few yards farther on, she came to an abrupt pause, and then, with a\nslight inclination of her head as if meaning me to follow, she glided\ninto a chemist's shop. She was certainly not more than six feet ahead\nof me when she passed through the door, and I was even nearer than\nthat to her when she suddenly disappeared as she stood before the\ncounter. I asked the chemist if he could tell me anything about the\nlady who had just entered his shop, but he merely turned away and\nlaughed.\n\n\"Lady!\" he said; \"what are you talking about? You're a bit out of your\nreckoning. This isn't the first of April. Come, what do you want?\"\n\nI bought a bottle of formamints, and reluctantly and regretfully\nturned away. That night I dreamed I again saw the ghost. I followed\nher up George Street just as I had done in reality; but when she came\nto the chemist's shop, she turned swiftly round. \"I'm Jane!\" she said\nin a hollow voice. \"Jane! Only Jane!\" and with that name ringing in my\nears I awoke.\n\nSome days elapsed before I was in George Street again. The weather had\nin the meanwhile undergone one of those sudden and violent changes, so\ncharacteristic of the Scottish climate. The lock-gates of heaven had\nbeen opened and the rain was descending in cataracts. The few\npedestrians I encountered were enveloped in mackintoshes, and carried\nhuge umbrellas, through which the rain was soaking, and pouring off\nfrom every point. Everything was wet--everywhere was mud. The water,\nsplashing upwards, saturated the tops of my boots and converted my\ntrousers into sodden sacks. Some weather isn't fit for dogs, but this\nweather wasn't good enough for tadpoles--even fish would have kicked\nat it and kept in their holes. Imagine, then, the anomaly! Amidst all\nthis aqueous inferno, this slippery-sloppery, filth-bespattering\ninferno, a spotlessly clean apparition in blue without either\nwaterproof or umbrella. I refer to Jane. She suddenly appeared, as I\nwas passing The Ladies' Tea Association Rooms, walking in front of me.\nShe looked just the same as when I last saw her--spick and span,\nand--dry. I repeat the word--dry--for that is what attracted my\nattention most. Despite the deluge, not a single raindrop touched\nher--the plumes on her toque were splendidly erect and curly, her\nshoe-buckles sparkled, her patent leathers were spotless, whilst the\ncloth of her coat and skirt looked as sheeny as if they had but just\ncome from Keeley's.\n\nAnxious to get another look at her face, I quickened my pace, and,\ndarting past her, gazed straight into her countenance. The result was\na severe shock. The terror of what I saw--the ghastly horror of her\ndead white face--sent me reeling across the pavement. I let her pass\nme, and, impelled by a sickly fascination, followed in her wake.\n\nOutside a jeweller's stood a hansom--quite a curiosity in these days\nof motors--and, as Jane glided past, the horse shied. I have never\nseen an animal so terrified. We went on, and at the next crossing\nhalted. A policeman had his hand up checking the traffic. His glance\nfell on Jane--the effect was electrical. His eyes bulged, his cheeks\nwhitened, his chest heaved, his hand dropped, and he would undoubtedly\nhave fallen had not a good Samaritan, in the guise of a non-psychical\npublic-house loafer, held him up. Jane was now close to the chemist's,\nand it was with a sigh of relief that I saw her glide in and\ndisappear.\n\nHad there been any doubt at all, after my first encounter with Jane,\nas to her being superphysical, there was certainly none now. The\npoliceman's paroxysm of fear and the horse's fit of shying were facts.\nWhat had produced them? I alone knew--and I knew for certain--it was\nJane. Both man and animal saw what I saw. Hence the phantom was not\nsubjective; it was not illusionary; it was a _bona fide_ spirit\nmanifestation--a visitant from the other world--the world of\nearthbound souls. Jane fascinated me. I made endless researches in\nconnection with her, and, in answer to one of my inquiries, I was\ninformed that eighteen years ago--that is to say, about the time\nJane's dress was in fashion--the chemist's shop had been occupied by a\ndressmaker of the name of Bosworth. I hunted up Miss Bosworth's\naddress and called on her. She had retired from business and was\nliving in St. Michael's Road, Bournemouth. I came to the point\nstraight.\n\n\"Can you give me any information,\" I asked, \"about a lady whose\nChristian name was Jane?\"\n\n\"That sounds vague!\" Miss Bosworth said. \"I've met a good many Janes\nin my time.\"\n\n\"But not Janes with pale yellow hair, and white eyebrows and\neyelashes!\" And I described her in detail.\n\n\"How do you come to know about her?\" Miss Bosworth said, after a long\npause.\n\n\"Because,\" I replied with a certain slowness and deliberation\ncharacteristic of me, \"because I've seen her ghost!\"\n\nOf course I knew Miss Bosworth was no sceptic--the moment my eyes\nrested on her I saw she was psychic, and that the superphysical was\noften at her elbow. Accordingly, I was not in the least surprised at\nher look of horror.\n\n\"What!\" she exclaimed, \"is she still there? I thought she would surely\nbe at rest now!\"\n\n\"Who was she?\" I inquired. \"Come--you need not be afraid of me. I have\ncome here solely because the occult has always interested me. Who was\nJane, and why should her ghost haunt George Street?\"\n\n\"It happened a good many years ago,\" Miss Bosworth replied, \"in 1892.\nIn answer to an advertisement I saw in one of the daily papers, I\ncalled on a Miss Jane Vernelt--Mademoiselle Vernelt she called\nherself--who ran a costumier's business in George Street, in the very\nbuilding, in fact now occupied by the chemist you have mentioned. The\nbusiness was for sale, and Miss Vernelt wanted a big sum for it.\nHowever, as her books showed a very satisfactory annual increase in\nreceipts and her clientele included a duchess and other society\nleaders, I considered the bargain a tolerably safe one, and we came to\nterms. Within a week I was running the business, and, exactly a month\nafter I had taken it over, I was greatly astonished to receive a visit\nfrom Miss Vernelt. She came into the shop quite beside herself with\nagitation. 'It's all a mistake!' she screamed. 'I didn't want to sell\nit. I can't do anything with my capital. Let me buy it back.' I\nlistened to her politely, and then informed her that as I had gone to\nall the trouble of taking over the business and had already succeeded\nin extending it, I most certainly had no intention of selling it--at\nleast not for some time. Well, she behaved like a lunatic, and in the\nend created such a disturbance that I had to summon my assistants and\nactually turn her out. After that I had no peace for six weeks. She\ncame every day, at any and all times, and I was at last obliged to\ntake legal proceedings. I then discovered that her mind was really\nunhinged, and that she had been suffering from softening of the brain\nfor many months. Her medical advisers had, it appeared, warned her to\ngive up business and place herself in the hands of trustworthy friends\nor relations, who would see that her money was properly invested, but\nshe had delayed doing so; and when, at last, she did make up her mind\nto retire, the excitement, resulting from so great a change in her\nmode of living, accelerated the disease, and, exactly three weeks\nafter the sale of her business, she became a victim to the delusion\nthat she was ruined. This delusion grew more and more pronounced as\nher malady increased, and amidst her wildest ravings she clamoured to\nbe taken back to George Street. The hauntings, indeed, began before\nshe died; and I frequently saw her--when I knew her material body to\nbe under restraint--just as you describe, gliding in and out the\nshow-rooms.\n\n\"For several weeks after her death, the manifestations continued--they\nthen ceased, and I have never heard of her again until now.\"\n\nIf I remember rightly the account of the George Street ghost here\nterminated; but my friend referred to it again at the close of his\nletter.\n\n\"Since my return to Scotland,\" he wrote, \"I have frequently visited\nGeorge Street, almost daily, but I have not seen 'Jane.' I only hope\nthat her poor distracted spirit has at last found rest.\" And with this\nkindly sentiment my correspondent concluded.\n\n\n\n\n                          CASE V\n\n    THE SALLOW-FACED WOMAN OF NO. -- FORREST\n      ROAD, EDINBURGH\n\n\nThe Public unfortunately includes a certain set of people, of the\nmiddle class very \"middlish,\" who are ever on the look-out for some\nopportunity, however slight and seemingly remote, of bettering\nthemselves socially; and, learning that those in a higher strata of\nsociety are interested in the supernatural, they think that they may\npossibly get in touch with them by working up a little local\nreputation for psychical research. I have often had letters from this\ntype of \"pusher\" (letters from genuine believers in the Occult I\nalways welcome) stating that they have been greatly interested in my\nbooks--would I be so very kind as to grant them a brief interview, or\npermit them to accompany me to a haunted house, or give them certain\ninformation with regard to Lady So-and-so, whom they have long wanted\nto know? Occasionally, I have been so taken in as to give permission\nto the writer to call on me, and almost always I have bitterly\nrepented. The wily one--no matter how wily--cannot conceal the cloven\nhoof for long, and he has either tried to thrust himself into the\nbosom of my family, or has written to my neighbours declaring himself\nto be my dearest friend; and when, in desperation, I have shown him\nthe cold shoulder, he has attacked me virulently in some \"rag\" of a\nlocal paper, the proprietor, editor, or office-boy of which happens to\nbe one of his own clique. I have even known an instance where this\ntype of person has, through trickery, actually gained access to some\nnotoriously haunted house, and from its owners--the family he has long\nhad his eyes on, from a motive anything but psychic--has ferreted out\nthe secret and private history of the haunting. Then, when he has been\n\"found out\" and forced to see that his friendship is not wanted, he\nhas, in revenge for the slight, unblushingly revealed the facts that\nwere only entrusted to him in the strictest confidence; and, through\ninfluence with the lower stratum of the Press, caused a most glaring\nand sensational account of the ghost to be published.\n\nWith such a case in view, I cannot be surprised that possessors of\nfamily ghosts and haunted houses should show the greatest reluctance\nto be approached on the subject, save by those they feel assured will\ntreat it with the utmost delicacy.\n\nBut I have quoted the above breach of confidence merely to give\nanother reason for my constant use of fictitious names with regard to\npeople and places, and having done so (I hope to some purpose), I will\nproceed with the following story:--\n\nMiss Dulcie Vincent, some of whose reminiscences appeared in my book\nof _Ghostly Phenomena_ last year, is nearly connected with Lady Adela\nMinkon, who owns a considerable amount of house property, including\nNo. -- Forrest Road, in Edinburgh, and whose yacht at Cowes is the\nenvy of all who have cruised in her. Three years ago, Lady Adela\nstayed at No. -- Forrest Road. She had heard that the house was\nhaunted, and was anxious to put it to the test. Lady Adela was\nperfectly open-minded. She had never experienced any occult phenomena\nherself, but, very rationally, she did not consider that her\nnon-acquaintance with the superphysical in any way negatived the\nevidence of those who declare that they have witnessed manifestations;\ntheir statements, she reasoned, were just as worthy of credence as\nhers. She thus commenced her occupation of the house with a perfectly\nunbiased mind, resolved to stay there for at least a year, so as to\ngive it a fair trial. The hauntings, she was told, were at their\nheight in the late summer and early autumn. It is, I think,\nunnecessary to enter into any detailed description of her house. In\nappearance, it differed very little, if at all, from those adjoining\nit; in construction, it was if anything a trifle larger. The basement,\nwhich included the usual kitchen offices and cellars, was very dark,\nand the atmosphere--after sunset on Fridays, only on Fridays--was\ntainted with a smell of damp earth, shockingly damp earth, and of a\nsweet and nauseating something that greatly puzzled Lady Adela. All\nthe rooms in the house were of fair dimensions, and cheerful,\nexcepting on this particular evening of the week; a distinct gloom\nsettled on them then, and the strangest of shadows were seen playing\nabout the passages and on the landings.\n\n\"It may be fancy,\" Lady Adela said to herself, \"merely fancy! And,\nafter all, if I encounter nothing worse than a weekly menu of aromatic\nsmells and easily digested shadows, I shall not suffer any harm\"; but\nit was early summer then--the psychic season had yet to come. As the\nweeks went by, the shadows and the smell grew more and more\npronounced, and by the arrival of August had become so emphatic that\nLady Adela could not help thinking that they were both hostile and\naggressive.\n\nAbout eight o'clock on the evening of the second Friday in the month,\nLady Adela was purposely alone in the basement of the house. The\nservants especially irritated her; like the majority of present-day\ndomestics, products of the County Council schools, they were so\nintensely supercilious and silly, and Lady Adela felt that their\npresence in the house minimised her chances of seeing the ghost. No\napparition with the smallest amount of self-respect could risk coming\nin contact with such inane creatures, so she sent them all out for a\nmotor drive, and, for once, rejoiced in the house to herself. A\ncurious proceeding for a lady! True! but then, Lady Adela was a lady,\nand, being a lady, was not afraid of being thought anything else; and\nso acted just as unconventionally as she chose. But stay a moment; she\nwas not alone in the house, for she had three of her dogs with\nher--three beautiful boarhounds, trophies of her last trip to the\nBaltic. With such colossal and perfectly trained companions Lady Adela\nfelt absolutely safe, and ready--as she acknowledged afterwards--to\nface a whole army of spooks. She did not even shiver when the front\ndoor of the basement closed, and she heard the sonorous birring of the\nmotor, drowning the giddy voices of the servants, grow fainter and\nfainter until it finally ceased altogether.\n\nWhen the last echoes of the vehicle had died away in the distance,\nLady Adela made a tour of the premises. The housekeeper's room pleased\nher immensely--at least she persuaded herself it did. \"Why, it is\nquite as nice as any of the rooms upstairs,\" she said aloud, as she\nstood with her face to the failing sunbeams and rested her strong\nwhite hand on the edge of the table. \"Quite as nice. Karl and Max,\ncome here!\"\n\nBut the boarhounds for once in their lives did not obey her with a\ngood grace. There was something in the room they did not like, and\nthey showed how strong was their resentment by slinking unwillingly\nthrough the doorway.\n\n\"I wonder why that is?\" Lady Adela mused; \"I have never known them do\nit before.\" Then her eyes wandered round the walls, and struggled in\nvain to reach the remoter angles of the room, which had suddenly grown\ndark. She tried to assure herself that this was but the natural effect\nof the departing daylight, and that, had she watched in other houses\nat this particular time, she would have noticed the same thing. To\nshow how little she minded the gloom, she went up to the darkest\ncorner and prodded the walls with her riding-whip. She laughed--there\nwas nothing there, nothing whatsoever to be afraid of, only shadows.\nWith a careless shrug of her shoulders, she strutted into the\npassage, and, whistling to Karl and Max who, contrary to their custom,\nwould not keep to heel, made another inspection of the kitchens. At\nthe top of the cellar steps she halted. The darkness had now set in\neverywhere, and she argued that it would be foolish to venture into\nsuch dungeon-like places without a light. She soon found one, and,\narmed with candle and matches, began her descent. There were several\ncellars, and they presented such a dismal, dark appearance, that she\ninstinctively drew her skirts tightly round her, and exchanged the\nslender riding-whip for a poker. She whistled again to her dogs. They\ndid not answer, so she called them both by name angrily. But for some\nreason (some quite unaccountable reason, she told herself) they would\nnot come.\n\nShe ransacked her mind to recall some popular operatic air, and\nalthough she knew scores she could not remember one. Indeed, the only\nair that filtered back to her was one she detested--a Vaudeville tune\nshe had heard three nights in succession, when she was staying with a\nstudent friend in the Latin Quarter in Paris. She hummed it loudly,\nhowever, and, holding the lighted candle high above her head, walked\ndown the steps. At the bottom she stood still and listened. From high\nabove her came noises which sounded like the rumbling of distant\nthunder, but which, on analysis, proved to be the rattling of\nwindow-frames. Reassured that she had no cause for alarm, Lady Adela\nadvanced. Something black scudded across the red-tiled floor, and she\nmade a dash at it with her poker. The concussion awoke countless\nechoes in the cellars, and called into existence legions of other\nblack things that darted hither and thither in all directions. She\nburst out laughing--they were only beetles! Facing her she now\nperceived an inner cellar, which was far gloomier than the one in\nwhich she stood. The ceiling was very low, and appeared to be crushed\ndown beneath the burden of a stupendous weight; and as she advanced\nbeneath it she half expected that it would \"cave in\" and bury her.\n\nA few feet from the centre of this cellar she stopped; and, bending\ndown, examined the floor carefully. The tiles were unmistakably newer\nhere than elsewhere, and presented the appearance of having been put\nin at no very distant date. The dampness of the atmosphere was\nintense; a fact which struck Lady Adela as somewhat odd, since the\nfloor and walls looked singularly dry. To find out if this were the\ncase, she ran her fingers over the walls, and, on removing them, found\nthey showed no signs of moisture. Then she rapped the floor and walls,\nand could discover no indications of hollowness. She sniffed the air,\nand a great wave of something sweet and sickly half choked her. She\ndrew out her handkerchief and beat the air vigorously with it; but the\nsmell remained, and she could not in any way account for it. She\nturned to leave the cellar, and the flame of her candle burned blue.\nThen for the first time that evening--almost, indeed, for the first\ntime in her life--she felt afraid, so afraid that she made no attempt\nto diagnose her fear; she understood the dogs' feelings now, and\ncaught herself wondering how much they knew.\n\nShe whistled to them again, not because she thought they would\nrespond,--she knew only too well they would not,--but because she\nwanted company, even the company of her own voice; and she had some\nfaint hope, too, that whatever might be with her in the cellar, would\nnot so readily disclose itself if she made a noise. The one cellar was\npassed, and she was nearly across the floor of the other when she\nheard a crash. The candle dropped from her hand, and all the blood in\nher body rushed to her heart. She could never have imagined it was so\nterrible to be frightened. She tried to pull herself together and be\ncalm, but she was no longer mistress of her limbs. Her knees knocked\ntogether and her hands shook. \"It was only the dogs,\" she feebly told\nherself, \"I will call them\"; but when she opened her mouth, she found\nher throat was paralysed--not a syllable would come. She knew, too,\nthat she had lied, and that the hounds could not have been responsible\nfor the noise. It was like nothing she had ever heard, nothing she\ncould imagine; and although she struggled hard against the idea, she\ncould not help associating the sound with the cause of the candle\nburning blue, and the sweet, sickly smell. Incapable of moving a\nstep, she was forced to listen in breathless expectancy for a\nrecurrence of the crash. Her thoughts become ghastly. The inky sea of\ndarkness that hemmed her in on every side suggested every sort of\nghoulish possibility, and with each pulsation of her overstrained\nheart her flesh crawled. Another sound--this time not a crash, nothing\nhalf so loud or definite--drew her eyes in the direction of the steps.\nAn object was now standing at the top of them, and something lurid,\nlike the faint, phosphorescent glow of decay, emanated from all over\nit; but _what_ it was, she could not for the life of her tell. It\nmight have been the figure of a man, or a woman, or a beast, or of\nanything that was inexpressibly antagonistic and nasty. She would have\ngiven her soul to have looked elsewhere, but her eyes were fixed--she\ncould neither turn nor shut them. For some seconds the shape remained\nmotionless, and then with a sly, subtle motion it lowered its head,\nand came stealing stealthily down the stairs towards her. She followed\nits approach like one in a hideous dream--her heart ready to burst,\nher brain on the verge of madness. Another step, another, yet\nanother; till there were only three left between her and it; and she\nwas at length enabled to form some idea of what the thing was like.\n\nIt was short and squat, and appeared to be partly clad in a loose,\nflowing garment, that was not long enough to conceal the glistening\nextremities of its limbs. From its general contour and the tangled\nmass of hair that fell about its neck and shoulders, Lady Adela\nconcluded it was the phantasm of a woman. Its head being kept bent,\nshe was unable to see the face in full, but every instant she expected\nthe revelation would take place, and with each separate movement of\nthe phantasm her suspense became more and more intolerable. At last it\nstood on the floor of the cellar, a broad, ungainly, horribly ungainly\nfigure, that glided up to and past her into the far cellar. There it\nhalted, as nearly as she could judge on the new tiles, and remained\nstanding. As she gazed at it, too fascinated to remove her eyes, there\nwas a loud, reverberating crash, a hideous sound of wrenching and\ntearing, and the whole of the ceiling of the inner chamber came down\nwith an appalling roar. Lady Adela thinks that she must then have\nfainted, for she distinctly remembers falling--falling into what\nseemed to her a black, interminable abyss. When she recovered\nconsciousness, she was lying on the tiles, and all around was still\nand normal. She got up, found and lighted her candle, and spent the\nrest of the evening, without further adventure, in the drawing-room.\n\nAll the week Lady Adela struggled hard to master a disinclination to\nspend another evening alone in the house, and when Friday came she\nsuccumbed to her fears. The servants were poor, foolish things, but it\nwas nice to feel that there was something in the house besides ghosts.\nShe sat reading in the drawing-room till late that night, and when she\nlolled out of the window to take a farewell look at the sky and stars\nbefore retiring to rest, the sounds of traffic had completely ceased\nand the whole city lay bathed in a refreshing silence. It was very\nheavenly to stand there and feel the cool, soft air--unaccompanied,\nfor the first time during the day, by the rattling rumbling sounds of\nlocomotion and the jarring discordant murmurs of unmusical\nvoices--fanning her neck and face.\n\nLady Adela, used as she was to the privacy of her yacht, and the\nfreedom of her big country mansion, where all sounds were regulated at\nher will, chafed at the near proximity of her present habitation to\nthe noisy thoroughfare, and vaguely looked forward to the hours when\nshops and theatres were closed, and all screeching, harsh-voiced\nproducts of the gutter were in bed. To her the nights in Waterloo\nPlace were all too short; the days too long, too long for anything.\nThe heavy, lumbering steps of a policeman at last broke her reverie.\nShe had no desire to arouse his curiosity; besides, her costume had\nbecome somewhat disordered, and she had the strictest sense of\npropriety, at least in the presence of the lower orders. Retiring,\ntherefore, with a sigh of vexation, she sought her bedroom, and, after\nthe most scrupulous attention to her toilet, put out the lights and\ngot into bed. It was just one when she fell asleep, and three when she\nawoke with a violent start. Why she started puzzled her. She did not\nrecollect experiencing any very dreadful dream, in fact no dream at\nall, and there seemed nothing in the hush--the apparently unbroken\nhush--that could in any way account for her action. Why, then, had she\nstarted? She lay still and wondered. Surely everything was just as it\nwas when she went to sleep! And yet! When she ventured on a diagnosis,\nthere was something different, something new; she did not think it was\nactually in the atmosphere, nor in the silence; she did not know where\nit was until she opened her eyes--and then she _knew_. Bending over\nher, within a few inches of her face, was another face, the ghastly\ncaricature of a human face. It was on a larger scale than that of any\nmortal Lady Adela had ever seen; it was long in proportion to its\nwidth--indeed, she could not make out where the cranium terminated at\nthe back, as the hinder portion of it was lost in a mist. The\nforehead, which was very receding, was partly covered with a mass of\nlank, black hair, that fell straight down into space; there were no\nneck nor shoulders, at least none had materialised; the skin was\nleaden-hued, and the emaciation so extreme that the raw cheek-bones\nhad burst through in places; the size of the eye sockets which\nappeared monstrous, was emphasised by the fact that the eyes were\nconsiderably sunken; the lips were curled downwards and tightly shut,\nand the whole expression of the withered mouth, as indeed that of the\nentire face, was one of bestial, diabolical malignity. Lady Adela's\nheart momentarily stopped, her blood ran cold, she was petrified; and\nas she stared helplessly at the dark eyes pressed close to hers, she\nsaw them suddenly suffuse with fiendish glee. The most frightful\nchange then took place: the upper lip writhed away from a few greenish\nyellow stumps; the lower jaw fell with a metallic click, leaving the\nmouth widely open, and disclosing to Lady Adela's shocked vision a\nblack and bloated tongue; the eyeballs rolled up and entirely\ndisappeared, whilst their places were immediately filled with the\nfoulest and most loathsome indications of advanced decay. A strong,\nvibratory movement suddenly made all the bones in the head rattle and\nthe tongue wag, whilst from the jaws, as if belched up from some\ndeep-down well, came a gust of wind, putrescent with the ravages of\nthe tomb, and yet, at the same time, tainted with the same sweet,\nsickly odour with which Lady Adela had latterly become so familiar.