{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_30440/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_30440","id":"gutenberg_30440","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/30440","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Category: Religion/Spirituality","Ghost stories","Ghosts"],"text":"BYWAYS OF GHOST-LAND\n\n\n\n\n                      BYWAYS OF\n                     GHOST-LAND\n\n                         BY\n\n                  ELLIOTT O'DONNELL\n\n                      AUTHOR OF\n\n      \"SOME HAUNTED HOUSES OF ENGLAND AND WALES,\"\n    \"HAUNTED HOUSES OF LONDON,\" \"GHOSTLY PHENOMENA,\"\n  \"DREAMS AND THEIR MEANINGS,\" \"SCOTTISH GHOST TALES,\"\n             \"TRUE GHOST TALES,\" ETC., ETC.\n\n             WILLIAM RIDER AND SON, LIMITED\n            164 Aldersgate St., London, E.C.\n                         1911\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\n  CHAP.                                                  PAGE\n\n    1. THE UNKNOWN BRAIN                                    1\n\n    2. THE OCCULT IN SHADOWS                               21\n\n    3. OBSESSION, POSSESSION                               28\n\n    4. OCCULT HOOLIGANS                                    47\n\n    5. SYLVAN HORRORS                                      56\n\n    6. COMPLEX HAUNTINGS AND OCCULT BESTIALITIES           80\n\n    7. VAMPIRES, WERE-WOLVES, FOX-WOMEN, ETC.             110\n\n    8. DEATH-WARNINGS AND FAMILY GHOSTS                   132\n\n    9. SUPERSTITIONS AND FORTUNES                         153\n\n   10. THE HAND OF GLORY; THE BLOODY HAND OF ULSTER;\n         THE SEVENTH SON; BIRTH-MARKS; NATURE'S\n         DEVIL SIGNALS; PRE-EXISTENCE; THE FUTURE;\n         PROJECTION; TELEPATHY; ETC.                      176\n\n   11. OCCULT INHABITANTS OF THE SEA AND RIVERS           198\n\n   12. BUDDHAS AND BOGGLE CHAIRS                          210\n\n       INDEX                                              244\n\n\n\n\nBYWAYS OF GHOST-LAND\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\nTHE UNKNOWN BRAIN\n\n\nWhether all that constitutes man's spiritual nature, that is to say, ALL\nhis mind, is inseparably amalgamated with the whitish mass of soft\nmatter enclosed in his cranium and called his brain, is a question that\nmust, one supposes, be ever open to debate.\n\nOne knows that this whitish substance is the centre of the nervous\nsystem and the seat of consciousness and volition, and, from the\nconstant study of character by type or by phrenology, one may even go on\nto deduce with reason that in this protoplasmic substance--in each of\nthe numerous cells into which it is divided and subdivided--are located\nthe human faculties. Hence, it would seem that one may rationally\nconclude, that all man's vital force, all that comprises his\nmind--_i.e._ the power in him that conceives, remembers, reasons,\nwills--is so wrapped up in the actual matter of his cerebrum as to be\nincapable of existing apart from it; and that as a natural sequence\nthereto, on the dissolution of the brain, the mind and everything\npertaining to the mind dies with it--there is no future life because\nthere is nothing left to survive.\n\nSuch a condition, if complete annihilation can be so named, is the one\nand only conclusion to the doctrine that mind--crude, undiagnosed\nmind--is dependent on matter, a doctrine confirmed by the apparent facts\nthat injury to the cranium is accompanied by unconsciousness and\nprotracted loss of memory, and that the sanity of the individual is\nentirely contingent upon the state of his cerebral matter--a clot of\nblood in one of the cerebral veins, or the unhealthy condition of a\ncell, being in itself sufficient to bring about a complete mental\nmetamorphose, and, in common parlance, to produce madness.\n\nIn the deepest of sleeps, too, when there is less blood in the cerebral\nveins, and the muscles are generally relaxed, and the pulse is slower,\nand the respiratory movements are fewer in number, consciousness\ndeparts, and man apparently lapses into a state of absolute nothingness\nwhich materialists, not unreasonably, presume must be akin to death. It\nwould appear, then, that our mental faculties are entirely regulated by,\nand consequently, entirely dependent on, the material within our brain\ncells, and that, granted certain conditions of that material, we have\nconsciousness, and that, without those conditions, we have no\nconsciousness--in other words, \"our minds cease to exist.\" Hence, there\nis no such thing as separate spiritual existence; mind is merely an\neventuality of matter, and, when the latter perishes, the former\nperishes too. There is nothing, absolutely nothing, that can exist\napart from the physical.\n\nThis is an assertion--unquestionably dogmatic--that exponents of\nmaterialism hold to be logically unassailable. To disprove it may not be\nan easy task at present; but I am, nevertheless, convinced there is a\nworld apart from matter--a superphysical plane with which part of us, at\nleast, is in some way connected, and I discredit the materialist's\ndogma, partly because something in my nature compels me to an opposite\nconclusion, and partly because certain phenomena I have experienced,\ncannot, I am certain, have been produced by any physical agency.\n\nIn support of my theory that we are not solely material, but partly\nphysical and partly superphysical, I maintain that consciousness is\nnever wholly lost; that even in swoons and dreams, when all sensations\nwould seem to be swallowed up in the blackness of darkness, there is\nSOME consciousness left--the consciousness of existence, of impression.\nWe recover from a faint, or awake from the most profound of slumbers,\nand remember not that we have dreamed. Yet, if we think with sufficient\nconcentration, our memory suddenly returns to us, and we recollect that,\nduring the swoon or sleep, ALL thought was not obliterated, but, that we\nwere conscious of being somewhere and of experiencing SOMETHING.\n\nIt is only in our lighter sleeps, when the spirit traverses\nsuperphysical planes more closely connected with the material, that we\nremember ALL that occurred. Most of us will agree that there are two\ndistinct forms of mental existence--the one in which we are conscious\nof the purely superphysical, and the one wherein we are only cognisant\nof the physical. In the first-named of these two mental existences--\n_i.e._ in swoons, sleep, and even death, consciousness is never entirely\nlost; we still think--we think with our spiritual or unknown brain; and\nwhen in the last-named state, _i.e._ in our physical wakefulness and\nlife, we think with our material or known brain.\n\nUnknown brains exist on all sides of us. Many of them are the\nearth-bound spirits of those whose spiritual or unknown brains, when on\nthe earth, were starved to feed their material or known brains; or, in\nother words, the earth-bound spirits of those whose cravings, when in\ncarnal form, were entirely animal. It is they, together with a variety\nof elementary forms of superphysical life (_i.e._ phantasms that have\nnever inhabited any kind of earthly body), that constantly surround us,\nand, with their occult brains, suggest to our known brains every kind of\nbase and impure thought.\n\nSomething, it is difficult to say what, usually warns me of the presence\nof these occult brains, and at certain times (and in certain places) I\ncan feel, with my superphysical mind, their subtle hypnotic influences.\n\nIt is the unknown brain that produces those manifestations usually\nattributed to ghosts, and it is, more often than not, the possessors of\nthe unknown brain in constant activity, _i.e._ the denizens of the\nsuperphysical world, who convey to our organs of hearing, either by\nsuggestion or actual presentation, the sensations of uncanny knocks,\ncrashes, shrieks, etc.; and to our organs of sight, all kinds of\nuncanny, visual phenomena.\n\nAll the phenomena we see are not objective; but the agents who \"will\"\nthat we should see them are objective--they are the unknown brains. It\nis a mistake to think that these unknown brains can only exert their\ninfluence on a few of us. We are all subject to them, though we do not\nall see their manifestations. Were it not for the lower order of spirit\nbrains, there would be comparatively few drunkards, gamblers,\nadulterers, fornicators, murderers, and suicides. It is they who excite\nman's animal senses, by conjuring up alluring pictures of drink, and\ngold, and sexual happiness. By the aid of the higher type of spirit\nbrains (who, contending for ever with the lower forms of spirit brains,\nare indeed our \"guardian angels\") I have been enabled to perceive the\natmosphere surrounding drinking-dens and brothels full of all kinds of\nbestial influences, from elementals, who allure men by presenting to\ntheir minds all kinds of attractive tableaux, to the earth-bound spirits\nof drunkards and libertines, transformed into horrors of the sub-human,\nsub-animal order of phantasms--things with bloated, nude bodies and\npigs' faces, shaggy bears with fulsome, watery eyes; mangy dogs, etc. I\nhave watched these things that still possess--and possess in a far\ngreater degree--all the passions of their life incarnate, sniffing the\nfoul and vitiated atmosphere of the public-houses and brothels, and\nchafing in the most hideous manner at their inability to gratify their\nlustful cravings in a more substantial way. A man advances along the\nroad at a swinging pace, with no thought, as yet, of deviating from his\ncourse and entering a public-house. He comes within the radius of the\nsinister influences, which I can see and feel hanging around the saloon.\nTheir shadowy, silent brain power at once comes into play and gains\nascendancy over his weaker will. He halts because he is \"willed\" to do\nso. A tempting tableau of drink rises before him and he at once imagines\nhe is thirsty. Soft and fascinating elemental hands close over his and\ndraw him gently aside. A look of beastly satisfaction suffuses his eyes.\nHe smacks his lips, hastens his steps, the bar-room door closes behind\nhim, and, for the remaining hours of the day, he wallows in drink.\n\nBut the unknown brain does not confine itself to the neighbourhood of a\npublic-house--it may be anywhere. I have, intuitively, felt its presence\non the deserted moors of Cornwall, between St Ives and the Land's End;\nin the grey Cornish churches and chapels (very much in the latter);\naround the cold and dismal mouths of disused mine-shafts; all along the\nrocky North Cornish coast; on the sea; at various spots on different\nrailway lines, both in the United Kingdom and abroad; and, of course, in\nmultitudinous places in London.\n\nA year or so ago, I called on Mrs de B----, a well-known society lady,\nat that time residing in Cadogan Gardens. The moment I entered her\ndrawing-room, I became aware of an occult presence that seemed to be\nhovering around her. Wherever she moved, it moved with her, and I FELT\nthat its strange, fathomless, enigmatical eyes were fixed on her,\nnoting and guiding her innermost thoughts and her every action with\ninexorable persistence.\n\nSome six months later, I met Lady D----, a friend in common, and in\nanswer to my inquiries concerning Mrs de B----, was informed that she\nhad just been divorced. \"Dorothy\" (_i.e._ Mrs de B----), Lady D---- went\non to explain, \"had been all right till she took up spiritualism, but\ndirectly she began to attend s\u00e9ances everything seemed to go wrong with\nher. At last she quarrelled with her husband, the climax being reached\nwhen she became violently infatuated with an officer in the Guards. The\nresult was a decree _nisi_ with heavy costs.\" I exhibited, perhaps, more\nsurprise than I felt. But the fact of Mrs de B---- having attended\ns\u00e9ances explained everything. She was obviously a woman with a naturally\nweak will, and had fallen under the influence of one of the lowest, and\nmost dangerous types of earth-bound spirits, the type that so often\nattends s\u00e9ances. This occult brain had attached itself to her, and,\naccompanying her home, had deliberately wrecked her domestic happiness.\nIt would doubtless remain with her now _ad infinitum_. Indeed, it is\nnext to impossible to shake off these superphysical cerebrums. They\ncling to one with such leech-like tenacity, and can rarely be made to\ndepart till they have accomplished their purposes.\n\nBurial-grounds appear to have great attractions for this class of\nspirit. A man, whom I once met at Boulogne, told me a remarkable story,\nthe veracity of which I have no reason to doubt.\n\n\"I have,\" he began, \"undergone an experience which, though,\nunfortunately, by no means unique, is one that is rarer nowadays than\nformerly. I was once all but buried alive. It happened at a little\nvillage, a most charming spot, near Maestel in the valley of the Rhone.\nI had been stopping at the only inn the place possessed, and, cycling\nout one morning, met with an accident--my machine skidded violently as I\nwas descending a steep hill, with the result that I was pitched head\nfirst against a brick wall. The latter being considerably harder than my\nskull, concussion followed. Some villagers picked me up insensible, I\nwas taken to the inn, and the nearest doctor--an uncertificated\nwretch--was summoned. He knew little of trepanning; besides, I was a\nforeigner, a German, and it did not matter. He bled me, it is true, and\nperformed other of the ordinary means of relief; but these producing no\napparent effect, he pronounced me dead, and preparations were at once\nmade for my burial. As strangers kept coming to the inn and the\naccommodation was strictly limited, the landlord was considerably\nincensed at having to waste a room on a corpse. Accordingly, he had me\nscrewed down in my coffin without delay, and placed in the cemetery\namong the tombs, till the public gravedigger could conveniently spare a\nfew minutes to inter me. The shaking I received during my transit (for\nthe yokels were exceedingly rough and clumsy), together with the cold\nnight air which, luckily for me, found an easy means of access through\nthe innumerable chinks and cracks in the ill-fitting coffin-lid, acting\nlike a restorative tonic, I gradually revived, and the horror I felt in\nrealising my position is better, perhaps, imagined than described. When\nconsciousness first began to reassert itself, I simply fancied I was\nawakening from a particularly deep sleep. I then struggled hard to\nremember where I was and what had taken place. At first nothing came\nback to me, all was blank and void; but as I continued to persevere,\ngradually, very gradually, a recollection of my accident and of the\nsubsequent events returned to me. I remembered with the utmost\ndistinctness striking my head against the wall, and of SEEING myself\ncarried, head first, by two rustics--the one with a shock head of red\nhair, the other swarthy as a Dago--to the inn. I recollected seeing the\nalmost humorous look of horror in the chambermaid's face, as she rushed\nto inform the landlord, and the consternation of one and all during the\ndiscussion as to what ought to be done. The landlady suggested one\nthing, her husband another, the chambermaid another; and they all united\nin ransacking my pockets--much to my dismay--to see if they could\ndiscover a card-case or letter that might give them a clue as to my home\naddress. I saw them do all this; and it seemed as if I were standing\nbeside by own body, looking down at it, and that on all sides of me, and\napparently invisible to the rest of the company, were strange,\ninscrutable pale eyes, set in the midst of grey, shapeless, shadowy\nsubstances.\n\n\"Then the doctor--a little slim, narrow-chested man, with a pointed\nbeard and big ears--came and held a mirror to my mouth, and opened one\nof my veins, and talked a great deal of gibberish, whilst he made\ncountless covert sheep's eyes at the pretty chambermaid, who had taken\nadvantage of his arrival to overhaul my knapsack and help herself from\nmy purse. I distinctly heard the arrangements made for my funeral, and\nthe voice of the landlord saying: 'Yes, of course, doctor, that is only\nfair; you have taken no end of trouble with him. I will keep his watch'\n(the watch was of solid gold, and cost me \u00a325) 'and clothes to defray\nthe expenses of the funeral and pay for his recent board' (I had only\nsettled my account with him that morning). And the shrill voice of the\nlandlady echoed: 'Yes, that is only fair, only right!' Then they all\nleft the room, and I remained alone with my body. What followed was more\nor less blurred. The innumerable and ever-watchful grey eyes impressed\nme most. I recollected, however, the advent of the men--the same two who\nhad brought me to the inn--to take me away in my coffin, and I had vivid\nrecollections of tramping along the dark and silent road beside them,\nand wishing I could liberate my body. Then we halted at the iron gate\nleading into the cemetery, the coffin was dropped on the ground with a\nbang, and--the rest was a blank. Nothing, nothing came back to me. At\nfirst I was inclined to attribute my memory to a dream. 'Absurd!' I said\nto myself. 'Such things cannot have occurred. I am in bed; I know I am!'\nThen I endeavoured to move my arms to feel the counterpane; I could not;\nmy arms were bound, tightly bound to my side. A cold sweat burst out all\nover me. Good God! was it true? I tried again; and the same thing\nhappened--I could not stir. Again and again I tried, straining and\ntugging at my sides till the muscles on my arms were on the verge of\nbursting, and I had to desist through utter exhaustion. I lay still and\nlistened to the beating of my heart. Then, I clenched my toes and tried\nto kick. I could not; my feet were ruthlessly fastened together.\n\n\"Death garments! A winding-sheet! I could feel it clinging to me all\nover. It compressed the air in my lungs, it retarded the circulation,\nand gave me the most excruciating cramp, and pins and needles. My\nsufferings were so acute that I groaned, and, on attempting to stretch\nmy jaws, found that they were encased in tight, clammy bandages. By\nprodigious efforts I eventually managed to gain a certain amount of\nliberty for my head, and this gave me the consolation that if I could do\nnothing else I could at least howl--howl! How utterly futile, for who,\nin God's name, would hear me? The thought of all there was above me, of\nall the piles of earth and grass--for the idea that I was not actually\nburied never entered my mind--filled me with the most abject sorrow and\ndespair. The utter helplessness of my position came home to me with\ndamning force. Rescue was absolutely out of the question, because the\nonly persons, who knew where I was, believed me dead. To my friends and\nrelations, my fate would ever remain a mystery. The knowledge that they\nwould, at once, have come to my assistance, had I only been able to\ncommunicate with them, was cruel in the extreme; and tears of\nmortification poured down my cheeks when I realised how blissfully\nunconscious they were of my fate. The most vivid and alluring visions of\nhome, of my parents, and brothers, and sisters, flitted tantalisingly\nbefore me. I saw them all sitting on their accustomary seats, in the\nparlour, my father smoking his meerschaum, my mother knitting, my eldest\nsister describing an opera she had been to that afternoon, my youngest\nsister listening to her with mouth half open and absorbing interest in\nher blue eyes, my brother examining the works of a clockwork engine\nwhich he had just taken to pieces; whilst from the room overhead,\ninhabited by a Count, a veteran who had won distinction in the campaigns\nof '64 and '66, came strains of 'The Watch on the Rhine.' Every now and\nthen my mother would lean back in her chair and close her eyes, and I\nknew intuitively she was thinking of me. Mein Gott! If she had only\nknown the truth. These tableaux faded away, and the gruesome awfulness\nof my surroundings thrust themselves upon me. A damp, foetid smell,\nsuggestive of the rottenness of decay, assailed my nostrils and made me\nsneeze. I choked; the saliva streamed in torrents down my chin and\nthroat! My recumbent position and ligaments made it difficult for me to\nrecover my breath; I grew black in the face; I imagined I was dying. I\nabruptly, miraculously recovered, and all was silent as before. Silent!\nGood heavens! There is no silence compared with that of the grave.\n\n\"I longed for a sound, for any sound, the creaking of a board, the\nsnapping of a twig, the ticking of an insect--there was none--the\nsilence was the silence of stone. I thought of worms; I imagined\ncountless legions of them making their way to me from the surrounding\nmouldering coffins. Every now and then I uttered a shriek as something\ncold and slimy touched my skin, and my stomach heaved within me as a\nwhiff of something particularly offensive fanned my face.