\nThis was the culminating act; the head then receded, and, growing\nfainter and fainter, gradually disappeared altogether. Lady Adela was\nnow more than satisfied,--there was not a house more horribly haunted\nin Scotland,--and nothing on earth would induce her to remain in it\nanother night.\n\nHowever, being anxious, naturally, to discover something that might,\nin some degree, account for the apparitions, Lady Adela made endless\ninquiries concerning the history of former occupants of the house;\nbut, failing to find out anything remarkable in this direction, she\nwas eventually obliged to content herself with the following\ntradition: It was said that on the site of No. -- Forrest Road there\nhad once stood a cottage occupied by two sisters (both nurses), and\nthat one was suspected of poisoning the other; and that the cottage,\nmoreover, having through their parsimonious habits got into a very bad\nstate of repair, was blown down during a violent storm, the surviving\nsister perishing in the ruins. Granted that this story is correct, it\nwas in all probability the ghost of this latter sister that appeared\nto Lady Adela. Her ladyship is, of course, anxious to let No.\n-- Forrest Road, and as only about one in a thousand people seem to\npossess the faculty of seeing psychic phenomena, she hopes she may one\nday succeed in getting a permanent tenant. In the meanwhile, she is\ndoing her level best to suppress the rumour that the house is\nhaunted.\n\n\n\n\n                         CASE VI\n\n    THE PHANTOM REGIMENT OF KILLIECRANKIE\n\n\nMany are the stories that have from time to time been circulated with\nregard to the haunting of the Pass of Killiecrankie by phantom\nsoldiers, but I do not think there is any stranger story than that\nrelated to me, some years ago, by a lady who declared she had actually\nwitnessed the phenomena. Her account of it I shall reproduce as far as\npossible in her own words:--\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nLet me commence by stating that I am not a spiritualist, and that I\nhave the greatest possible aversion to convoking the earthbound souls\nof the dead. Neither do I lay any claim to mediumistic powers (indeed\nI have always regarded the term \"medium\" with the gravest suspicion).\nI am, on the contrary, a plain, practical, matter-of-fact woman, and\nwith the exception of this one occasion, never witnessed any psychic\nphenomena.\n\nThe incident I am about to relate took place the autumn before last. I\nwas on a cycle tour in Scotland, and, making Pitlochry my temporary\nheadquarters, rode over one evening to view the historic Pass of\nKilliecrankie. It was late when I arrived there, and the western sky\nwas one great splash of crimson and gold--such vivid colouring I had\nnever seen before and never have seen since. Indeed, I was so\nentranced at the sublimity of the spectacle, that I perched myself on\na rock at the foot of one of the great cliffs that form the walls of\nthe Pass, and, throwing my head back, imagined myself in fairyland.\nLost, thus, in a delicious luxury, I paid no heed to the time, nor did\nI think of stirring, until the dark shadows of the night fell across\nmy face. I then started up in a panic, and was about to pedal off in\nhot haste, when a strange notion suddenly seized me: I had a latchkey,\nplenty of sandwiches, a warm cape, why should I not camp out there\ntill early morning--I had long yearned to spend a night in the open,\nnow was my opportunity. The idea was no sooner conceived than put\ninto operation. Selecting the most comfortable-looking boulder I could\nsee, I scrambled on to the top of it, and, with my cloak drawn tightly\nover my back and shoulders, commenced my vigil. The cold mountain air,\nsweet with the perfume of gorse and heather, intoxicated me, and I\ngradually sank into a heavenly torpor, from which I was abruptly\naroused by a dull boom, that I at once associated with distant\nmusketry. All was then still, still as the grave, and, on glancing at\nthe watch I wore strapped on my wrist, I saw it was two o'clock. A\nspecies of nervous dread now laid hold of me, and a thousand and one\nvague fancies, all the more distressing because of their vagueness,\noppressed and disconcerted me. Moreover, I was impressed for the first\ntime with the extraordinary solitude--solitude that seemed to belong\nto a period far other than the present, and, as I glanced around at\nthe solitary pines and gleaming boulders, I more than half expected to\nsee the wild, ferocious face of some robber chief--some fierce yet\nfascinating hero of Sir Walter Scott's--peering at me from behind\nthem. This feeling at length became so acute, that, in a panic of\nfear--ridiculous, puerile fear, I forcibly withdrew my gaze and\nconcentrated it abstractedly on the ground at my feet. I then\nlistened, and in the rustling of a leaf, the humming of some night\ninsect, the whizzing of a bat, the whispering of the wind as it moaned\nsoftly past me, I fancied--nay, I felt sure I detected something that\nwas not ordinary. I blew my nose, and had barely ceased marvelling at\nthe loudness of its reverberations, before the piercing, ghoulish\nshriek of an owl sent the blood in torrents to my heart. I then\nlaughed, and my blood froze as I heard a chorus, of what I tried to\npersuade myself could only be echoes, proceed from every crag and rock\nin the valley. For some seconds after this I sat still, hardly daring\nto breathe, and pretending to be extremely angry with myself for being\nsuch a fool. With a stupendous effort I turned my attention to the\nmost material of things. One of the skirt buttons on my hip--they were\nmuch in vogue then--being loose, I endeavoured to occupy myself in\ntightening it, and when I could no longer derive any employment from\nthat, I set to work on my shoes, and tied knots in the laces, merely\nto enjoy the task of untying them. But this, too, ceasing at last to\nattract me, I was desperately racking my mind for some other device,\nwhen there came again the queer, booming noise I had heard before, but\nwhich I could now no longer doubt was the report of firearms. I looked\nin the direction of the sound--and--my heart almost stopped. Racing\ntowards me--as if not merely for his life, but his soul--came the\nfigure of a Highlander. The wind rustling through his long dishevelled\nhair, blew it completely over his forehead, narrowly missing his eyes,\nwhich were fixed ahead of him in a ghastly, agonised stare. He had not\na vestige of colour, and, in the powerful glow of the moonbeams, his\nskin shone livid. He ran with huge bounds, and, what added to my\nterror and made me double aware he was nothing mortal, was that each\ntime his feet struck the hard, smooth road, upon which I could well\nsee there was no sign of a stone, there came the sound, the\nunmistakable sound of the scattering of gravel. On, on he came, with\ncyclonic swiftness; his bare sweating elbows pressed into his panting\nsides; his great, dirty, coarse, hairy fists screwed up in bony\nbunches in front of him; the foam-flakes thick on his clenched,\ngrinning lips; the blood-drops oozing down his sweating thighs. It was\nall real, infernally, hideously real, even to the most minute details:\nthe flying up and down of his kilt, sporan, and swordless scabbard;\nthe bursting of the seam of his coat, near the shoulder; and the\nabsence of one of his clumsy shoe-buckles. I tried hard to shut my\neyes, but was compelled to keep them open, and follow his every\nmovement as, darting past me, he left the roadway, and, leaping\nseveral of the smaller obstacles that barred his way, finally\ndisappeared behind some of the bigger boulders. I then heard the loud\nrat-tat of drums, accompanied by the shrill voices of fifes and\nflutes, and at the farther end of the Pass, their arms glittering\nbrightly in the silvery moonbeams, appeared a regiment of scarlet-clad\nsoldiers. At the head rode a mounted officer, after him came the\nband, and then, four abreast, a long line of warriors; in their centre\ntwo ensigns, and on their flanks, officers and non-commissioned\nofficers with swords and pikes; more mounted men bringing up the rear.\nOn they came, the fifes and flutes ringing out with a weird clearness\nin the hushed mountain air. I could hear the ground vibrate, the\ngravel crunch and scatter, as they steadily and mechanically\nadvanced--tall men, enormously tall men, with set, white faces and\nlivid eyes. Every instant I expected they would see me, and I became\nsick with terror at the thought of meeting all those pale, flashing\neyes. But from this I was happily saved; no one appeared to notice me,\nand they all passed me by without as much as a twist or turn of the\nhead, their feet keeping time to one everlasting and monotonous tramp,\ntramp, tramp. I got up and watched until the last of them had turned\nthe bend of the Pass, and the sheen of his weapons and trappings could\nno longer be seen; then I remounted my boulder and wondered if\nanything further would happen. It was now half-past two, and blended\nwith the moonbeams was a peculiar whiteness, which rendered the whole\naspect of my surroundings indescribably dreary and ghostly. Feeling\ncold and hungry, I set to work on my beef sandwiches, and was\nreligiously separating the fat from the lean, for I am one of those\nfoolish people who detest fat, when a loud rustling made me look up.\nConfronting me, on the opposite side of the road, was a tree, an ash,\nand to my surprise, despite the fact that the breeze had fallen and\nthere was scarcely a breath of wind, the tree swayed violently to and\nfro, whilst there proceeded from it the most dreadful moanings and\ngroanings. I was so terrified that I caught hold of my bicycle and\ntried to mount, but I was obliged to desist as I had not a particle of\nstrength in my limbs. Then to assure myself the moving of the tree was\nnot an illusion, I rubbed my eyes, pinched myself, called aloud; but\nit made no difference--the rustling, bending, and tossing still\ncontinued. Summing up courage, I stepped into the road to get a closer\nview, when to my horror my feet kicked against something, and, on\nlooking down, I perceived the body of an English soldier, with a\nghastly wound in his chest. I gazed around, and there, on all sides of\nme, from one end of the valley to the other, lay dozens of\nbodies,--bodies of men and horses,--Highlanders and English,\nwhite-cheeked, lurid eyes, and bloody-browed,--a hotch-potch of livid,\ngory awfulness. Here was the writhing, wriggling figure of an officer\nwith half his face shot away; and there, a horse with no head; and\nthere--but I cannot dwell on such horrors, the very memory of which\nmakes me feel sick and faint. The air, that beautiful, fresh mountain\nair, resounded with their moanings and groanings, and reeked with the\nsmell of their blood. As I stood rooted to the ground with horror, not\nknowing which way to look or turn, I suddenly saw drop from the ash,\nthe form of a woman, a Highland girl, with bold, handsome features,\nraven black hair, and the whitest of arms and feet. In one hand she\ncarried a wicker basket, in the other a knife, a broad-bladed,\nsharp-edged, horn-handled knife. A gleam of avarice and cruelty came\ninto her large dark eyes, as, wandering around her, they rested on the\nrich facings of the English officers' uniforms. I knew what was in\nher mind, and--forgetting she was but a ghost--that they were all\nghosts--I moved heaven and earth to stop her. I could not. Making\nstraight for a wounded officer that lay moaning piteously on the\nground, some ten feet away from me, she spurned with her slender,\ngraceful feet, the bodies of the dead and dying English that came in\nher way. Then, snatching the officer's sword and pistol from him, she\nknelt down, and, with a look of devilish glee in her glorious eyes,\ncalmly plunged her knife into his heart, working the blade backwards\nand forwards to assure herself she had made a thorough job of it.\nAnything more hellish I could not have imagined, and yet it fascinated\nme--the girl was so fair, so wickedly fair and shapely. Her act of\ncruelty over, she spoiled her victim of his rings, epaulets, buttons\nand gold lacing, and, having placed them in her basket, proceeded\nelsewhere. In some cases, unable to remove the rings easily, she\nchopped off the fingers, and popped them, just as they were, into her\nbasket. Neither was her mode of dispatch always the same, for while\nshe put some men out of their misery in the manner I have described,\nshe cut the throats of others with as great a nonchalance as if she\nhad been killing fowls, whilst others again she settled with the\nbutt-ends of their guns or pistols. In all she murdered a full\nhalf-score, and was decamping with her booty when her gloating eyes\nsuddenly encountered mine, and with a shrill scream of rage she rushed\ntowards me. I was an easy victim, for strain and pray how I would, I\ncould not move an inch. Raising her flashing blade high over her head,\nan expression of fiendish glee in her staring eyes, she made ready to\nstrike me. This was the climax, my overstrained nerves could stand no\nmore, and ere the blow had time to descend, I pitched heavily forward\nand fell at her feet. When I recovered, every phantom had vanished,\nand the Pass glowed with all the cheerful freshness of the early\nmorning sun. Not a whit the worse for my venture, I cycled swiftly\nhome, and ate as only one can eat who has spent the night amid the\nbanks and braes of bonnie Scotland.\n\n\n\n\n                         CASE VII\n\n    \"PEARLIN' JEAN\" OF ALLANBANK\n\n\nFew ghosts have obtained more notoriety than \"Pearlin' Jean,\" the\nphantasm which for many years haunted Allanbank, a seat of the\nStuarts.\n\nThe popular theory as to the identity of the apparition is as\nfollows:--\n\nMr. Stuart, afterwards created first baronet of Allanbank, when on a\ntour in France, met a young and beautiful French Sister of Charity of\nthe name of Jean, whom he induced to leave her convent. Tiring of her\nat length, Mr. Stuart brutally left her, and, returning abruptly to\nScotland, became engaged to be married to a lady of his own\nnationality and position in life. But Jean was determined he should\nnot escape her so easily. For him she had sacrificed everything: her\nold vocation in life was gone, she had no home, no honour,--nothing,\nso she resolved to leave no stone unturned to discover his\nwhereabouts. At last her perseverance was rewarded, and, Fortune\nfavouring her, she arrived without mishap at Allanbank.\n\nThe truth was then revealed to her: her cruel and faithless lover was\nabout to be wedded to another. But despair gave her energy, and,\nburning with indignation, she hastened to his house to upbraid him.\nShe reached the spot just as he was driving out with his fiancee. With\na cry of anguish, Jean rushed forward and, swinging herself nimbly on\nto the fore-wheel of the coach, turned her white and passionate face\ntowards its occupants. For a moment, Mr. Stuart was too dumbfounded to\ndo anything; he could scarcely believe his senses. Who on earth was\nthis frantic female? Good Heavens! Jean! Impossible! How on earth had\nshe got there? And the tumultuous beating of his guilty heart turned\nhim sick and faint.\n\nThen he glanced fearfully and covertly at his fiancee. _She_ must not\nknow the truth at any cost. Possibly he lost his head! At all events,\nthat is the kindest construction to put on his subsequent action,\nfor, dastardly as his behaviour had been to Jean in the past, one can\nhardly imagine him capable of deliberately murdering her, and in so\nhorrible a fashion. There was not a second to lose; an instant more,\nand the secret, that he had so assiduously hidden from the lady beside\nhim, would be revealed. Jean's mouth was already open to speak. He\nwaved her aside. She adhered to her post. He shouted to the postilion,\nand the huge, lumbering vehicle was set in motion. At the first turn\nof the wheels, Jean slipped from her perch, her dress caught in the\nspokes, and she was crushed to death.\n\nHer fate does not appear to have made any deep impression either on\nMr. Stuart or his lady-love, for they continued their drive.\n\nThe hauntings began that autumn. Mr. Stuart, as was only fit and\nproper, being the first to witness the phenomenon. Returning home from\na drive one evening, he perceived to his surprise the dark outlines of\na human figure perched on the arched gateway of his house, exactly\nopposite the spot where Jean had perished. Wondering who it could be,\nhe leaned forward to inspect it closer. The figure moved, an icy\ncurrent of air ran through him, and he saw to his horror the livid\ncountenance of the dead Jean. There she was, staring down at him with\nlurid, glassy eyes; her cheeks startlingly white, her hair fluttering\nin the wind, her neck and forehead bathed in blood.\n\nParalysed with terror, Mr. Stuart could not remove his gaze, and it\nwas not until one of the menials opened the carriage door to assist\nhim down, that the spell was broken and he was able to speak and move.\nHe then flew into the house, and spent the rest of the night in the\nmost abject fear.\n\nAfter this he had no peace--Allanbank was constantly haunted. The\ngreat oak doors opened and shut of their own accord at night with loud\nclanging and bangs, and the rustling of silks and pattering of\nhigh-heeled shoes were heard in the oak-panelled bedrooms and along\nthe many dark and winding passages.\n\nFrom her attire, which was a piece of lace made of thread, the\napparition became known as \"Pearlin' Jean,\" and a portrait of her was\nactually painted. It is recorded that when this picture was hung\nbetween one of Mr. Stuart and his lady-love, the hauntings ceased, but\nthat as soon as it was removed they were renewed. Presumably, it was\nnot allowed to remain in the aforesaid position long, for the\nmanifestations appear to have gone on for many years without\nintermission.\n\nMost phantasms of the dead inspire those who see them with\nhorror,--and that is my own experience,--but \"Pearlin' Jean\" seems to\nhave been an exception to this rule. A housekeeper called Betty\nNorrie, who lived for many years at Allanbank, declared that other\npeople besides herself had so frequently seen Jean that they had grown\nquite accustomed to her, and were, consequently, no more alarmed at\nher appearance than they were by her noises.\n\nAnother servant at the house, of the name of Jenny Blackadder, used\nconstantly to hear Jean, but could never see her--though her husband\ndid.\n\nThe latter, when courting Jenny, received a rare scare, which suggests\nto me that Jean, in spite of her tragic ending, may not have been\nwithout a spice of humour. Thomas, for that was the swain's name,\nmade an assignation one night to meet Jenny in the orchard at\nAllanbank.\n\nIt was early when he arrived at the trysting-place--for Thomas, like\nall true lovers, was ever rather more than punctual--and he fully\ncontemplated a long wait. Judge, then, of his astonishment, when he\nperceived in the moonlight what he took to be the well-known and\nadored figure of his lady-love. With a cry of delight, Thomas rushed\nforward, and, swinging his arms widely open to embrace her, beheld her\nvanish, and found himself hugging space! An icy current of air\nthrilled through him, and the whole place--trees, nooks, moonbeams,\nand shadows, underwent a hideous metamorphosis. The very air bristled\nwith unknown horrors till flesh and blood could stand no more, and,\neven at the risk of displeasing his beloved Jenny, Thomas fled! Some\nfew minutes later, at the appointed hour, Jenny arrived on the scene,\nand no one was there. She dallied for some time, wondering whatever\ncould have happened to Thomas, and then returned, full of grave\napprehensions, to the house.\n\nIt was not until the next morning that the truth leaked out, and\nJenny, after indulging in a hearty laugh at her lover, who felt very\nshamefaced now that it was daylight, sensibly forgave him, and raised\nno obstacle when asked to fix a day for their marriage.\n\nIn after years, Jenny used to retail the story with many harrowing\nallusions to \"Pearlin' Jean,\" whom she somewhat foolishly made use of\nas a bogey to frighten children into being good. A Mr. Sharpe, who\nwhen he was a little boy was once placed in her charge, confesses that\nhe was dreadfully scared at her stories, and that he never ventured\ndown a passage in those days without thinking \"Pearlin' Jean,\" with\nher ghostly, blood-stained face, clawlike hands, and rustling lace\ndress, was after him.\n\nNurse Jenny used to tell him that the Stuarts tried in vain to lay\nJean's spirit, actually going to the length of calling in seven\nministers to exorcise it. But all to no purpose; it still continued\nits nocturnal peregrinations.\n\nIn the year 1790 the Stuarts let the house to strangers, who, when\nthey took it, had not the least idea that it was haunted. However,\nthey did not long remain in ignorance, for two ladies, who occupied\nthe same bedroom, were awakened in the night by hearing some one\nwalking across the floor. The \"presence\" did not suggest burglars, for\nthe intruder behaved in the most noisy manner, pacing restlessly and\napparently aimlessly backwards and forwards across the room, swishing\nthe floor (with what sounded like a long lace train) and breathing\nheavily. They were both terrified, and so cold that they could hear\none another's teeth chatter. They were too frightened to call for\nhelp; they could only lie still, hoping and praying it would not come\nnearer to them. The sufferings of these two ladies were indescribable,\nfor the ghost remained in their room all night, moving restlessly\nabout until daybreak. It was not until some days later, when other\npeople in the house had experienced the phenomenon, that they were\ntold the story of the notorious \"Pearlin' Jean.\"\n\nBut was the so-called \"Pearlin' Jean\" really the apparition of the\nmurdered French woman? To my mind, her identity with that of the\nbeautiful Sister of Charity has not been satisfactorily established,\nand I think there are reasons to doubt it.\n\nIf, for instance, the apparition were that of a Sister of Charity, why\nshould it appear incongruously attired in a long trailing gown of\nlace? And if it were that of a woman of the presumably staid habits of\na Sister of Charity, why should it delight in mischief and play the\npranks of a _poltergeist_? And yet if it wasn't the ghost of Jean,\nwhose ghost was it?\n\n\n\n\n                        CASE VIII\n\n    THE DRUMMER OF CORTACHY\n\n\nWhat ancient Scottish or Irish family has not its Family Ghost? A\nbanshee--the heritage of Niall of the Nine Hostages--is still the\nunenviable possession of his descendants, the O'Donnells, and I, who\nam a member of the clan, have both seen and heard it several times. As\nit appears to me, it resembles the decapitated head of a prehistoric\nwoman, and I shall never forget my feelings one night, when, aroused\nfrom slumber by its ghastly wailing, I stumbled frantically out of\nbed, and, groping my way upstairs in the dark, without venturing to\nlook to the left or right lest I should see something horrible, found\nevery inmate of the house huddled together on the landing, paralysed\nwith fear. I did not see it on that occasion, but on the following\nmorning, as I had anticipated, I received the news that a near and\ndear relative had died.\n\nPossessing such an heirloom myself, I can therefore readily sympathise\nwith those who own a similar treasure--such, for example, as the\nfamous, or rather infamous, Drummer of Cortachy Castle, who is\ninvariably heard beating a tattoo before the death of a member of the\nclan of Ogilvie.\n\nMrs. Crowe, in her _Night Side of Nature_, referring to the haunting,\nsays:--\n\n\"Miss D., a relative of the present Lady C., who had been staying some\ntime with the Earl and Countess at their seat, near Dundee, was\ninvited to spend a few days at Cortachy Castle, with the Earl and\nCountess of Airlie. She went, and whilst she was dressing for dinner\nthe first evening of her arrival, she heard a strain of music under\nher window, which finally resolved itself into a well-defined sound of\na drum. When her maid came upstairs, she made some inquiries about the\ndrummer that was playing near the house; but the maid knew nothing on\nthe subject. For the moment the circumstance passed from Miss D.'s\nmind, but, recurring to her again during the dinner, she said,\naddressing Lord Airlie, 'My lord, who is your drummer?' Upon which his\nlordship turned pale, Lady Airlie looked distressed, and several of\nthe company, who all heard the question, embarrassed; whilst the lady,\nperceiving that she had made some unpleasant allusion, although she\nknew not to what their feelings referred, forebore further inquiry\ntill she reached the drawing-room; when, having mentioned the\ncircumstance again to a member of the family, she was answered, 'What,\nhave you never heard of the drummer boy?' 'No,' replied Miss D.; 'who\nin the world is he?' 'Why,' replied the other, 'he is a person who\ngoes about the house playing his drum, whenever there is a death\nimpending in the family. The last time he was heard was shortly before\nthe death of the last Countess (the Earl's former wife); and that is\nwhy Lord Airlie became so pale when you mentioned it. The drummer boy\nis a very unpleasant subject in this family, I assure you.'\n\n\"Miss D. was naturally much concerned, and indeed not a little\nfrightened at this explanation, and her alarm being augmented by\nhearing the sounds on the following day, she took her departure from\nCortachy Castle, and returned to Lord C.'s, where she related this\nstrange circumstance to the family, through whom the information\nreached me.\n\n\"This affair was very generally known in the north, and we awaited the\nevent with interest. The melancholy death of the Countess about five\nor six months afterwards, at Brighton, sadly verified the\nprognostications. I have heard that a paper was found in her desk\nafter her death, declaring her conviction that the drum was for her.\"\n\nMrs. Crowe goes on to explain the origin of the phenomenon. According\nto legend, she says, there was once at Cortachy a drummer, who,\nincurring the jealousy of the then Lord Airlie, was thrust into his\nown drum and flung from a window of the tower (in which, by the way,\nMiss D. slept). Before being put to death thus, the drummer is stated\nto have said he would for ever after haunt the Airlie family--a threat\nhe has obviously been permitted to fulfil.