\n\n\"Suddenly I saw eyes--the same grey, inscrutable eyes that I had seen\nbefore--immediately above my own. I tried to fathom them, to discover\nsome trace of expression. I could not--they were insoluble. I\ninstinctively felt there was a subtle brain behind them, a brain that\nwas stealthily analysing me, and I tried to assure myself its intentions\nwere not hostile. Above, and on either side of the eyes, I saw the\nshadow of something white, soft, and spongy, in which I fancied I could\ndetect a distinct likeness to a human brain, only on a large scale.\nThere were the cerebral lobes, or largest part of the forebrain,\nenormously developed and overhanging the cerebellum, or great lobe of\nthe hindbrain, and completely covering the lobes of the midbrain. On the\ncerebrum I even thought I could detect--for I have a smattering of\nanatomy--the usual convolutions, and the grooves dividing the cerebrum\ninto two hemispheres. But there was something I had never seen before,\nand which I could not account for--two things like antenn\u00e6, one on\neither side of the cerebrum. As I gazed at them, they lengthened and\nshortened in such quick succession that I grew giddy and had to remove\nmy eyes. What they were I cannot think; but then, of course the brain,\nbeing occult, doubtless possessed properties of a nature wholly\nunsuspected by me. The moment I averted my glance, I experienced--this\ntime on my forehead--the same cold, slimy sensation I had felt before,\nand I at once associated it with the cerebral tentacles. Soon after this\nI was touched in a similar manner on my right thigh, then on my left,\nand simultaneously on both legs; then in a half a dozen places at the\nsame time. I looked out of the corner of my eyes, first on one side of\nme and then the other, and encountered the shadowy semblance to brains\nin each direction. I was therefore forced to conclude that the\natmosphere in the coffin was literally impregnated with psychic\ncerebrums, and that every internal organ I possessed was being subjected\nto the most minute inspection. My mind rapidly became filled with every\nvile and lustful desire, and I cried aloud to be permitted five minutes'\nfreedom to put into operation the basest and filthiest of actions. My\nthoughts were thus occupied when, to my amazement, I suddenly heard the\nsound of voices--human voices. At first I listened with incredulity,\nthinking that it must be merely a trick of my imagination or some\nfurther ingenious, devilish device, on the part of the ghostly brains,\nto torture me. But the voices continued, and drew nearer and nearer,\nuntil I could at length distinguish what they were saying. The speakers\nwere two men, Fran\u00e7ois and Jacques, and they were discussing the task\nthat brought them thither--the task of burying me. Burying me! So, then,\nI was not yet under the earth! The revulsion of my feelings on\ndiscovering that there was still a spark of hope is indescribable; the\nblood surged through my veins in waves of fire, my eyes danced, my heart\nthumped, and--I laughed! Laughed! There was no stopping me--peal\nfollowed peal, louder and louder, until cobblestones and tombstones\nreverberated and thundered back the sound.\n\n\"The effect on Fran\u00e7ois and Jacques was the reverse of what I wished.\nWhen first they heard me, they became suddenly and deathly silent. Then\ntheir pent-up feelings of horror could stand it no longer, and with the\nwildest of yells they dropped their pick and shovel, and fled. My\nlaughter ceased, and, half drowned in tears of anguish, I listened to\ntheir sabots pounding along the gravel walk and on to the hard highroad,\ntill the noises ceased and there was, once again, universal and\nawe-inspiring silence. Again the eyes and tentacles, again the yearnings\nfor base and shameful deeds, and again--oh, blissful interruption! the\nsound of human voices--Fran\u00e7ois and Jacques returning with a crowd of\npeople, all greatly excited, all talking at once.\n\n\"'I call God as my witness I heard it, and Jacques too. Isn't that so,\nJacques?' a voice, which I identified as that of Fran\u00e7ois, shrieked. And\nJacques, doubtless as eager to be heard--for it was not once in a\nlifetime anyone in his position had such an opportunity for\nnotoriety--as he was to come to his companion's rescue, bawled out; 'Ay!\nThere was no mistaking the sounds. May I never live to eat my supper\nagain if it was not laughter. Listen!' And everyone, at once, grew\nquiet.\n\n\"Now was my opportunity--my only opportunity. A single sound, however\nslight, however trivial, and I should be saved! A cry rose in my throat;\nanother instant and it would have escaped my lips, when a dozen\ntentacles shot forward and I was silent. Despair, such as no soul\nexperienced more acutely, even when on the threshold of hell, now seized\nme, and bid me make my last, convulsive effort. Collecting, nay, even\ndragging together every atom of will-power that still remained within my\nenfeebled frame, I swelled my lungs to their utmost. A kind of rusty,\nvibratory movement ran through my parched tongue; my jaws creaked,\ncreaked and strained on their hinges, my lips puffed and assumed the\ndimensions of bladders and--that was all. No sound came. A weight, soft,\nsticky, pungent, and overwhelming, cloaked my brain, and spreading\nweed-like, with numbing coldness, stifled the cry ere it left the\nprecincts of my larynx. Hope died within me--I was irretrievably lost. A\nbabel of voices now arose together. Fran\u00e7ois, Jacques, the village cur\u00e9,\ngendarme, doctor, chambermaid, mine host and hostess, and others, whose\ntones I did not recognise, clamoured to be heard. Some, foremost amongst\nwhom were Fran\u00e7ois, Jacques, and a boy, were in favour of the coffin\nbeing opened; whilst others, notably the doctor and chambermaid (who\npertly declared she had seen quite enough of my ugly face), ridiculed\nthe notion and said the sooner I was buried the better it would be. The\nweather had been more than usually hot that day, and the corpse, which\nwas very much swollen--for, like all gourmands, I had had chronic\ndisease of the liver--had, in their opinion, already become insanitary.\nThe boy then burst out crying. It had always been the height of his\nambition, he said, to see someone dead, and he thought it a dastardly\nshame on the part of the doctor and chambermaid to wish to deny him this\nopportunity.\n\n\"The gendarme thinking, no doubt, he ought to have a say in the matter,\nmuttered something to the effect that children were a great deal too\nforward nowadays, and that it would be time enough for the boy to see a\ncorpse when he broke his mother's heart--which, following the precedence\nof all spoilt boys, he was certain to do sooner or later; and this\nopinion found ready endorsement. The boy suppressed, my case began to\nlook hopeless, and the poignancy of my suspense became such that I\nthought I should have gone mad. Fran\u00e7ois was already persuaded into\nsetting to work with his pick, and, I should most certainly have been\nspeedily interred, had it not been for the timely arrival of a village\nwag, who, planking himself unobserved behind a tombstone close to my\ncoffin, burst out laughing in the most sepulchral fashion. The effect on\nthe company was electrical; the majority, including the women, fled\nprecipitately, and the rest, overcoming the feeble protests of the\ndoctor, wrenched off the lid of the coffin. The spell, cast over me by\nthe occult brains, was now by a merciful Providence broken, and I was\nable to explain my condition to the flabbergasted faces around me.\n\n\"I need only say, in conclusion, that the discomfiture of the doctor was\ncomplete, and that I took good care to express my opinion of him\neverywhere I went. Doubtless, many poor wretches have been less\nfortunate than I, and, being pronounced dead by unskilled physicians,\nhave been prematurely interred. Apart from all the agony consequent to\nasphyxiation, they must have suffered hellish tortures through the\nagency of spirit brains.\"\n\nThis is the anecdote as related to me, and it serves as an illustration\nof my theory that the unknown brain is objective, and that it can, under\ngiven circumstances--_i.e._ when physical life is, so to speak, in\nabeyance--be both seen and felt by the known brain. At birth, and more\nparticularly at death, the presence of the unknown brain is most marked.\nAnd here it may not be inappropriate to remark that, in my experience at\nleast, the hour of midnight is by no means the time most favourable to\noccult phenomena. I have seen far more manifestations at twilight, and\nbetween two and four a.m., than at any other period of the day--times, I\nthink, according with those when human vitality is at its lowest and\ndeath most frequently takes place. It is, doubtless, the ebb of human\nvitality and the possibility of death that attracts the earth-bound\nbrains and other varying types of elemental harpies. They scent death\nwith ten times the acuteness of sharks and vultures, and hie with all\nhaste to the spot, so as to be there in good time to get their final\nsuck, vampire fashion, at the spiritual brain of the dying; substituting\nin the place of what they extract, substance--in the shape of foul and\nlustful thoughts--for the material or known brain to feed upon. The food\nthey have stolen, these vampires vainly imagine will enable them to rise\nto a higher spiritual plane.\n\nIn connection with this subject of the two brains, the question arises:\nWhat forms the connecting link between the material or known brain, and\nthe spiritual or unknown brain? If the unknown brain has a separate\nexistence, and can detach itself at times (as in \"projection\"), why must\nit wait for death to set it entirely free? My answer to that question\nis: That the connecting link consists of a magnetic force, at present\nindefinable, the scope, or pale, of which varies according to the\nrelative dimensions of the two brains. In a case, for example, where the\nphysical or known brain is far more developed than the spiritual or\nunknown brain, the radius of attraction would be limited and the\nconnecting link strong; on the other hand, in a case where the spiritual\nor unknown brain is more developed than the physical or known brain, the\nmagnetic pale is proportionately wide, and the connecting link would be\nweak.\n\nThus, in the swoon or profound sleep of a person possessing a greater\npreponderance of physical than spiritual brain, the conscious self would\nstill be concerned with purely material matters, such as eating and\ndrinking, petty disputes, money, sexual desires, etc., though, owing to\nthe lack of concentration, which is a marked feature of those who\npossess the grossly material brain, little or nothing of this conscious\nself would be remembered. But in the swoon, or deep sleep of a person\npossessing the spiritual brain in excess, the unknown brain is partially\nfreed from the known brain, and the conscious self is consequently far\naway from the material body, on the confines of an entirely spiritual\nplane. Of course, the experiences of this conscious self may or may not\nbe remembered, but there is, in its case, always the possibility, owing\nto the capacity for concentration which is invariably the property of\nall who have developed their spiritual or unknown brain, of subsequent\nrecollection.\n\nAt death, and at death only, the magnetic link is actually broken. The\nunknown brain is then entirely freed from the known brain, and the\nlatter, together with the rest of the material body, perishes from\nnatural decay; whilst the former, no longer restricted within the limits\nof its earthly pale, is at liberty to soar _ad infinitum_.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\nTHE OCCULT IN SHADOWS\n\n\nMany of the shadows, I have seen, have not had material counterparts.\nThey have invariably proved themselves to be superphysical danger\nsignals, the sure indicators of the presence of those grey, inscrutable,\ninhuman cerebrums to which I have alluded; of phantasms of the dead and\nof elementals of all kinds. There is an indescribable something about\nthem, that at once distinguishes them from ordinary shadows, and puts me\non my guard. I have seen them in houses that to all appearances are the\nleast likely to be haunted--houses full of sunshine and the gladness of\nhuman voices. In the midst of merriment, they have darkened the wall\nopposite me like the mystic writing in Nebuchadnezzar's palace. They\nhave suddenly appeared by my side, as I have been standing on rich, new\ncarpeting or sun-kissed swards. They have floated into my presence with\nboth sunbeams and moonbeams, through windows, doors, and curtains, and\ntheir advent has invariably been followed by some form or other of\noccult demonstration. I spent some weeks this summer at Worthing, and,\nwalking one afternoon to the Downs, selected a bright and secluded spot\nfor a comfortable snooze. I revel in snatching naps in the open\nsunshine, and this was a place that struck me as being perfectly ideal\nfor that purpose. It was on the brow of a diminutive hillock covered\nwith fresh, lovely grass of a particularly vivid green. In the rear and\non either side of it, the ground rose and fell in pleasing alternation\nfor an almost interminable distance, whilst in front of it there was a\ngentle declivity (up which I had clambered) terminating in the broad,\nlevel road leading to Worthing. Here, on this broad expanse of the\nDowns, was a fairyland of soft sea air, sunshine and rest--rest from\nmankind, from the shrill, unmusical voices of the crude and rude product\nof the County Council schools.\n\nI sat down; I never for one moment thought of phantasms; I fell asleep.\nI awoke; the hot floodgates of the cloudless heaven were still open, the\nair translucent over and around me, when straight in front of me, on a\ngloriously gilded patch of grass, there fell a shadow--a shadow from no\napparent substance, for both air and ground were void of obstacles, and,\napart from myself, there was no living object in the near landscape. Yet\nit was a shadow; a shadow that I could not diagnose; a waving,\nfluctuating shadow, unpleasantly suggestive of something subtle and\nhorrid. It was, I instinctively knew, the shadow of the occult; a few\nmoments more, and a development would, in all probability, take place.\nThe blue sky, the golden sea, the tiny trails of smoke creeping up\nlazily from the myriads of chimney-pots, the white house-tops, the red\nhouse-tops, the church spire, the railway line, the puffing, humming,\nshuffling goods-train, the glistening white roads, the breathing, busy\nfigures, and the bright and smiling mile upon mile of emerald turf rose\nin rebellion against the likelihood of ghosts--yet, there was the\nshadow. I looked away from it, and, as I did so, an icy touch fell on my\nshoulder. I dared not turn; I sat motionless, petrified, frozen. The\ntouch passed to my forehead and from thence to my chin, my head swung\nround forcibly, and I saw--nothing--only the shadow; but how different,\nfor out of the chaotic blotches there now appeared a well--a remarkably\nwell--defined outline, the outline of a head and hand, the head of a\nfantastic beast, a repulsive beast, and the hand of a man. A flock of\nswallows swirled overhead, a grasshopper chirped, a linnet sang, and,\nwith this sudden awakening of nature, the touch and shadow vanished\nsimultaneously. But the hillock had lost its attractions for me, and,\nrising hastily, I dashed down the decline and hurried homewards. I\ndiscovered no reason other than solitude, and the possible burial-place\nof prehistoric man, for the presence of the occult; but the next time I\nvisited the spot, the same thing happened. I have been there twice\nsince, and the same, always the same thing--first the shadow, then the\ntouch, then the shadow, then the arrival of some form or other of joyous\nanimal life, and the abrupt disappearance of the Unknown.\n\nI was once practising bowls on the lawn of a very old house, the other\ninhabitants of which were all occupied indoors. I had taken up a bowl,\nand was in the act of throwing it, when, suddenly, on the empty space in\nfront of me I saw a shadow, a nodding, waving, impenetrable,\nundecipherable shadow. I looked around, but there was nothing visible\nthat could in any way account for it. I threw down the bowl and turned\nto go indoors. As I did so, something touched me lightly in the face. I\nthrew out my hand and touched a cold, clammy substance strangely\nsuggestive of the leafy branch of a tree. Yet nothing was to be seen. I\nfelt again, and my fingers wandered to a broader expanse of something\ngnarled and uneven. I kept on exploring, and my grasp closed over\nsomething painfully prickly. I drew my hand smartly back, and, as I did\nso, distinctly heard the loud and angry rustling of leaves. Just then\none of my friends called out to me from a window. I veered round to\nreply, and the shadow had vanished. I never saw it again, though I often\nhad the curious sensation that it was there. I did not mention my\nexperience to my friends, as they were pronounced disbelievers in the\nsuperphysical, but tactful inquiry led to my gleaning the information\nthat on the identical spot, where I had felt the phenomena, had once\nstood a horse-chestnut tree, which had been cut down owing to the strong\naversion the family had taken to it, partly on account of a strange\ngrowth on the trunk, unpleasantly suggestive of cancer, and partly\nbecause a tramp had hanged himself on one of the branches.\n\nAll sorts of extraordinary shadows have come to me in the Parks, the\nTwopenny Tube, and along the Thames Embankment. At ten o'clock, on the\nmorning of 1st April 1899, I entered Hyde Park by one of the side gates\nof the Marble Arch, and crossing to the island, sat down on an empty\nbench. The sky was grey, the weather ominous, and occasional heavy drops\nof rain made me rejoice in the possession of an umbrella. On such a day,\nthe park does not appear at its best. The Arch exhibited a dull, dirty,\nyellowish-grey exterior; every seat was bespattered with mud; whilst, to\nrender the general aspect still more unprepossessing, the trees had not\nyet donned their mantles of green, but stood dejectedly drooping their\nleafless branches as if overcome with embarrassment at their nakedness.\nOn the benches around me sat, or lay, London's homeless--wretched-looking\nmen in long, tattered overcoats, baggy, buttonless trousers, cracked and\nlaceless boots, and shapeless bowlers, too weak from want of food and\nrest even to think of work, almost incapable, indeed, of thought at\nall--breathing corpses, nothing more, with premature signs of\ndecomposition in their filthy smell. And the women--the women were, if\npossible, ranker--feebly pulsating, feebly throbbing, foully stinking,\nrotten, living deaths. No amount of soap, food, or warmth could reclaim\nthem now. Nature's implacable law--the survival of the fittest, the\nweakest to the wall--was here exhibited in all its brutal force, and, as\nI gazed at the weakest, my heart turned sick within me.\n\nTime advanced; one by one the army of tatterdemalions crawled away, God\nalone knew how, God alone knew where. In all probability God did not\ncare. Why should He? He created Nature and Nature's laws.\n\nA different type of humanity replaced this garbage: neat and dapper\ngirls on their way to business; black-bowlered, spotless-leathered,\na-guinea-a-week clerks, casting longing glances at the pale grass and\ncountless trees (their only reminiscence of the country), as they\nhastened their pace, lest they should be a minute late for their hateful\nservitude; a policeman with the characteristic stride and swinging arms;\na brisk and short-stepped postman; an apoplectic-looking,\nsecond-hand-clothes-man; an emaciated widow; a typical charwoman; two\nmechanics; the usual brutal-faced labourer; one of the idle rich in\nshiny hat, high collar, cutaway coat, prancing past on a coal-black\nhorse; and a bevy of nursemaids.\n\nTo show my mind was not centred on the occult,--bootlaces, collar-studs,\nthe two buttons on the back of ladies' coats, dyed hair, servants' feet,\nand a dozen and one other subjects, quite other than the superphysical,\nsuccessively occupied my thoughts. Imagine, then, my surprise and the\nshock I received, when, on glancing at the gravel in front of me, I saw\ntwo shadows--two enigmatical shadows. A dog came shambling along the\npath, showed its teeth, snarled, sprang on one side, and, with bristling\nhair, fled for its life. I examined the plot of ground behind me; there\nwas nothing that could in any way account for the shadows, nothing like\nthem. Something rubbed against my leg. I involuntarily put down my hand;\nit was a foot--a clammy lump of ice, but, unmistakably, a foot. Yet of\nwhat? I saw nothing, only the shadows. I did not want to discover more;\nmy very soul shrank within me at the bare idea of what there might be,\nwhat there was. But, as is always the case, the superphysical gave me no\nchoice; my hand, moving involuntarily forward, rested on something flat,\nround, grotesque, horrid, something I took for a face, but a face which\nI knew could not be human. Then I understood the shadows. Uniting, they\nformed the outline of something lithe and tall, the outline of a\nmonstrosity with a growth even as I had felt it--flat, round, grotesque,\nand horrid. Was it the phantasm of one of those poor waifs and strays,\nhaving all their bestialities and diseases magnified; or was it the\nspirit of a tree of some unusually noxious nature?