\n\nDuring one of my visits to Scotland, I stayed some days in Forfarshire\nnot far from Cortachy. Among the visitors at my hotel was a very old\ngentleman of the name of Porter, who informed me that, when a boy, he\nused to visit some relatives who, at that time, lived within easy\nwalking distance of Cortachy. One of these relatives was a lad of\nabout fourteen, named Alec, with whom he had always been the closest\nof friends. The recollection of their many adventures evidently\nafforded Mr. Porter infinite amusement, and one of these adventures,\nin particular, he told me, was as fresh in his mind as if it had\nhappened yesterday.\n\n\"Looking back upon it now,\" he said, with a far-away look in his eyes,\n\"it certainly was a strange coincidence, and if you are interested in\nthe hauntings of Cortachy, Mr. O'Donnell, you may, perhaps, like to\nhear the account of my ghostly experiences in that neighbourhood.\"\n\nOf course I replied that nothing would give me greater pleasure, and\nMr. Porter forthwith began his story.\n\n\"One misty night in October, my friend Alec and I, both being keen on\nrabbiting, determined to visit a spinney adjoining the Cortachy\nestate, in pursuit of our quarry. Alec had chosen this particular\nnight, thinking, under cover of the mist, to escape the vigilance of\nthe keepers, who had more than once threatened to take him before the\nlaird for trespassing.\n\n\"To gain access to the spinney we had to climb a granite wall and drop\non the other side--the drop, in addition to being steep, being\nrendered all the more precarious by reason of the man-traps the\nkeepers were in the habit of setting. When I got astride the wall and\npeered into the well-like darkness at our feet, and heard the grim\nrustling of the wind through the giant pines ahead of me, I would have\ngiven all I possessed to have found myself snug and warm in bed; but\nAlec was of a different 'kidney'--he had come prepared for excitement,\nand he meant to have it. For some seconds, we both waited on the wall\nin breathless silence, and then Alec, with a reckless disregard of\nwhat might be in store for him, gently let himself drop, and I,\nfearing more, if anything, than the present danger, to be for ever\nafter branded as a coward if I held back, timidly followed suit. By a\ngreat stroke of luck we alighted in safety on a soft carpeting of\nmoss. Not a word was spoken, but, falling on hands and knees, and\nguiding ourselves by means of a dark lantern Alec had bought\nsecond-hand from the village blacksmith, we crept on all-fours along a\ntiny bramble-covered path, that after innumerable windings eventually\nbrought us into a broad glade shut in on all sides by lofty trees.\nAlec prospected the spot first of all to see no keepers were about,\nand we then crawled into it, and, approaching the nearest burrows, set\nto work at once with our ferrets. Three rabbits were captured in this\nfashion, and we were eagerly anticipating the taking of more, when a\nsensation of icy coldness suddenly stole over us, and, on looking\nround, we perceived, to our utmost consternation, a very tall keeper\nstanding only a few yards away from us. For once in a way, Alec was\nnonplussed, and a deathly silence ensued. It was too dark for us to\nsee the figure of the keeper very distinctly, and we could only\ndistinguish a gleaming white face set on a very slight and\nperpendicular frame, and a round, glittering something that puzzled us\nboth exceedingly. Then, a feeling that, perhaps, it was not a keeper\ngradually stole over me, and in a paroxysm of ungovernable terror I\ncaught hold of Alec, who was trembling from head to foot as if he had\nthe ague. The figure remained absolutely still for about a minute,\nduring which time neither Alec nor I could move a muscle, and then,\nturning round with an abrupt movement, came towards us.\n\n\"Half-dead with fright, but only too thankful to find that we had now\nregained the use of our limbs, we left our spoil and ran for our lives\nin the direction of the wall.\n\n\"We dared not look back, but we knew the figure followed us, for we\nheard its footsteps close at our heels; and never to my dying day\nshall I forget the sound--rat-tat, tat, rat-tat, tat--for all the\nworld like the beat of a muffled drum.\n\n\"How we ever managed to reach the wall I could never tell, but as we\nscrambled over it, regardless of man-traps and bruises, and plunged\ninto the heather on the other side, we heard the weird footsteps\nreceding in the direction of the castle, and, ere we had reached home,\nthe rat-tat, tat, rat-tat, tat, had completely died away.\n\n\"We told no one a word of what had happened, and a few days after,\nsimultaneously with the death of one of the Airlies, we learned, for\nthe first time, the story of the Phantom Drummer.\n\n\"I have little doubt,\" Mr. Porter added, in conclusion, \"that the\nfigure we took to be a keeper was the prophetic Drummer, for I can\nassure you there was no possibility of hoaxers, especially in such\nill-omened guise, anywhere near the Cortachy estate.\"\n\nPoor old Mr. Porter! He did not long survive our _rencontre_. When I\nnext visited the hotel, some months later, I was genuinely grieved to\nhear of his decease. His story had greatly fascinated me, for I love\nthe solitude of the pines, and have myself from time to time witnessed\nmany remarkable occult phenomena under the shadow of their lofty\nsummits. One night, during this second visit of mine to the hotel, the\nmood to ramble came upon me, and, unable to resist the seductive\nthought of a midnight stroll across the bracken-covered hills, I\nborrowed a latchkey, and, armed with a flask of whisky and a thick\nstick, plunged into the moonlit night. The keen, heather-scented air\nacted like a tonic--I felt younger and stronger than I had felt for\nyears, and I congratulated myself that my friends would hardly know me\nif they saw me now, as I swung along with the resuscitated stride of\ntwenty years ago. The landscape for miles around stood out with\nstartling clearness in the moonshine, and I stopped every now and then\nto drink in the beauties of the glittering mountain-ranges and silent,\nglimmering tarns. Not a soul was about, and I found myself, as I loved\nto be, the only human element in the midst of nature. Every now and\nthen a dark patch fluttered across the shining road, and with a weird\nand plaintive cry, a night bird dashed abruptly from hedge to hedge,\nand seemingly melted into nothingness. I quitted the main road on the\nbrow of a low hill, and embarked upon a wild expanse of moor, lavishly\ncovered with bracken and white heather, intermingled with which were\nthe silvery surfaces of many a pool of water. For some seconds I stood\nstill, lost in contemplating the scenery,--its utter abandonment and\ngrand sense of isolation; and inhaling at the same time long and deep\ndraughts of the delicious moorland air, unmistakably impregnated now\nwith breaths of ozone. My eyes wandering to the horizon, I detected,\non the very margin of the moorland, a dense clump of trees, which I\ninstantly associated with the spinney in my old friend Mr. Porter's\nstory, and, determining that the renowned spinney should be my goal, I\nat once aimed for it, vigorously striking out along the path which I\nthought would be most likely to lead to it. Half an hour's brisk\nwalking brought me to my destination, and I found myself standing\nopposite a granite wall which my imagination had no difficulty in\nidentifying with the wall so well described by Mr. Porter. Removing\nthe briars and gorse prickles which left little of my stockings whole,\nI went up to the wall, and, measuring it with my body, found it was a\ngood foot taller than I. This would mean rather more climbing than I\nhad bargained for. But the pines--the grim silence of their slender\nframes and gently swaying summits--fascinated me. They spoke of\npossibilities few could see or appreciate as I could; possibilities of\na sylvan phantasmagoria enhanced by the soft and mystic radiance of\nthe moon. An owl hooted, and the rustling of brushwood told me of the\nnear proximity of some fur-coated burrower in the ground. High above\nthis animal life, remoter even than the tops of my beloved trees or\nthe mountain-ranges, etched on the dark firmament, shone multitudinous\nstars, even the rings round Saturn being plainly discernible. From the\nMilky Way my eyes at length wandered to the pines, and a puff of air\nladen with the odour of their resin and decaying brushwood decided me.\nI took a few preliminary sips of whisky, stretched my rusty limbs,\nand, placing one foot in a jagged crevice of the wall, swarmed\npainfully up. How slow and how hazardous was the process! I scratched\nmy fingers, inured to the pen but a stranger to any rougher substance;\nI ruined my box-calf boots, I split my trousers at the knees, and I\nfelt that my hat had parted with its shape for ever; and yet I\ncontinued the ascent. The end came all too suddenly. When within an\nace of victory, I yielded to impulse, and with an energy the desperate\ncondition of my skin and clothes alone could account for, I swung up,\nand--the outer edge of the wall melted beneath me, my hands\nfrantically clutched at nothingness, a hideous sensation of falling\nsurged through my brain, my ears and eyes filled to bursting, and with\na terrific crash that seemed to drive my head and spine right through\nmy stomach, I met the black, uprising earth, and lost consciousness.\n\nProvidentially for me, I had pitched head first into a furze bush\nwhich broke the fall, otherwise I must have met with serious injury.\nAs it was, when I recovered my momentary loss of consciousness, I\nfound that I had sustained no worse harm than a severe shaking,\nscratches galore, and the utter demolition of my clothes! I picked\nmyself up with difficulty, and spent some time searching for my hat\nand stick--which I at length discovered, lodged, of course, where one\nwould least have thought of looking for them. I then took close stock\nof my surroundings, and found them even grimmer than I had\nanticipated. Though the trees were packed closely together, and there\nwas much undergrowth, the moonbeams were so powerful and so fully\nconcentrated on the spinney, that I could see no inconsiderable\ndistance ahead of me. Over everything hung a solemn and preternatural\nhush. I saw shadows everywhere--shadows that defied analysis and had\nno material counterparts. A sudden crashing of brushwood brought me to\na standstill, and sent the blood in columns to my heart. Then I\nlaughed loudly--it was only a hare, the prettiest and pertest thing\nimaginable. I went on. Something whizzed past my face. I drew back in\nhorror--it was a bat, merely a bat. My nerves were out of order, the\nfall had unsteadied them; I must pull myself together. I did so, and\ncontinued to advance. A shadow, long, narrow, and grotesque, fell\nacross my path, and sent a thousand and one icy shivers down my back.\nIn an agony of terror I shut my eyes and plunged madly on. Something\nstruck me in the face and hurled me back. My eyes opened\ninvoluntarily, and I saw a tree that, either out of pique or sheer\nobstinacy, had planted itself half-way across the path. I examined its\nbranches to make sure they _were_ branches, and continued my march. A\nscore more paces, a sudden bend, and I was in an open space,\nbrilliantly illuminated by moonbeams and peopled with countless,\nmoving shadows. One would have to go far to find a wilder, weirder,\nand more grimly suggestive spot. As I stood gazing at the scene in\nawestruck wonder, a slight breeze rocked the tops of the pine trees,\nand moaning through their long and gloomy aisles reverberated like\nthunder. The sounds, suggesting slightly, ever so slightly, a tattoo,\nbrought with them vivid pictures of the Drummer, too vivid just then\nto be pleasant, and I turned to go. To my unmitigated horror, a white\nand lurid object barred my way. My heart ceased to beat, my blood\nturned to ice; I was sick, absolutely sick, with terror. Besides this,\nthe figure held me spellbound--I could neither move nor utter a sound.\nIt had a white, absolutely white face, a tall, thin, perpendicular\nframe, and a small, glittering, rotund head. For some seconds it\nremained stationary, and then, with a gliding motion, left the path\nand vanished in the shadows.\n\nAgain a breeze rustled through the tops of the pine trees, moaned\nthrough their long and gloomy aisles, and reverberated like thunder;\nrat-tat, tat, rat-tat, tat--and with this sound beating in my ears,\nreaction set in, and I never ceased running till I had reached my\nhotel.\n\n\n\n\n                         CASE IX\n\n    THE ROOM BEYOND. AN ACCOUNT OF THE HAUNTINGS\n      AT HENNERSLEY, NEAR AYR\n\n\nTo me Hennersley is what the Transformation Scene at a Pantomime was\nto the imaginative child--the dreamy child of long ago--a floral\nparadise full of the most delightful surprises. Here, at Hennersley,\nfrom out the quite recently ice-bound earth, softened and moistened\nnow by spring rain, there rises up row upon row of snowdrops,\nhyacinths and lilies, of such surpassing sweetness and beauty that I\nhold my breath in astonishment, and ecstatically chant a Te Deum to\nthe fairies for sending such white-clad loveliness.\n\nAnd then--then, ere my wonder has had time to fade, it is summer. The\nground opens, and there springs up, on all sides, a veritable sea of\nvivid, variegated colour,--scarlet, pink, and white geraniums; red,\nwhite and yellow roses; golden honeysuckle; bright-hued marigolds;\npurple pansies; pale forget-me-nots; wallflowers; sweet peas;\nmany-tinted azaleas; showy hydrangeas; giant rhododendrons; foxgloves,\nbuttercups, daisies, hollyhocks, and heliotropes; a floral host too\nvaried to enumerate.\n\nOvercome with admiration, bewildered with happiness, I kneel on the\nsoft carpet of grass, and, burying my face extravagantly, in alternate\nlaps of luxurious, downy, scent-laden petals, fill my lungs with\nsoul-inspiring nectar.\n\nMy intoxication has barely worn off before my eyes are dimly conscious\nthat the soil all around me is generously besprinkled with the remains\nof my floral friends. I spring hurriedly to my feet, and, gazing\nanxiously about me, suddenly perceive the gaily nodding heads of new\narrivals--dahlias, sunflowers, anemones, chrysanthemums. As I continue\ngazing, the aromatic odour of mellow apples from the Hennersley\norchards reaches my nostrils; I turn round, and there, there in front\nof me, I see row upon row of richly-laden fruit trees, their leaves a\nbrilliant copper in the scintillating rays of the ruddy autumn sun. I\ngasp for breath--the beauty of tint and tone surpasses all that I have\nhitherto seen--it is sublime, the grand climax of transformation. As\nthe curtain falls with the approach of winter, I hurry to my Edinburgh\nhome and pray for the prompt return of early spring.\n\nFor many years my aged relatives, the Misses Amelia and Deborah\nHarbordeens, lived at Hennersley. Rarest and kindest of old ladies,\nthey were the human prototypes of the flowers both they and I loved.\nMiss Amelia, with her beautiful complexion, rounded form and regal\nmien, suggested to my childish mind more, much more, than the mere\nsemblance of a rose, whilst Miss Deborah, with her sprightly grace and\ngolden hair, was only masquerading as a woman--she was in reality a\ndaffodil.\n\nUnlike so many of the fair sex who go in for gardening, my aunts were\nessentially dainty. Their figures were shapely and elegant, their\nhands slim and soft. I never saw them working without gloves, and I\nhave good reason to believe they anointed their fingers every night\nwith a special preparation to keep them smooth and white. They were\nnot--decidedly not--\"brainy,\" neither were they accomplished, never\nhaving made any special study of the higher arts; but they evinced\nnevertheless the keenest appreciation of painting, music, and\nliterature. Their library--a large one--boasted a delightful\nharbourage of such writers as Jane Austen, Miss Mitford, and Maria\nEdgeworth. And in their drawing-room, on the walls of which art was\nrepresented by the old as well as modern masters, might be seen and\nsometimes heard--for the Misses Harbordeens often entertained--a\nwell-tuned Broadwood, and a Bucksen harpsichord. I will describe this\nold-world abode, not as I first saw it, for when I first visited my\naunts Amelia and Deborah, I was only one year old, but as I first\nremember it--a house with the glamour of a many-gabled roof and\ndiamond window-panes.\n\nThe house stood by the side of the turnpike road--that broad, white,\ninterminable road, originating from goodness knows where in the north,\nand passing through Ayr--the nearest town of any importance--to\ngoodness knows where in the south. A shady avenue, entered by a wooden\nswing gate bearing the superscription \"Hennersley\" in neat, white\nletters, led by a circuitous route to it, and not a vestige of it\ncould be seen from the road. In front of it stretched a spacious lawn,\nflanked on either side and at the farthest extremity by a thick growth\nof chestnuts, beeches, poplars, and evergreens.\n\nThe house itself was curiously built. It consisted of two storeys, and\nformed a main building and one wing, which gave it a peculiarly\nlop-sided appearance that reminded me somewhat ludicrously of\nChanticleer, with a solitary, scant, and clipped appendage.\n\nIt was often on the tip of my tongue to ask my relatives the reason of\nthis singular disparity; whether it was the result of a mere whim on\nthe part of the architect, or whether it had been caused by some\ncatastrophe; but my curiosity was always held in check by a strange\nfeeling that my relatives would not like to be approached on the\nsubject. My aunts Amelia and Deborah belonged to that class of\npeople, unhappily rare, who possess a power of generating in others an\ninstinctive knowledge of \"dangerous ground\"--a power which enabled\nthem to avert, both from themselves and the might-be offender, many a\npainful situation. To proceed--the nakedness of the walls of\nHennersley was veiled--who shall say it was not designedly veiled--by\na thick covering of clematis and ivy, and in the latter innumerable\nspecimens of the feathered tribe found a sure and safe retreat.\n\nOn entering the house, one stepped at once into a large hall. A\ngallery ran round it, and from the centre rose a broad oak staircase.\nThe rooms, with one or two exceptions, opened into one another, and\nwere large, and low and long in shape; the walls and floors were of\noak and the ceilings were crossed by ponderous oak beams.\n\nThe fireplaces, too, were of the oldest fashion; and in their\ncomfortable ingle-nook my aunts--in the winter--loved to read or knit.\n\nWhen the warm weather came, they made similar use of the deep-set\nwindow-sills, over which they indulgently permitted me to scramble on\nto the lawn.\n\nThe sunlight was a special feature of Hennersley. Forcing its way\nthrough the trellised panes, it illuminated the house with a radiancy,\na soft golden radiancy I have never seen elsewhere.\n\nMy relatives seemed to possess some phenomenal attraction for the\nsunlight, for, no matter where they sat, a beam brighter than the rest\nalways shone on them; and, when they got up, I noticed that it always\nfollowed them, accompanying them from room to room and along the\ncorridors.\n\nBut this was only one of the many pleasant mysteries that added to the\njoy of my visits to Hennersley. I felt sure that the house was\nenchanted--that it was under the control of some benevolent being who\ntook a kindly interest in the welfare of my relatives.\n\nI remember once, on the occasion of my customary good-morning to Miss\nAmelia, who invariably breakfasted in bed, I inhaled the most\ndelicious odour of heliotrope. It was wafted towards me, in a cool\ncurrent of air, as I approached her bed, and seemed, to my childish\nfancy, to be the friendly greeting of a sparkling sunbeam that rested\non Miss Amelia's pillow.\n\nI was so charmed with the scent, that, alas! forgetful of my manners,\nI gave a loud sniff, and with a rapturous smile ejaculated, \"Oh!\nAuntie! Cherry pie!\"\n\nMiss Amelia started. \"Dear me, child!\" she exclaimed, \"how quietly you\nentered. I had no idea you were in the room. Heliotrope is the name of\nthe scent, my dear, but please do not allude to it again. Your Aunt\nDeborah and I are very fond of it\"--here she sighed--\"but for certain\nreasons--reasons you would not understand--we do not like to hear the\nword heliotrope mentioned. Kiss me, dear, and run away to your\nbreakfast.\"\n\nFor the first time in my life, perhaps, I was greatly puzzled. I could\nnot see why I should be forbidden to refer to such a pleasant and\nharmless subject--a subject that, looked at from no matter what point\nof view, did not appear to me to be in the slightest degree\nindelicate. The more I thought over it, the more convinced I became\nthat there was some association between the scent and the sunbeam,\nand in that association I felt sure much of the mystery lay.\n\nThe house was haunted--agreeably, delightfully haunted by a golden\nlight, a perfumed radiant light that could only have in my mind one\norigin, one creator--Titania--Titania, queen of the fairies, the\nguardian angel of my aged, my extremely aged relatives.\n\n\"Aunt Deborah,\" I said one morning, as I found her seated in the\nembrasure of the breakfast room window crocheting, \"Aunt Deborah! You\nlove the sunlight, do you not?\"\n\nShe turned on me a startled face. \"What makes you ask such strange\nquestions, child?\" she said. \"Of course I like the--sun. Most people\ndo. It is no uncommon thing, especially at my age.\"\n\n\"But the sunbeams do not follow every one, auntie, do they?\" I\npersisted.\n\nMiss Deborah's crochet fell into her lap.\n\n\"How queerly you talk,\" she said, with a curious trembling of her\nlips. \"How can the sunbeams follow one?\"\n\n\"But they do, auntie, they do indeed!\" I cried. \"I have often watched\na bright beam of golden light follow Aunt Amelia and you, in\ndifferent parts of the room. And it has settled on your lace collar\nnow.\"\n\nMiss Deborah looked at me very seriously; but the moistening of her\neyes I attributed to the strong light. \"Esther,\" she said, laying one\nof her soft hands on my forehead, \"there are things God does not want\nlittle girls to understand--question me no more.\"\n\nI obeyed, but henceforth I felt more than ever assured that my aunts,\nconsciously or unconsciously, shared their charming abode with some\ncapricious genii, of whose presence in their midst I had become\naccidentally aware; and to find out the enchanted neighbourhood of its\nmysterious retreat was to me now a matter of all-absorbing importance.\nI spent hour after hour roaming through the corridors, the copses, and\nmy beloved flower gardens, in eager search of some spot I could\nunhesitatingly affirm was the home of the genii. Most ardently I then\nhoped that the sunbeams would follow me, and that the breeze charged\nwith cool heliotrope would greet me as it did Aunt Deborah.\n\nIn the daytime, all Hennersley was sunshine and flowers, and, stray\nwhere I would, I never felt lonely or afraid; but as the light waned I\nsaw and felt a subtle change creep over everything. The long aisles of\ntrees that in the morning only struck me as enchantingly peaceful and\nshady, gradually filled with strangely terrifying shadows; the hue of\nthe broad swards deepened into a darkness I did not dare interpret,\nwhilst in the house, in its every passage, nook, and corner, a gloom\narose that, seeming to come from the very bowels of the earth, brought\nwith it every possible suggestion of bogey.\n\nI never spoke of these things to my relatives, partly because I was\nashamed of my cowardice, and partly because I dreaded a fresh rebuke.\nHow I suffered! and how I ridiculed my sufferings in the mornings,\nwhen every trace of darkness was obliterated, and amid the radiant\nbloom of the trees I thought only of heliotrope and sunbeams.\n\nOne afternoon my search for the abode of the genii led me to the\nwingless side of the house, a side I rarely visited. At the foot of\nthe ivy-covered walls and straight in their centre was laid a wide\nbed of flowers, every one of which was white. But why white? Again\nand again I asked myself this question, but I dared not broach it to\nmy relatives. A garden all white was assuredly an enigma--and to every\nenigma there is undoubtedly a key. Was this garden, which was all\nwhite, in any way connected with the sunbeams and heliotrope? Was it\nanother of the mysteries God concealed from little girls? Could this\nbe the home of the genii? This latter idea had no sooner entered my\nhead than it became a conviction. Of course! There was no doubt\nwhatever--it was the home of the genii.\n\nThe white petals were now a source of peculiar interest to me. I was\nfascinated: the minutes sped by and still I was there. It was not\nuntil the sun had disappeared in the far-distant horizon, and the grim\nshadows of twilight were creeping out upon me from the neighbouring\ntrees and bushes, that I awoke from my reverie--and fled!\n\nThat night--unable to sleep through the excitement caused by my\ndiscovery of the home of the genii--I lay awake, my whole thoughts\nconcentrated in one soul-absorbing desire, the passionate desire to\nsee the fairy of Hennersley--I had never heard of ghosts--and hear its\nstory. My bedroom was half-way down the corridor leading from the head\nof the main staircase to the extremity of the wing.\n\nAfter I said good-night I did not see my aunts again till the\nmorning--they never by any chance visited me after I was in bed. Hence\nI knew, when I had retired for the night, I should not see a human\nface nor hear a human voice for nearly twelve hours. This--when I\nthought of the genii with its golden beams of light and scent of\nheliotrope--did not trouble me; it was only when my thoughts would not\nrun in this channel that I felt any fear, and that fear was not of the\ndarkness itself, but of what the darkness suggested.\n\nOn this particular night, for the first few hours, I was sublimely\nhappy, and then a strange restlessness seized me. I was obsessed with\na wish to see the flower-garden. For some minutes, stimulated by a\ndread of what my aunts would think of such a violation of\nconventionality on the part of a child, I combated furiously with the\ndesire; but at length the longing was so great, so utterly and wholly\nirresistible, that I succumbed, and, getting quietly out of bed, made\nmy way noiselessly into the corridor.\n\nAll was dark and still--stiller than I had ever known it before.\nWithout any hesitation I plunged forward, in the direction of the\nwingless side of the house, where there was a long, narrow, stained\nwindow that commanded an immediate prospect of the white garden.