\n\nI could not divine, and so I came away unsatisfied. But I believe the\nshadow is still there, for I saw it only the last time I was in the\nPark.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\nOBSESSION, POSSESSION\n\n\n_Clocks, Chests and Mummies_\n\nAs I have already remarked, spirit or unknown brains are frequently\npresent at births. The brains of infants are very susceptible to\nimpressions, and, in them, the thought-germs of the occult brains find\nsnug billets. As time goes on, these germs develop and become generally\nknown as \"tastes,\" \"cranks,\" and \"manias.\"\n\nIt is an error to think that men of genius are especially prone to\nmanias. On the contrary, the occult brains have the greatest difficulty\nin selecting thought-germs sufficiently subtle to lodge in the\nbrain-cells of a child of genius. Practically, any germ of carnal\nthought will be sure of reception in the protoplasmic brain-cells of a\nchild, who is destined to become a doctor, solicitor, soldier,\nshopkeeper, labourer, or worker in any ordinary occupation; but the\nthought-germ that will find entrance to the brain-cells of a future\npainter, writer, actor, or musician, must represent some propensity of a\nmore or less extraordinary nature.\n\nWe all harbour these occult missiles, we are all to a certain extent\nmad: the proud mamma who puts her only son into the Church or makes a\nlawyer of him, and placidly watches him develop a scarlet face, double\nchin, and prodigious paunch, would flounce out a hundred and one\nindignant denials if anyone suggested he had a mania, but it would be\ntrue; gluttony would be his mania, and one every whit as prohibitive to\nhis chances of reaching the spiritual plane, as drink, or sexual\npassion. Love of eating is, indeed, quite the commonest form of\nobsession, and one that develops soonest. Nine out of ten\nchildren--particularly present-day children, whose doting parents\nencourage their every desire--are fonder of cramming their bellies than\nof playing cricket or skipping; games soon weary them, but buns and\nchocolates never. The truth is, buns and chocolate have obsessed them.\nThey think of them all day, and dream of them all night. It is buns and\nchocolates! wherever and whenever they turn or look--buns and\nchocolates! This greed soon develops, as the occult brain intended it\nshould; enforced physical labour, or athletics, or even sedentary work\nmay dwarf its growth for a time, but at middle and old age it comes on\nagain, and the buns and chocolates are become so many coursed luncheons\nand dinners. Their world is one of menus, nothing but menus; their only\nmental exertion the study of menus, and I have no doubt that \"tuck\"\nshops and restaurants are besieged by the ever-hungry spirit of the\nearth-bound glutton. Though the drink-germ is usually developed later\n(and its later growth is invariably accelerated with seas of alcohol),\nit not infrequently feeds its initial growth with copious streams of\nginger beer and lemon kali.\n\nManual labourers--_i.e._ navvies, coal-heavers, miners, etc.--are\nnaturally more or less brutal. Their brain-cells at birth offered so\nlittle resistance to the evil occult influences that they received, in\nfull, all the lower germs of thought inoculated by the occult brains.\nDrink, gluttony, cruelty, all came to their infant cerebrums\ncotemporaneously. The cruelty germ develops first, and cats, dogs,\ndonkeys, smaller brothers, and even babies are made to feel the superior\nphysical strength of the early wearer of hobnails. He is obsessed with a\nmania for hurting something, and with his strongly innate instinct of\nself-preservation, invariably chooses something that cannot harm him.\nDaily he looks around for fresh victims, and finally decides that the\nweedy offspring of the hated superior classes are the easiest prey. In\ncompany with others of his species, he annihilates the boy in Etons on\nhis way to and from school, and the after recollections of the\nweakling's bloody nose and teardrops are as nectar to him. The cruelty\ngerm develops apace. The bloody noses of the well-dressed classes are\nhis mania now. He sees them at every turn and even dreams of them. He\ngrows to manhood, and either digs in the road or plies the pick and\nshovel underground. The mechanical, monotonous exercise and the\nsordidness of his home surroundings foster the germ, and his leisure\nmoments are occupied with the memory of those glorious times when he was\nhitting out at someone, and he feels he would give anything just to\nhave one more blow. Curse the police! If it were not for them he could\nindulge his hobby to the utmost. But the stalwart, officious man in blue\nis ever on the scene, and the thrashing of a puny cleric or sawbones is\nscarcely compensation for a month's hard labour. Yet his mania must be\nsatisfied somehow--it worries him to pieces. He must either smash\nsomeone's nose or go mad; there is no alternative, and he chooses the\nformer. The Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals prevents\nhim skinning a cat; the National Society for the Prevention of Cruelty\nto Children will be down on him at once if he strikes a child, and so he\nhas no other resource left but his wife--he can knock out all her teeth,\nbash in her ribs, and jump on her head to his heart's content. She will\nnever dare prosecute him, and, if she does, some Humanitarian Society\nwill be sure to see that he is not legally punished. He thus finds safe\nscope for the indulgence of his crank, and when there is nothing left of\nhis own wife, he turns his unattractive and pusillanimous attentions to\nsomeone else's.\n\nBut occult thought-germs of this elementary type only thrive where the\ninfant's spiritual or unknown brain is wholly undeveloped. Where the\nspiritual or unknown brain of an infant is partially developed, the\ngerm-thought to be lodged in it (especially if it be a germ-thought of\ncruelty) must be of a more subtle and refined nature.\n\nI have traced the growth of cruelty obsession in children one would not\nsuspect of any great tendency to animalism. A refined love of making\nothers suffer has led them to vent inquisitionary tortures on insects,\nand the mania for pulling off the legs of flies and roasting beetles\nunder spyglasses has been gradually extended to drowning mice in cages\nand seeing pigs killed. Time develops the germ; the cruel boy becomes\nthe callous doctor or \"sharp-practising\" attorney, and the cruel girl\nbecomes the cruel mother and often the frail divorc\u00e9e. Drink and cards\nare an obsession with some; cruelty is just as much a matter of\nobsession with others. But the ingenuity of the occult brain rises to\nhigher things; it rises to the subtlest form of invention when dealing\nwith the artistic and literary temperament. I have been intimately\nacquainted with authors--well-known in the popular sense of the\nword--who have been obsessed in the oddest and often most painful ways.\n\nThe constant going back to turn door-handles, the sitting in grotesque\nand untoward positions, the fondness for fingering any smooth and shiny\nobjects, such as mother-of-pearl, develop into manias for change--change\nof scenery, of occupation, of affections, of people--change that\ninevitably necessitates misery; for breaking--breaking promises,\ncontracts, family ties, furniture--but breaking, always breaking; for\nsensuality--sensuality sometimes venial, but often of the most gross and\nunpardonable nature.\n\nI knew a musician who was obsessed in a peculiarly loathsome manner. Few\nknew of his misfortune, and none abominated it more than himself. He\nsang divinely, had the most charming personality, was all that could be\ndesired as a husband and father, and yet was, in secret, a monomaniac of\nthe most degrading and unusual order. In the daytime, when all was\nbright and cheerful, his mania was forgotten; but the moment twilight\ncame, and he saw the shadows of night stealing stealthily towards him,\nhis craze returned, and, if alone, he would steal surreptitiously out of\nthe house and, with the utmost perseverance, seek an opportunity of\ncarrying into effect his bestial practices. I have known him tie himself\nto the table, surround himself with Bibles, and resort to every\nimaginable device to divert his mind from his passion, but all to no\npurpose; the knowledge that outside all was darkness and shadows proved\nirresistible. With a beating heart he put on his coat and hat, and,\nfurtively opening the door, slunk out to gratify his hateful lust.\nHeaven knows! he went through hell.\n\nI once watched a woman obsessed with an unnatural and wholly monstrous\nmania for her dog. She took it with her wherever she went, to the\ntheatre, the shops, church, in railway carriages, on board ship. She\ndressed it in the richest silks and furs, decorated it with bangles,\npresented it with a watch, hugged, kissed, and fondled it, took it to\nbed with her, dreamed of it. When it died, she went into heavy mourning\nfor it, and in an incredibly short space of time pined away. I saw her a\nfew days before her death, and I was shocked; her gestures, mannerisms,\nand expression had become absolutely canine, and when she smiled--smiled\nin a forced and unnatural manner--I could have sworn I saw Launcelot,\nher pet!\n\nThere was also a man, a brilliant writer, who from a boy had been\nobsessed with a craze for all sorts of glossy things, more especially\nbuttons. The mania grew; he spent all his time running after girls who\nwere manicured, or who wore shining buttons, and, when he married, he\nbesought his wife to sew buttons on every article of her apparel. In the\nend, he is said to have swallowed a button, merely to enjoy the\nsensation of its smooth surface on the coats of his stomach.\n\nThis somewhat exaggerated instance of obsession serves to show that, no\nmatter how extraordinary the thought-germ, it may enter one's mind and\nfinally become a passion.\n\nThat the majority of people are obsessed, though in a varying degree, is\na generally accepted fact; but that furniture can be possessed by occult\nbrains, though not a generally accepted fact, is, I believe, equally\ntrue.\n\nIn a former work, entitled _Some Haunted Houses of England and Wales_,\npublished by Mr Eveleigh Nash, I described how a bog-oak grandfather's\nclock was possessed by a peculiar type of elemental, which I\nsubsequently classified as a vagrarian, or kind of grotesque spirit that\ninhabits wild and lonely places, and, not infrequently, spots where\nthere are the remains of prehistoric (and even latter-day) man and\nbeast. In another volume called _The Haunted Houses of London_, I\nnarrated the haunting of a house in Portman Square by a grandfather's\nclock, the spirit in possession causing it to foretell death by\nstriking certain times; and I have since heard of hauntings by phenomena\nof a more or less similar nature.\n\nThe following is an example. A very dear friend of mine was taken ill\nshortly before Christmas. No one at the time suspected there was\nanything serious the matter with her, although her health of late had\nbeen far from good. I happened to be staying in the house just then, and\nfound, that for some reason or other, I could not sleep. I do not often\nsuffer from insomnia, so that the occurrence struck me as somewhat\nextraordinary. My bedroom opened on to a large, dark landing. In one\ncorner of it stood a very old grandfather's clock, the ticking of which\nI could distinctly hear when the house was quiet. For the first two or\nthree nights of my visit the clock was as usual, but, the night before\nmy friend was taken ill, its ticking became strangely irregular. At one\nmoment it sounded faint, at the next moment, the reverse; now it was\nslow, now quick; until at length, in a paroxysm of curiosity and fear, I\ncautiously opened my door and peeped out. It was a light night, and the\nglass face of the clock flashed back the moonbeams with startling\nbrilliancy. A grim and subdued hush hung over the staircases and\nlandings. The ticking was now low; but as I listened intently, it\ngradually grew louder and louder, until, to my horror, the colossal\nframe swayed violently backwards and forwards. Unable to stand the sight\nof it any longer, and fearful of what I might see next, I retreated into\nmy room, and, carefully locking the door, lit the gas, and got into\nbed. At three o'clock the ticking once again became normal. The\nfollowing night the same thing occurred, and I discovered that certain\nother members of the household had also heard it. My friend rapidly grew\nworse, and the irregularities of the clock became more and more\npronounced, more and more disturbing. Then there came a morning, when,\nbetween two and three o'clock, unable to lie in bed and listen to the\nticking any longer, I got up. An irresistible attraction dragged me to\nthe door. I peeped out, and there, with the moonlight concentrated on\nits face as before, swayed the clock, backwards and forwards, backwards\nand forwards, slowly and solemnly; and with each movement there issued\nfrom within it a hollow, agonised voice, the counterpart of that of my\nsick friend, exclaiming, \"Oh dear! Oh dear! It is coming! It is coming!\"\n\nI was so fascinated, so frightened, that I could not remove my gaze, but\nwas constrained to stand still and stare at it; and all the while there\nwas a dull, mechanical repetition of the words: \"Oh dear! Oh dear! It is\ncoming, it is coming!\" Half an hour passed in this manner, and the hands\nindicated five minutes to three, when a creak on the staircase made me\nlook round. My heart turned to ice--there, half-way down the stairs, was\na tall, black figure, its polished ebony skin shining in the moonbeams.\nI saw only its body at first, for I was far too surprised even to glance\nat its face. As it glided noiselessly towards me, however, obeying an\nuncontrollable impulse, I looked. There was no face at all, only two\neyes--two long, oblique, half-open eyes--grey and sinister,\ninexpressibly, hellishly sinister--and, as they met my gaze, they smiled\ngleefully. They passed on, the door of the clock swung open, and the\nfigure stepped inside and vanished! I was now able to move, and\nre-entering my room, I locked myself in, turned on the gas, and buried\nmyself under the bedclothes.\n\nI left the house next day, and shortly afterwards received the\nmelancholy tidings of the death of my dear friend. For the time being,\nat least, the clock had been possessed by an elemental spirit of death.\n\nI know an instance, too, in which a long, protracted whine, like the\nwhine of a dog, proceeded from a grandfather's clock, prior to any\ncatastrophe in a certain family; another instance, in which loud thumps\nwere heard in a grandfather's clock before a death; and still another\ninstance in which a hooded face used occasionally to be seen in lieu of\nthe clock's face.\n\nIn all these cases, the clocks were undoubtedly temporarily possessed by\nthe same type of spirit--the type I have classified \"Clanogrian\" or\nFamily Ghost--occult phenomena that, having attached themselves in\nbygone ages to certain families, sometimes cling to furniture (often not\ninappropriately to clocks) that belonged to those families; and, still\nclinging, in its various removals, to the piece they have \"possessed,\"\ncontinue to perform their original grizzly function of foretelling\ndeath.\n\nOf course, these charnel prophets are not the only phantasms that\n\"possess\" furniture. For example, I once heard of a case of\n\"possession\" by a non-prophetic phantasm in connection with a chest--an\nantique oak chest which, I believe, claimed to be a native of Limerick.\nAfter experiencing many vicissitudes in its career, the chest fell into\nthe hands of a Mrs MacNeill, who bought it at a rather exorbitant price\nfrom a second-hand dealer in Cork.\n\nThe chest, placed in the dining-room of its new home, was the recipient\nof much premature adulation. The awakening came one afternoon soon after\nits arrival, when Mrs MacNeill was alone in the dining-room at twilight.\nShe had spent a very tiring morning shopping in Tralee, her nearest\nmarket-town, and consequently fell asleep in an arm-chair in front of\nthe fire, directly after luncheon. She awoke with a sensation of extreme\nchilliness, and thinking the window could not have been shut properly,\nshe got up to close it, when her attention was attracted by something\nwhite protruding from under the lid of the chest. She went up to inspect\nit, but she recoiled in horror. It was a long finger, with a very\nprotuberant knuckle-bone, but no sign of a nail. She was so shocked that\nfor some seconds she could only stand staring at it, mute and helpless;\nbut the sound of approaching carriage-wheels breaking the spell, she\nrushed to the fireplace and pulled the bell vigorously. As she did so,\nthere came a loud chuckle from the chest, and all the walls of the room\nseemed to shake with laughter.\n\nOf course everyone laughed when Mrs MacNeill related what had happened.\nThe chest was minutely examined, and as it was found to contain nothing\nbut some mats that had been stored away in it the previous day, the\nfinger was forthwith declared to have been an optical illusion, and Mrs\nMacNeill was, for the time being, ridiculed into believing it was so\nherself. For the next two or three days nothing occurred; nothing, in\nfact, until one night when Mrs MacNeill and her daughters heard the\nqueerest of noises downstairs, proceeding apparently from the\ndining-room--heavy, flopping footsteps, bumps as if a body was being\ndragged backwards and forwards across the floor, crashes as if all the\ncrockery in the house had been piled in a mass on the floor, loud peals\nof malevolent laughter, and then--silence.\n\nThe following night, the disturbances being repeated, Mrs MacNeill\nsummoned up courage to go downstairs and peep into the room. The noises\nwere still going on when she arrived at the door, but, the moment she\nopened it, they ceased and there was nothing to be seen. A day or two\nafterwards, when she was again alone in the dining-room and the evening\nshadows were beginning to make their appearance, she glanced anxiously\nat the chest, and--there was the finger. Losing her self-possession at\nonce, and yielding to a paroxysm of the wildest, the most ungovernable\nterror, she opened her mouth to shriek. Not a sound came; the cry that\nhad been generated in her lungs died away ere it reached her larynx, and\nshe relapsed into a kind of cataleptic condition, in which all her\nfaculties were acutely alert but her limbs and organs of speech palsied.\n\nShe expected every instant that the chest-lid would fly open and that\nthe baleful thing lurking within would spring upon her. The torture she\nsuffered from such anticipations was little short of hell, and was\nrendered all the more maddening by occasional quiverings of the lid,\nwhich brought all her expectations to a climax. Now, now at any rate,\nshe assured herself, the moment had come when the acme of horrordom\nwould be bounced upon her and she would either die or go mad. But no;\nher agonies were again and again borne anew, and her prognostications\nunfulfilled. At last the creakings abruptly ceased--nothing was to be\nheard save the shaking of the trees, the distant yelping of a dog, and\nthe far-away footfall of one of the servants. Having somewhat recovered\nfrom the shock, Mrs MacNeill was busy speculating as to the appearance\nof the hidden horror, when she heard a breathing, the subtle, stealthy\nbreathing of the secreted pouncer. Again she was spellbound. The evening\nadvanced, and from every nook and cranny of the room, from behind\nchairs, sofa, sideboard, and table, from window-sill and curtains, stole\nthe shadows, all sorts of curious shadows, that brought with them an\natmosphere of the barren, wind-swept cliffs and dark, deserted\nmountains, an atmosphere that added fresh terrors to Mrs MacNeill's\nalready more than distraught mind.\n\nThe room was now full of occult possibilities, drawn from all quarters,\nand doubtless attracted thither by the chest, which acted as a physical\nmagnet. It grew late; still no one came to her rescue; and still more\nshadows, and more, and more, and more, until the room was full of them.\nShe actually saw them gliding towards the house, in shoals, across the\nmoon-kissed lawn and carriage-drive. Shadows of all sorts--some,\nunmistakable phantasms of the dead, with skinless faces and glassy eyes,\ntheir bodies either wrapped in shrouds covered with the black slime of\nbogs or dripping with water; some, whole and lank and bony; some with an\narm or leg missing; some with no limbs or body, only heads--shrunken,\nbloodless heads with wide-open, staring eyes--yellow, ichorous\neyes--gleaming, devilish eyes. Elementals of all sorts--some, tall and\nthin, with rotund heads and meaningless features; some, with\nrectangular, fleshy heads; some, with animal heads. On they came in\ncountless legions, on, on, and on, one after another, each vying with\nthe other in ghastly horridness.\n\nThe series of terrific shocks Mrs MacNeill experienced during the\nadvance of this long and seemingly interminable procession of every\nconceivable ghoulish abortion, at length wore her out. The pulsations of\nher naturally strong heart temporarily failed, and, as her pent-up\nfeelings found vent in one gasping scream for help, she fell insensible\nto the ground.\n\nThat very night the chest was ruthlessly cremated, and Mrs MacNeill's\ndining-room ceased to be a meeting-place for spooks.\n\nWhenever I see an old chest now, I always view it with\nsuspicion--especially if it should happen to be a bog-oak chest. The\nfact is, the latter is more likely than not to be \"possessed\" by\nelementals, which need scarcely be a matter of surprise when one\nremembers that bogs--particularly Irish bogs--have been haunted, from\ntime immemorial, by the most uncouth and fantastic type of spirits.\n\nBut mummies, mummies even more often than clocks and chests, are\n\"possessed\" by denizens of the occult world. Of course, everyone has\nheard of the \"unlucky\" mummy, the painted case of which, only, is in the\nOriental department of the British Museum, and the story connected with\nit is so well known that it would be superfluous to expatiate on it\nhere. I will therefore pass on to instances of other mummies \"possessed\"\nin a more or less similar manner.\n\nDuring one of my sojourns in Paris, I met a Frenchman who, he informed\nme, had just returned from the East. I asked him if he had brought back\nany curios, such as vases, funeral urns, weapons, or amulets. \"Yes,\nlots,\" he replied, \"two cases full. But no mummies! Mon Dieu! No\nmummies! You ask me why? Ah! Therein hangs a tale. If you will have\npatience, I will tell it you.\"\n\nThe following is the gist of his narrative:--\n\n\"Some seasons ago I travelled up the Nile as far as Assiut, and when\nthere, managed to pay a brief visit to the grand ruins of Thebes. Among\nthe various treasures I brought away with me, of no great arch\u00e6ological\nvalue, was a mummy. I found it lying in an enormous lidless sarcophagus,\nclose to a mutilated statue of Anubis. On my return to Assiut, I had the\nmummy placed in my tent, and thought no more of it till something awoke\nme with a startling suddenness in the night. Then, obeying a peculiar\nimpulse, I turned over on my side and looked in the direction of my\ntreasure.\n\n\"The nights in the Soudan at this time of year are brilliant; one can\neven see to read, and every object in the desert is almost as clearly\nvisible as by day. But I was quite startled by the whiteness of the glow\nthat rested on the mummy, the face of which was immediately opposite\nmine. The remains--those of Met-Om-Karema, lady of the College of the\ngod Amen-ra--were swathed in bandages, some of which had worn away in\nparts or become loose; and the figure, plainly discernible, was that of\na shapely woman with elegant bust, well-formed limbs, rounded arms and\nsmall hands. The thumbs were slender, and the fingers, each of which\nwere separately bandaged, long and tapering. The neck was full, the\ncranium rather long, the nose aquiline, the chin firm. Imitation eyes,\nbrows, and lips were painted on the wrappings, and the effect thus\nproduced, and in the phosphorescent glare of the moonbeams, was very\nweird. I was quite alone in the tent, the only other European, who had\naccompanied me to Assiut, having stayed in the town by preference, and\nmy servants being encamped at some hundred or so yards from me on the\nground.\n\n\"Sound travels far in the desert, but the silence now was absolute, and\nalthough I listened attentively, I could not detect the slightest\nnoise--man, beast, and insect were abnormally still. There was something\nin the air, too, that struck me as unusual; an odd, clammy coldness that\nreminded me at once of the catacombs in Paris. I had hardly, however,\nconceived the resemblance, when a sob--low, gentle, but very\ndistinct--sent a thrill of terror through me. It was ridiculous, absurd!\nIt could not be, and I fought against the idea as to whence the sound\nhad proceeded, as something too utterly fantastic, too utterly\nimpossible! I tried to occupy my mind with other thoughts--the\nfrivolities of Cairo, the casinos of Nice; but all to no purpose; and\nsoon on my eager, throbbing ear there again fell that sound, that low\nand gentle sob. My hair stood on end; this time there was no doubt, no\npossible manner of doubt--the mummy lived! I looked at it aghast. I\nstrained my vision to detect any movement in its limbs, but none was\nperceptible. Yet the noise had come from it, it had breathed--breathed--\nand even as I hissed the word unconsciously through my clenched lips,\nthe bosom of the mummy rose and fell.\n\n\"A frightful terror seized me. I tried to shriek to my servants; I could\nnot ejaculate a syllable. I tried to close my eyelids, but they were\nheld open as in a vice. Again there came a sob that was immediately\nsucceeded by a sigh; and a tremor ran through the figure from head to\nfoot. One of its hands then began to move, the fingers clutched the air\nconvulsively, then grew rigid, then curled slowly into the palms, then\nsuddenly straightened. The bandages concealing them from view then fell\noff, and to my agonised sight were disclosed objects that struck me as\nstrangely familiar. There is something about fingers, a marked\nindividuality, I never forget. No two persons' hands are alike. And in\nthese fingers, in their excessive whiteness, round knuckles, and blue\nveins, in their tapering formation and perfect filbert nails, I read a\nlikeness whose prototype, struggle how I would, I could not recall.\nGradually the hand moved upwards, and, reaching the throat, the fingers\nset to work, at once, to remove the wrappings. My terror was now\nsublime! I dare not imagine, I dare not for one instant think, what I\nshould see! And there was no getting away from it; I could not stir an\ninch, not the fraction of an inch, and the ghastly revelation would take\nplace within a yard of my face.\n\n\"One by one the bandages came off. A glimmer of skin, pallid as marble;\nthe beginning of the nose, the whole nose; the upper lip, exquisitely,\ndelicately cut; the teeth, white and even on the whole, but here and\nthere a shining gold filling; the under-lip, soft and gentle; a mouth I\nknew, but--God!--where? In my dreams, in the wild fantasies that had\noft-times visited my pillow at night--in delirium, in reality, where?\nMon Dieu! WHERE?\n\n\"The uncasing continued. The chin came next, a chin that was purely\nfeminine, purely classical; then the upper part of the head--the hair\nlong, black, luxuriant--the forehead low and white--the brows black,\nfinely pencilled; and, last of all, the eyes!--and as they met my\nfrenzied gaze and smiled, smiled right down into the depths of my livid\nsoul, I recognised them--they were the eyes of my mother, my mother who\nhad died in my boyhood! Seized with a madness that knew no bounds, I\nsprang to my feet. The figure rose and confronted me. I flung open my\narms to embrace her, the woman of all women in the world I loved best,\nthe only woman I had loved. Shrinking from my touch, she cowered against\nthe side of the tent. I fell on my knees before her and kissed--what?\nNot the feet of my mother, but that of the long unburied dead. Sick with\nrepulsion and fear I looked up, and there, bending over and peering into\nmy eyes was the face, the fleshless, mouldering face of a foul and\nbarely recognisable corpse! With a shriek of horror I rolled backwards,\nand, springing to my feet, prepared to fly. I glanced at the mummy. It\nwas lying on the ground, stiff and still, every bandage in its place;\nwhilst standing over it, a look of fiendish glee in its light, doglike\neyes, was the figure of Anubis, lurid and menacing.\n\n\"The voices of my servants, assuring me they were coming, broke the\nsilence, and in an instant the apparition vanished.\n\n\"I had had enough of the tent, however, at least for that night, and,\nseeking refuge in the town, I whiled away the hours till morning with a\nfragrant cigar and novel. Directly I had breakfasted, I took the mummy\nback to Thebes and left it there. No, thank you, Mr O'Donnell, I collect\nmany kinds of curios, but--no more mummies!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\nOCCULT HOOLIGANS\n\n\nDeducing from my own and other people's experiences, there exists a\ndistinct type of occult phenomenon whose sole occupation is in\nboisterous orgies and in making manifestations purely for the sake of\ncausing annoyance. To this phantasm the Germans have given the name\nPOLTERGEIST, whilst in former of my works I have classified it as a\nVagrarian Order of ELEMENTAL. It is this form of the superphysical,\nperhaps, that up to the present time has gained the greatest\ncredence--it has been known in all ages and in all countries. Who, for\nexample, has not heard of the famous Stockwell ghost that caused such a\nsensation in 1772, and of which Mrs Crowe gives a detailed account in\nher _Night Side of Nature_; or again, of \"The Black Lion Lane, Bayswater\nGhost,\" referred to many years ago in _The Morning Post_; or, of the\n\"Epworth Ghost,\" that so unceasingly tormented the Wesley family; or, of\nthe \"Demon of Tedworth\" that gave John Mompesson and his family no\npeace, and of countless other well-authenticated and recorded instances\nof this same type of occult phenomenon? The poltergeists in the\nabove-mentioned cases were never seen, only felt and heard; but in what\na disagreeable and often painful manner! The Demon of Tedworth, for\nexample, awoke everyone at night by thumping on doors and imitating the\nbeatings of a drum. It rattled bedsteads, scratched on the floor and\nwall as if possessing iron talons, groaned, and uttered loud cries of \"A\nwitch! A witch!\" Nor was it content with these auditory demonstrations,\nfor it resorted to far more energetic methods of physical violence.\nFurniture was moved out of its place and upset; the children's shoes\nwere taken off their feet and thrown over their heads; their hair was\ntweaked and their clothes pulled; one little boy was even hit on a sore\nplace on his heel; the servants were lifted bodily out of their beds and\nlet fall; whilst several members of the household were stripped of all\nthey had on, forcibly held down, and pelted with shoes. Nor were the\nproceedings at Stockwell, Black Lion Lane, and Epworth, though rather\nmore bizarre, any less violent.\n\nTo quote another instance of this kind of haunting, Professor Schuppart\nat Gressen, in Upper Hesse, was for six years persecuted by a\npoltergeist in the most unpleasant manner; stones were sent whizzing\nthrough closed rooms in all directions, breaking windows but hurting no\none; his books were torn to pieces; the lamp by which he was reading was\nremoved to a distant corner of the room, and his cheeks were slapped,\nand slapped so incessantly that he could get no sleep.\n\nAccording to Mrs Crowe, there was a case of a similar nature at Mr\nChave's, in Devonshire, in 1910, where affidavits were made before the\nmagistrate attesting the facts, and large rewards offered for discovery;\nbut in vain, the phenomena continued, and the spiritual agent was\nfrequently seen in the form of some strange animal.\n\nThere seems to be little limit, short of grievous bodily injury--and\neven that limit has occasionally been overstepped--to poltergeist\nhooliganism. Last summer the Rev. Henry Hacon, M.A., of Searly Vicarage,\nNorth Kelsey Moor, very kindly sent me an original manuscript dealing\nwith poltergeist disturbances of a very peculiar nature, at the old\nSyderstone Parsonage near Fakenham. I published the account _ad verbum_\nin a work of mine that appeared the ensuing autumn, entitled _Ghostly\nPhenomena_, and the interest it created encourages me to refer to other\ncases dealing with the same kind of phenomena.\n\nThere is a parsonage in the South of England where not only noises have\nbeen heard, but articles have been mysteriously whisked away and not\nreturned. A lady assures me that when a gentleman, with whom she was\nintimately acquainted, was alone in one of the reception rooms one day,\nhe placed some coins to the value, I believe, of fifteen shillings, on\nthe table beside him, and chancing to have his attention directed to the\nfire, which had burned low, was surprised on looking again to discover\nthe coins had gone; nor did he ever recover them. Other things, too, for\nthe most part trivial, were also taken in the same incomprehensible\nmanner, and apparently by the same mischievous unseen agency. It is true\nthat one of the former inhabitants of the house had, during the latter\nportion of his life, been heavily in debt, and that his borrowing\npropensities may have accompanied him to the occult world; but though\nsuch an explanation is quite feasible, I am rather inclined to attribute\nthe disappearances to the pranks of some mischievous vagrarian.\n\nI have myself over and over again experienced a similar kind of thing.\nFor example, in a certain house in Norwood, I remember losing in rapid\nsuccession two stylograph pens, a knife, and a sash. I remembered, in\neach case, laying the article on a table, then having my attention\ncalled away by some rather unusual sound in a far corner of the room,\nand then, on returning to the table, finding the article had vanished.\nThere was no one else in the house, so that ordinary theft was out of\nthe question. Yet where did these articles go, and of what use would\nthey be to a poltergeist? On one occasion, only, I caught a glimpse of\nthe miscreant. It was about eight o'clock on a warm evening in June, and\nI was sitting reading in my study. The room is slightly below the level\nof the road, and in summer, the trees outside, whilst acting as an\neffective screen against the sun's rays, cast their shadows somewhat too\nthickly on the floor and walls, burying the angles in heavy gloom. In\nthe daytime one rather welcomes this darkness; but in the afternoon it\nbecomes a trifle oppressive, and at twilight one sometimes wishes it was\nnot there. It is at twilight that the nature of the shadows usually\nundergoes a change, and there amalgamates, with them, that Something,\nthat peculiar, indefinable Something that I can only associate with the\nsuperphysical. Here, in my library, I often watch it creep in with the\nfading of the sunlight, or, postponing its advent till later--steal in\nthrough the window with the moonbeams, and I feel its presence just as\nassuredly and instinctively as I can feel and detect the presence of\nhostility in an audience or individual. I cannot describe how; I can\nonly say I do, and that my discernment is seldom misleading. On the\nevening in question I was alone in the house. I had noticed, amid the\nshadows that lay in clusters on the floor and walls, this enigmatical\nSomething. It was there most markedly; but I did not associate it with\nanything particularly terrifying or antagonistic. Perhaps that was\nbecause the book I was reading interested me most profoundly--it was a\ntranslation from Heine, and I am devoted to Heine. Let me quote an\nextract. It is from _Florentine Nights_, and runs: \"But is it not folly\nto wish to sound the inner meaning of any phenomenon outside us, when we\ncannot even solve the enigma of our own souls? We hardly know even\nwhether outside phenomena really exist! We are often unable to\ndistinguish reality from mere dream-faces. Was it a shape of my fancy,\nor was it horrible reality that I heard and saw on that night? I know\nnot. I only remember that, as the wildest thoughts were flowing through\nmy heart, a singular sound came to my ear.\" I had got so far,\nabsorbingly, spiritually interested, when I heard a laugh, a long, low\nchuckle, that seemed to come from the darkest and most remote corner of\nthe room. A cold paroxysm froze my body, the book slid from my hands,\nand I sat upright in my chair, every faculty within me acutely alert and\nactive. The laugh was repeated, this time from behind a writing-table in\nquite another part of the room. Something which sounded like a shower of\ntintacks then fell into the grate; after which there was a long pause,\nand then a terrific bump, as if some heavy body had fallen from a great\nheight on to the floor immediately in front of me. I even heard the\nhissing and whizzing the body made in its descent as it cut its passage\nthrough the air. Again there came an interval of tranquillity broken\nonly by the sounds of people in the road, the hurrying footsteps of a\ngirl, the clattering of a man in hobnails, the quick, sharp tread of the\nlamplighter, and the scampering patter of a bevy of children. Then there\ncame a series of knockings on the ceiling, and then the sound of\nsomething falling into a gaping abyss which I intuitively felt had\nsurreptitiously opened at my feet.\n\nFor many seconds I listened to the reverberations of the object as it\ndashed against the sides of the unknown chasm; at length there was a\nsplash, succeeded by hollow echoes. Shaking in every limb, I shrank back\nas far as I possibly could in my chair and clutched the arms. A draught,\ncold and dank, as if coming from an almost interminable distance, blew\nupwards and fanned my nostrils. Then there came the most appalling, the\nmost blood-curdling chuckle, and I saw a hand--a lurid grey hand with\nlong, knotted fingers and black, curved nails--feeling its way towards\nme, through the subtle darkness, like some enormous, unsavoury insect.\nNearer, nearer, and nearer it drew, its fingers waving in the air,\nantenn\u00e6 fashion. For a moment it paused, and then, with lightning\nrapidity, snatched the book from my knees and disappeared. Directly\nafterwards I heard the sound of a latchkey inserted in the front door,\nwhilst the voice of my wife inquiring why the house was in darkness\nbroke the superphysical spell. Obeying her summons, I ascended the\nstaircase, and the first object that greeted my vision in the hall was\nthe volume of Heine that had been so unceremoniously taken from me!\nAssuredly this was the doings of a poltergeist! A poltergeist that up to\nthe present had confined its attentions to me, no one else in the house\nhaving either heard or seen it.\n\nIn my study there is a deep recess concealed in the winter-time by heavy\ncurtains drawn across it; and often when I am writing something makes me\nlook up, and a cold horror falls upon me as I perceive the curtains\nrustle, rustle as though they were laughing, laughing in conjunction\nwith some hidden occult monstrosity; some grey--the bulk of the\nphantasms that come to me are grey--and glittering monstrosity who was\nenjoying a rich jest at my expense. Occasionally, to emphasise its\npresence, this poltergeist has scratched the wall, or thumped, or thrown\nan invisible missile over my head, or sighed, or groaned, or gurgled,\nand I have been frightened, horribly, ghastly frightened. Then something\nhas happened--my wife has called out, or someone has rung a bell, or the\npostman has given one of his whole-hearted smashes with the knocker,\nand the poltergeist has \"cleared off,\" and I have not been disturbed by\nit again for the remainder of the evening.\n\nI am not the only person whom poltergeists visit. Judging from my\ncorrespondence and the accounts I see in the letters of various\npsychical research magazines, they patronise many people. Their _modus\noperandi_, covering a wide range, is always boisterous. Undoubtedly they\nhave been badly brought up--their home influence and their educational\ntraining must have been sadly lacking in discipline. Or is it the\nreverse? Are their crude devices and mad, tomboyish pranks merely\nreactionary, and the only means they have of finding vent for their\nnaturally high spirits? If so, I devoutly wish they would choose some\nlocality other than my study for their playground. Yet they interest me,\nand although I quake horribly when they are present, I derive endless\namusement at other times, in speculating on their _raison d'\u00eatre_, and\ncurious--perhaps complex--constitutions. I do not believe they have ever\ninhabited any earthly body, either human or animal. I think it likely\nthat they may be survivals of early experiments in animal and vegetable\nlife in this planet, prior to the selection of any definite types;\nspirits that have never been anything else but spirits, and which have,\nno doubt, often envied man his carnal body and the possibilities that\nhave been permitted him of eventually reaching a higher spiritual plane.