\n\nI had seldom looked out of it, as up to the present this side of the\nhouse had little attraction for me; but all was changed now; and, as I\nfelt my way cautiously along the corridor, a thousand and one fanciful\nnotions of what I might see surged through my brain.\n\nI came to the end of the corridor, I descended half a dozen stairs, I\ngot to the middle of the gallery overlooking the large entrance\nhall--below me, above me, on all sides of me, was Stygian darkness. I\nstopped, and there suddenly rang out, apparently from close at hand, a\nloud, clear, most appallingly clear, blood-curdling cry, which,\nbeginning in a low key, ended in a shriek so horrid, harsh, and\npiercing, that I felt my heart shrivel up within me, and in sheer\ndesperation I buried my fingers in my ears to deaden the sound.\n\nI was now too frightened to move one way or the other. All the\nstrength departed from my limbs, and when I endeavoured to move my\nfeet, I could not--they appeared to be fastened to the ground with\nlead weights.\n\nI felt, I intuitively felt that the author of the disturbance was\nregarding my terror with grim satisfaction, and that it was merely\npostponing further action in order to enjoy my suspense. To block out\nthe sight of this dreadful creature, I clenched my eyelids tightly\ntogether, at the same time earnestly imploring God to help me.\n\nSuddenly I heard the low wail begin again, and then the echo of a\nfar-off silvery voice came softly to me through the gloom: \"It's an\nowl--only an owl!\"\n\nWith lightning-like rapidity the truth then dawned on me, and as I\nwithdrew my clammy finger-tips from my ears, the faint fluttering of\nwings reached me, through an open skylight. Once again I moved on;\nthe gallery was left behind, and I was well on my way down the\ntortuous passage leading to my goal, when a luminous object, of vast\nheight and cylindrical shape, suddenly barred my progress.\n\nOvercome by a deadly sickness, I sank on the floor, and, burying my\nface in my hands, quite made up my mind that my last moments had come.\n\nHow long I remained in this position I cannot say, to me it seemed\neternity. I was eventually freed from it by the echo of a gentle\nlaugh, so kind, and gay, and girlish, that my terror at once departed,\nand, on raising my head, I perceived that the cause of my panic was\nnothing more than a broad beam of moonlight on a particularly\nprominent angle of the wall.\n\nHeartily ashamed at my cowardice, I got up, and, stepping briskly\nforward, soon reached the stained-glass window.\n\nPressing my face against the pane, I peered through it, and there\nimmediately beneath me lay the flowers, glorified into dazzling gold\nby the yellow colour of the glass. The sight thrilled me with joy--it\nwas sublime. My instinct had not deceived me, this was indeed the\nlong-looked-for home of the genii.\n\nThe temperature, which had been high, abnormally so for June, now\nunderwent an abrupt change, and a chill current of air, sweeping down\non me from the rear, made my teeth chatter. I involuntarily shrank\nback from the window, and, as I did so, to my utter astonishment it\ndisappeared, and I saw, in its place, a room.\n\nIt was a long, low room, and opposite to me, at the farthest\nextremity, was a large bay window, through which I could see the\nnodding tops of the trees. The furniture was all green and of a\nlighter, daintier make than any I had hitherto seen. The walls were\ncovered with pictures, the mantelshelf with flowers. Whilst I was\nbusily employed noting all these details, the door of the room opened,\nand the threshold was gorgeously illuminated by a brilliant sunbeam,\nfrom which suddenly evolved the figure of a young and lovely girl.\n\nI can see her now as I saw her then--tall, and slender, with masses\nof golden hair, waved artistically aside from a low forehead of\nsnowy white; finely-pencilled brows, and long eyes of the most\nlustrous violet; a straight, delicately-moulded nose, a firm,\nbeautifully-proportioned chin, and a bewitching mouth. At her bosom\nwas a bunch of heliotrope, which, deftly undoing, she raised to her\nnose and then laughingly held out to me. I was charmed; I took a step\nforward towards her. The instant I did so, a wild look of terror\ndistorted her face, she waved me back, something jarred against my\nknee, and, in the place of the room, I saw only the blurred outline\nof trees through the yellow window-panes.\n\nBitterly disappointed, but absolutely sure that what I had seen was\nobjective, I retraced my steps to my bedroom and passed the remainder\nof the night in sound sleep.\n\nAfter breakfast, however, unable to restrain my curiosity longer, I\nsought Miss Amelia, who was easier to approach than her sister, and,\nmanaging after several efforts to screw up courage, blurted out the\nstory of my nocturnal escapade.\n\nMy aunt listened in silence. She was always gentle, but on this\noccasion she surpassed herself.\n\n\"I am not going to scold you, Esther,\" she said, smoothing out my\ncurls. \"After what you have seen it is useless to conceal the truth\nfrom you. God perhaps intends you to know all. Years ago, Esther, this\nhouse was not as you see it now. It had two wings, and, in the one\nthat no longer exists was the bedroom you saw in your vision. We\ncalled it the Green Room because everything in it was green, your Aunt\nAlicia--an aunt you have never heard of--who slept there, having a\npeculiar fancy for that colour.\n\n\"Alicia was our youngest sister, and we all loved her dearly. She was\njust as you describe her--beautiful as a fairy, with golden hair, and\nviolet eyes, and she always wore a bunch of heliotrope in her dress.\n\n\"One night, Esther, one lovely, calm, midsummer night, forty years\nago, this house was broken into by burglars. They got in through the\nGreen Room window, which was always left open during the warm\nweather. We--my mother, your Aunt Deborah, and I--were awakened by a\nloud shriek for help. Recognising Alicia's voice, we instantly flew\nout of bed, and, summoning the servants, tore to the Green Room as\nfast as we could.\n\n\"To our horror, Esther, the door was locked, and before we could break\nthe lock the ruffians had murdered her! They escaped through the\nwindow and were never caught. My mother, your great-grandmother, had\nthat part of the house pulled down, and on the site of it she planted\nthe white garden.\n\n\"Though Alicia's earthly body died, and was taken from us, her\nbeautiful spirit remains with us here. It follows us about in the\ndaytime in the form of a sunbeam, whilst occasionally, at night, it\nassumes her earthly shape. The house is what is generally termed\nhaunted, and, no doubt, some people would be afraid to live in it. But\nthat, Esther, is because they do not understand spirits--your Aunt\nDeborah and I do.\"\n\n\"Do you think, auntie,\" I asked with a thrill of joy, \"do you think it\nat all likely that I shall see Aunt Alicia again to-night?\"\n\nAunt Amelia shook her head gently. \"No, my dear,\" she said slowly, \"I\nthink it will be impossible, because you are going home this\nafternoon.\"\n\n\n\n\n                          CASE X\n\n    \"---- HOUSE,\" NEAR BLYTHSWOOD SQUARE, GLASGOW.\n      THE HAUNTED BATH\n\n\nWhen Captain W. de S. Smythe went to look over \"---- House,\" in the\nneighbourhood of Blythswood Square, Glasgow, the only thing about the\nhouse he did not like was the bathroom--it struck him as excessively\ngrim. The secret of the grimness did not lie, he thought, in any one\nparticular feature--in the tall, gaunt geyser, for example (though\nthere was always something in the look of a geyser when it was old and\ndilapidated, as was the case with this one, that repelled him), or in\nthe dark drying-cupboard, or in the narrow, slit-like window; but in\nthe room as a whole, in its atmosphere and general appearance. He\ncould not diagnose it; he could not associate it with anything else he\nhad ever experienced; it was a grimness that he could only specify as\ngrim--grim with a grimness that made him feel he should not like to\nbe alone there in the dead of night. It was a nuisance, because the\nrest of the house pleased him; moreover, the locality was convenient,\nand the rent moderate, very moderate for such a neighbourhood. He\nthought the matter well over as he leaned in the doorway of the\nbathroom. He could, of course, have the room completely renovated--new\npaper, new paint, and a fresh bath. Hot-water pipes! The geyser should\nbe done away with. Geysers were hideous, dangerous, and--pshaw, what\nnonsense!--Ghostly! Ghostly! What absurd rot! How his wife would\nlaugh! That decided the question. His wife! She had expressed a very\nardent wish that he should take a house in or near Blythswood Square,\nif he could get one on anything like reasonable terms, and here was\nhis chance. He would accompany the agent of the property to the\nlatter's office, and the preliminaries should be forthwith settled.\n\nSix weeks later, he and his family were installed in the house, which\nstill reeked with the smell of fresh paint and paper. The first thing\nthe Captain did when he got there was to steal away slyly to the\nbathroom, and as soon as he opened the door his heart sank. Despite\nthe many alterations the room had undergone, the grimness was still\nthere--there, everywhere. In the fine new six-foot bath, with its\nglistening, gleaming, wooden framework; in the newly papered, newly\npainted cupboard; in the walls, with their bright, fresh paper; in\nthe snowy surface of the whitewashed ceiling; in the air,--the very\nair itself was full of it. The Captain was, as a rule, very fond of\nhis bath, but in his new quarters he firmly resolved that some one\nelse should use the bath before he made the experiment. In a very few\ndays the family had all settled down, and every one, with the\nexception of the Captain, had had a bath, but no matter how many and\nhow bitter were his wife's complaints, try how he would, he could\nnot, he positively _could_ not, bring himself to wash in the\nbathroom--_alone_. It was all right so long as the door was open, but\nhis wife resolutely refused to allow him to keep it open, and the\nmoment it was shut his abject terror returned--a terror produced by\nnothing that he could in any way analyse or define. At last, ashamed\nof his cowardice, he screwed up courage, and, with a look of\ndetermined desperation in his eyes and mouth--an expression which\nsent his wife into fits of laughter--set out one night from his\nbedroom, candle in hand, and entered the bathroom. Shutting and\nlocking the door, he lighted another candle, and, after placing them\nboth on the mantelshelf, turned on the bath water, and began to\nundress.\n\n\"I may as well have a peep in the cupboard,\" he said, \"just to satisfy\nmyself no one is hiding there--for every one in the house knows how I\nhate this beastly bathroom--with the intention of playing me a\npractical joke. Supposing one of the maids--Polly, for example, I'm\nsure she'd be quite capable--took it into her pretty head to\"--but\nhere the Captain was obliged to stop; he really was not equal to\nfacing, even in his mind's eye, the situation such a supposition\ninvolved, and at the bare idea of such a thing his countenance assumed\na deeper hue, and--I am loth to admit--an amused grin. The grin,\nhowever, died out as he cautiously opened the door and peered\nfurtively in; no one--nothing was there! With a breath of relief he\nclosed the door again, placed a chair against it, and, sitting down,\nproceeded to pull off his clothes. Coat, vest, under-garments, he\nplaced them all tenderly in an untidy heap on the floor, and then,\nwith a last lingering, affectionate look at them, walked sedately\ntowards the bath. But this sedateness was only momentary. The first\nfew steps he walked, but, a noise in the grate startling him, he\nsuddenly assumed an air of the greatest gaiety, and, bowing with mock\ngallantry to his trousers, he now waltzed coquettishly to the bath. It\nwas grim, horribly grim, and horribly hot too, for, when he felt the\ntemperature with one of his squat, podgy toes, it made him swear quite\ninvoluntarily. Turning on the cold water, and slapping his thighs\nplayfully, he felt again. Too hot yet, far too hot even for him! He\nloved heat. More cold! and he was hoisting one chubby leg to feel\nagain, when, a repetition of the noise in the grate making him swing\nround, he lost his balance, and descended on the floor with a hard, a\nvery hard, bump. For some seconds he lay still, too sulky and\naggrieved even to get up, but, the draught from under the ill-fitting\ndoor tickling his bare flesh in the most immodest fashion, he roused\nhimself from this lethargy, and was about to raise himself from the\nfloor, when the lights went out--went out without a moment's warning,\nand he found himself engulfed in the most funereal darkness. To say he\nwas startled is to put it very mildly--he was absolutely\nterror-stricken--far too terror-stricken to think of moving now, and\nleast of all of getting up and groping for the matches. Indeed, when\nhe came to think of it, he had not seen any matches in the room, and\nhe had not brought any with him, his wife had flurried him so much.\nThe moment the candles were extinguished the grimness sensibly\nincreased, and he could feel all around him, thickly amalgamated with\nthe ether, a superphysical presence, at once hostile and horrible.\nThen, to bring his terror to a climax, there issued from the bath a\nloud rubbing and splashing, as if some one, some very heavy person,\nwas vigorously washing. The water rose and fell, squished and bubbled\nas it does when one is lying at full length in it, raising and\nlowering oneself, kicking and plunging first on one side and then on\nthe other. Whilst, to add to the realism, Captain Smythe distinctly\nheard gasping and puffing; and the soft, greasy sound of a well-soaped\nflannel. He could indeed follow every movement of the occupant of the\nbath as graphically as if he had seen him--from the brisk scrubbing of\nbody and legs to the finicky process of cleaning the ears and toes.\n\nIt was whilst the bather was occupied thus that the cupboard door\nbegan to open very quietly and stealthily, and Captain de Smythe heard\nthe chair he had so carefully placed against it being gradually\npropelled across the floor.\n\nThen something, he would have given anything to tell what, came out\nand began to steal towards him. He tried to crawl out of its way, but\ncould not; his limbs no longer acted conjointly with his brain, and\nwhen he opened his mouth to shout at it, his voice withered away in\nhis throat. It came up to him, and directly it touched his naked skin\nhe knew it was a woman--a woman with a much-beflounced silk skirt and\nsilk petticoats--a woman whose person was perfumed with violets (a\nscent for which the Captain had a particular weakness), and without\ndoubt, loaded with jewellery. Her behaviour did not betray any\nsymptoms of embarrassment when she encountered the Captain lying on\nthe floor, but, planting one icy-cold high-heeled shoe on his chest\nand the other on his cheek, she stepped on him as if he had been an\northodox cushion or footstool, purposely placed there for her\nconvenience. A hollow exclamation, which died away in a gasp, issued\nfrom the bath, as the woman, with a swift movement of her arms, threw\nsomething over it. What followed, the Captain could only surmise, but\nfrom the muttered imprecations and splashes in the water, it seemed to\nhim that nothing short of murder was taking place. After a while the\nnoises in the bath grew feebler and feebler, and when they finally\nceased, the woman, with a sigh of relief, shook the water from her\narms, and, stepping off the Captain, moved towards the fireplace. The\nspell which had, up to the present, enthralled the unfortunate\nCaptain, was now broken, and, thinking that his ghostly visitor had\nbetaken herself right away, he sat up. He had hardly done so before\nthe darkness was rudely dissipated, and, to his horror, he saw\nlooking at him, from a distance of only a few feet, a white, luminous\nface, presumably that of a woman. But what a woman! What a\ndevil!--what a match for the most lurid of any of Satan's male\nretainers. Yet she was not without beauty--beauty of the richest\nsensual order; beauty that, had it been flesh and blood, would have\nsent men mad. Her hair, jet black, wavy, and parted in the centre, was\nlooped over her shell-like ears, which were set unusually low and far\nback on her head; her nose was of that rare and matchless shape termed\nGrecian; and her mouth--in form, a triumph of all things heavenly, in\nexpression, a triumph of all things hellish. The magnificent turn of\nits short upper lip, and the soft voluptuous line of its under lip;\nits sportive dimples and ripe red colour; its even rows of dazzling,\npearly teeth were adorable; but they appealed to the senses, and in no\nsense or shape to the soul. Her brows, slightly irregular in outline,\nmet over the nose; her eyelashes were of great length, and her\neyes--slightly, ever so slightly, obliquely set, and larger than those\nof living human beings--were black, black as her hair; and the pupils\nsparkled and shone with the most damnable expression of satanical\nhatred and glee. The whole thing, the face and the light that emanated\nfrom it, was so entirely awful and devilish, that Captain Smythe sat\nlike one turned to stone, and it was not until long after it had\nvanished that he groped his way to the door, and in Adam's costume,\nfor he dared not stay to put on his clothes, fled down the passage to\nhis bedroom.\n\nFrom his wife he got little sympathy; her sarcasm was too deep for\nwords, and she merely ordered her husband on no account to breathe a\nword of his \"silliness\" before either the children or the servants.\nThe injunction, however, which was naturally carried out to the\nletter, was futile as a precaution, for, on running into the bathroom\none morning when every one else was downstairs, the eldest boy,\nRonald, saw, floating in the bath, the body of a hoary-headed old man.\nIt was bloated and purplish blue, and had big, glassy eyes that stared\nat him in such a hideous, meaningless manner that he uttered a scream\nof terror and fled. Alarmed at the noise, most of the household ran to\nsee what had happened. Only the Captain remained behind. He knew only\ntoo well, and he hid, letting his wife and the servants go upstairs\nalone. They entered the bathroom--there was nothing in the bath, not\neven water, but, as they were leaving, they ran into a dark, handsome,\nevil-eyed woman, clad in the most costly of dresses, and sparkling\nwith jewellery. She glided past them with sly, silent footsteps, and\nvanished by the cupboard. Cured of scepticism, and throwing dignity to\nthe wind, the Captain's wife raced downstairs, and, bursting into the\ndrawing-room, flung herself on the sofa in hysterics.\n\nWithin a week the house was once again empty, and the rumour getting\nabout that it was haunted, the landlord threatened the Smythes with an\naction for slander of title. But I do not think the case was taken to\ncourt, the Smythes agreeing to contradict the report they had\noriginated. Astute inquiries, however, eventually led them to discover\nthat a lady, answering to the description of the ghost they had seen,\nhad once lived at ---- House. Of Spanish descent, she was young,\nbeautiful, and gay; and was married to a man, an extremely wealthy man\n(people remembered how rich he was after he died), old enough to be\nher grandfather. They had nothing in common, the husband only wanting\nto be quiet, the wife to flirt and be admired. Their neighbours often\nheard them quarrel, and it was declared that the wife possessed the\ntemper of a fiend. The man was eventually found dead in his bath, and\nthere being no indications of violence, it was generally supposed that\nhe had fainted, (his wife having been previously heard to declare that\nhe often had fainting fits), and had thus been accidentally drowned.\nThe beautiful young widow, who inherited all his money, left the house\nimmediately and went abroad, and the neighbours, when questioned by\nthe Smythes as to whether anything had been seen of her since, shook\ntheir heads dubiously, but refused to commit themselves.\n\n\n\n\n                         CASE XI\n\n    THE CHOKING GHOST OF \"---- HOUSE,\" NEAR\n      SANDYFORD PLACE, GLASGOW\n\n\nThe last time I was passing through Glasgow, I put up for the night at\nan hotel near Sandyford Place, and met there an old theatrical\nacquaintance named Browne, Hely Browne. Not having seen him since I\ngave up acting, which is now, alas! a good many years, we had much to\ndiscuss--touring days, lodgings, managers, crowds, and a dozen other\nsubjects, all included in the vulgar term \"shop.\" We spent the whole\nof one evening debating thus, in the smoke-room; whilst the following\nnight we went to an entertainment given by that charming reciter and\nraconteur, Miss Lilian North, who, apart from her talent, which, in my\nopinion, places her in the first rank of her profession, is the\npossessor of extraordinary personal attractions, not the least\nremarkable of which are her hands. Indeed, it was through my attention\nbeing called to the latter, that I am indirectly indebted for this\nstory. Miss North has typically psychic hands--exquisitely white and\nnarrow, and her long, tapering fingers and filbert nails (which, by\nthe way, are always trimly manicured) are the most perfect I have ever\nseen. I was alluding to them, on our way back to the hotel after her\nperformance, when Hely Browne interrupted me.\n\n\"Talking about psychic things, O'Donnell,\" he said, \"do you know there\nis a haunted house near where we are staying? You don't? Very well,\nthen, if I tell you what I know and you write about it, will you\npromise not to allude to the house by its right number? If you do,\nthere will be the dickens to pay--simply call it '---- House,' near\nSandyford Place. You promise? Good! Let us take a little stroll before\nwe turn in--I feel I want a breath of fresh air--and I will tell you\nthe experience I once had there. It is exactly two years ago, and I\nwas on tour here in _The Green Bushes_. All the usual theatrical\n'diggings' had been snapped up long before I arrived, and, not\nknowing where else to go, I went to No.--Sandyford Place, which I saw\nadvertised in one of the local papers as a first-class private hotel\nwith very moderate charges. A wild bit of extravagance, eh? But then\none does do foolish things sometimes, and, to tell the truth, I wanted\na change badly. I had 'digged' for a long time with a fellow called\nCharlie Grosvenor. Not at all a bad chap, but rather apt to get on\none's nerves after a while--and he had got on mine--horribly.\nConsequently, I was not at all sorry for an excuse to get away from\nhim for a bit, even though I had to pay dearly for it. A private hotel\nin a neighbourhood like that of Sandyford Place is a big order for an\nordinary comedian. I forget exactly what the terms were, but I know I\npulled rather a long face when I was told. Still, being, as I say,\ntired of the usual 'digs,' I determined to try it, and accordingly\nfound myself landed in a nice-sized bedroom on the second floor. The\nfirst three nights passed, and nothing happened, saving that I had the\nmost diabolical nightmares--a very unusual thing for me. 'It was the\ncheese,' I said to myself, when I got out of bed the first morning; 'I\nwill take very good care I don't touch cheese to-night.' I kept this\nresolution, but I had the nightmare again, and even, if anything,\nworse than before. Then I fancied it must be cocoa--I was at that time\na teetotaller--so I took hot milk instead; but I had nightmare all the\nsame, and my dreams terrified me to such an extent that I did not dare\nget out of bed in the morning (it was then winter) till it was broad\ndaylight. It was now becoming a serious matter with me. As you know,\nan actor more than most people needs sleep, and it soon became as much\nas I could do to maintain my usual standard of acting. On the fourth\nnight, determining to get rest at all costs, I took a stiff glass of\nhot brandy just before getting into bed. I slept,--I could scarcely\nhelp sleeping,--but not for long, for I was rudely awakened from my\nslumbers by a loud crash. I sat up in bed, thinking the whole house\nwas falling about my ears. The sound was not repeated, and all was\nprofoundly silent. Wondering what on earth the noise could have been,\nand feeling very thirsty, I got out of bed to get a drink of\nlime-juice. To my annoyance, however, though I groped about\neverywhere, knocking an ash tray off the mantelpiece and smashing the\nlid of the soap-dish, I could find neither the lime-juice nor matches.\nAt length, giving it up as a bad job, I decided to get into bed again.\nWith that end in view, I groped my way through the darkness, steering\nmyself by the furniture, the position of which was, of course, quite\nfamiliar to me--at least I imagined it was. Judge, then, of my\nastonishment when I could not find the bed! At first I regarded it as\na huge joke, and laughed--how rich! Ha! ha! ha! Fancy not being able\nto find one's way back to bed in a room of this dimension! Good enough\nfor _Punch_! Too good, perhaps, now. Ha! ha! ha! But it soon grew past\na joke. I had been round the room, completely round the room, twice,\nand still no bed! I became seriously alarmed! Could I be ill? Was I\ngoing mad? But no, my forehead was cool, my pulse normal. For some\nseconds I stood still, not knowing what else to do; then, to make one\nmore desperate attempt, I stuck straight in front of me--and--ran\ninto something--something that recoiled and hit me. Thrilled with\namazement, I put up my hand to feel what it was, and touched a noose.\"\n\n\"A noose!\" I ejaculated, interrupting Hely Browne for the first time\nsince he began.\n\n\"Yes, a noose!\" he repeated, \"suspended in mid-air. As you can\nimagine, I was greatly astonished, for I knew there had been nothing\nthat I could be now mistaking for a noose in the room overnight. I\nstretched out my arms to feel to what it was fastened, but, to add to\nmy surprise, the cord terminated in thin air. Then I grew frightened,\nand, dropping my arms, tried to move away from the spot; I could\nnot--my feet were glued to the floor. With a gentle, purring sound\nthe noose commenced fawning--I use that word because the action was\nso intensely bestial, so like that of a cat or snake--round my neck\nand face. It then rose above me, and, after circling furiously round\nand round and creating a miniature maelstrom in the air, descended\ngradually over my head. Lower and lower it stole, like some sleek,\ncaressing slug. Now past the tips of my ears, now my nose, now my\nchin, until with a tiny thud it landed on my shoulders, when, with a\nfierce snap, it suddenly tightened. I endeavoured to tear it off, but\nevery time I raised my hands, a strong, magnetic force drew them to\nmy side again; I opened my mouth to shriek for help, and an icy\ncurrent of air froze the breath in my lungs. I was helpless,\nO'Donnell, utterly, wholly helpless. Cold, clammy hands tore my feet\nfrom the floor; I was hoisted bodily up, and then let drop. A\nfrightful pain shot through me. A hundred wires cut into my throat at\nonce. I gasped, choked, suffocated, and in my mad efforts to find a\nfoothold kicked out frantically in all directions. But this only\nresulted in an increase of my torments, since with every plunge the\nnoose grew tauter. My agony at last grew unbearable; I could feel the\nsides of my raw and palpitating thorax driven into one another, while\nevery attempt to heave up breath from my bursting lungs was rewarded\nwith the most excruciating paroxysms of pain--pain more acute than I\nthought it possible for any human being to endure. My head became\nten times its natural size; blood--foaming, boiling blood--poured\ninto it from God knows where, and under its pressure my eyes bulged\nin their sockets, and the veins in my nose cracked. Terrific\nthunderings echoed and re-echoed in my ears; my tongue, huge as a\nmountain, shot against my teeth; a sea of fire raged through my\nbrain, and then--blackness--blackness inconceivable. When I recovered\nconsciousness, O'Donnell, I found myself standing, cold and\nshivering, but otherwise sound and whole, on the chilly oilcloth. I\nhad, now, no difficulty in finding my way back to bed, and in about\nan hour's time succeeded in falling asleep. I slept till late, and,\non getting up, tried to persuade myself that my horrible experience\nwas but the result of another nightmare.\n\n\"As you may guess, after all this, I did not look forward to bedtime,\nand counted the minutes as they flew by with the utmost regret. Never\nhad I been so sorry when my performance at the theatre was over, and\nthe lights of my hotel once again hove in sight. I entered my bedroom\nin fear and trembling, and was so apprehensive lest I should be again\ncompelled to undergo the sensations of hanging, that I decided to keep\na light burning all night, and, for that reason, had bought half a\npound of wax candles. At last I grew so sleepy that I could keep awake\nno longer, and, placing the candlestick on a chair by the bed, I\nscrambled in between the sheets. Without as much as a sip of spirits,\nI slept like a top. When I awoke the room was in pitch darkness. A\ncurious smell at once attracted my notice. I thought, at first, it\nmight be but the passing illusion of a dream. But no--I sniffed\nagain--it was there--there, close to me--under my very nose--the\nstrong, pungent odour of drugs; but not being a professor of smells,\nnor even a humble student of physics, I was consequently unable to\ndiagnose it, and could only arrive at the general conclusion that it\nwas a smell that brought with it very vivid recollections of a\nchemist's shop and of my old school laboratory. Wondering whence it\noriginated, I thrust my face forward with the intention of trying to\nlocate it, when, to my horror, my lips touched against something cold\nand flabby. In an agony of fear I reeled away from it, and, the bed\nbeing narrow, I slipped over the edge and bumped on to the floor.\n\n\"Now I think it is quite possible that up to this point you may have\nattributed my unhappy experience to nothing more nor less than a bad\ndream, but your dream theory can no longer hold good, for, on coming\nin such sudden contact with the floor, I gave my funny-bone a knock,\nwhich, I can assure you, made me thoroughly awake, and the first thing\nI noticed on recovering my scattered senses--was the smell. I sat up,\nand saw to my terror my bed was occupied, but occupied in the most\nalarming manner. On the middle of the pillow was a face, the face\nof--I looked closer; I would have given every penny I possessed not to\nhave done so, but I could not help myself--I looked closer, and it\nwas--the face of my brother; my brother Ralph--you may recollect my\nmentioning him to you, for he was the only one of us who was at that\ntime making money--whom I believed to be in New York. He had always\nbeen rather sallow, but apart from the fact that he now looked very\nyellow, his appearance was quite natural. Indeed, as I gazed at him, I\ngrew so convinced it was he that I cried out, 'Ralph!' The moment I\ndid so, there was a ghastly change: his eyelids opened, and his\neyes--eyes I recognised at once--protruded to such a degree that they\nalmost rolled out; his mouth flew open, his tongue swelled, his whole\ncountenance became convulsed with the most unparalleled, and for that\nreason indescribable, expression of agony, whilst the yellowness of\nhis complexion deepened to a livid, lurid black, that was so\ninconceivably repellent and hellish that I sprang away from the\nbed--appalled. There was then a gasping, rasping noise, and a voice\nthat, despite its unnatural hollowness, I identified as that of Ralph,\nbroke forth: 'I have been wanting to speak to you for ages, but\n_something_, I cannot explain, has always prevented me. I have been\ndead a month; not cancer, but Dolly. Poison. Good-bye, Hely. I shall\nrest in peace now.' The voice stopped; there was a rush of cold air,\nladen with the scent of the drug, and tainted, faintly tainted, with\nthe nauseating smell of the grave, and--the face on the pillow\nvanished. How I got through the remainder of the night I cannot say--I\ndare not think. I dare only remember that I did not sleep. I was\ndevoted to Ralph, and the thought that he had perished in the\nmiserable manner suggested by the apparition, completely prostrated\nme. In the morning I received a black-edged letter from my mother,\nstating that she had just heard from Dolly, my brother's wife, saying\nRalph had died from cancer in the throat. Dolly added in a postscript\nthat her dearly beloved Ralph had been very good to her, and left her\nwell provided for. Of course, we might have had the body exhumed, but\nwe were poor, and Ralph's widow was rich; and in America, you know,\neverything goes in favour of the dollars. Hence we were obliged to let\nthe matter drop, sincerely trusting Dolly would never take it into her\nhead to visit us. She never did. My mother died last year--I felt her\ndeath terribly, O'Donnell; and as I no longer have any fixed abode,\nbut am always touring the British provinces, there is not much fear\nof Ralph's murderess and I meeting. It is rather odd, however, that\nafter my own experience at the hotel, I heard that it had borne the\nreputation for being haunted for many years, and that a good many\nvisitors who had passed the night in one of the rooms (presumably\nmine) had complained of hearing strange noises and having dreadful\ndreams. How can one explain it all?\"\n\n\"One can't,\" I responded, as we turned in for the night.\n\n\n\n\n                         CASE XII\n\n    THE GREY PIPER AND THE HEAVY COACH OF\n      DONALDGOWERIE HOUSE, PERTH\n\n\nDonaldgowerie House, until comparatively recent times, stood on the\noutskirts of Perth. It was a long, low, rambling old place, dating\nback to the beginning of the seventeenth century. At the time of the\nnarrative it was in the possession of a Mr. William Whittingen, who\nbought it at a very low price from some people named Tyler. It is true\nthat it would cost a small fortune to repair, but, notwithstanding\nthis disadvantage, Mr. Whittingen considered his purchase a bargain,\nand was more than satisfied with it. Indeed, he knew of no other house\nof a similar size, of such an imposing appearance, and so pleasantly\nsituated, that he could have bought for less than twice the amount he\nhad paid for this; and he was really very sorry for the Tylers, who\nexplained to him, in confidence, that had they not been in such\nurgent need of money, they would never have sold Donaldgowerie House\nat such a ridiculously low figure. However, with them it was a\nquestion of cash--cash down, and Mr. Whittingen had only to write out\na cheque for the modest sum they asked, and the house was his. It was\nJune when Mr. Whittingen took possession of the house--June, when the\nsummer sun was brightest and the gardens looked their best. The\nWhittingen family, consisting of Mr. and Mrs. Whittingen, two sons,\nErnest and Harvey, and three daughters, Ruth, Martha, and Mary, were,\nas one might gather from their names alone, plain, practical, genteel,\nand in fact very superior people, who were by no means lacking in that\nexceedingly useful quality of canniness, so characteristic of the\nLowland Scot to which race they belonged. Mr. Whittingen had, for\nyears, conducted a grocery business in Jedburgh, twice filling the\nhonoured and coveted post of mayor, and when he at length retired into\nprivate life, his friends (and it was astonishing how many friends he\nhad) shrewdly suspected that his pockets were not only well lined but\nfull to bursting. Acting on the advice of his wife and daughters, who\nwere keen on social distinction, he sent Ernest to Oxford,\nconditionally that he should take Holy Orders in the Church of\nEngland, whilst Harvey, who, when scarcely out of the petticoat stage,\ndisplayed the regular Whittingen talent for business by covertly\nhelping himself to the sugar in his father's shop, and disposing of it\nat strictly sale price to his sisters' cronies in the nursery, was\nsent to one of those half preparatory and half finishing schools (of\ncourse, for the sons of gentlemen only) at Edinburgh, where he was\nkept till he was old enough to be articled to a prosperous,\nexceedingly prosperous, firm of solicitors.\n\nThe girls, Ruth, Martha, and Mary, had likewise been highly educated,\nthat is to say, they had remained so many years at an English seminary\nfor young ladies, and had been given a final twelve months in France\nand Germany to enable them to obtain \"the correct accent.\"\n\nAt the time of the story they were as yet unmarried, and were awaiting\nwith the most laudable patience the advent of men of title. They were\ndelighted with their new home (which Ruth had persuaded her father to\nchristen \"Donaldgowerie,\" after the house in a romantic novel she had\njust been reading), and proud of their gilded premises and magnificent\ntennis lawns; they had placed a gigantic and costly tray in the hall,\nin confident assurance that it would speedily groan beneath the weight\nof cards from all the gentry in Perthshire.\n\nBut please be it understood, that my one and only object in alluding\nto these trifling details is to point out that the Whittingens, being\nentirely engrossed in matters mundane, were the very last people in\nthe world to be termed superstitious, and although imaginative where\nfuture husbands' calls and cards were concerned, prior to the events\nabout to be narrated had not an ounce of superstition in their\nnatures. Indeed, until then they had always smiled in a very\nsupercilious manner at even the smallest mention of a ghost.\n\nSeptember came, their first September in Donaldgowerie, and the family\nwelcomed with joy Ernest and his youthful bride.\n\nThe latter was not, as they had fondly hoped (and roundly announced in\nPerth), the daughter of a Peer, but of a wealthy Bristol draper, the\nowner of a house near the Downs, whose son had been one of Ernest's\nmany friends at Oxford. The coming of the newly-married pair to\nDonaldgowerie brought with it a burst of bird-like gaiety. All sorts\nof entertainments--musical \"at homes,\" dinners, dances, tennis and\ngarden parties, in fact, every variety that accorded with the family's\nidea of good taste--were given; and with praiseworthy \"push,\" for\nwhich the Whittingens had fast become noted, all the County was\ninvited. This splendid display of wealth and hospitality was not\ndisinterested; I fear, it might be not only accounted a \"send off\" for\nthe immaculately-clad curate and his wife, but also a determined\neffort on the part of Mr. and Mrs. Whittingen to attract the right\nsort of lover for their girls. It was during the progress of one of\ntheir alfresco entertainments that the scepticism of certain of the\nWhittingens with regard to the supernatural received a rude blow.\nMartha, Mary, and two eligible young men, friends of Harvey's, having\nfinished a somewhat spirited game of croquet, were refreshing\nthemselves with lemonade, whilst they continued their flirtation.\nPresently Mary, whose partner declared how much he should like to see\nsome photographs she had recently had taken of herself, with a\nwell-affected giggle of embarrassment set off to the house to fetch\nher album. The minutes passed, and, as she did not return, Martha went\nin search of her. The album, she knew, was in their boudoir, which was\nsituated at the end of the long and rather gloomy corridor of the\nupper storey. Highly incensed at her sister's slowness, she was\nhastening along the corridor, when, to her supreme astonishment, she\nsuddenly saw the figure of a man in kilts, with a bagpipe under his\narm, emerge through the half-open door of the boudoir, and with a\npeculiar gliding motion advance towards her. A curious feeling, with\nwhich she was totally unfamiliar, compelled her to remain mute and\nmotionless; and in this condition she awaited the approach of the\nstranger. Who was he? she asked herself, and how on earth had he got\nthere, and what was he doing? As he drew nearer, she perceived that\nhis face was all one hue,--a ghastly, livid grey,--and that his eyes,\nwhich were all the time fixed on hers, were lurid and menacing,--so\nterrible, in fact, that she turned cold with fear, and felt the very\nhair on her head beginning to rise on end. She opened her mouth to\nshriek, but found she could not ejaculate a syllable; neither could\nshe, even with the most desperate efforts, tear her feet from the\nfloor. On came the figure, and, without swerving either to the right\nor left, it glided right up to and through her; and, as she\ninvoluntarily turned round, she saw it disappear through a half-open\nstaircase window, at least twenty feet above the ground outside.\nShaking all over with terror, and not understanding in the slightest\nwhat to make of it, Martha ran to the boudoir, where her heart almost\nsprang out of her body at the spectacle of her sister Mary stretched\nat full length on the floor, her cheeks ashy pale, her lips blue.\nMartha at once made a frantic rush to the bell, and, in a few minutes,\nhalf the establishment, headed by Mr. Whittingen, poured into the\nroom. With the aid of a little cold water, Mary speedily recovered,\nand, in reply to the anxious inquiries of her sympathetic rescuers as\nto what had happened, indignantly demanded why such a horrible\nlooking creature as \"that\" piper had been allowed not merely to enter\nthe house but to come up to her room, and half frighten her to death.\n\"I had just got my album,\" she added, \"when, feeling some one was in\nthe room, I turned round--and there (she indicated a spot on the\ncarpet) was the piper, not ten paces away from me, regarding me with\nthe most awful look imaginable. I was too taken aback with surprise to\nsay anything, nor--for some unaccountable reason--could I escape,\nbefore he touched me on the shoulder with one of his icy cold hands,\nand then commenced playing. Up and down the floor he paced, backwards\nand forwards, never taking his hateful glance off my face and ever\npiping the same dismal dirge. At last, unable to stand the strain of\nit any longer, and convinced he was a madman, bent on murdering\nme--for who but a lunatic would behave in such a way?--I gave way to a\nviolent fit of hysterics, and fainted. Now tell me who he was, and why\nhe was permitted to frighten me in this manner?\" And Mary stamped her\nfeet and grew vicious, as only her class will when they are at all\nvexed. Her speech was followed by a silence that exasperated her. She\nrepeated her inquiries with crimson cheeks, and then, as again no one\nresponded, she signalled out the head footman and raved at him. Up to\nthis point Mr. Whittingen had been dumb with amazement. The idea of a\nstrange piper having the twofold effrontery to enter his house and\nproceed to the private and chaste sanctuary of his highly respectable\ndaughters, almost deprived him of breath. He could scarcely believe\nhis ears. \"What--what in the name of--what does it all mean?\" he at\nlength stammered, addressing the unfortunate footman. \"A piper! and\nwithout any invitation from me, how dare you let him in?\"\n\n\"I did not, sir,\" the luckless footman replied; \"no such person came\nto the door when I was in the hall.\"\n\n\"No more he did when I was there,\" chimed in the second footman, and\nall the other servants vociferated in a body, \"We never saw any piper,\nsir, nor heard one either,\" and they looked at Mary reproachfully.\n\nAt this Mr. Whittingen looked exceedingly embarrassed. In the face of\nsuch a unanimous denial what could he say? He knew if he suggested\nthe servants were untruthful they would all give notice to leave on\nthe spot, and knowing good servants are scarce in Perth as elsewhere,\nhe felt rather in a fix. At length, turning to Mary, he asked if she\nwas sure it was a piper. \"Sure!\" Mary screamed, \"why, of course I am,\ndid I not tell you he marched up and down here playing on his\ndisgusting bagpipes, which nearly broke the drum of my ear.\"\n\n\"And I saw him too, pa,\" Martha put in. \"I met him in the corridor, he\nhad his pipes under his arm, and the most dreadful expression in his\nface. I don't wonder Mary was frightened.\"\n\n\"But where did he go?\" Mr. Whittingen cried.\n\n\"You would not believe me if I told you,\" Martha said, her cheeks\nflushing. \"He seemed to pass right through me, and then to vanish\nthrough the staircase window. I have never been so terribly upset in\nmy life,\" and, sinking on to the sofa, she began to laugh\nhysterically.\n\n\"Dear me! dear me! it is very odd!\" Mr. Whittingen exclaimed, as Mary\nhanded her sister a wineglass of sal-volatile. \"They can't both have\nbeen dreaming; it must--but there, what a nonsensical notion, there\nare no such things as ghosts! Only children and nursemaids believe in\nthem nowadays. As soon as you have quite recovered, my dears, we will\nreturn to the garden, and I think that under the circumstances, the\nrather peculiar circumstances, ahem! it will be better to say nothing\nto your mother. Do you understand?\" Mr. Whittingen went on, eyeing the\nservants, \"Nothing to your mistress.\"\n\nThe affair thus terminated, and for some days nothing further happened\nto disturb the peace of the family. At the end of a week, however,\nexactly a week after the appearance of the piper, Mary met with a\nserious accident. She was running across the croquet lawn to speak to\nher sister-in-law, when she tripped over a hoop that had been\naccidentally left there, and, in falling, ran a hatpin into her head.\nBlood poisoning ensued, and within a fortnight she was dead. Martha\nwas the only one in the house, however, who associated Mary's accident\nand death with the piper; to her that sinister expression in the\nmysterious Highlander's eyes portended mischief, and she could not\nbut suspect that, in some way or another, he had brought about the\ncatastrophe. The autumn waned, and Christmas was well within sight,\nwhen another mysterious occurrence took place. It was early one Sunday\nevening, tea was just over, and the Whittingen family were sitting\nround the fire engaged in a somewhat melancholy conversation, for the\nloss of Mary had affected them all very deeply, when they heard the\nfar-away rumble of a heavy coach on the high-road. Nearer and nearer\nit came, till it seemed to be about on a level with the front lodge\ngate; then to their surprise there was a loud crunching of gravel, and\nthey heard it careering at a breakneck speed up the carriage-drive.\nThey looked at one another in the utmost consternation.\n\n\"A coach, and driven in this mad fashion! Whose was it? What did it\nmean? Not visitors, surely!\"\n\nIt pulled up at the front door, and the champing and stamping of the\nhorses vibrated loudly through the still night air. Sounds as of one\nor more people descending were next heard, and then there came a\nseries of the most terrific knockings at the door. The Whittingen\nfamily stared at one another aghast; there was something in those\nknockings--something they could not explain--that struck terror in\ntheir souls and made their blood run cold. They waited in breathless\nanxiety for the door to be opened; but no servant went to open it. The\nknocks were repeated, if anything louder than before, the door swung\nback on its hinges, and the tread of heavy footsteps were heard slowly\napproaching the drawing-room. Mrs. Whittingen gave a low gasp of\nhorror, Ruth screamed, Harvey buried his face in his hands, Mr.\nWhittingen rose to his feet, and made desperate efforts to get to the\nbell, but could not stir, whilst Martha rushed to the drawing-room\ndoor and locked it. They then with one accord began to pray. The steps\nhalted outside the room, the door slowly opened, and the blurred\noutlines of a group of ghastly-looking figures, supporting a\ngrotesquely shaped object in their midst, appeared on the threshold.\nFor some seconds there was a grim silence. It was abruptly broken by a\nthud--Ruth had slipped from her chair to the floor in a dead faint;\nwhereupon the shadowy forms solemnly veered round and made their way\nback again to the front door. The latter swung violently open, there\nwas a rush of icy wind which swept like a hurricane across the hall\nand into the drawing-room, the front door then slammed to with a\ncrash, and the coach drove away.\n\nEvery one's attention was now directed to Ruth. At first sal-volatile\nand cold water produced no effect, but after a time she slowly, very\nslowly regained consciousness. As soon as she had recovered\nsufficiently to speak, she expressed an earnest desire that no\nreference should ever be made in her presence to what had just\nhappened. \"It was for me!\" she said in such an emphatic tone as filled\nher audience with the direst forebodings. \"I know it was for me; they\nall looked in my direction. God help me! I shall die like Mary.\"\n\nThough greatly perplexed as to what she meant, for no one excepting\nherself had been able to make out the phenomena with any degree of\ndistinctness, they yielded to her entreaties, and asked her no\nquestions. The servants had neither heard nor seen anything. A\nfortnight later, Ruth was taken ill with appendicitis; peritonitis\nspeedily set in, and she died under the operation. The Whittingens now\nbegan to wish they had never come to Donaldgowerie; but, with the\nastuteness that had been characteristic of the family through\ncountless generations of fair days and foul, they took the greatest\nprecautions never to drop even as much as a hint to the servants or to\nany one in the town that the house was haunted.\n\nA year passed without any further catastrophe, and they were beginning\nto hope their ghastly visitors had left them, when something else\noccurred. It was Easter-time, and Ernest, his wife, and baby were\nstaying with them. The baby, a boy, was fat and bonny, the very\npicture of health and happiness.\n\nMrs. Whittingen and Martha vied with one another in their devotion to\nhim; and either one or other of them was always dancing attendance on\nhim. It so happened that one afternoon, whilst the servants were\nhaving their tea, Martha found herself alone in the upper part of the\nhouse with her precious nephew. Mr. Whittingen had gone to Edinburgh\nto consult his lawyer (the head of the firm with whom Harvey was\narticled) on business, whilst Mrs. Whittingen had taken her son and\ndaughter-in-law for a drive. The weather was glorious, and Martha,\nthough as little appreciative of the beauties of nature as most\ncommercial-minded young women, could not but admire the colouring of\nthe sky as she looked out of the nursery window. The sun had\ndisappeared, but the effect of its rays was still apparent on the\nwestern horizon, where the heavens were washed with alternate streaks\nof gold and red and pink--the colour of each streak excessively\nbrilliant in the centre, but paling towards the edges. Here and there\nwere golden, pink-tipped clouds and crimson islets surrounded with\nseas of softest blue. And outside the limits of this sun-kissed pale,\nthe blue of the sky gradually grew darker and darker, until its line\nwas altogether lost in the black shadows of night that, creeping over\nthe lone mountain-tops in the far east, slowly swept forward. Wafted\nby the gentle breeze came the dull moaning and whispering of the pine\ntrees, the humming of the wind through the telephone wires, and the\ndiscordant cawing of the crows. And it seemed to Martha, as she sat\nthere and peered out into the garden, that over the whole atmosphere\nof the place had come a subtle and hostile change--a change in the\nnoises of the trees, the birds, the wind; a change in the\nflower-scented ether; a change, a most marked and emphatic change, in\nthe shadows. What was it? What was this change? Whence did it\noriginate? What did it portend? A slight noise, a most trivial noise,\nattracted Martha's attention to the room; she looked round and was\nquite startled to see how dark it had grown. In the old days, when she\nhad scoffed at ghosts, she would as soon have been in the dark as in\nthe light, the night had no terrors for her; but now--now since those\nawful occurrences last year, all was different, and as she peered\napprehensively about her, her flesh crawled. What was there in that\ncorner opposite, that corner hemmed in on the one side by the\ncupboard--how she hated cupboards, particularly when they had shiny\nsurfaces on which were reflected all sorts of curious things--and the\nchest of drawers on the other. It was a shadow, only a shadow, but of\nwhat? She searched the room everywhere to find its material\ncounterpart, and at last discovered it in the nurse's shawl which hung\nover the back of a chair. Then she laughed, and would have gone on\nlaughing, for she tried to persuade herself that laughter banished\nghosts, when suddenly something else caught her eyes. What was it? An\nobject that glittered evilly like two eyes. She got up in a state of\nthe most hideous fascination and walked towards it. Then she laughed\nagain--it was a pair of scissors. The nurse's scissors--clean, bright,\nand sharp. Why did she pick them up and feel the blades so caressingly\nwith her thumb? Why did she glance from them to the baby? Why? In the\nname of God, why? Frightful ideas laid hold of her mind. She tried to\nchase them away but they quickly returned. The scissors, why were they\nin her fingers? Why could not she put them down? For what were they\nintended? Cutting! cutting thread, and tape,--and throats! Throats!