\nIt is envy, perhaps, that has made them mischievous, and generated in\nthem an insatiable thirst to torment and frighten man. Another probable\nexplanation of them is, that they may be inhabitants of one of the other\nplanets that have the power granted, under certain conditions at present\nunknown to us, of making themselves seen and heard by certain dwellers\non the earth; and it is, of course, possible that they are but one of\nmany types of spirits inhabiting a superphysical sphere that encloses or\ninfringes on our own. They may be only another form of life, a form that\nis neither carnal nor immortal, but which has to depend for its\nexistence on a superphysical food. They may be born in a fashion that,\napart from its peculiarity and extravagance, bears some resemblance to\nthe generation of physical animal life; and they may die, too, as man\ndies, and their death may be but the passing from one stage to another,\nor it may be for eternity.\n\nBut enough of possibilities, of probable and improbable theories. For\nthe present not only poltergeists but all other phantoms are seen as\nthrough a glass darkly, and, pending the discovery of some definite\ndata, we do but flounder in a sea of wide, limitless, and infinite\nspeculation.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\nSYLVAN HORRORS\n\n\nI believe trees have spirits; I believe everything that grows has a\nspirit, and that such spirits never die, but passing into another state,\na state of film and shadow, live on for ever. The phantasms of vegetable\nlife are everywhere, though discernible only to the few of us. Often as\nI ramble through thoroughfares, crowded with pedestrians and vehicles,\nand impregnated with steam and smoke and all the impurities arising from\nover-congested humanity, I have suddenly smelt a different atmosphere,\nthe cold atmosphere of superphysical forest land. I have come to a halt,\nand leaning in some doorway, gazed in awestruck wonder at the nodding\nfoliage of a leviathan lepidodendron, the phantasm of one of those\nmammoth lycopods that flourished in the Carboniferous period. I have\nwatched it swaying its shadowy arms backwards and forwards as if keeping\ntime to some ghostly music, and the breeze it has thus created has\nrustled through my hair, while the sweet scent of its resin has\npleasantly tickled my nostrils. I have seen, too, suddenly open before\nme, dark, gloomy aisles, lined with stupendous pines and carpeted with\nlong, luxuriant grass, gigantic ferns, and other monstrous primeval\nflora, of a nomenclature wholly unknown to me; I have watched in chilled\nfascination the black trunks twist and bend and contort, as if under the\ninfluence of an uncontrollable fit of laughter, or at the bidding of\nsome psychic cyclone. I have at times stayed my steps when in the throes\nof the city-pavements; shops and people have been obliterated, and their\nplaces taken by occult foliage; immense fungi have blocked out the sun's\nrays, and under the shelter of their slimy, glistening heads, I have\nbeen thrilled to see the wriggling, gliding forms of countless smaller\nsaprophytes. I have felt the cold touch of loathsome toadstools and\nsniffed the hot, dry dust of the full, ripe puff-ball. On the Thames\nEmbankment, up Chelsea way, I have at twilight beheld wonderful\nmetamorphoses. In company with the shadows of natural objects of the\nlandscape, have silently sprung up giant reeds and bullrushes. I have\nfelt their icy coldness as, blowing hither and thither in the delirium\nof their free, untrammelled existence, they have swished across my face.\nVisions, truly visions, the exquisite fantasies of a vivid imagination.\nSo says the sage. I do not think so; I dispute him _in toto_. These\nobjects I have seen have not been illusions; else, why have I not\nimagined other things; why, for example, have I not seen rocks walking\nabout and tables coming in at my door? If these phantasms were but\ntricks of the imagination, then imagination would stop at nothing. But\nthey are not imagination, neither are they the idle fancies of an\nover-active brain. They are objective--just as much objective as are the\nsmells of recognised physical objects, that those, with keenly sensitive\nolfactory organs, can detect, and those, with a less sensitive sense of\nsmell, cannot detect; those, with acute hearing, can hear, and those\nwith less acute hearing cannot hear. And yet, people are slow to believe\nthat the seeing of the occult is as much a faculty as is the scenting of\nsmells or the hearing of noises.\n\nI have heard it said that, deep down in coal mines, certain of the\nworkers have seen wondrous sights; that when they have been alone in a\ndrift, they have heard the blowing of the wind and the rustling of\nleaves, and suddenly found themselves penned in on all sides by the\nnaked trunks of enormous primitive trees, lepidodendrons, sigillarias,\nferns, and other plants, that have shone out with phosphorescent\ngrandeur amid the inky blackness of the subterranean ether. Around the\nfeet of the spellbound watchers have sprung up rank blades of\nBrobdingnagian grass and creepers, out of which have crept, with lurid\neyes, prodigious millipedes, cockroaches, white ants, myriapods and\nscorpions, whilst added to the moaning and sighing of the trees has been\nthe humming of stone-flies, dragon-flies, and locusts. Galleries and\nshafts have echoed and re-echoed with these noises of the old world,\nwhich yet lives, and will continue to live, maybe, to the end of time.\n\nBut are the physical trees, the trees that we can all see budding and\nsprouting in our gardens to-day--are they ever cognisant of the presence\nof the occult? Can they, like certain--not all--dogs and horses and\nother animals, detect the proximity of the unknown? Do they tremble and\nshake with fear at the sight of some psychic vegetation, or are they\nutterly devoid of any such faculty? Can they see, hear, or smell? Have\nthey any senses at all? And, if they have one sense, have they not\nothers? Aye, there is food for reflection.\n\nPersonally, I believe trees have senses--not, of course, in such a high\nstate of development as those of animal life; but, nevertheless, senses.\nConsequently, I think it quite possible that certain of them, like\ncertain animals, feel the presence of the superphysical. I often stroll\nin woods. I do not love solitude; I love the trees, and I do not think\nthere is anything in nature, apart from man, I love much more. The oak,\nthe ash, the elm, the poplar, the willow, to me are more than mere\nnames; they are friends, the friends of my boyhood and manhood;\ncompanions in my lonely rambles and voluntary banishments; guardians of\nmy siestas; comforters of my tribulations. The gentle fanning of their\nbranches has eased my pain-racked brow and given me much-needed sleep,\nwhilst the chlorophyll of their leaves has acted like balm to my\neyelids, inflamed after long hours of study. I have leaned my head\nagainst their trunks, and heard, or fancied I have heard, the fantastic\nmurmurings of their peaceful minds. This is what happens in the daytime,\nwhen the hot summer sun has turned the meadow-grass a golden brown. But\nwith the twilight comes the change. Phantom-land awakes, and mingled\nwith the shadows of the trees and bushes that lazily unroll themselves\nfrom trunk and branches are the darkest of shades, that impart to the\nforest an atmosphere of dreary coldness. Usually I hie away with haste\nat sunset, but there are occasions when I have dallied longer than I\nhave intended, and only realised my error when it has been too late. I\nhave then, controlled by the irresistible fascination of the woods,\nwaited and watched. I well recollect, for example, being caught in this\nway in a Hampshire spinney, at that time one of my most frequented\nhaunts. The day had been unusually close and stifling, and the heat, in\nconjunction with a hard morning's work--for I had written, God only\nknows how long, without ceasing,--made me frightfully sleepy, and on\narriving at my favourite spot beneath a lofty pine, I had slept till,\nfor very shame, my eyelids could keep closed no longer. It was then nine\no'clock, and the metamorphosis of sunset had commenced in solemn\nearnest. The evening was charming, ideal of the heart of summer; the air\nsoft, sweetly scented; the sky unspotted blue. A peaceful hush, broken\nonly by the chiming of some distant church bells, and the faint, the\nvery faint barking of dogs, enveloped everything and instilled in me a\nfalse sensation of security. Facing me was a diminutive glade padded\nwith downy grass, transformed into a pale yellow by the lustrous rays of\nthe now encrimsoned sun. Fainter and fainter grew the ruddy glow, until\nthere was nought of it left but a pale pink streak, whose delicate\nmarginal lines still separated the blue of the sky from the quickly\nsuperseding grey. A barely perceptible mist gradually cloaked the grass,\nwhilst the gloom amid the foliage on the opposite side of the glade\nintensified. There was now no sound of bells, no barking of dogs; and\nsilence, a silence tinged with the sadness so characteristic of summer\nevenings, was everywhere paramount. A sudden rush of icy air made my\nteeth chatter. I made an effort to stir, to escape ere the grotesque and\nintangible horrors of the wood could catch me. I ignominiously failed;\nthe soles of my feet froze to the ground. Then I felt the slender,\ngraceful body of the pine against which I leaned my back, shake and\nquiver, and my hand--the hand that rested on its bark--grew damp and\nsticky.\n\nI endeavoured to avert my eyes from the open space confronting them. I\nfailed; and as I gazed, filled with the anticipations of the damned,\nthere suddenly burst into view, with all the frightful vividness\nassociated only with the occult, a tall form--armless, legless--fashioned\nlike the gnarled trunk of a tree--white, startlingly white in places\nwhere the bark had worn away, but on the whole a bright, a luridly\nbright, yellow and black. At first I successfully resisted a powerful\nimpulse to raise my eyes to its face; but as I only too well knew would\nbe the case, I was obliged to look at last, and, as I anticipated, I\nunderwent a most violent shock. In lieu of a face I saw a raw and\nshining polyp, a mass of waving, tossing, pulpy radicles from whose\ncentre shone two long, obliquely set, pale eyes, ablaze with devilry and\nmalice. The thing, after the nature of all terrifying phantasms, was\nendowed with hypnotic properties, and directly its eyes rested on me I\nbecame numb; my muscles slept while my faculties remained awake,\nacutely awake.\n\nInch by inch the thing approached me; its stealthy, gliding motion\nreminding me of a tiger subtly and relentlessly stalking its prey. It\ncame up to me, and the catalepsy which had held me rigidly upright\ndeparted. I fell on the ground for protection, and, as the great unknown\ncurved its ghastly figure over me and touched my throat and forehead\nwith its fulsome tentacles, I was overcome with nervous tremors; a\ndeadly pain griped my entrails, and, convulsed with agony, I rolled over\non my face, furiously clawing the bracken. In this condition I continued\nfor probably one or even two minutes, though to me it seemed very much\nlonger. My sufferings terminated with the loud report of firearms, and\nslowly picking myself up, I found that the apparition had vanished, and\nthat standing some twenty or so paces from me was a boy with a gun. I\nrecognised him at once as the son of my neighbour, the village\nschoolmaster; but not wishing to tarry there any longer, I hurriedly\nwished him good night, and leaving the copse a great deal more quickly\nthan I had entered it, I hastened home.\n\nWhat had I seen? A phantasm of some dead tree? some peculiar species of\nspirit (I have elsewhere termed a vagrarian), attracted thither by the\nloneliness of the locality? some vicious, evil phantasm? or a\nvice-elemental, whose presence there would be due to some particularly\nwicked crime or series of crimes perpetrated on or near the spot? I\ncannot say. It might well have been either one of them, or something\nquite different. I am quite sure, however, that most woods are haunted,\nand that he who sees spirit phenomena can be pretty certain of seeing\nthem there. Again and again, as I have been passing after nightfall,\nthrough tree-girt glen, forest, or avenue, I have seen all sorts of\ncurious forms and shapes move noiselessly from tree to tree. Hooded\nfigures, with death's-heads, have glided surreptitiously through\nmoon-kissed spaces; icy hands have touched me on the shoulders; whilst,\npacing alongside me, I have oft-times heard footsteps, light and heavy,\nthough I have seen nothing.\n\nMiss Frances Sinclair tells me that, once, when walking along a country\nlane, she espied some odd-looking object lying on the ground at the foot\nof a tree. She approached it, and found to her horror it was a human\nfinger swimming in a pool of blood. She turned round to attract the\nattention of her friends, and when she looked again the finger had\nvanished. On this very spot, she was subsequently informed, the murder\nof a child had taken place.\n\nTrees are, I believe, frequently haunted by spirits that suggest crime.\nI have no doubt that numbers of people have hanged themselves on the\nsame tree in just the same way as countless people have committed\nsuicide by jumping over certain bridges. Why? For the very simple reason\nthat hovering about these bridges are influences antagonistic to the\nhuman race, spirits whose chief and fiendish delight is to breathe\nthoughts of self-destruction into the brains of passers-by. I once heard\nof a man, medically pronounced sane, who frequently complained that he\nwas tormented by a voice whispering in his ear, \"Shoot yourself! Shoot\nyourself!\"--advice which he eventually found himself bound to follow.\nAnd of a man, likewise stated to be sane, who journeyed a considerable\ndistance to jump over a notorious bridge because he was for ever being\nhaunted by the phantasm of a weirdly beautiful woman who told him to do\nso. If bridges have their attendant sinister spirits, so undoubtedly\nhave trees--spirits ever anxious to entice within the magnetic circle of\ntheir baleful influence anyone of the human race.\n\nMany tales of trees being haunted in this way have come to me from India\nand the East. I quoted one in my _Ghostly Phenomena_, and the following\nwas told me by a lady whom I met recently, when on a visit to my wife's\nrelations in the Midlands.\n\n\"I was riding with my husband along a very lonely mountain road in\nAssam,\" my informant began, \"when I suddenly discovered I had lost my\nsilk scarf, which happened to be a rather costly one. I had a pretty\nshrewd idea whereabouts I might have dropped it, and, on mentioning the\nfact to my husband, he at once turned and rode back to look for it.\nBeing armed, I did not feel at all nervous at being left alone,\nespecially as there had been no cases, for many years, of assault on a\nEuropean in our district; but, seeing a big mango tree standing quite by\nitself a few yards from the road, I turned my horse's head with the\nintention of riding up to it and picking some of its fruit. To my great\nannoyance, however, the beast refused to go; moreover, although at all\ntimes most docile, it now reared, and kicked, and showed unmistakable\nsigns of fright.\n\n\"I speedily came to the conclusion that my horse was aware of the\npresence of something--probably a wild beast--I could not see myself,\nand I at once dismounted, and tethering the shivering animal to a\nboulder, advanced cautiously, revolver in hand, to the tree. At every\nstep I took, I expected the spring of a panther or some other beast of\nprey; but, being afraid of nothing but a tiger--and there were none,\nthank God! in that immediate neighbourhood--I went boldly on. On nearing\nthe tree, I noticed that the soil under the branches was singularly\ndark, as if scorched and blackened by a fire, and that the atmosphere\naround it had suddenly grown very cold and dreary. To my disappointment\nthere was no fruit, and I was coming away in disgust, when I caught\nsight of a queer-looking thing just over my head and half-hidden by the\nfoliage. I parted the leaves asunder with my whip and looked up at it.\nMy blood froze.\n\n\"The thing was nothing human. It had a long, grey, nude body, shaped\nlike that of a man, only with abnormally long arms and legs, and very\nlong and crooked fingers. Its head was flat and rectangular, without any\nfeatures saving a pair of long and heavy lidded, light eyes, that were\nfixed on mine with an expression of hellish glee. For some seconds I was\ntoo appalled even to think, and then the most mad desire to kill myself\nsurged through me. I raised my revolver, and was in the act of placing\nit to my forehead, when a loud shout from behind startled me. It was my\nhusband. He had found my scarf, and, hurrying back, had arrived just in\ntime to see me raise the revolver--strange to relate--at him! In a few\nwords I explained to him what had happened, and we examined the tree\ntogether. But there were no signs of the terrifying phenomenon--it had\ncompletely vanished. Though my husband declared that I must have been\ndreaming, I noticed he looked singularly grave, and, on our return home,\nhe begged me never to go near the tree again. I asked him if he had had\nany idea it was haunted, and he said: 'No! but I know there are such\ntrees. Ask Dingan.' Dingan was one of our native servants--the one we\nrespected most, as he had been with my husband for nearly twelve\nyears--ever since, in fact, he had settled in Assam. 'The mango tree,\nmem-sahib!' Dingan exclaimed, when I approached him on the subject, 'the\nmango tree on the Yuka Road, just before you get to the bridge over the\nriver? I know it well. We call it \"the devil tree,\" mem-sahib. No other\ntree will grow near it. There is a spirit peculiar to certain trees that\nlives in its branches, and persuades anyone who ventures within a few\nfeet of it, either to kill themselves, or to kill other people. I have\nseen three men from this village alone, hanging to its accursed\nbranches; they were left there till the ropes rotted and the jackals\nbore them off to the jungles. Three suicides have I seen, and three\nmurders--two were women, strangers in these parts, and they were both\nlying within the shadow of the mango's trunk, with the backs of their\nheads broken in like eggs! It is a thrice-accursed tree, mem-sahib.'\nNeedless to say, I agreed with Dingan, and in future gave the mango a\nwide berth.\"\n\nVagrarians, tree devils (a type of vice elemental), and phantasms of\ndead trees are some of the occult horrors that haunt woods, and, in\nfact, the whole country-side! Added to these, there are the fauns and\nsatyrs, those queer creatures, undoubtedly vagrarians, half-man and\nhalf-goat, that are accredited by the ancients with much merry-making,\nand grievous to add, much lasciviousness. Of these spirits there is\nmention in Scripture, namely, Isaiah xiii. 21, where we read: \"And their\nhouses shall be full of doleful creatures, and owls shall dwell there,\nand satyrs shall dance there\"; and in Baddeley's _Historical\nMeditations_, published about the beginning of the seventeenth century,\nthere is a description by Plutarch, of a satyr captured by Sulla, when\nthe latter was on his way from Dyrrachium to Brundisium. The creature,\nwhich appears to have been very material, was found asleep in a park\nnear Apollonia. On being led into the presence of Sulla, it commenced\nspeaking in a harsh voice that was an odd mixture of the neighing of a\nhorse and the crying of a goat. As neither Sulla nor any of his\nfollowers could understand in the slightest degree what the monstrosity\nmeant, they let it go, nor is there any further reference to it.\n\nNow, granted that this account is not \"faked,\" and that such a beast\nactually did exist, it would naturally suggest to one that vagrarians,\npixies, and other grotesque forms of phantasms are, after all, only the\nspirits of similar types of material life, and that, in all\nprobability, the earth, contemporary with prehistoric, and even\nlater-day man, fairly swarmed with such creatures. However, this, like\neverything else connected with these early times, is merely a matter of\nspeculation. Another explanatory theory is, that possibly superphysical\nphenomena were much more common formerly than now, and that the various\ntypes of sub-human and sub-animal apparitions (which were then\nconstantly seen by the many, but which are now only visible to the few)\nhave been handed down to us in the likeness of satyrs and fauns. Anyhow,\nI think they may be rightly classified in the category of vagrarians.