\nAnd she giggled hysterically at the bare notion. But what was this\nround her waist--this shadowy arm-like object! She looked fearfully\nround, and her soul died within her as she encountered the\nmalevolent, gleeful eyes of the sinister piper, pressed closely\nagainst her face. Was it she he wanted this time--she, or--or whom--in\nthe name of all that was pitiable?\n\nDesperately, as if all the lives in the universe and the future of her\nsoul were at stake, did she struggle to free herself from his\ngrasp--but in vain; every fibre, every muscle of her body was\ncompletely at his will. On and on he pushed her, until foot by foot,\ninch by inch, she approached the cradle, and all the while his hellish\nvoice was breathing the vilest of inspirations into her brain. At last\nshe stood by the side of the baby, and bent over it. What a darling!\nWhat a dear! What a duck! A sweet, pretty, innocent, prattling duck!\nHow like her mother--how like her handsome brother--how like\nherself--very, very like herself! How every one loved it--how every\none worshipped it--how (and here the grey face beside her chuckled)\nevery one would miss it! How pink its toes--how fat its calves--how\nchubby its little palms--how bonny its cheeks--and how white, how\ngloriously, heavenly, snowy white--its throat! And she stretched\nforth one of her stubby, inartistic fingers and played with its flesh.\nThen she glanced furtively at the scissors, and smiled.\n\nIt was soon done, soon over, and she and the grey-faced piper danced a\nminuet in the moonbeams; afterwards he piped a farewell dirge,--a\nwild, weird, funereal dirge, and, marching slowly backwards, his dark,\ngleaming eyes fixed gloatingly on hers, disappeared through the\nwindow. Then the reaction set in, and Martha raved and shrieked till\nevery one in the house flew to the rescue.\n\nOf course, no one--saving her father and mother--believed her. Ernest,\nhis wife, and the servants attributed her bloody act to jealousy; the\nlaw--to madness; and she subsequently journeyed from Donaldgowerie to\na criminal lunatic asylum, where the recollection of all she had done\nsoon killed her. This was the climax. Mr. Whittingen sold\nDonaldgowerie, and a new house was shortly afterwards erected in its\nstead.\n\n\n\n\n                        CASE XIII\n\n    THE FLOATING HEAD OF THE BENRACHETT INN,\n      NEAR THE PERTH ROAD, DUNDEE\n\n\nSome years ago, when I was engaged in collecting cases for a book I\ncontemplated publishing, on _Haunted Houses in England and Wales_, I\nwas introduced to an Irish clergyman, whose name I have forgotten, and\nwhom I have never met since. Had the incident he related taken place\nin England or Wales, I should have noted it down carefully, but as it\noccurred in Scotland (and I had no intention then of bringing out a\nvolume on Scottish phantasms), I did not do so.\n\nMy memory, however, I can assure my readers, in spite of the many\nghost tales committed to it,--for scarcely a day passes that I do not\nhear one,--seldom fails, and the Irish clergyman's story, which I am\nabout to relate, comes back to me now with startling vividness.\n\nOne summer evening, early in the eighties, Mr. Murphy--the name by\nwhich I will designate the originator of this story--and his wife\narrived in Dundee. The town was utterly unknown to them, and they were\ntouring Scotland for the first time. Not knowing where to put up for\nthe night, and knowing no one to whom they could apply for\ninformation, they consulted a local paper, and from the long list of\nhotels and boarding-houses advertised therein selected the Benrachett\nInn, near the Perth Road, as being the one most likely to meet their\nmodest requirements. They were certainly not disappointed with the\nexterior of the hotel they had chosen, for as soon as they saw it they\nexclaimed simultaneously, \"What a delightful old place!\" And old it\ncertainly was, for the many-gabled, oaken structure and projecting\nwindows unquestionably indicated the sixteenth century, whilst, to\nenhance the effect and give it a true touch in detail of \"ye ancient\ntimes,\" a huge antique lantern was hung over the entrance. Nor did the\ninterior impress them less favourably. The rooms were large, and low,\nthe ceilings, walls, floors, and staircase all of oak. The\ndiamond-lattice windows, and narrow, tortuous passages, and\ninnumerable nooks and crannies and cupboards, created an atmosphere of\ncombined quaintness and comfort that irresistibly appealed to the\nMurphys. Viewed under the searching rays of the sun, and cheered by\nthe voices of the visitors, the interior of the house, for artistic\ntaste and cheerfulness, would indeed be hard to beat; but, as Mrs.\nMurphy's eyes wandered up the stairs and down the corridors, she was\nfilled with misgivings as to how the place would strike her at night.\n\nThough not nervous naturally, and by no means superstitious, at night,\nwhen the house was dark and silent, and the moon called forth the\nshadows, she was not without that feeling of uneasiness which most\npeople--even avowed sceptics, experience when passing the night in\nstrange and novel quarters.\n\nThe room they engaged--I cannot say selected, as, the hotel being\nfull, they had \"Hobson's choice\"--was at the end of a very long\npassage, at the back of the house, and overlooking the yard. It was a\nlarge apartment, and in one of its several recesses stood the bed, a\ngigantic, ebony four-poster, with spotlessly clean valance, and, what\nwas of even greater importance, well-aired sheets. The other furniture\nin the room, being of the same sort as that in the majority of\nold-fashioned hostels, needs no description; but a fixture in the\nshape of a cupboard, a deep, dark cupboard, let into the wall facing\nthe bed, instantly attracted Mrs. Murphy's attention. There is always\nsomething interesting in cupboards, particularly old and roomy\ncupboards, when it is night-time and one is about to get into bed. It\nis then that they suggest all manner of fascinating possibilities.\n\nIt was to this cupboard, then, that Mrs. Murphy paid the greatest\nattention, before commencing to undress prior to getting into bed. She\npoked about in it for some moments, and then, apparently satisfied\nthat no one was hidden there, continued her investigation of the room.\nMr. Murphy did not assist--he pleaded fatigue, and sat on the corner\nof the bed munching a gingerbread and reading the _Dundee Advertiser_\ntill the operation was over. He then helped Mrs. Murphy unpack their\nportmanteau, and, during the process, whiled away so much time in\nconversation, that they were both startled when a clock from some\nadjacent church solemnly boomed twelve. They were then seized with\nsomething approaching a panic, and hastened to disrobe.\n\n\"I wish we had a night-light, John,\" Mrs. Murphy said, as she got up\nfrom her prayers. \"I suppose it wouldn't do to keep one of the candles\nburning. I am not exactly afraid, only I don't fancy being left in the\ndark. I had a curious sensation when I was in the cupboard just now--I\ncan't exactly explain it--but I feel now that I would like the light\nleft burning.\"\n\n\"It certainly is rather a gloomy room,\" Mr. Murphy remarked, raising\nhis eyes to the black oak ceiling, and then allowing them to dwell in\nturn on each of the angles and recesses. \"And I agree with you it\nwould be nice if we had a night-light, or, better still, gas. But as\nwe haven't, my dear, and we shall be on our feet a good deal\nto-morrow, I think we ought to try and get to sleep as soon as\npossible.\"\n\nHe blew out the candle as he spoke, and quickly scrambled into bed. A\nlong hush followed, broken only by the sound of breathing, and an\noccasional ticking as of some long-legged creature on the wall and\nwindow-blind. Mrs. Murphy could never remember if she actually went to\nsleep, but she is sure her husband did, as she distinctly heard him\nsnore--and the sound, so detestable to her as a rule, was so welcome\nto her then. She was lying listening to it, and wishing with all her\nsoul she could get to sleep, when she suddenly became aware of a\nsmell--a most offensive, pungent odour, that blew across the room and\ncrept up her nostrils. The cold perspiration of fear at once broke out\non her forehead. Nasty as the smell was, it suggested something more\nhorrible, something she dared not attempt to analyse. She thought\nseveral times of rousing her husband, but, remembering how tired he\nhad been, she desisted, and, with all her faculties abnormally on the\nalert, she lay awake and listened. A deathlike hush hung over the\nhouse, interrupted at intervals by the surreptitious noises peculiar\nto the night--enigmatical creaks and footsteps, rustlings as of\ndrapery, sighs and whisperings--all very faint, all very subtle, and\nall possibly, just possibly, attributable to natural causes. Mrs.\nMurphy caught herself--why, she could not say--waiting for some\ndefinite auditory manifestation of what she instinctively felt was\nnear at hand. At present, however, she could not locate it, she could\nonly speculate on its whereabouts--it was somewhere in the direction\nof the cupboard. And each time the stench came to her, the conviction\nthat its origin was in the cupboard grew. At last, unable to sustain\nthe suspense any longer, and urged on by an irresistible fascination,\nshe got softly out of bed, and, creeping stealthily forward, found her\nway with surprisingly little difficulty (considering it was pitch dark\nand the room was unfamiliar to her) to the cupboard.\n\nWith every step she took the stink increased, and by the time she had\nreached the cupboard she was almost suffocated. For some seconds she\ntoyed irresolutely with the door handle, longing to be back again in\nbed, but unable to tear herself away from the cupboard. At last,\nyielding to the demands of some pitilessly exacting unknown influence,\nshe held her breath and swung open the door. The moment she did so the\nroom filled with the faint, phosphorescent glow of decay, and she\nsaw, exactly opposite her, a head--a human head--floating in mid-air.\nPetrified with terror, she lost every atom of strength, and, entirely\nbereft of the power to move or articulate a sound, she stood\nstock-still staring at it. That it was the head of a man, she could\nonly guess from the matted crop of short red hair that fell in a\ndisordered entanglement over the upper part of the forehead and ears.\nAll else was lost in a loathsome, disgusting mass of detestable\ndecomposition, too utterly vile and foul to describe. On the abnormal\nthing beginning to move forward, the spell that bound Mrs. Murphy to\nthe floor was broken, and, with a cry of horror, she fled to the bed\nand awoke her husband.\n\nThe head was by this time close to them, and had not Mrs. Murphy\ndragged her husband forcibly out of its way, it would have touched\nhim.\n\nHis terror was even greater than hers; but for the moment neither\ncould speak. They stood clutching one another in an awful silence.\nMrs. Murphy at length gasped out, \"Pray, John, pray! Command the thing\nin the name of God to depart.\" Mr. Murphy made a desperate effort to\ndo so, but not a syllable would come. The head now veered round and\nwas moving swiftly towards them, its awful stench causing them both to\nretch and vomit. Mr. Murphy, seizing his stick, lashed at it with all\nhis might. The result was one they might well have expected. The stick\nmet with no resistance, and the head continued to advance. Both Mr.\nand Mrs. Murphy then made a frantic attempt to find the door, the head\nstill pursuing them, and, tripping over something in their wild haste,\nfell together on the floor. There was now no hope, the head had caught\nthem up; it hovered immediately above them, and, descending lower,\nlower, and lower, finally passed right through them, through the\nfloor, and out of sight. It was long ere either of them could\nsufficiently recover to stir from the floor, and when they did move,\nit was only to totter to their bed, and to lie with the bedclothes\nwell over their heads, quivering and quaking till the morning.\n\nThe hot morning sun dissipating their fears, they got up, and,\nhurrying downstairs, demanded an interview with their landlord. It was\nin vain the latter argued it was all a nightmare they showed the\nabsurdity of such a theory by vehemently attesting they had both\nsimultaneously experienced the phenomena. They were about to take\ntheir departure, when the landlord, retracting all he had said,\noffered them another room and any terms they liked, \"if only they\nwould stay and hold their tongues.\"\n\n\"I know every word of what you say is true,\" he said, in such\nsubmissive tones that the tender hearts of Mr. and Mrs. Murphy\ninstantly relented, and they promised to remain. \"But what am I to do?\nI cannot shut up a house which I have taken on a twenty years' lease,\nbecause one room in it is haunted--and, after all, there is only one\nvisitor in twenty who is disturbed by the apparition. What is the\nhistory of the head? Why, it is said to be that of a pedlar who was\nmurdered here over a hundred years ago. The body was hidden behind the\nwainscoting, and his head under the cupboard floor. The miscreants\nwere never caught; they are supposed to have gone down in a ship that\nsailed from this port just about that time and was never heard of\nagain.\"\n\nThis is the gist of the story the clergyman told me, and, believing\nit as I undoubtedly do to be true, there is every reason to suppose\nthat the inn, to which I have, of course, given a fictitious name, if\nstill in existence, is still haunted.\n\n\n\n\n                         CASE XIV\n\n    THE HAUNTINGS OF \"---- HOUSE,\" IN THE\n      NEIGHBOURHOOD OF THE GREAT WESTERN ROAD,\n      ABERDEEN\n\n\nThe following experience of a haunting is that of Mr. Scarfe, who told\nit me some few summers ago, expressing at the same time great\neagerness to accompany me on some of my investigations.\n\nI append it as nearly as possible in his own words:--\n\nI was spending Easter, he began, with some friends of mine in\nAberdeen, and, learning from them that there was a haunted house in\nthe immediate vicinity of the Great Western Road, I begged them to try\nand get me permission to spend a night in it. As good luck would have\nit, the landlord happened to be a connection of theirs, and although\nat first rather reluctant to give me leave, lest by doing so he\nshould create a precedent, and, consequently, be pestered to death by\npeople whom he knew to be as anxious as I was to see the ghost, he\neventually yielded; and, the following evening at 8 p.m., accompanied\nonly by my dog, Scott, I entered the premises.\n\nI cannot say I felt very comfortable when the door slammed behind me,\nand I found myself standing alone in a cold, dark passage out of which\nrose a gloomy staircase, suggestive of all sorts of uncanny\npossibilities. However, overcoming these nervous apprehensions as best\nI could, I began a thorough search of the premises, to make sure that\nno one was hiding there.\n\nDescending first of all into the basement, I explored the kitchen,\nscullery, larder, and other domestic offices. The place fairly reeked\nwith damp, but this was not to be wondered at, taking in consideration\nthe fact, that the soil was clay, the floor of the very poorest\nquality of cement, cracked and broken in a dozen and one places, and\nthat there had been no fires in any of the rooms for many months. Here\nand there in the darkest corners were clusters of ugly cockroaches,\nwhilst more than one monstrous rat scampered away on my approach. My\ndog, or rather the dog that was lent me, and which went by the name of\nScott, kept close at my heel, showing no very great enthusiasm in his\nmission, and giving even the rodents as wide a berth as possible.\n\nI invariably trust to my psychic faculty (as you know, Mr. O'Donnell,\nsome people are born with the faculty) to enable me to detect the\npresence of the superphysical. I generally feel the latter\nincorporated in some inexplicable manner in the ether, or see it\ninextricably interwoven with the shadows.\n\nHere in the basement it was everywhere--the air was simply saturated\nwith it, and, as the fading sunlight called shadow after shadow into\nexistence, it confronted me enigmatically whichever way I turned.\n\nI went upstairs, and the presence followed me. In one or two of the\ntop bedrooms--more particularly in a tiny garret overlooking the\nback-yard--the Presence seemed inclined to hover. For some seconds I\nwaited there, in order to see if there would be any further\ndevelopment; there being none--I obeyed the mandates of a sudden\nimpulse and made my way once more to the basement. On arriving at the\ntop of the kitchen stairs, Scott showed a decided disinclination to\ndescend farther. Crouching down, he whined piteously, and when I\nattempted to grasp him by the collar, snarled in a most savage manner.\nConsequently, thinking it better to have no companion at all than one\nso unwilling, I descended without him.\n\nThe stairs terminated in a very dark and narrow passage, into which\nthe doors of the kitchen, larder, store room, etc., opened\nrespectively, and at the farther extremity of which was a doorway\nleading to the back-yard. The superphysical Presence seeming to be\nmore pronounced in this passage than anywhere else, I decided to spend\nthe night in it, and, selecting a spot opposite the entrance to the\nscullery, I constructed a seat out of two of the drawers of the\nkitchen dresser, by placing them, one on the other, bottom uppermost\non the floor.\n\nIt was now half-past nine; the traffic in the street overhead was\nbeginning to diminish--the rumbling of drays or heavy four-wheelers\nhad almost ceased, whilst the jingling of hansoms and even the\npiercing hoot-hoot and loud birr-birr of motors was fast becoming less\nand less frequent. I put out my candle and waited; and, as I waited,\nthe hush and gloom of the house deepened and intensified, until, by\nmidnight, all round me was black and silent--black with a blackness\nthat defies penetration, and silent with a silence that challenges\nonly the rivalry of the grave. Occasionally I heard sounds--such, for\nexample, as the creaking of a board, the flopping of a cockroach, and\nthe growling of Scott--sounds which in the daytime would have been too\ntrivial to attract attention, but which now assumed the most startling\nand exaggerated proportions. From time to time I felt my pulse and\ntook my temperature to make sure that I was perfectly normal, whilst\nat one o'clock, the hour when human vitality begins to be on the wane,\nI ate some chicken and ham sandwiches, which I helped down with a\nsingle glass of oatmeal stout. So far, beyond my feeling that there\nwas a superphysical something in the house, nothing had occurred.\nThere had not been the slightest attempt at manifestation, and, as the\nminutes sped swiftly by I began to fear that, perhaps, after all the\nhauntings were only of a negative nature. As the clock struck two,\nhowever, Scott gave an extra savage snarl, and the next moment came\nracing downstairs. Darting along the passage and tearing towards me,\nhe scrambled up the overturned drawers, and, burying his face in my\nlap, set up the most piteous whinings. A sensation of icy coldness,\nsuch as could not have been due to any physical cause, now surged\nthrough me; and, as I got out my pocket flashlight ready for\nemergencies, I heard an unmistakable rustling in the cellar opposite.\nAt once my whole attention became riveted in the direction of this\nsound, and, as I sat gazing fixedly in front of me, the darkness was\nsuddenly dissipated and the whole passage, from one end to the other,\nwas illuminated by a phosphorescent glow; which glow I can best\ndescribe as bearing a close resemblance, in kind though not in degree,\nto the glow of a glow-worm. I then saw the scullery door slowly begin\nto open. A hideous fear seized me. What--what in the name of Heaven\nshould I see? Transfixed with terror, unable to move or utter a\nsound, I crouched against the wall paralysed, helpless; whilst the\ndoor opened wider and wider.\n\nAt last, at last after an interval which to me was eternity,\nSomething, an as yet indefinite shadowy Something, loomed in the\nbackground of the enlargening space. My suspense was now sublime, and\nI felt that another second or so of such tension would assuredly see\nme swoon.\n\nThe shadowy Something, however, quickly developed, and, in less time\nthan it takes to write, it assumed the form of a woman--a middle-aged\nwoman with a startlingly white face, straight nose, and curiously\nlined mouth, the two front upper teeth of which projected considerably\nand were very long. Her hair was black, her hands coarse, and red, and\nshe was clad in the orthodox shabby print of a general servant in some\nmiddle-class family. The expression in her wide-open, glassy blue eyes\nas they glared into mine was one of such intense mental and physical\nagony that I felt every atom of blood in my veins congeal. Creeping\nstealthily forward, her gaze still on me, she emerged from the\ndoorway, and motioning to me to follow, glided up the staircase. Up,\nup, we went, the cold, grey dawn greeting us on our way. Entering the\ngarret to which I have already alluded, the phantasm noiselessly\napproached the hearth, and, pointing downward with a violent motion of\nthe index finger of its right hand, suddenly vanished. A great feeling\nof relief now came over me, and, yielding to a reaction which was the\ninevitable consequence of such a severe nervous strain, I reeled\nagainst the window-sill and shook with laughter.\n\nEquanimity at length reasserting itself, I carefully marked the spot\non the floor, indicated by the apparition, and descending into the\nbasement to fetch Scott, made hurried tracks to my friends' house,\nwhere I was allowed to sleep on till late in the day. I then returned\nto the haunted house with the landlord, and my friend, and, on raising\nthe boarding in the garret, we discovered a stamped and addressed\nenvelope.\n\nAs the result of our combined inquiries, we learned that a few years\npreviously the house had been occupied by some tradespeople of the\nname of Piblington, who, some six or seven months before they left\nthe house, had had in their employment a servant named Anna Webb.\nThis servant, the description of whose person corresponded in every\nway with the ghost I had seen, had been suspected of stealing a letter\ncontaining money, and had hanged herself in the cellar.\n\nThe letter, I gathered, with several others, had been given to Anna to\npost by Mrs. Piblington, and as no reply to the one containing money\nwas received, Anna was closely questioned. Naturally nervous and\nhighly strung, the inquisition confused her terribly, and her\nembarrassment being construed into guilt, she was threatened with\nprosecution. \"As a proof of my innocence,\" she scribbled on a piece of\npaper, which was produced at the subsequent inquest, \"I am going to\nhang myself. I never stole your letter, and can only suppose it was\nlost in the post.\"\n\nThe mere fact of the accused committing suicide would, in many\npeople's opinion, point to guilt; and as the postal order was never\ntraced, it was generally concluded that Anna had secreted it, and had\nbeen only waiting till inquiries ceased, and the affair was forgotten,\nto cash it. Of course, the letter I found was the missing one, and\nalthough apparently hidden with intent, the fact of its never having\nbeen opened seemed to suggest that Anna was innocent, and that the\nenvelope had, by some extraordinary accident, fallen unnoticed by Anna\nthrough the crack between the boards. Anyhow, its discovery put an end\nto the disturbances and the apparition of the unfortunate\nsuicide--whether guilty or innocent, and the Judgment Day can alone\ndetermine that--has never been seen since.\n\n\n\n\n                         CASE XV\n\n    THE WHITE LADY OF ROWNAM AVENUE, NEAR\n      STIRLING\n\n\nLike most European countries, Scotland claims its share of phantasms\nin the form of \"White Ladies.\" According to Mr. Ingram, in his\n_Haunted Houses and Family Legends_, the ruins of the mansion of\nWoodhouselee are haunted by a woman in white, presumably (though,\npersonally, I think otherwise) the ghost of Lady Hamilton of\nBothwellhaugh. This unfortunate lady, together with her baby,\nwas--during the temporary absence of her husband--stripped naked and\nturned out of doors on a bitterly cold night, by a favourite of the\nRegent Murray. As a result of this inhuman conduct the child died, and\nits mother, with the corpse in her arms, was discovered in the morning\nraving mad. Another instance of this particular form of apparition is\nto be found in Sir Walter Scott's \"White Lady of Avenel,\" and there\nare endless others, both in reality and fiction.\n\nSome years ago, when I was putting up at a friend's house in\nEdinburgh, I was introduced to a man who had had several experiences\nwith ghosts, and had, therefore, been especially asked to meet me.\nAfter we had talked together for some time, he related the following\nadventure which had befallen him, in his childhood, in Rownam avenue\n(the seat of Sir E.C.), near Stirling:--\n\nI was always a lover of nature, he began, and my earliest\nreminiscences are associated with solitary rambles through the fields,\ndells, and copses surrounding my home. I lived within a stone's-throw\nof the property of old Sir E.C., who has long gone to rest--God bless\nhis soul! And I think it needs blessing, for if there was any truth in\nlocal gossip (and it is said, I think truly, that \"There is never any\nsmoke without fire\") he had lived a very queer life. Indeed, he was\nheld in such universal awe and abhorrence that we used to fly at his\napproach, and never spoke of him amongst ourselves saving in such\nterms as \"Auld dour crab,\" or \"The laird deil.\"\n\nRownam Manor House, where he lived, was a fine specimen of\nsixteenth-century architecture, and had it been called a castle would\nhave merited the appellation far more than many of the buildings in\nScotland that bear that name. It was approached by a long avenue of\ntrees--gigantic elms, oaks, and beeches, that, uniting their branches\noverhead in summertime, formed an effectual barrier to the sun's rays.\nThis avenue had an irresistible attraction for me. It literally\nswarmed with rabbits and squirrels, and many are the times I have\ntrespassed there to watch them. I had a very secure hiding-place in\nthe hollow of an old oak, where I have often been secreted while Sir\nE.C. and his keepers, without casting a glance in my direction, passed\nunsuspectingly by, vowing all sorts of vengeance against trespassers.