\nThe association of spirits with trees is pretty nearly universal. In the\nfairy tales of youth we have frequent allusions to them. In the\nCaucasus, where the population is not of Slavonic origin, we have\ninnumerable stories of sacred trees, and in each of these stones the\nmain idea is the same--namely, that a human life is dependent on the\nexistence of a tree. In Slavonic mythology, plants as well as trees are\nmagnets for spirits, and in the sweet-scented pinewoods, in the dark,\nlonely pinewoods, dwell \"psipolnitza,\" or female goblins, who plague the\nharvesters; and \"lieshi,\" or forest male demons, closely allied to\nsatyrs. In Iceland there was a pretty superstition to the effect that,\nwhen an innocent person was put to death, a sorb or mountain ash would\nspring over their grave. In Teutonic mythology the sorb is supposed to\ntake the form of a lily or white rose, and, on the chairs of those about\nto die, one or other of these flowers is placed by unseen hands. White\nlilies, too, are emblematic of innocence, and have a knack of\nmysteriously shooting up on the graves of those who have been unjustly\nexecuted. Surely this would be the work of a spirit, as, also, would be\nthe action of the Eglantine, which is so charmingly illustrated in the\ntouching story of Tristram and Yseult. Tradition says that from the\ngrave of Tristram there sprang an eglantine which twined about the\nstatue of the lovely Yseult, and, despite the fact of its being thrice\ncut down, grew again, ever embracing the same fair image. Among the\nNorth American Indians there was, and maybe still is, a general belief\nthat the spirits of those who died, naturally reverted to trees--to the\ngreat pines of the mountain forests--where they dwelt for ever amid the\nbranches. The Indians believed also that the spirits of certain trees\nwalked at night in the guise of beautiful women. Lucky Indians! Would\nthat my experience of the forest phantasms had been half so entrancing.\nThe modern Greeks, Australian bushmen, and natives of the East Indies,\nlike myself, only see the ugly side of the superphysical, for the\nspirits that haunt their vegetation are irredeemably ugly, horribly\nterrifying, and fiendishly vindictive.\n\nThe idea that the dead often passed into trees is well illustrated in\nthe classics. For example, \u00c6neas, in his wanderings, strikes a tree, and\nis half-frightened out of his wits by a great spurt of blood. A hollow\nvoice, typical of phantasms and apparently proceeding from somewhere\nwithin the trunk, then begs him to desist, going on to explain that the\ntree is not an ordinary tree but the metamorphosed soul of an unlucky\nwight called Polydorus, (he must have been unlucky, if only to have had\nsuch a name). Needless to say, \u00c6neas, who was strictly a gentleman in\nspite of his aristocratic pretensions, at once dropped his axe and\nshowed his sympathy for the poor tree-bound spirit in an abundant flow\nof tears, which must have satisfied, even, Polydorus. There is a very\nsimilar story in Swedish folk-lore. A voice in a tree addressed a man,\nwho was about to cut it down, with these words, \"Friend, hew me not!\"\nBut the man on this occasion was not a gentleman, and, instead of\ncomplying with the modest request, only plied his axe the more heartily.\nTo his horror--a just punishment for his barbarity--there was a most\nfrightful groan of agony, and out from the hole he had made in the\ntrunk, rushed a fountain of blood, real human blood. What happened then\nI cannot say, but I imagine that the woodcutter, stricken with remorse,\nwhipped up his bandana from the ground, and did all that lay in his\npower--though he had not had the advantages of lessons in first aid--to\nstop the bleeding. One cannot help being amused at these marvellous\nstories, but, after all, they are not very much more wonderful than many\nof one's own ghostly experiences. At any rate, they serve to illustrate\nhow widespread and venerable is the belief that trees--trees, perhaps,\nin particular--are closely associated with the occult.\n\nPixies! What are pixies? That they are not the dear, delightful, quaint\nlittle people Shakespeare so inimitably portrays in the _Midsummer\nNight's Dream_, is, I fear, only too readily acknowledged. I am told\nthat they may be seen even now, and I know those who say that they have\nseen them, but that they are the mere shadows of those dainty creatures\nthat used to gambol in the moonshine and help the poor and weary in\ntheir household work. The present-day pixies, whom I am loath to imagine\nare the descendants of the old-world pixies--though, of course, on the\nother hand, they may be merely degenerates, a much more pleasant\nalternative--are I think still to be occasionally encountered in lonely,\nisolated districts; such, for instance, as the mountains in the West of\nIreland, the Hebrides, and other more or less desolate islands, and on\none or two of the Cornish hills and moors.\n\nLike most phantasms, the modern pixies are silent and elusive. They\nappear and disappear with equal abruptness, contenting themselves with\nmerely gliding along noiselessly from rock to rock, or from bush to\nbush. Dainty they are not, pretty they are not, and in stature only do\nthey resemble the pixie of fairy tales; otherwise they are true\nvagrarians, grotesque and often harrowing.\n\nIn my _Ghostly Phenomena_ I have given one or two accounts of their\nappearance in the West of England, but the nearest approach to pixies\nthat I have myself seen, were phantasms that appeared to me, in 1903, on\nthe Wicklow Hills, near Bray. I was out for a walk on the afternoon of\nThursday, May 18; the weather was oppressive, and the grey, lowering sky\nthreatened rain, a fact which accounted for the paucity of pedestrians.\nLeaving my temporary headquarters, at Bray, at half-past one, I arrived\nat a pretty village close to the foot of the hills and immediately began\nthe ascent. Selecting a deviating path that wound its way up gradually,\nI, at length, reached the summit of the ridge.\n\nOn and on I strolled, careless of time and distance, until a sudden\ndryness in my throat reminded me it must be about the hour at which I\ngenerally took tea. I turned round and began to retrace my steps\nhomeward. The place was absolutely deserted; not a sign of a human being\nor animal anywhere, and the deepest silence. I had come to the brink of\na slight elevation when, to my astonishment, I saw in the tiny plateau\nbeneath, three extraordinary shapes. Standing not more than two feet\nfrom the ground, they had the most perfectly proportioned bodies of\nhuman beings, but monstrous heads; their faces had a leadish blue hue,\nlike that of corpses; their eyes were wide open and glassy. They glided\nalong slowly and solemnly in Indian file, their grey, straggling hair\nand loose white clothes rustling in the breeze; and on arriving at a\nslight depression in the ground, they sank and sank, until they entirely\ndisappeared from view. I then descended from my perch, and made a\nthorough examination of the spot where they had vanished. It was firm,\nhard, caked soil, without hole or cover, or anything in which they could\npossibly have hidden. I was somewhat shocked, as indeed I always am\nafter an encounter with the superphysical, but not so much shocked as I\nshould have been had the phantasms been bigger. I visited the same spot\nsubsequently, but did not see another manifestation.\n\nTo revert to trees--fascinating, haunting trees. Much credulity was at\none time attached to the tradition that the tree on which Jesus Christ\nwas crucified was an aspen, and that, thenceforth, all aspens were\nafflicted with a peculiar shivering. Botanists, scientists, and\nmatter-of-fact people of all sorts pooh-pooh this legend, as, indeed,\nmany people nowadays pooh-pooh the very existence of Christ. But\nsomething--you may call it intuition--I prefer to call it my Guardian\nSpirit--bids me believe both; and I do believe as much in the tradition\nof the aspen as in the existence of Christ. Moreover, this intuition or\ninfluence--the work of my Guardian Spirit--whether dealing with things\npsychical, psychological, or physical has never yet failed me. If it\nwarns me of the presence of a phantasm, I subsequently experience some\nkind or other of spiritual phenomenon; if it bids me beware of a person,\nI am invariably brought to discover later on that that person's\nintentions have been antagonistic to me; and if it causes me to deter\nfrom travelling by a certain route, or on a certain day, I always\ndiscover afterwards that it was a very fortunate thing for me that I\nabided by its warning. That is why I attach great importance to the\nvoice of my Guardian Spirit; and that is why, when it tells me that,\ndespite the many obvious discrepancies and absurdities in the\nScriptures, despite the character of the Old Testament God--who repels\nrather than attracts me--despite all this, there was a Jesus Christ who\nactually was a great and benevolent Spirit, temporarily incarnate, and\nwho really did suffer on the Cross in the manner described in\nsubsequent MSS.,--I believe it all implicitly. I back the still, small\nvoice of my Guardian Spirit against all the arguments scepticism can\nproduce.\n\nVery good, then. I believe in the existence and spirituality of Jesus\nChrist because of the biddings of my Guardian Spirit, and, for the very\nsame reason, I attach credence to the tradition of the quivering of the\naspen. The sceptic accounts for the shaking of this tree by showing that\nit is due to a peculiar formation in the structure of the aspen's\nfoliage. This may be so, but that peculiarity of structure was created\nimmediately after Christ's crucifixion, and was created as a memento,\nfor all time, of one of the most unpardonable murders on record.\n\nThere is something especially weird, too, in the ash; something that\nsuggests to my mind that it is particularly susceptible to superphysical\ninfluences. I have often sat and listened to its groaning, and more than\nonce, at twilight, perceived the filmy outline of some fantastic figure\nwrithed around its slender trunk.\n\nJohn Timbs, F.S.A., in his book of _Popular Errors_, published by\nCrosby, Lockwood & Co. in 1880, quotes from a letter, dated 7th July\n1606, thus: \"It is stated that at Brampton, near Gainsborough, in\nLincolnshire, 'an ash tree shaketh in body and boughs thereof, sighing\nand groaning like a man troubled in his sleep, as if it felt some\nsensible torment. Many have climbed to the top of it, who heard the\ngroans more easily than they could below. But one among the rest, being\non the top thereof, spake to the tree; but presently came down much\naghast, and lay grovelling on the earth, three hours speechless. In the\nend reviving, he said: \"Brampton, Brampton, thou art much bound to\npray!\"' The Earl of Lincoln caused one of the arms of the ash to be\nlopped off and a hole bored through the body, and then was the sound, or\nhollow voice, heard more audibly than before, but in a kind of speech\nwhich they could not comprehend. This is the second wonderful ash\nproduced by past ages in this district--according to tradition,\nEthelreda's budding staff having shot out into the first.\" So says the\nletter, and from my own experience of the ash, I am quite ready to\naccredit it with special psychic properties, though I cannot state I\nhave ever heard it speak.\n\nI believe it attracts phantasms in just the same way as do certain\npeople, myself included, and certain kinds of furniture. Its groanings\nat night have constantly attracted, startled, and terrified me; they\nhave been quite different to the sounds I have heard it make in the\ndaytime; and often I could have sworn that, when I listened to its\ngroanings, I was listening to the groanings of some dying person, and,\nwhat is more harrowing still, to some person I knew.\n\nI have heard it said, too, that the most ghastly screams and gurgles\nhave been heard proceeding from the ash trees planted in or near the\nsite of murders or suicides, and as I sit here writing, a scene opens\nbefore me, and I can see a plain with one solitary tree--an\nash--standing by a pool of water, on the margin of which are three\nclusters of reeds. Dark clouds scud across the sky, and the moon only\nshows itself at intervals. It is an intensely wild and lonely spot, and\nthe cold, dank air blowing across the barren wastes renders it all the\nmore inhospitable. No one, no living thing, no object is visible save\nthe ash. Suddenly it moves its livid trunk, sways violently,\nunnaturally, backwards and forwards--once, twice, thrice; and there\ncomes from it a cry, a most piercing, agonising cry, half human, half\nanimal, that dies away in a wail and imparts to the atmosphere a\nsensation of ice. I can hear the cry as I sit here writing; my memory\nrehearses it; it was one of the most frightful, blood-curdling, hellish\nsounds I ever endured; and the scene was on the Wicklow hills in\nIreland.\n\nThe narcotic plant, the mandrake, is also credited with groaning, though\nI cannot say I have ever heard it. Though there is nothing particularly\npsychic about the witch-hazel, in the hands of certain people who are\nmediumistic, it will indicate the exact spot where water lies under the\nground. The people who possess this faculty of discovering the locality\nof water by means of the hazel, are named dowsers, and my only wonder is\nthat their undeniably useful faculty is not more cultivated and\ndeveloped.\n\nTo my mind, there is no limit to the possibilities suggested by this\nfaculty; for surely, if one species of tree possesses attraction for a\ncertain object in nature, there can be no reason why other species of\ntrees should not possess a similar attraction for other objects in\nnature. And if they possess this attraction for the physical, why not\nfor the superphysical--why, indeed, should not \"ghosts\" come within the\nradius of their magnetism?\n\nThe palm and sycamore trees have invariably been associated with the\nspiritual, and made use of symbolically, as the tree of life. An\nillustration, on a stele in the Berlin Museum, depicts a palm tree from\nthe stem of which proceeds two arms, one administering to a figure,\nkneeling below, the fruit or bread of life; the other, pouring from a\nvase the water of life.\n\nOn another, a later Egyptian stele, the tree of life is the sycamore.\nThere is no doubt that the Egyptians and Assyrians regarded these two\ntrees as susceptible only to good psychic influences, they figure so\nfrequently in illustrations of the benevolent deities. Nor were the Jews\nand Christians behind in their recognition of the extraordinary\nproperties of these two trees, especially the palm. We find it\nsymbolically introduced in the decoration of Solomon's Temple--on the\nwalls, furniture, and vessels; whilst in Christian mosaics it figures as\nthe tree of life in Paradise (_vide_ Rev. xxii. 1, 2, and in the apsis\nof S. Giovanni Laterans). It is even regarded as synonymous with Jesus\nChrist, as may be seen in the illuminated frontispiece to an\n_Evangelium_ in the library of the British Museum, where the symbols of\nthe four Evangelists, placed over corresponding columns of lessons from\ntheir gospels, are portrayed looking up to a palm tree, rising from the\nearth, on the summit of which is a cross, with the symbolical letters\nalpha and omega suspended from its arms.\n\nI am, of course, only speaking from my own experience, but this much I\ncan vouch for, that I have never heard of a palm tree being haunted by\nan evil spirit, whereas I have heard of several cases in which palm\nleaves or crosses cut from palms have been used, and apparently with\neffect, as preventives of injuries caused by malevolent occult\ndemonstrations; and were I forced to spend a night in some lonely\nforest, I think I should prefer, viewing the situation entirely from the\nstandpoint of psychical possibilities, that that forest should be\ncomposed partly or wholly of palms.\n\nBefore concluding this chapter, I must make a brief allusion to another\ntype of spirit--the BARROWVIAN--that resembles the vagrarian and pixie,\ninasmuch as it delights in lonely places. Whenever I see a barrow,\ntumulus or druidical, circle, I scent the probability of\nphantasms--phantasms of a peculiar sort. Most ancient burial-places are\nhaunted, and haunted by two species of the same genus: the one, the\nspirits of whatever prehistoric forms of animal life lie buried there;\nand the other, grotesque phantasms, often very similar to vagrarians in\nappearance, but with distinct ghoulish propensities and an inveterate\nhatred to living human beings. In my _Ghostly Phenomena_ I have referred\nto the haunting of a druidical circle in the North of England, and also\nto the haunting of a house I once rented in Cornwall, near Castle on\nDinas, by barrowvians; I have heard, too, of many cases of a like\nnature. I have, of course, often watched all night, near barrows or\ncromlechs, without any manifestations taking place; sometimes, even,\nwithout feeling the presence of the Unknown, though these occasions have\nbeen rare. At about two o'clock one morning, when I was keeping my vigil\nbeside a barrow in the South of England, I saw a phenomenon in the shape\nof a hand--only a hand, a big, misty, luminous blue hand, with long\ncrooked fingers. I could, of course, only speculate as to the owner of\nthe hand, and I must confess that I postponed that speculation till I\nwas safe and sound, and bathed in sunshine, within the doors of my own\ndomicile.\n\nHauntings of this type generally occur where excavations have been made,\na barrow broken into, or a dolmen removed; the manifestations generally\ntaking the form of phantasms of the dead, the prehistoric dead. But\nphenomena that are seen there are, more often than not, things that bear\nlittle or no resemblance to human beings; abnormally tall, thin things\nwith small, bizarre heads, round, rectangular, or cone-shaped, sometimes\nsemi- or wholly animal, and always expressive of the utmost malignity.\nOccasionally, in fact I might say often, the phenomena are entirely\nbestial--such, for example, as huge, blue, or spotted dogs, shaggy\nbears, and monstrous horses. Houses, built on or near the site of such\nburial-places, are not infrequently disturbed by strange noises, and the\nmanifestations, when materialised, usually take one or other of these\nforms. In cases of this kind I have found that exorcism has little or no\neffect; or, if any, it is that the phenomena become even more emphatic.