\n\nOf course, I had to be very careful how I got there, for the grounds\nwere well patrolled, and Sir E.C. had sworn to prosecute anyone he\ncaught walking in them without his permission. Had Sir E.C. caught me,\nI should, doubtless, have been treated with the utmost severity, since\nhe and my father were the most bitter opponents politically, and for\nthat reason, unreasonable though it be, never lost an opportunity of\ninsulting one another. My father, a strong Radical, was opposed to all\nbig landed proprietors, and consequently winked his eye at my\ntrespassings; but I think nothing would really have pleased him better\nthan to have seen me brought to book by Sir E.C., since in my defence\nhe would have had an opportunity of appealing to the passions of the\nlocal people, who were all Radicals, and of incensing them still\nfurther against the principles of feudalism.\n\nBut to continue. I had often heard it rumoured in the village that\nRownam avenue was haunted, and that the apparition was a lady in\nwhite, and no other than Sir E.C.'s wife, whose death at a very early\nage had been hastened, if not entirely accounted for, by her husband's\nharsh treatment. Whether Sir E.C. was really as black as he was\npainted I have never been able to ascertain; the intense animosity\nwith which we all regarded him, made us believe anything ill of him,\nand we were quite ready to attribute all the alleged hauntings in the\nneighbourhood to his past misdeeds. I believe my family, with scarcely\nan exception, believed in ghosts; anyhow, the subject of ghosts was\nso often discussed in my hearing that I became possessed of an\nungovernable curiosity to see one. If only \"The White Lady\" would\nappear in the daytime, I thought, I should have no difficulty in\nsatisfying this curiosity, but unfortunately she did not appear till\nnight--in fact, not until long after boys of my age had been\nruthlessly ordered off to bed. I did not quite like the idea of\nstealing out of the house at dead of night and going alone to see the\nghost, so I suggested to my schoolfellow that he should also break\nloose one night and accompany me to Rownam to see \"The White Lady.\" It\nwas, however, of no use. Much as he would have liked to have seen a\nghost in broad daylight, it was quite another matter at night, to say\nnothing of running the risk of being caught trespassing by that\ninveterate enemy, Sir E.C. At length, finding that neither persuasion,\nbribery, nor taunts of cowardice had any effect on my schoolfellow,\nwho could not decide which appearance would be the more appalling,\nfor,--he assured me I should be certain to encounter either one or the\nother--the White Lady, or the Laird Deil,--I gave up all further\neffort to induce him to accompany me, and made up my mind to go to\nRownam avenue alone.\n\nBiding my opportunity, and waiting till my father was safely out of\nthe way,--on a visit to Greenock, where some business transaction\nwould oblige him to remain for some days,--I climbed out of my bedroom\nwindow, when I deemed the rest of the household to be sound asleep,\nscudded swiftly across the fields, and, making short work of the lofty\nwall that formed the southernmost boundary of the Rownam estates,\nquickly made my way to the avenue. It was an ideal Sunday night in\nAugust, and it seemed as if all nature participated in the Sabbath\nabstraction from noise and work. Hardly a sound broke the exquisite\nsilence of the woods. At times, overcome with the delightful sensation\nof freedom, I paused, and, raising my eyes to the starry heavens,\ndrank in huge draughts of the pure country air, tainted only with the\nsweet smell of newly mown hay, and the scent of summer flowers. I\nbecame intoxicated, delirious, and in transports of joy threw myself\non the soft mossy ground, and, baring my throat and chest, bathed\nmyself in the moonbeams' kisses. Then, picking myself slowly up, I\nperformed the maddest capers, and, finally sobering down, continued my\ncourse. Every now and again fancying I detected the stealthy footsteps\nof a keeper, I hid behind a tree, where I remained till I was quite\nassured I had been mistaken, and that no one was about. How long I\ndallied I do not know, but it must have been fully one o'clock before\nI arrived at the outskirts of the avenue, and, advancing eagerly,\nensconced myself in my favourite sanctuary, the hollow oak. All was\nhushed and motionless, and, as I gazed into the gloom, I became\nconscious, for the first time in my life, of a sensation of eeriness.\nThe arched canopy of foliage overhead was strongly suggestive of a\nfuneral pall; not a glimmer of moonlight penetrated through it; and\nall beneath seemed to me to be buried in the silence and blackness of\nthe grave.\n\nThe loneliness got on my nerves; at first I grew afraid, only afraid,\nand then my fears turned into a panic, a wild, mad panic, consisting\nin the one desire to get where there were human beings--creatures I\nknew and understood. With this end in view I emerged from my retreat,\nand was preparing to fly through the wood, when, from afar off, there\nsuddenly came the sound of a voice, the harsh, grating voice of a man.\nConvinced this time that I had been discovered by a keeper, I jumped\nback into the tree, and, swarming up the inside of the trunk, peeped\ncautiously out. What I saw nearly made me jump out of my skin.\nAdvancing along the avenue was the thing I had always longed to see,\nand for which I had risked so much: the mysterious, far-famed \"Lady in\nWhite,\"--a ghost, an actual, _bona fide_ ghost! How every nerve in my\nbody thrilled with excitement, and my heart thumped--till it seemed on\nthe verge of bursting through my ribs! \"The Lady in White!\" Why, it\nwould be the talk of the whole countryside! Some one had _really_--no\nhearsay evidence--seen the notorious apparition at last. How all my\nschoolfellows would envy me, and how bitterly they would chide\nthemselves for being too cowardly to accompany me! I looked at her\nclosely, and noticed that she was entirely luminous, emitting a strong\nphosphorescent glow like the glow of a glow-worm, saving that it was\nin a perpetual state of motion. She wore a quantity of white drapery\nswathed round her in a manner that perplexed me sorely, until I\nsuddenly realised with a creeping of my flesh that it must be a\nwinding-sheet, that burial accessary so often minutely described to me\nby the son of the village undertaker. Though interesting, I did not\nthink it at all becoming, and would have preferred to see any other\nstyle of garment. Streaming over her neck and shoulders were thick\nmasses of long, wavy, golden hair, which was ruffled, but only\nslightly ruffled, by the gentle summer breeze. Her face, though\nterrifying by reason of its unearthly pallor, was so beautiful, that,\nhad not some restraining influence compelled me to remain in hiding, I\nwould have descended from my perch to obtain a nearer view of it.\nIndeed, I only once caught a glimpse of her full face, for, with a\npersistence that was most annoying, she kept it turned from me; but in\nthat brief second the lustre of her long, blue eyes won my very soul,\nand boy as I was I felt, like the hero in song, that I would, for my\nbonnie ghost, in very deed, \"lay me doon and dee.\"\n\nHer eyes are still firmly impressed on my memory; I shall never\nforget them, any more than I shall forget the dainty curves of her\nfull red lips and the snowy whiteness of her perfect teeth. Nothing, I\nthought, either on earth or in heaven could have been half so lovely,\nand I was so enraptured that it was not until she was directly beneath\nme that I perceived she was not alone, that walking by her side, with\none arm round her waist, his face and figure illuminated with the\nlight from her body, was Sir E.C. But how changed! Gone were the deep\nblack scowl, the savage tightening of the jaws, and the intensely\ndisagreeable expression that had earned for him the nickname of \"The\nlaird deil,\" and in their stead I saw _love_--nothing but blind,\ninfatuated, soul-devouring _love_--love for which no words can find an\nadequate description.\n\nThrowing discretion to the wind--for my excitement and curiosity had\nrisen to the highest pitch--I now thrust more than half my body out of\nthe hole in the trunk. The next instant, with a cry of dismay, I\npitched head first on to the ground.\n\nIt would seem that boys, like cats, cannot in ordinary circumstances\nbe killed, and, instead of breaking my neck, I merely suffered that\nmost immaterial injury--immaterial, at least, in my case--a temporary\ndisendowment of the senses. On regaining the few wits I could lay\nclaim to, I fully expected to find myself in the hands of the irate\nlaird, who would seize me by the scruff of the neck and belabour me to\npieces. Consequently, too frightened to move, I lay absolutely still\nwith my eyes shut. But as the minutes glided by and nothing happened,\nI picked myself up. All was quiet and pitch dark--not a vestige of the\n\"Lady in White\"--not a vestige of Sir E.C.\n\nIt did not take me very long to get out of the wood and home. I ran\nall the way, and as it was still early--far too early for any of the\nhousehold to be astir, I crept up to my bedroom unobserved. But not to\nsleep, oh dear me, no! not to sleep, for the moment I blew the candle\nout and got into bed, reaction set in, and I suffered agonies of fear!\n\nWhen I went to school in the morning, my equilibrium restored, and,\nbubbling over with excitement to tell the boys what had happened, I\nreceived another shock--before I could ejaculate a word of my\nexperiences, I was told--told with a roar and shout that almost broke\nthe drum of my ears, that \"the auld laird deil\" was dead! His body had\nbeen found stretched on the ground, a few feet from the hollow oak, in\nthe avenue shortly after sunrise. He had died from syncope, so the\ndoctor said, that had probably been caused by a shock--some severe\nmental shock.\n\nI did not tell my companions of my night's adventure after all. My\neagerness to do so had departed when I heard of \"the auld laird's\"\ndeath.\n\n\n\n\n                         CASE XVI\n\n    THE GHOST OF THE HINDOO CHILD, OR THE\n      HAUNTINGS OF THE WHITE DOVE HOTEL, NEAR\n      ST. SWITHIN'S STREET, ABERDEEN\n\n\nIn the course of many years' investigation of haunted houses, I have\nnaturally come in contact with numerous people who have had first-hand\nexperiences with the Occult. Nurse Mackenzie is one of these people. I\nmet her for the first time last year at the house of my old friend,\nColonel Malcolmson, whose wife she was nursing.\n\nFor some days I was hardly aware she was in the house, the illness of\nher patient keeping her in constant seclusion, but when Mrs.\nMalcolmson grew better, I not infrequently saw her, taking a morning\n\"constitutional\" in the beautiful castle grounds. It was on one of\nthese occasions that she favoured me with an account of her psychical\nadventure.\n\nIt happened, she began, shortly after I had finished my term as\nprobationer at St. K.'s Hospital, Edinburgh. A letter was received at\nthe hospital one morning with the urgent request that two nurses\nshould be sent to a serious case near St. Swithin's Street. As the\nletter was signed by a well-known physician in the town, it received\nimmediate attention, and Nurse Emmett and I were dispatched, as day\nand night nurses respectively, to the scene of action. My hours on\nduty were from 9 p.m. till 9 a.m. The house in which the patient was\nlocated was the White Dove Hotel, a thoroughly respectable and\nwell-managed establishment. The proprietor knew nothing about the\ninvalid, except that her name was Vining, and that she had, at one\nperiod of her career, been an actress. He had noticed that she had\nlooked ill on her arrival the previous week. Two days after her\narrival, she had complained of feeling very ill, and the doctor, who\nhad been summoned to attend her, said that she was suffering from a\nvery loathsome Oriental disease, which, fortunately is, in this\ncountry, rare. The hotel, though newly decorated and equipped\nthroughout with every up-to-date convenience, was in reality very\nold. It was one of those delightfully roomy erections that seem built\nfor eternity rather than time, and for comfort rather than economy of\nspace. The interior, with its oak-panelled walls, polished oak floors,\nand low ceilings, traversed with ponderous oaken beams, also impressed\nme pleasantly, whilst a flight of broad, oak stairs, fenced with\nbalustrades a foot thick, brought me to a seemingly interminable\ncorridor, into which the door of Miss Vining's room opened. It was a\nlow, wainscoted apartment, and its deep-set window, revealing the\nthickness of the wall, looked out upon a dismal yard littered with\nbrooms and buckets. Opposite the foot of the bed--a modern French\nbedstead, by the bye, whose brass fittings and somewhat flimsy\nhangings were strangely incongruous with their venerable\nsurroundings--was an ingle, containing the smouldering relics of what\nhad doubtless been intended for a fire, but which needed considerable\ncoaxing before it could be converted from a pretence to a reality.\nThere was no exit save by the doorway I had entered, and no furniture\nsave a couple of rush-bottomed chairs and a table strewn with an\nuntidy medley of writing materials and medicine bottles.\n\nA feeling of depression, contrasting strangely with the effect\nproduced on me by the cheerfulness of the hotel in general, seized me\ndirectly I entered the room. Despite the brilliancy of the electric\nlight and the new and gaudy bed-hangings, the air was full of gloom--a\ngloom which, for the very reason that it was unaccountable, was the\nmore alarming. I felt it hanging around me like the undeveloped shadow\nof something singularly hideous and repulsive, and, on my approaching\nthe sick woman, it seemed to thrust itself in my way and force me\nback.\n\nMiss Vining was decidedly good-looking; she had the typically\ntheatrical features--neatly moulded nose and chin, curly yellow hair,\nand big, dreamy blue eyes that especially appeal to a certain class of\nmen; like most women, however, I prefer something more solid, both\nphysically and intellectually--I cannot stand \"the pretty, pretty.\"\nShe was, of course, far too ill to converse, and, beyond a few\ndesultory and spasmodic ejaculations, maintained a rigid silence. As\nthere was no occasion for me to sit close beside her, I drew up a\nchair before the fire, placing myself in such a position as to command\na full view of the bed. My first night passed undisturbed by any\nincident, and in the morning the condition of my patient showed a\nslight improvement. It was eight o'clock in the evening when I came on\nduty again, and, the weather having changed during the day, the whole\nroom echoed and re-echoed with the howling of the wind, which was\nraging round the house with demoniacal fury.\n\nI had been at my post for a little over two hours--and had just\nregistered my patient's temperature, when, happening to look up from\nthe book I was reading, I saw to my surprise that the chair beside the\nhead of the bed was occupied by a child--a tiny girl. How she had come\ninto the room without attracting my attention was certainly\nextraordinary, and I could only suppose that the shrieking of the wind\ndown the wide chimney had deadened the sound of the door and her\nfootsteps.\n\nI was naturally, of course, very indignant that she had dared to come\nin without rapping, and, getting up from my seat I was preparing to\naddress her and bid her go, when she lifted a wee white hand and\nmotioned me back. I obeyed because I could not help myself--her\naction was accompanied by a peculiar,--an unpleasantly peculiar,\nexpression that held me spellbound; and without exactly knowing why,\nI stood staring at her, tongue-tied and trembling. As her face was\nturned towards the patient, and she wore, moreover, a very\nwide-brimmed hat, I could see nothing of her features; but from her\ngraceful little figure and dainty limbs, I gathered that she was\nprobably both beautiful and aristocratic. Her dress, though not\nperhaps of the richest quality, was certainly far from shoddy, and\nthere was something in its style and make that suggested foreign\nnationality,--Italy--or Spain--or South America--or even the Orient,\nthe probability of the latter being strengthened by her pose, which\nwas full of the serpent-like ease which is characteristic of the\nEast. I was so taken up with watching her that I forgot all about my\npatient, until a prolonged sigh from the bed reminded me of her\nexistence. With an effort I then advanced, and was about to approach\nthe bed, when the child, without moving her head, motioned me back,\nand--again I was helpless. The vision I had obtained of the sick\nwoman, brief though it was, filled me with alarm. She was tossing to\nand fro on the blankets, and breathing in the most agonised manner as\nif in delirium, or enthralled by some particularly dreadful\nnightmare. Her condition so frightened me, that I made the most\nfrantic efforts to overcome my inertia. I did not succeed, however,\nand at last, utterly overcome by my exertion, I closed my eyes. When\nI opened them again, the chair by the bed was vacant--the child had\ngone. A tremendous feeling of relief surged through me, and, jumping\nout of my seat, I hastened to the bedside--my patient was worse, the\nfever had increased, and she was delirious. I took her temperature.\nIt was 104. I now sat close beside her, and my presence apparently\nhad a soothing effect. She speedily grew calmer, and after taking her\nmedicine gradually sank into a gentle sleep which lasted until late\nin the morning. When I left her she had altogether recovered from the\nrelapse. I, of course, told the doctor of the child's visit, and he\nwas very angry.\n\n\"Whatever happens, Nurse,\" he said, \"take care that no one enters the\nroom to-night; the patient's condition is far too critical for her to\nsee any one, even her own daughter. You must keep the door locked.\"\n\nArmed with this mandate, I went on duty the following night with a\nsomewhat lighter heart, and, after locking the door, once again sat by\nthe fire. During the day there had been a heavy fall of snow; the wind\nhad abated, and the streets were now as silent as the grave.\n\nTen, eleven, and twelve o'clock struck, and my patient slept\ntranquilly. At a quarter to one, however, I was abruptly roused from a\nreverie by a sob, a sob of fear and agony that proceeded from the bed.\nI looked, and there--there, seated in the same posture as on the\nprevious evening, was the child. I sprang to my feet with an\nexclamation of amazement. She raised her hand, and, as before, I\ncollapsed--spellbound--paralysed. No words of mine can convey all the\nsensations I experienced as I sat there, forced to listen to the\nmoaning and groaning of the woman whose fate had been entrusted to my\nkeeping. Every second she grew worse, and each sound rang in my ears\nlike the hammering of nails in her coffin. How long I endured such\ntorment I cannot say, I dare not think, for, though the clock was\nwithin a few feet of me, I never once thought of looking at it. At\nlast the child rose, and, moving slowly from the bed, advanced with\nbowed head towards the window. The spell was broken. With a cry of\nindignation I literally bounded over the carpet and faced the\nintruder.\n\n\"Who are you?\" I hissed. \"Tell me your name instantly! How dare you\nenter this room without my permission?\"\n\nAs I spoke she slowly raised her head. I snatched at her hat. It\nmelted away in my hands, and, to my unspeakable terror, my undying\nterror, I looked into the face of a corpse!--the corpse of a Hindoo\nchild, with a big, gaping cut in its throat. In its lifetime the child\nhad, without doubt, been lovely; it was now horrible--horrible with\nall the ghastly disfigurements, the repellent disfigurements, of a\nlong consignment to the grave. I fainted, and, on recovering, found my\nghostly visitor had vanished, and that my patient was dead. One of\nher hands was thrown across her eyes, as if to shut out some object on\nwhich she feared to look, whilst the other grasped the counterpane\nconvulsively.\n\nIt fell to my duty to help pack up her belongings, and among her\nletters was a large envelope bearing the postmark \"Quetta.\" As we were\non the look-out for some clue as to the address of her relatives, I\nopened it. It was merely the cabinet-size photograph of a Hindoo\nchild, but I recognised the dress immediately--it was that of my\nghostly visitor. On the back of it were these words: \"Natalie. May God\nforgive us both.\"\n\nThough we made careful inquiries for any information as to Natalie and\nMiss Vining in Quetta, and advertised freely in the leading London\npapers, we learned nothing, and in time we were forced to let the\nmatter drop. As far as I know, the ghost of the Hindoo child has never\nbeen seen again, but I have heard that the hotel is still\nhaunted--haunted by a woman.\n\n\n\n\n                        CASE XVII\n\n    GLAMIS CASTLE\n\n\nOf all the hauntings in Scotland, none has gained such widespread\nnotoriety as the hauntings of Glamis Castle, the seat of the Earl of\nStrathmore and Kinghorne in Forfarshire.\n\nPart of the castle--that part which is the more frequently haunted--is\nof ancient though uncertain date, and if there is any truth in the\ntradition that Duncan was murdered there by Macbeth, must, at any\nrate, have been in existence at the commencement of the eleventh\ncentury. Of course, extra buildings have, from time to time, been\nadded, and renovations made; but the original structure remains pretty\nnearly the same as it always has been, and is included in a square\ntower that occupies a central position, and commands a complete view\nof the entire castle.\n\nWithin this tower--the walls of which are fifteen feet thick--there\nis a room, hidden in some unsuspected quarter, that contains a secret\n(the keynote to one, at least, of the hauntings) which is known only\nto the Earl, his heir (on the attainment of his twenty-first\nbirthday), and the factor of the estate.\n\nIn all probability, the mystery attached to this room would challenge\nbut little attention, were it not for the fact that unearthly noises,\nwhich at the time were supposed to proceed from this chamber, have\nbeen heard by various visitors sleeping in the Square Tower.\n\nThe following experience is said to have happened to a lady named\nBond. I append it more or less in her own words.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt is a good many years since I stayed at Glamis. I was, in fact, but\nlittle more than a child, and had only just gone through my first\nseason in town. But though young, I was neither nervous nor\nimaginative; I was inclined to be what is termed stolid, that is to\nsay, extremely matter-of-fact and practical. Indeed, when my friends\nexclaimed, \"You don't mean to say you are going to stay at Glamis!\nDon't you know it's haunted?\" I burst out laughing.\n\n\"Haunted!\" I said, \"how ridiculous! There are no such things as\nghosts. One might as well believe in fairies.\"\n\nOf course I did not go to Glamis alone--my mother and sister were with\nme; but whereas they slept in the more modern part of the castle, I\nwas, at my own request, apportioned a room in the Square Tower.\n\nI cannot say that my choice had anything to do with the secret\nchamber. That, and the alleged mystery, had been dinned into my ears\nso often that I had grown thoroughly sick of the whole thing. No, I\nwanted to sleep in the Square Tower for quite a different reason, a\nreason of my own. I kept an aviary; the tower was old; and I naturally\nhoped its walls would be covered with ivy and teeming with birds'\nnests, some of which I might be able to reach--and, I am ashamed to\nsay, plunder--from my window.\n\nAlas, for my expectations! Although the Square Tower was so ancient\nthat in some places it was actually crumbling away--not the sign of a\nleaf, not the vestige of a bird's nest could I see anywhere; the\nwalls were abominably, brutally bare. However, it was not long before\nmy disappointment gave way to delight; for the air that blew in\nthrough the open window was so sweet, so richly scented with heather\nand honeysuckle, and the view of the broad, sweeping, thickly wooded\ngrounds so indescribably charming, that, despite my inartistic and\nunpoetical nature, I was entranced--entranced as I had never been\nbefore, and never have been since. \"Ghosts!\" I said to myself,\n\"ghosts! how absurd! how preposterously absurd! such an adorable spot\nas this can only harbour sunshine and flowers.\"\n\nI well remember, too--for, as I have already said, I was not\npoetical--how much I enjoyed my first dinner at Glamis. The long\njourney and keen mountain air had made me hungry, and I thought I had\nnever tasted such delicious food--such ideal salmon (from the Esk) and\nsuch heavenly fruit. But I must tell you that, although I ate\nheartily, as a healthy girl should, by the time I went to bed I had\nthoroughly digested my meal, and was, in fact, quite ready to partake\nof a few oatmeal biscuits I found in my dressing-case, and remembered\nhaving bought at Perth. It was about eleven o'clock when my maid left\nme, and I sat for some minutes wrapped in my dressing gown, before the\nopen window. The night was very still, and save for an occasional\nrustle of the wind in the distant tree-tops, the hooting of an owl,\nthe melancholy cry of a peewit and the hoarse barking of a dog, the\nsilence was undisturbed.\n\nThe interior of my room was, in nearly every particular, modern.\nThe furniture was not old; there were no grim carvings; no\ngrotesquely-fashioned tapestries on the walls; no dark cupboards; no\ngloomy corners;--all was cosy and cheerful, and when I got into bed no\nthought of bogle or mystery entered my mind.\n\nIn a few minutes I was asleep, and for some time there was nothing but\na blank--a blank in which all identity was annihilated. Then suddenly\nI found myself in an oddly-shaped room with a lofty ceiling, and a\nwindow situated at so great a distance from the black oaken floor as\nto be altogether inaccessible from within. Feeble gleams of\nphosphorescent light made their way through the narrow panes, and\nserved to render distinct the more prominent objects around; but my\neyes struggled in vain to reach the remoter angles of the wall, one of\nwhich inspired me with terror such as I had never felt before. The\nwalls were covered with heavy draperies that were sufficient in\nthemselves to preclude the possibility of any save the loudest of\nsounds penetrating without.