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\nCOMPLEX HAUNTINGS AND OCCULT BESTIALITIES\n\n\nWhat are occult bestialities? Are they the spirits of human beings who,\nwhen inhabiting material bodies, led thoroughly criminal lives; are they\nthe phantasms of dead beasts--cats and dogs, etc.; or are they things\nthat were never carnate? I think they may be either one or the\nother--that any one of these alternatives is admissible. There is a\nhouse, for example, in a London square, haunted by the apparition of a\nnude woman with long, yellow, curly hair and a pig's face. There is no\nmistaking the resemblance--eyes, snout, mouth, jaw, jowls, all are\npiggish, and the appearance of the thing is hideously suggestive of all\nthat is bestial. What, then, is it? From the fact that in all\nprobability a very sensuous, animal-minded woman once lived in the\nhouse, I am led to suppose that this may be her phantasm--or--one only\nof her many phantasms. And in this latter supposition lies much food for\nreflection. The physical brain, as we know, consists of multitudinous\ncells which we may reasonably take to be the homes of our respective\nfaculties. Now, as each material cell has its representative immaterial\ninhabitant, so each immaterial inhabitant has its representative\nphantasm. Thus each representative phantasm, on the dissolution of the\nmaterial brain, would be either earth-bound or promoted to the higher\nspiritual plane. Hence, one human being may be represented by a score of\nphantasms, and it is quite possible for a house to be haunted by many\ntotally different phenomena of the same person. I know, for instance, of\na house being subjected to the hauntings of a dog, a sensual-looking\npriest, the bloated shape of an indescribable something, and a\nferocious-visaged sailor. It had had, prior to my investigation, only\none tenant, a notorious rake and glutton; no priest or sailor had ever\nbeen known to enter the house; and so I concluded the many apparitions\nwere but phantasms of the same person--phantasms of his several,\nseparate, and distinct personalities. He had brutal tendencies,\nsacerdotal (not spiritual) tendencies, gluttonous, and nautical\ntendencies, and his whole character being dominated by carnal cravings,\non the dissolution of his material body each separate tendency would\nremain earth-bound, represented by the phantasm most closely resembling\nit. I believe this theory may explain many dual hauntings, and it holds\ngood with regard to the case I have quoted, the case of the apparition\nwith the pig's head. The ghost need not necessarily have been the spirit\nof a dead woman _in toto_, but merely the phantasm of one of her grosser\npersonalities; her more spiritual personalities, represented by other\nphantasms, having migrated to the higher plane. Let me take, as another\nexample, the case which I personally investigated, and which interested\nme deeply. The house was then haunted (and, as far as I know to the\ncontrary, is still haunted) by a blurred figure, suggestive of something\nhardly human and extremely nasty, that bounded up the stairs two steps\nat a time; by a big, malignant eye--only an eye--that appeared in one of\nthe top rooms; and by a phantasm resembling a lady in distinctly modern\ncostume. The house is old, and as, according to tradition, some crime\nwas committed within its walls many years ago, the case may really be an\ninstance of separate hauntings--the bounding figure and the eye (the\nlatter either belonging to the figure or to another phantasm) being the\nphantasms of the principal, or principals, in the ancient tragedy; the\nlady, either the phantasm of someone who died there comparatively\nrecently, or of someone still alive, who consciously, or unconsciously,\nprojects her superphysical ego to that spot. On the other hand, the\nthree different phenomena might be three different phantasms of one\nperson, that person being either alive or dead--for one can\nunquestionably, at times, project phantasms of one's various\npersonalities before physical dissolution. The question of occult\nphenomena, one may thus see, is far more complex than it would appear to\nbe at first sight, and naturally so,--the whole of nature being complex\nfrom start to finish. Just as minerals are not composed of one atom but\nof countless atoms, so the human brain is not constituted of one cell\nbut of many; and as with the material cerebrum, so with the\nimmaterial--hence the complexity. With regard to the phenomena of\nsuperphysical bestialities such as dogs, bears, etc., it is almost\nimpossible to say whether the phantasm would be that of a dead person,\nor rather that representing one of some dead person's several\npersonalities--the phantasm of a genuine animal, of a vagrarian, or of\nsome other type of elemental.\n\nOne can only surmise the identity of such phantasms, after becoming\nacquainted with the history of the locality in which such manifestations\nappear. The case to which I referred in my previous works, _Some Haunted\nHouses of England and Wales_, and _Ghostly Phenomena_, namely, that of\nthe apparition of a nude man being seen outside an unused burial-ground\nin Guilsborough, Northamptonshire, furnishes a good example of\nalternatives. Near to the spot, at least within two or three hundred\nyards of it, was a barrow, close to which a sacrificial stone had been\nunearthed; consequently the phantasm may have been a barrowvian; and\nagain, as the locality is much wooded and but thinly populated, it may\nhave been a vagrarian; and again, the burial-ground being in such close\nproximity, the apparition may well have been the phantasm of one of the\nvarious personalities of a human being interred there.\n\nOne night, as I was sitting reading alone in an isolated cottage on the\nWicklow hills, I was half-startled out of my senses by hearing a loud,\nmenacing cry, half-human and half-animal, and apparently in mid-air,\ndirectly over my head. I looked up, and to my horror saw suspended, a\nfew feet above me, the face of a Dalmatian dog--of a long since dead\nDalmatian dog, with glassy, expressionless eyes, and yellow, gaping\njaws. The phenomenon did not last more than half a minute, and with its\nabrupt disappearance came a repetition of the cry. What was it? I\nquestioned the owner of the cottage, and she informed me she had always\nhad the sensation something uncanny walked the place at night, but had\nnever seen anything. \"One of my children did, though,\" she added;\n\"Mike--he was drowned at sea twelve months ago. Before he became a\nsailor he lived with me here, and often used to see a dog--a big,\nspotted cratur, like what we called a plum-pudding dog. It was a nasty,\nunwholesome-looking thing, he used to tell me, and would run round and\nround his room--the room where you sleep--at night. Though a bold enough\nlad as a rule, the thing always scared him; and he used to come and tell\nme about it, with a face as white as linen--'Mother!' he would say, 'I\nsaw the spotted cratur again in the night, and I couldn't get as much as\na wink of sleep.' He would sometimes throw a boot at it, and always with\nthe same result--the boot would go right through it.\" She then told me\nthat a former tenant of the house, who had borne an evil reputation in\nthe village--the peasants unanimously declaring she was a witch--had\ndied, so it was said, in my room. \"But, of course,\" she added, \"it\nwasn't her ghost that Mike saw.\" Here I disagreed with her. However, if\nshe could not come to any conclusion, neither could I; for though, of\ncourse, the dog may have been the earth-bound spirit of some\nparticularly carnal-minded occupant of the cottage--or, in other words,\na phantasm representing one of that carnal-minded person's several\npersonalities,--it may have been the phantasm of a vagrarian, of a\nbarrowvian, or, of some other kind of elemental, attracted to the spot\nby its extreme loneliness, and the presence there, unsuspected by man,\nof some ancient remains, either human or animal. Occult dogs are very\noften of a luminous, semi-transparent bluish-grey--a bluish-grey that is\ncommon to many other kinds of superphysical phenomena, but which I have\nnever seen in the physical world.\n\nI have heard of several houses in Westmoreland and Devon, always in the\nvicinity of ancient burial-places, being haunted by blue dogs, and\nsometimes by blue dogs without heads. Indeed, headless apparitions of\nall sorts are by no means uncommon. A lady, who is well known to me, had\na very unpleasant experience in a house in Norfolk, where she was\nawakened one night by a scratching on her window-pane, which was some\ndistance from the ground, and, on getting out of bed to see what was\nthere, perceived the huge form of a shaggy dog, without a head, pressed\nagainst the glass.\n\nFortunately for my informant, the manifestation was brief. The height of\nthe window from the ground quite precluded the possibility of the\napparition being any natural dog, and my friend was subsequently\ninformed that what she had seen was one of the many headless phantasms\nthat haunted the house. Of course, it does not follow that because one\ndoes not actually see a head, a head is not objectively there--it may be\nvery much there, only not materialised. A story of one of these\nseemingly headless apparitions was once told me by a Mrs Forbes du Barry\nwhom I met at Lady D.'s house in Eaton Square. I remember the at-home to\nwhich I refer, particularly well, as the entertainment on that occasion\nwas entirely entrusted to Miss Lilian North, who as a reciter and\nraconteur is, in my opinion, as far superior to any other reciter and\nraconteur as the stars are superior to the earth. Those who have not\nheard her stories, have not listened to her eloquent voice--that appeals\nnot merely to the heart, but to the soul--are to be pitied. But there--I\nam digressing. Let me proceed. It was, I repeat, on the soul-inspiring\noccasion above mentioned that I was introduced to Mrs Forbes du Barry,\nwho must be held responsible for the following story.\n\n\"I was reading one of your books the other day, Mr O'Donnell,\" she\nbegan, \"and some of your experiences remind me of one of my own--one\nthat occurred to me many years ago, when I was living in Worthing, in\nthe old part of the town, not far from where the Public Library now\nstands. Directly after we had taken the house, my husband was ordered to\nIndia. However, he did not expect to be away for long, so, as I was not\nin very good health just then, I did not go with him, but remained with\nmy little boy, Philip, in Worthing. Besides Philip and myself, my\nhousehold only consisted of a nursery-governess, cook, housemaid, and\nkitchen-maid. The hauntings began before we had been in our new quarters\nmany days. We all heard strange noises, scratchings, and whinings, and\nthe servants complained that often, when they were at meals, something\nthey could not see, but which they could swear was a dog, came sniffing\nround them, jumping up and placing its invisible paws on their lap.\nOften, too, when they were in bed the same thing entered their room,\nthey said, and jumped on the top of them. They were all very much\nfrightened, and declared that if the hauntings continued they would not\nbe able to stay in the house. Of course, I endeavoured to laugh away\ntheir fears, but the latter were far too deeply rooted, and I myself,\napart from the noises I had heard, could not help feeling that there was\nsome strangely unpleasant influence in the house. The climax was brought\nabout by Philip. One afternoon, hearing him cry very loudly in the\nnursery, I ran upstairs to see what was the matter. On the landing\noutside the nursery I narrowly avoided a collision with the governess,\nwho came tearing out of the room, her eyes half out of her head with\nterror, and her cheeks white as a sheet. She said nothing--and indeed\nher silence was far more impressive than words--but, rushing past me,\nflung herself downstairs, half a dozen steps at a time, and ran into the\ngarden. In an agony of fear--for I dreaded to think what had happened--I\nburst into the nursery, and found Philip standing on the bed,\nfrantically beating the air with his hands. 'Take it away--oh, take it\naway!' he cried; 'it is a horrid dog; it has no head!' Then, seeing me,\nhe sprang down and, racing up to me, leaped into my open arms. As he did\nso, something darted past and disappeared through the open doorway. It\nwas a huge greyhound without a head! I left the house the next day--I\nwas fortunately able to sublet it--and went to Bournemouth. But, do you\nknow, Mr O'Donnell, that dog followed us! Wherever we went it went too,\nnor did it ever leave Philip till his death, which took place in Egypt\non his twenty-first birthday. Now, what do you think of that?\"\n\n\"I think,\" I replied, \"that the phantasm was very probably that of a\nreal dog, and that it became genuinely attached to your son. I do not\nthink it was headless, but that, for some reason unknown for the\npresent, its head never materialised. What was the history of the\nhouse?\"\n\n\"It had no history as far as I could gather,\" Mrs Forbes du Barry said.\n\"A lady once lived there who was devoted to dogs, but no one thinks she\never had a greyhound.\"\n\n\"Then,\" I replied thoughtfully, \"it is just possible that the headless\ndog was the phantasm of the lady herself, or, at least, of one of her\npersonalities!\"\n\nMrs du Barry appeared somewhat shocked, and I adroitly changed the\nconversation. However, I should not be at all surprised if this were the\ncase.\n\nThe improbability of any ancient remains being interred under or near\nthe house, precludes the idea of barrowvians, whilst the thickly\npopulated nature of the neighbourhood and the entire absence of\nloneliness, renders the possibility of vagrarians equally unlikely. That\nbeing so, one only has to consider the possibility of its being a vice\nelemental attracted to the house by the vicious lives and thoughts of\nsome former occupant, and I am, after all, inclined to favour the theory\nthat the phantasm was the phantasm of the old dog-loving lady herself,\nattaching itself in true canine fashion to the child Philip.\n\nThe most popular animal form amongst spirits--the form assumed by them\nmore often than any other--is undoubtedly the dog. I hear of the occult\ndog more often than of any other occult beast, and in many places there\nis yet a firm belief that the souls of the wicked are chained to this\nearth in the shape of monstrous dogs. According to Mr Dyer, in his\n_Ghost World_, a man who hanged himself at Broomfield, near Salisbury,\nmanifested himself in the guise of a huge black dog; whilst the Lady\nHoward of James I.'s reign, for her many misdeeds, not the least of\nwhich was getting rid of her husbands, was, on her death, transformed\ninto a hound and compelled to run every night, between midnight and\ncock-crow, from the gateway of Fitzford, her former residence, to\nOakhampton Park, and bring back to the place, from whence she started, a\nblade of grass in her mouth; and this penance she is doomed to continue\ntill every blade of grass is removed from the park, which feat she will\nnot be able to effect till the end of the world. Mr Dyer also goes on to\nsay that in the hamlet of Dean Combe, Devon, there once lived a weaver\nof great fame and skill, who the day after his death was seen sitting\nworking away at the loom as usual. A parson was promptly fetched, and\nthe following conversation took place.\n\n\"Knowles!\" the parson commanded (not without, I shrewdly suspect, some\nfear), \"come down! This is no place for thee!\" \"I will!\" said the\nweaver, \"as soon as I have worked out my quill.\" \"Nay,\" said the vicar,\n\"thou hast been long enough at thy work; come down at once.\" The spirit\nthen descended, and, on being pelted with earth and thrown on the ground\nby the parson, was converted into a black hound, which apparently was\nits ultimate shape.\n\nSome years ago, Mr Dyer says, there was an accident in a Cornish mine\nwhereby several men lost their lives, and, rather than that their\nrelatives should be shocked at the sight of their mangled remains, some\nbystander, with all the best intentions in the world, threw the bodies\ninto a fire, with the result that the mine has ever since been haunted\nby a troop of little black dogs.\n\nAccording to the _Book of Days_, ii. p. 433, there is a widespread\nbelief in most parts of England in a spectral dog, \"large, shaggy, and\nblack,\" but not confined to any one particular species. This phantasm is\nbelieved to haunt localities that have witnessed crimes, and also to\nforetell catastrophes. The Lancashire people, according to Harland and\nWilkinson in their _Lancashire Folk-lore_, call it the \"stuker\" and\n\"trash\": the latter name being given it on account of its heavy,\nslopping walk; and the former appellation from its curious screech,\nwhich is a sure indication of some approaching death or calamity. To the\npeasantry of Norfolk and Cambridgeshire it is known as \"the shuck,\" an\napparition that haunts churchyards and other lonely places. In the Isle\nof Man a similar kind of phantasm, called \"the Mauthe dog,\" was said to\nwalk Peel Castle; whilst many of the Welsh lanes--particularly that\nleading from Mowsiad to Lisworney Crossways--are, according to Wirt\nSikes' _British Goblins_, haunted by the gwyllgi, a big black dog of the\nmost terrifying aspect.\n\nCases of hauntings by packs of spectral hounds have from time to time\nbeen reported from all parts of the United Kingdom; but mostly from\nNorthumberland, Yorkshire, Lancashire, Cumberland, Wales, Devon, and\nCornwall. In the northern districts they are designated \"Gabriel's\nhounds\"; in Devon, \"the Wisk, Yesk, or Heath hounds\"; in Wales, \"the Cwn\nAnnwn or Cwn y Wybr\" (see Dyer's _Ghost World_); and in Cornwall, \"the\ndevil and his dandy dogs.\" My own experiences fully coincide with the\ntraditional belief that the dog is a very common form of spirit\nphenomena; but I can only repeat (the same remark applying to other\nanimal manifestations), that it is impossible to decide with any degree\nof certainty to what category of phantasms, in addition to the general\norder of occult bestialities, the dog belongs. It seems quite\npermissible to think that the spirits of ladies, with an absorbing mania\nfor canine pets, should be eventually earth-bound in the form of dogs--a\nfate which many of the fair sex have assured me would be \"absolutely\ndivine,\" and far preferable to the orthodox heaven.\n\nI cannot see why the shape of a dog should be appropriated by the less\ndesirable denizens of the occult world. But, that it is so, there is no\nroom to doubt, as the following illustration shows. As soon as the trial\nof the infamous slaughterer X---- was over, and the verdict of death\ngenerally known, a deep sigh of relief was heaved by the whole of\ncivilisation--saving, of course, those pseudo-humanitarians who always\npity murderers and women-beaters, and who, if the law was at all\nsensible and just, should be hanged with their bestial _prot\u00e9g\u00e9s_. From\nall classes of men, I repeat, with the exception of those pernicious\ncranks, were heard the ejaculations: \"Well! he's settled. What a good\nthing! I am glad! The world will be well rid of him!\"\n\nThen I smiled. The world well rid of him! Would it be rid of him? Not if\nI knew anything about occult phenomena. Indeed, the career on earth for\nsuch an epicure in murder as X---- had only just begun; in fact, it\ncould hardly be said to begin till physical dissolution. The last\ndrop--that six feet or so plunge between grim scaffolding--might in the\ncase of some criminals, mere tyros at the trade, terminate for good\ntheir connection with this material plane; but not, decidedly not, in\nthe case of this bosom comrade of vice elementals.\n\nFrom both a psychological and superphysical point of view the case had\ninterested me from the first. I had been anxious to see the man, for I\nfelt sure, even if he did not display any of the ordinary physiognomical\ndanger signals observable in many bestial criminals, there would\nnevertheless be a something about or around him, that would immediately\nwarn as keen a student of the occult as myself of his close association\nwith the lowest order of phantasms. I was not, however, permitted an\ninterview, and so had to base my deductions upon the descriptions of him\ngiven me, first hand, by two experts in psychology, and upon\nphotographs. In the latter I recognised--though not with the readiness\nI should have done in the photo's living prototype--the presence of the\nunknown brain, the grey, silent, stealthy, ever-watchful, ever-lurking\noccult brain. As I gazed at his picture, as in a crystal, it faded away,\nand I saw the material man sitting alone in his study before a glowing\nfire. From out of him there crept a shadow, the shadow of something big,\nbloated, and crawling. I could distinguish nothing further. On reaching\nthe door it paused, and I felt it was eyeing him--or rather his material\nbody--anxiously. Perhaps it feared lest some other shadow, equally\nbaleful, equally sly and subtle, would usurp its home. Its hesitation\nwas, however, but momentary, and, passing through the door, it glided\nacross the dimly lighted hall and out into the freedom of the open air.\nPicture succeeding picture with great rapidity, I followed it as it\ncurled and fawned over the tombstones in more than one churchyard; moved\nwith a peculiar waddling motion through foul alleys, halting wherever\nthe garbage lay thickest, rubbed itself caressingly on the gory floors\nof slaughter-houses, and finally entered a dark, empty house in a road\nthat, if not the Euston Road, was a road in every way resembling it.\n\nThe atmosphere of the place was so suggestive of murder that my soul\nsickened within me; and so much so, in fact, that when I saw several\ngrisly forms gliding down the gloomy staircases and along the sombre,\nnarrow passages, where X----'s immaterial personality was halting,\napparently to greet it, I could look no longer, but shut my eyes. For\nsome seconds I kept them closed, and, on re-opening them, found the\ntableau had changed--the material body before the fire was re-animated,\nand in the depths of the bleared, protruding eyes I saw the creeping,\ncrawling, waddling, enigmatical shadow vibrating with murder. Again the\nscene changed, and I saw the physical man standing in the middle of a\nbedroom, listening--listening with blanched face and slightly open\nmouth, a steely glimmer of the superphysical, of the malignant, devilish\nsuperphysical, in his dilated pupils. What he is anticipating I cannot\nsay, I dare not think--unless--unless the repetition of a scream; and it\ncomes--I cannot hear it, but I can feel it, feel the reverberation\nthrough the crime-kissed walls and vicious, tainted atmosphere.