\n\nThe furniture, if such one could call it, puzzled me. It seemed more\nfitted for the cell of a prison or lunatic asylum, or even for a\nkennel, than for an ordinary dwelling-room. I could see no chair, only\na coarse deal table, a straw mattress, and a kind of trough. An air of\nirredeemable gloom and horror hung over and pervaded everything. As I\nstood there, I felt I was waiting for something--something that was\nconcealed in the corner of the room I dreaded. I tried to reason with\nmyself, to assure myself that there was nothing there that could hurt\nme, nothing that could even terrify me, but my efforts were in\nvain--my fears grew. Had I had some definite knowledge as to the cause\nof my alarm I should not have suffered so much, but it was my\nignorance of what was there, of what I feared, that made my terror so\npoignant. Each second saw the agony of my suspense increase. I dared\nnot move. I hardly dare breathe, and I dreaded lest the violent\npulsation of my heart should attract the attention of the Unknown\nPresence and precipitate its coming out. Yet despite the perturbation\nof my mind, I caught myself analysing my feelings. It was not danger I\nabhorred so much, as its absolute effect--fright. I shuddered at the\nbare thought of what result the most trivial incident--the creaking of\na board, ticking of a beetle, or hooting of an owl--might have on the\nintolerable agitation of my soul.\n\nIn this unnerved and pitiable condition I felt that the period was\nbound to come, sooner or later, when I should have to abandon life and\nreason together in the most desperate of struggles with--fear.\n\nAt length, something moved. An icy chill ran through my frame, and the\nhorror of my anticipations immediately reached its culminating point.\nThe Presence was about to reveal itself.\n\nThe gentle rubbing of a soft body on the floor, the crack of a bony\njoint, breathing, another crack, and then--was it my own excited\nimagination--or the disturbing influence of the atmosphere--or the\nuncertain twilight of the chamber that produced before me, in the\nstygian darkness of the recess, the vacillating and indistinct outline\nof something luminous, and horrid? I would gladly have risked futurity\nto have looked elsewhere--I could not. My eyes were fixed--I was\ncompelled to gaze steadily in front of me.\n\nSlowly, very slowly, the thing, whatever it was, took shape.\nLegs--crooked, misshapen, human legs. A body--tawny and hunched.\nArms--long and spidery, with crooked, knotted fingers. A head--large\nand bestial, and covered with a tangled mass of grey hair that hung\naround its protruding forehead and pointed ears in ghastly mockery of\ncurls. A face--and herein was the realisation of all my direst\nexpectations--a face--white and staring, piglike in formation,\nmalevolent in expression; a hellish combination of all things foul and\nanimal, and yet withal not without a touch of pathos.\n\nAs I stared at it aghast, it reared itself on its haunches after the\nmanner of an ape, and leered piteously at me. Then, shuffling forward,\nit rolled over, and lay sprawled out like some ungainly turtle--and\nwallowed, as for warmth, in the cold grey beams of early dawn.\n\nAt this juncture the handle of the chamber door turned, some one\nentered, there was a loud cry--and I awoke--awoke to find the whole\ntower, walls and rafters, ringing with the most appalling screams I\nhave ever heard,--screams of some thing or of some one--for there was\nin them a strong element of what was human as well as animal--in the\ngreatest distress.\n\nWondering what it meant, and more than ever terrified, I sat up in bed\nand listened,--listened whilst a conviction--the result of intuition,\nsuggestion, or what you will, but a conviction all the same--forced me\nto associate the sounds with the thing in my dream. And I associate\nthem still.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt was, I think, in the same year--in the year that the foregoing\naccount was narrated to me--that I heard another story of the\nhauntings at Glamis, a story in connection with a lady whom I will\ncall Miss Macginney. I append her experience as nearly as possible as\nshe is stated to have told it.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nI seldom talk about my adventure, Miss Maginney announced, because so\nmany people ridicule the superphysical, and laugh at the mere mention\nof ghosts. I own I did the same myself till I stayed at Glamis; but a\nweek there quite cured me of scepticism, and I came away a confirmed\nbeliever.\n\nThe incident occurred nearly twenty years ago--shortly after my return\nfrom India, where my father was then stationed.\n\nIt was years since I had been to Scotland, indeed I had only once\ncrossed the border and that when I was a babe; consequently I was\ndelighted to receive an invitation to spend a few weeks in the land of\nmy birth. I went to Edinburgh first--I was born in Drumsheugh\nGardens--and thence to Glamis.\n\nIt was late in the autumn, the weather was intensely cold, and I\narrived at the castle in a blizzard. Indeed, I do not recollect ever\nhaving been out in such a frightful storm. It was as much as the\nhorses could do to make headway, and when we reached the castle we\nfound a crowd of anxious faces eagerly awaiting us in the hall.\n\nChilled! I was chilled to the bone, and thought I never should thaw.\nBut the huge fires and bright and cosy atmosphere of the rooms--for\nthe interior of Glamis was modernised throughout--soon set me right,\nand by tea time I felt nicely warm and comfortable.\n\nMy bedroom was in the oldest part of the castle--the Square Tower--but\nalthough I had been warned by some of the guests that it might be\nhaunted, I can assure you that when I went to bed no subject was\nfarther from my thoughts than the subject of ghosts. I returned to my\nroom at about half-past eleven. The storm was then at its height--all\nwas babel and confusion--impenetrable darkness mingled with the\nwildest roaring and shrieking; and when I peeped through my casement\nwindow I could see nothing--the panes were shrouded in snow--snow\nwhich was incessantly dashed against them with cyclonic fury. I fixed\na comb in the window-frame so as not to be kept awake by the constant\njarring; and with the caution characteristic of my sex looked into\nthe wardrobe and under the bed for burglars--though Heaven knows what\nI should have done had I found one there--placed a candlestick and\nmatchbox on the table by my bedside, lest the roof or window should be\nblown in during the night or any other catastrophe happen, and after\nall these preparations got into bed. At this period of my life I was a\nsound sleeper, and, being somewhat unusually tired after my journey, I\nwas soon in a dreamless slumber. What awoke me I cannot say, but I\ncame to myself with a violent start, such as might have been\noccasioned by a loud noise. Indeed, that was, at first, my impression,\nand I strained my ears to try and ascertain the cause of it. All was,\nhowever, silent. The storm had abated, and the castle and grounds were\nwrapped in an almost preternatural hush. The sky had cleared, and the\nroom was partially illuminated by a broad stream of silvery light that\nfiltered softly in through the white and tightly drawn blinds. A\nfeeling that there was something unnatural in the air, that the\nstillness was but the prelude to some strange and startling event,\ngradually came over me. I strove to reason with myself, to argue that\nthe feeling was wholly due to the novelty of my surroundings, but my\nefforts were fruitless. And soon there stole upon me a sensation to\nwhich I had been hitherto an utter stranger--I became afraid. An\nirrepressible tremor pervaded my frame, my teeth chattered, my blood\nfroze. Obeying an impulse--an impulse I could not resist, I lifted\nmyself up from the pillows, and, peering fearfully into the shadowy\nglow that lay directly in front of me--listened. Why I listened I do\nnot know, saving that an instinctive spirit prompted me. At first I\ncould hear nothing, and then, from a direction I could not define,\nthere came a noise, low, distinct, uninterpretative. It was repeated\nin rapid succession, and speedily construed itself into the sound of\nmailed footsteps racing up the long flight of stairs at the end of the\ncorridor leading to my room. Dreading to think what it might be, and\nseized with a wild sentiment of self-preservation, I made frantic\nendeavours to get out of bed and barricade my door. My limbs, however,\nrefused to move. I was paralysed. Nearer and nearer drew the sounds;\nand I could at length distinguish, with a clearness that petrified my\nvery soul, the banging and clanging of sword scabbards, and the\npanting and gasping of men, sore pressed in a wild and desperate race.\nAnd then the meaning of it all came to me with hideous abruptness--it\nwas a case of pursued and pursuing--the race was for--LIFE. Outside my\ndoor the fugitive halted, and from the noise he made in trying to draw\nhis breath, I knew he was dead beat. His antagonist, however, gave him\nbut scant time for recovery. Bounding at him with prodigious leaps, he\nstruck him a blow that sent him reeling with such tremendous force\nagainst the door, that the panels, although composed of the stoutest\noak, quivered and strained like flimsy matchboard.\n\nThe blow was repeated; the cry that rose in the victim's throat was\nconverted into an abortive gurgling groan; and I heard the ponderous\nbattle-axe carve its way through helmet, bone, and brain. A moment\nlater came the sound of slithering armour; and the corpse, slipping\nsideways, toppled to the ground with a sonorous clang.\n\nA silence too awful for words now ensued. Having finished his hideous\nhandiwork, the murderer was quietly deliberating what to do next;\nwhilst my dread of attracting his attention was so great that I\nscarcely dare breathe. This intolerable state of things had already\nlasted for what seemed to me a lifetime, when, glancing involuntarily\nat the floor, I saw a stream of dark-looking fluid lazily lapping its\nway to me from the direction of the door. Another moment and it would\nreach my shoes. In my dismay I shrieked aloud. There was a sudden stir\nwithout, a significant clatter of steel, and the next moment--despite\nthe fact that it was locked--the door slowly opened. The limits of my\nendurance had now happily been reached, the over-taxed valves of my\nheart could stand no more--I fainted. On my awakening to consciousness\nit was morning, and the welcome sun rays revealed no evidences of the\ndistressing drama. I own I had a hard tussle before I could make up my\nmind to spend another night in that room; and my feelings as I shut\nthe door on my retreating maid, and prepared to get into bed, were not\nthe most enviable. But nothing happened, nor did I again experience\nanything of the sort till the evening before I left. I had lain down\nall the afternoon--for I was tired after a long morning's tramp on the\nmoors, a thing I dearly love--and I was thinking it was about time to\nget up, when a dark shadow suddenly fell across my face.\n\nI looked up hastily, and there, standing by my bedside and bending\nover me, was a gigantic figure in bright armour.\n\nIts visor was up, and what I saw within the casque is stamped for ever\non my memory. It was the face of the dead--the long since dead--with\nthe expression--the subtly hellish expression--of the living. As I\ngazed helplessly at it, it bent lower. I threw up my hands to ward it\noff. There was a loud rap at the door. And as my maid softly entered\nto tell me tea was ready--it vanished.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe third account of the Glamis hauntings was told me as long ago as\nthe summer of 1893. I was travelling by rail from Perth to Glasgow,\nand the only other occupant of my compartment was an elderly\ngentleman, who, from his general air and appearance, might have been\na dominie, or member of some other learned profession. I can see him\nin my mind's eye now--a tall, thin man with a premature stoop. He had\nwhite hair, which was brushed forward on either side of his head in\nsuch a manner as suggested a wig; bushy eyebrows; dark, piercing eyes;\nand a stern, though somewhat sad, mouth. His features were fine and\nscholarly; he was clean-shaven. There was something about\nhim--something that marked him from the general horde--something that\nattracted me, and I began chatting with him soon after we left Perth.\n\nIn the course of a conversation, that was at all events interesting to\nme, I adroitly managed to introduce the subject of ghosts--then, as\never, uppermost in my thoughts.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWell, he said, I can tell you of something rather extraordinary that\nmy mother used to say happened to a friend of hers at Glamis. I have\nno doubt you are well acquainted with the hackneyed stories in\nconnection with the hauntings at the castle; for example, Earl Beardie\nplaying cards with the Devil, and The Weeping Woman without Hands or\nTongue. You can read about them in scores of books and magazines. But\nwhat befel my mother's friend, whom I will call Mrs. Gibbons--for I\nhave forgotten her proper name--was apparently of a novel nature. The\naffair happened shortly before Mrs. Gibbons died, and I always thought\nthat what took place might have been, in some way, connected with her\ndeath.\n\nShe had driven over to the castle one day--during the absence of the\nowner--to see her cousin, who was in the employ of the Earl and\nCountess. Never having been at Glamis before, but having heard so much\nabout it, Mrs. Gibbons was not a little curious to see that part of\nthe building, called the Square Tower, that bore the reputation of\nbeing haunted.\n\nTactfully biding an opportunity, she sounded her relative on the\nsubject, and was laughingly informed that she might go anywhere about\nthe place she pleased, saving to one spot, namely, \"Bluebeard's\nChamber\"; and there she could certainly never succeed in poking her\nnose, as its locality was known only to three people, all of whom were\npledged never to reveal it. At the commencement of her tour of\ninspection, Mrs. Gibbons was disappointed--she was disappointed in the\nTower. She had expected to see a gaunt, grim place, crumbling to\npieces with age, full of blood-curdling, spiral staircases, and deep,\ndark dungeons; whereas everything was the reverse. The walls were in\nan excellent state of preservation--absolutely intact; the rooms\nbright and cheerful and equipped in the most modern style; there were\nno dungeons, at least none on view, and the passages and staircases\nwere suggestive of nothing more alarming than--bats! She was\naccompanied for some time by her relative, but, on the latter being\ncalled away, Mrs. Gibbons continued her rambles alone. She had\nexplored the lower premises, and was leisurely examining a handsomely\nfurnished apartment on the top floor, when, in crossing from one side\nof the room to the other, she ran into something. She looked\ndown--nothing was to be seen. Amazed beyond description, she thrust\nout her hands, and they alighted on an object, which she had little\ndifficulty in identifying. It was an enormous cask or barrel lying in\na horizontal position.\n\nShe bent down close to where she felt it, but she could see\nnothing--nothing but the well-polished boards of the floor. To make\nsure again that the barrel was there, she gave a little kick--and drew\nback her foot with a cry of pain. She was not afraid--the sunshine in\nthe room forbade fear--only exasperated. She was certain a barrel was\nthere--that it was objective--and she was angry with herself for not\nseeing it. She wondered if she were going blind; but the fact that\nother objects in the room were plainly visible to her, discountenanced\nsuch an idea. For some minutes she poked and jabbed at the Thing, and\nthen, seized with a sudden and uncontrollable panic, she turned round\nand fled. And as she tore out of the room, along the passage and down\nthe seemingly interminable flight of stairs, she heard the barrel\nbehind her in close pursuit-bump--bump--bump!\n\nAt the foot of the staircase Mrs. Gibbons met her cousin, and, as she\nclutched the latter for support, the barrel shot past her, still\ncontinuing its descent--bump--bump--bump! (though the steps as far as\nshe could see had ended)--till the sounds gradually dwindled away in\nthe far distance.\n\nWhilst the manifestations lasted, neither Mrs. Gibbons nor her cousin\nspoke; but the latter, as soon as the sounds had ceased, dragged Mrs.\nGibbons away, and, in a voice shaking with terror, cried: \"Quick,\nquick--don't, for Heaven's sake, look round--worse has yet to come.\"\nAnd, pulling Mrs. Gibbons along in breathless haste, she\nunceremoniously hustled her out of the Tower.\n\n\"That was no barrel!\" Mrs. Gibbons's cousin subsequently remarked by\nway of explanation. \"I saw it--I have seen it before. Don't ask me to\ndescribe it. I dare not--I dare not even think of it. Whenever it\nappears, a certain thing happens shortly afterwards. Don't, don't on\nany account say a word about it to any one here.\" And Mrs. Gibbons, my\nmother told me, came away from Glamis a thousand times more curious\nthan she was when she went.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe last story I have to relate is one I heard many years ago, when I\nwas staying near Balmoral. A gentleman named Vance, with strong\nantiquarian tastes, was staying at an inn near the Strathmore estate,\nand, roaming abroad one afternoon, in a fit of absent-mindedness\nentered the castle grounds. It so happened--fortunately for him--that\nthe family were away, and he encountered no one more formidable than a\nman he took to be a gardener, an uncouth-looking fellow, with a huge\nhead covered with a mass of red hair, hawk-like features, and high\ncheek-bones, high even for a Scot. Struck with the appearance of the\nindividual, Mr. Vance spoke, and, finding him wonderfully civil, asked\nwhether, by any chance, he ever came across any fossils, when digging\nin the gardens.\n\n\"I dinna ken the meaning of fossils,\" the man replied. \"What are\nthey?\"\n\nMr. Vance explained, and a look of cunning gradually pervaded the\nfellow's features. \"No!\" he said, \"I've never found any of those\nthings, but if you'll give me your word to say nothing about it, I'll\nshow you something I once dug up over yonder by the Square Tower.\"\n\n\"Do you mean the Haunted Tower?--the Tower that is supposed to contain\nthe secret room?\" Mr. Vance exclaimed.\n\nAn extraordinary expression--an expression such as Mr. Vance found it\nimpossible to analyse--came into the man's eyes. \"Yes! that's it!\" he\nnodded. \"What people call--and rightly call--the Haunted Tower. I got\nit from there. But don't you say naught about it!\"\n\nMr. Vance, whose curiosity was roused, promised, and the man, politely\nrequesting him to follow, led the way to a cottage that stood near by,\nin the heart of a gloomy wood. To Mr. Vance's astonishment the\ntreasure proved to be the skeleton of a hand--a hand with abnormally\nlarge knuckles, and the first joint--of both fingers and thumb--much\nshorter than the others. It was the most extraordinarily shaped hand\nMr. Vance had ever seen, and he did not know in the least how to\nclassify it. It repelled, yet interested him, and he eventually\noffered the man a good sum to allow him to keep it. To his\nastonishment the money was refused. \"You may have the thing, and\nwelcome,\" the fellow said. \"Only, I advise you not to look at it late\nat night; or just before getting into bed. If you do, you may have bad\ndreams.\"\n\n\"I will take my chance of that!\" Mr. Vance laughed. \"You see, being a\nhard-headed cockney, I am not superstitious. It is only you\nHighlanders, and your first cousins the Irish, who believe nowadays in\nbogles, omens, and such-like\"; and, packing the hand carefully in his\nknapsack, Mr. Vance bid the strange-looking creature good morning, and\nwent on his way.\n\nFor the rest of the day the hand was uppermost in his\nthoughts--nothing had ever fascinated him so much. He sat pondering\nover it the whole evening, and bedtime found him still examining\nit--examining it upstairs in his room by candlelight. He had a hazy\nrecollection that some clock had struck twelve, and he was beginning\nto feel that it was about time to retire, when, in the mirror opposite\nhim, he caught sight of the door--it was open.\n\n\"By Jove! that's odd!\" he said to himself. \"I could have sworn I shut\nand bolted it.\" To make sure, he turned round--the door was closed.\n\"An optical delusion,\" he murmured; \"I will try again.\"\n\nHe looked into the mirror--the door reflected in it was--open. Utterly\nat a loss to know how to explain the phenomenon, he leaned forward in\nhis seat to examine the glass more carefully, and as he did so he\ngave a start. On the threshold of the doorway was a shadow--black and\nbulbous. A cold shiver ran down Mr. Vance's spine, and just for a\nmoment he felt afraid, terribly afraid; but he quickly composed\nhimself--it was nothing but an illusion--there was no shadow there in\nreality--he had only to turn round, and the thing would be gone. It\nwas amusing--entertaining. He would wait and see what happened.\n\nThe shadow moved. It moved slowly through the air like some huge\nspider, or odd-shaped bird. He would not acknowledge that there was\nanything sinister about it--only something droll--excruciatingly droll.\nYet it did not make him laugh. When it had drawn a little nearer, he\ntried to diagnose it, to discover its material counterpart in one of\nthe objects around him; but he was obliged to acknowledge his attempts\nwere failures--there was nothing in the room in the least degree like\nit. A vague feeling of uneasiness gradually crept over him--was the\nthing the shadow of something with which he was familiar, but could not\njust then recall to mind--something he feared--something that was\nsinister? He struggled against the idea, he dismissed it as absurd; but\nit returned--returned, and took deeper root as the shadow drew nearer.\nHe wished the house was not quite so silent--that he could hear some\nindication of life--anything--anything for companionship, and to rid\nhim of the oppressive, the very oppressive, sense of loneliness and\nisolation.\n\nAgain a thrill of terror ran through him.\n\n\"Look here!\" he exclaimed aloud, glad to hear the sound of his own\nvoice. \"Look here! if this goes on much longer I shall begin to think\nI'm going mad. I have had enough, and more than enough, of magic\nmirrors for one night--it's high time I got into bed.\" He strove to\nrise from his chair--to move; he was unable to do either; some\nstrange, tyrannical force held him a prisoner.\n\nA change now took place in the shadow; the blurr dissipated, and the\nclearly defined outlines of an object--an object that made Mr. Vance\nperfectly sick with apprehension--slowly disclosed themselves. His\nsuspicions were verified--it was the HAND!--the hand--no longer\nskeleton, but covered with green, mouldering flesh--feeling its way\nslyly and stealthily towards him--towards the back of his chair! He\nnoted the murderous twitching of its short, flat finger-tips, the\nmonstrous muscles of its hideous thumb, and the great, clumsy hollows\nof its clammy palm. It closed in upon him; its cold, slimy, detestable\nskin touched his coat--his shoulder--his neck--his head! It pressed\nhim down, squashed, suffocated him! He saw it all in the glass--and\nthen an extraordinary thing happened. Mr. Vance suddenly became\nanimated. He got up and peeped furtively round. Chairs, bed, wardrobe,\nhad all disappeared--so had the bedroom--and he found himself in a\nsmall, bare, comfortless, queerly constructed apartment without a\ndoor, and with only a narrow slit of a window somewhere near the\nceiling.\n\nHe had in one of his hands a knife with a long, keen blade, and his\nwhole mind was bent on murder. Creeping stealthily forward, he\napproached a corner of the room, where he now saw, for the first\ntime--a mattress--a mattress on which lay a huddled-up form. What the\nThing was--whether human or animal--Mr. Vance did not know--did not\ncare--all he felt was that it was there for him to kill--that he\nloathed and hated it--hated it with a hatred such as nothing else\ncould have produced. Tiptoeing gently up to it, he bent down, and,\nlifting his knife high above his head, plunged it into the Thing's\nbody with all the force he could command.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nHe recrossed the room, and found himself once more in his apartment at\nthe inn. He looked for the skeleton hand--it was not where he had left\nit--it had vanished. Then he glanced at the mirror, and on its\nbrilliantly polished surface saw--not his own face--but the face of\nthe gardener, the man who had given him the hand! Features, colour,\nhair--all--all were identical--wonderfully, hideously identical--and\nas the eyes met his, they smiled--devilishly.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nEarly the next day, Mr. Vance set out for the spinney and cottage;\nthey were not to be found--nobody had ever heard of them. He continued\nhis travels, and some months later, at a loan collection of pictures\nin a gallery in Edinburgh, he came to an abrupt--a very abrupt--halt,\nbefore the portrait of a gentleman in ancient costume. The face\nseemed strangely familiar--the huge head with thick, red hair--the\nhawk-like features--the thin and tightly compressed lips. Then, in a\ntrice, it all came back to him: the face he looked at was that of the\nuncouth gardener--the man who had given him the hand. And to clinch\nthe matter, the eyes--leered.\n\n\n\n\n                _Printed by_\n            MORRISON & GIBB LIMITED\n                _Edinburgh_\n\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n    +-----------------------------------------------------------+\n    | Typographical errors corrected in text:                   |\n    |                                                           |\n    | Page  79: 'made a dash as it' at replaced with            |\n    |           'made a dash at it'                             |\n    | Page  93: spritualist replaced with spiritualist          |\n    | Page 232: degreee replaced with degree                    |\n    | Page 258: accompained replaced with accompanied           |\n    |                                                           |\n    | Further Notes:                                            |\n    |                                                           |\n    | For those who may wonder about the word 'lolled' on page  |\n    | 84, it really is a word! It means: 1. To move, stand, or  |\n    | recline in an indolent or relaxed manner. 2. To hang      |\n    | or droop laxly.                                           |\n    |                                                           |\n    | In the original book, each chapter header is on a         |\n    | separate page, followed by a blank page and then the      |\n    | chapter header again, and then the chapter text. The      |\n    | duplicate header has been removed in this document.       |\n    |                                                           |\n    +-----------------------------------------------------------+\n\n\n       *       *       *       *       *","title":"Scottish Ghost Stories","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":46780}