\n\nSomething is at the door--it presses against it; I can catch a glimpse\nof its head, its face; my blood freezes--it is horrible. It enters the\nroom, grey and silent--it lays one hand on the man's sleeve and drags\nhim forward. He ascends to the room above, and, with all the brutality\nof those accustomed to the dead and dying, drags the---- But I will not\ngo on. The grey unknown, the occult something, sternly issues its\ndirections, and the merely physical obeys them. It is all over; the plot\nof the vice elementals has triumphed, and as they gleefully step away,\none by one, patting their material comrade on the shoulder, the\ndarkness, the hellish darkness of that infamous night lightens, and in\nthrough the windows steal the cold grey beams of early morning. I am\nassured; I have had enough; I pitch the photograph into the grate. The\nevening comes--the evening after the execution. A feeling of the\ngreatest, the most unenviable curiosity urges me to go, to see if what I\nsurmise, will actually happen. I leave Gipsy Hill by an early afternoon\ntrain, I spend a few hours at a literary club, I dine at a quiet--an\neminently quiet--restaurant in Oxford Street, and at eleven o'clock I am\nstanding near a spot which I believe--I have no positive proof--I merely\nbelieve, was frequented by X----. It is more than twelve hours since he\nwas executed; will anything--will the shape, the personality, I\nanticipate--come? The night air grows colder; I shrink deeper and deeper\ninto the folds of my overcoat, and wish--devoutly wish--myself back\nagain by my fireside.\n\nThe minutes glide by slowly. The streets are very silent now. With the\nexception of an occasional toot-toot from a taxi and the shrill whistle\nof a goods train, no other sounds are to be heard. It is the hour when\nnearly all material London sleeps and the streets are monopolised by\nshadows, interspersed with something rather more substantial--namely,\npolicemen. A few yards away from me there slips by a man in a blue serge\nsuit; and then, tip-toeing surreptitiously behind him, with one hand in\nhis trousers-pocket and the other carrying a suspicious-looking black\nbag, comes a white-faced young man, dressed in shabby imitation of a\nWest End swell; an ill-fitting frock-coat, which, even in the uncertain\nflicker of the gas-lamps, pronounces itself to be ready made, and the\ntypical shopwalker's silk hat worn slightly on one side. Whether this\nnight bird goes through life on tiptoe, as many people do, or whether\nhe only adopts that fashion on this particular occasion, is a conundrum,\nnot without interest to students of character to whom a man's walk\ndenotes much.\n\nFor a long time the street is deserted, and then a bedraggled figure in\na shawl, with a big paper parcel under her arm, shuffles noiselessly by\nand disappears down an adjacent turning. Then there is another long\ninterval, interrupted by a pretentious clock sonorously sounding two. A\nfeeling of drowsiness creeps over me; my eyelids droop. I begin to lose\ncognisance of my surroundings and to imagine myself in some far-away\nplace, when I am recalled sharply to myself by an intensely cold current\nof air. Intuitively I recognise the superphysical; it is the same\nspecies of cold which invariably heralds its approach. I have been right\nin my surmises after all; this spot is destined to be haunted. My eyes\nare wide enough open now, and every nerve in my body tingles with the\nkeenest expectation. Something is coming, and, if that something is not\nthe phantasm of him whom I believe is earthbound, whose phantasm is it?\nThere is a slight noise of scratching from somewhere close beside me. It\nmight have been the wind rustling the leaves against the masonry, or it\nmight have been--I look round and see nothing. The sound is repeated and\nwith the same result--NOTHING! A third time I heard it, and then from\nthe dark road on one side of me there waddles--I recognise the waddling\nat once--a shadow that, gradually becoming a little more distinct,\ndevelops into the rather blurry form of a dog--a gaunt, hungry-looking\nmongrel. In a few seconds it stops short and looks at me with big\nswollen eyes that glitter with a something that is not actually bestial\nor savage, something strange yet not altogether strange, something\nenigmatic yet not entirely enigmatic. I am nonplussed; it was, and yet\nit was not, what I expected. With restless, ambling steps it slinks past\nme, disappearing through the closed gate by my side. Then satisfied, yet\nvaguely puzzled, I come away, wondering, wondering--wondering why on\nearth dogs should thus be desecrated.\n\nContrary to what one would imagine to be the case from the close\nassociation of cats with witches and magic, phantasms in a feline form\nare comparatively rare, and their appearance is seldom, if ever, as\nrepulsive as that of the occult dog. I have seen phantasm cats several\ntimes, but, though they have been abnormally large and alarming, only\nonce--and I am anxious to forget that time--were they anything like as\noffensive as many of the ghostly dogs that have manifested themselves to\nme. In my _Haunted Houses of England and Wales_ I have given an instance\nof dual haunting, in which one of the phenomena was a big black cat with\na fiendish expression in its eyes, but otherwise normal; and, _\u00e0 propos_\nof cats, there now comes back to me a story I was once told in the Far\nWest--the Golden State of California. I was on my way back to England,\nafter a short but somewhat bitter absence, and I was staying for the\nnight at a small hotel in San Francisco. The man who related the\nanecdote was an Australian, born and bred, on his way home to his\nnative land after many years' sojourn in Texas. I was sitting on the\nsofa in the smoke-room reading, when he threw himself down in a chair\nopposite me and we gradually got into conversation. It was late when we\nbegan talking, and the other visitors, one by one, yawned, rose, and\nwithdrew to their bedrooms, until we found ourselves alone--absolutely\nalone. The night was unusually dark and silent.\n\nLeaning over the little tile-covered table at which we sat, the stranger\nsuddenly said: \"Do you see anything by me? Look hard.\" Much surprised at\nhis request, for I confess that up to then I had taken him for a very\nordinary kind of person, I looked, and, to my infinite astonishment and\nawe, saw, floating in mid-air, about two yards from him, and on a level\nwith his chair, the shadowy outlines of what looked like an enormous\ncat--a cat with very little hair and unpleasant eyes--decidedly\nunpleasant eyes. My flesh crawled!\n\n\"Well?\" said the stranger--who, by-the-by, had called himself\nGallaher,--in very anxious tones, \"Well--you don't seem in a hurry, nor\nyet particularly pleased--what is it?\"\n\n\"A cat!\" I gasped. \"A cat--and a cat in mid-air!\"\n\nThe stranger swore. \"D---- it!\" he cried, dashing his fist on the table\nwith such force that the match-box flew a dozen or so feet up the\nroom--\"Cuss! the infernal thing! I guessed it was near me, I could feel\nits icy breath!\" He glanced sharply round as he spoke, and hurled his\ntobacco pouch at the shape. It passed right through it and fell with a\nsoft squash on the ground. Gallaher picked it up with an oath. \"I will\ntell you the history of that cat,\" he went on, as he resumed his seat,\n\"and a d----d queer history it is.\"\n\nPouring himself out a bumper of whisky and refilling his pipe, he\ncleared his throat and began: \"As a boy I always hated cats--God knows\nwhy--but the sight of a cat made me sick. I could not stand their soft,\nsleek fur; nor their silly, senseless faces; nor their smell--the smell\nof their skins, which most people don't seem able to detect. I could,\nhowever; I could recognise that d----d scent a mile off, and could\nalways tell, without seeing it, when there was a cat in the house. If\nany of the boys at school wanted to play me a trick they let loose half\na dozen mangy tabbies in our yard, or sent me a hideous 'Tom' trussed up\nlike a fowl in a hamper, or made cats' noises in the dead of night under\nmy window. Everyone in the village, from the baker to the bone-setter,\nknew of my hatred of cats, and, consequently, I had many\nenemies--chiefly amongst the old ladies. I must tell you, however, much\nas I loathed and abominated cats, I never killed one. I threw stones and\nsticks at them; I emptied jugs, and cans, and many pails of water on\nthem; I pelted them with turnips; I hurled cushions, bolsters, pillows,\nanything I could first lay my hands on, at them; and\"--here he cast a\nfurtive look at the shadow--\"I have pinched and trodden on their tails;\nbut I have never killed one. When I grew up, my attitude towards them\nremained the same, and wherever I went I won the reputation for being\nthe inveterate, the most poignantly inveterate, enemy of cats.\n\n\"When I was about twenty-five, I settled in a part of Texas where there\nwere no cats. It was on a ranch in the upper valley of the Colorado. I\nwas cattle ranching, and having had a pretty shrewd knowledge of the\nbusiness before I left home, I soon made headway, and--between\nourselves, mate, for there are mighty 'tough uns' in these town\nhotels--a good pile of dollars. I never had any of the adventures that\nbefall most men out West, never but once, and I am coming to that right\naway.\n\n\"I had been selling some hundred head of cattle and about the same\nnumber of hogs, at a town some twenty or so miles from my ranch, and\nfeeling I would like a bit of excitement, after so many months of\nmonotony--the monotony of the desert life--I turned into the theatre--a\nwooden shanty--where a company of touring players, mostly Yankees, were\nperforming. Sitting next to me was a fellow who speedily got into\nconversation with me and assured me he was an Australian. I did not\nbelieve him, for he had not the cut of an Australian,--until he\nmentioned one or two of the streets I knew in Adelaide, and that settled\nme. We drank to each other's health straight away, and he invited me to\nsupper at his hotel. I accepted; and as soon as the performance was\nover, and we had exchanged greetings with some half-dozen of the\nperformers, in whisky, he slipped his arm through mine and we strolled\noff together. Of course it was very foolish of me, seeing that I had a\nbelt full of money; but then I had not had an outing for a long time,\nand I thirsted for adventure as I thirsted for whisky, and God alone\nknows how much of THAT I had already drunk. We arrived at the hotel. It\nwas a poor-looking place in a sinister neighbourhood, abounding with\nevil-eyed Dagos and cut-throats of all kinds. Still I was young and\nstrong, and well armed, for I never left home in those days without a\nsix-shooter. My companion escorted me into a low room in the rear of the\npremises, smelling villainously of foul tobacco and equally foul\nalcohol. Some half-cooked slices of bacon and suspicious-looking fried\neggs were placed before us, which, with huge hunks of bread and a bottle\nof very much belabelled--too much belabelled--Highland whisky, completed\nthe repast. But it was too unsavoury even for my companion, whose hungry\neyes and lantern jaws proclaimed he had a ravenous appetite. However, he\nate the bacon and I the bread; the eggs we emptied into a flower-pot.\nThe supper--the supper of which he had led me to think so much--over, we\nfilled our glasses, or at least he poured out for both, for his hands\nwere steadier--even in my condition of semi-intoxication I noticed they\nwere steadier--than mine. Then he brought me a cigar and took me to his\nbedroom, a bare, grimy apartment overhead. There was no furniture,\nsaving a bed showing unmistakable signs that someone had been lying on\nit in dirty boots, a small rectangular deal table, and one chair.\n\n\"In a stupefied condition I was hesitating which of the alternatives to\nchoose--the chair or the table, for, oddly enough, I never thought of\nthe bed, when my host settled the question by leading me forcibly\nforward and flinging me down on the mattress. He then took a wooden\nwedge out of his pocket, and, going to the door, thrust it in the crack,\ngiving the handle a violent tug to see whether the door stood the test.\n'There now, mate,' he said with a grin--a grin that seemed to suggest\nsomething my tipsy brain could not grasp, 'I have just shut us in snug\nand secure so that we can chat away without fear of interruption. Let us\ndrink to a comfortable night's sleep. You will sleep sound enough here,\nI can tell you!' He handed me a glass as he spoke. 'Drink!' he said with\na leer. 'You are not half an Australian if you cannot hold that! See!'\nand pouring himself out a tumbler of spirits and water he was about to\ngulp it down, when I uttered an ejaculation of horror. The light from\nthe single gas jet over his head, falling on his face as he lifted it up\nto drink the whisky, revealed in his wide open, protruding pupils, the\nreflection of a cat--I can swear it was a cat. Instantly my intoxication\nevaporated and I scented danger. How was it I had not noticed before\nthat the man was a typical ruffian--a regular street-corner loiterer,\nwaiting, hawklike, to pounce upon and fleece the first well-to-do\nlooking stranger he saw. Of course I saw it all now like a flash of\nlightning: he had seen me about the town during the earlier part of the\nday, had found out I was there on business, that I was an Australian,\nand one or two other things--it is surprising how soon one's affairs get\nmooted in a small town,--and guessing I had the receipts of my sales on\nmy person, had decided to rob me. Accordingly, with this end in view, he\nhad followed me into the theatre, and, securing the seat next me, had\nbroken the ice by pretending he was an Australian. He had then plied me\nwith drink and brought me, already more than half drunk, to this\ncut-throat den. And I owed the discovery to a cat! My first thought was\nto feel for my revolver. I did, and found it was--gone. My hopes sank to\nzero; for though I might have been more than a match for the wiry framed\nstranger had we both been unarmed, I had not the slightest chance with\nhim were he armed, as he undoubtedly was, with my revolver as well as\nhis own. Though it takes some time to explain this, it all passed\nthrough my mind in a few seconds--before he had finished drinking. 'Now,\nmate!' he said, putting down his glass, the first WHOLE glass even of\nwhisky and water he had taken that night, 'that's my share, now for\nyours.'\n\n\"'Wait a bit!' I stammered, pretending to hiccough, 'wait a bit. I don't\nfeel that I can drink any more just yet! Maybe I will in a few minutes.'\nWe sat down, and I saw protruding from his hip pocket the butt end of a\nrevolver. If only I could get it! Determined to try, I edged slightly\ntowards him. He immediately drew away, a curious, furtive, bestial smile\nlurking in the corner of his lips. I casually repeated the manoeuvre,\nand he just as casually repeated his. Then I glanced at the window--the\ndoor I knew was hopeless,--and it was iron barred. I gazed again at the\nman, and his eyes grinned evilly as they met mine. Without a doubt he\nmeant to murder me. The ghastliness of my position stunned me. Even if I\nshrieked for help, who would hear me save desperadoes, in all\nprobability every whit as ready as my companion to kill me.\n\n\"A hideous stupor now began to assert itself, and as I strained to keep\nmy lids from closing, I watched with a thrill of terror a fiendish look\nof expectancy creep into the white, gleaming face of the stranger. I\nrealised, only too acutely, that he was waiting for me to fall asleep so\nas the more conveniently to rob and murder me. The man was a murderer by\ninstinct--his whole air suggested it--his very breath was impregnated\nwith the sickly desire to kill. Physically, he was the ideal assassin.\nIt was strange that I had not observed it before; but in this light,\nthis yellow, piercing glare, all the criminality of his features was\nrevealed with damning clearness: the high cheek-bones, the light,\nprotruding eyes, the abnormally developed forehead and temporal regions,\nthe small, weak chin, the grossly irregular teeth, the poisonous breath,\nthe club-shaped finger-tips and thick palms. Where could one find a\ngreater combination of typically criminal characteristics? The man was\nmade for destroying his fellow creatures. When would he begin his job\nand how?\n\n\"I am not narrow minded, I can recognise merit even in my enemies; and\nthough I was so soon to be his victim, I could not but admire the\nthoroughly professional manner, indicative of past mastership, with\nwhich he set about his business. So far all his plans, generated with\nmeteor-like quickness, had been successful; he was now showing how\ndevoted he was to his vocation, and how richly he appreciated the\nsituation, by abandoning himself to a short period of greedy, voluptuous\nanticipation, fully expressed in his staring eyes and thinly lipped\nmouth, before experiencing the delicious sensation of slitting my\nwindpipe and dismembering me. My drowsiness, which I verily believe was\nin a great measure due to the peculiar fascination he had for me,\nsteadily increased, and it was only with the most desperate efforts,\negged on by the knowledge that my very existence depended on it, that I\ncould keep my eyelids from actually coming together and sticking fast.\nAt last they closed so nearly as to deceive my companion, who, rising\nstealthily to his feet, showed his teeth in a broad grin of\nsatisfaction, and whipping from his coat pocket a glittering,\nhorn-handled knife, ran his dirty, spatulate thumb over the blade to see\nif it was sharp. Grinning still more, he now tiptoed to the window,\npulled the blind as far down as it would go, and, after placing his ear\nagainst the panel of the door to make sure no one was about, gaily spat\non his palms, and, with a soft, sardonic chuckle, crept slowly towards\nme. Had he advanced with a war-whoop it would have made little or no\ndifference--the man and his atmosphere paralysed me--I was held in the\nchair by iron bonds that swathed themselves round hands, and feet, and\ntongue. I could neither stir nor utter a sound,--only look, look with\nall the pent-up agonies of my soul through my burning, quivering\neye-lashes. A yard, a foot, an inch, and the perspiring fingers of his\nleft hand dexterously loosened the gaudy coloured scarf that hid my\nthroat. A second later and I felt them smartly transferred to my long,\ncurly hair. They tightened, and my neck was on the very verge of being\njerked back, when between my quivering eyelids I saw on the sheeny\nsurface of his bulging eye-balls,--the cat--the damnable, hated cat. The\neffect was magical. A wave of the most terrific, the most ungovernable\nfury surged through me. I struck out blindly, and one of my fists\nalighting on the would-be murderer's face made him stagger back and drop\nthe knife. In an instant the weapon was mine, and ere he could draw his\nsix-shooter--for the suddenness of the encounter and my blow had\nconsiderably dazed him--I had hurled myself upon him, and brought him to\nthe ground.\n\n\"The force with which I had thrown him, together with my blow, had\nstunned him, and I would have left him in that condition had it not been\nfor the cat--the accursed cat--that, peeping up at me from every\nparticle of his prostrate body, egged me on to kill him. My intense\nadmiration for his genius now manifested itself in the way in which I\nimitated all his movements, from the visit to the door and window, to\nthe spitting on his palms; and with a grin--the nearest counterpart that\nI could get, after prodigious efforts, to the one that so fascinated\nme--I approached his recumbent figure, and, bending over it, removed his\nneckerchief. I sat and admired the gently throbbing whiteness of his\nthroat for some seconds, and then, with a volley of execrations at the\ncat, commenced my novel and by no means uninteresting work. I am afraid\nI bungled it sadly, for I was disturbed when in the midst of it, by the\nsound of scratching, the violent and frantic scratching, of some animal\non the upper panels of the door. The sound flustered me, and, my hand\nshaking in consequence, I did not make such a neat job of it as I should\nhave liked. However, I did my best, and at all events I killed him; and\nI enjoyed the supreme satisfaction of knowing that I had killed\nhim--killed the cat. But my joy was of short duration, and I now\nbitterly regret my rash deed. Wherever I go in the daytime, the shadowy\nfigure of the cat accompanies me, and at night, crouching on my\nbedclothes, it watches--watches me with the expression in its eyes and\nmouth of my would-be murderer on that memorable night.\"\n\nAs he concluded, for an instant, only for an instant, the shadow by his\nside grew clearer, and I saw the cat, saw it watching him with murder,\nghastly murder lurking in its eyes. I struck a match, and, as I had\nanticipated, the phenomenon vanished.\n\n\"It will return,\" the Australian said gloomily; \"it always does. I shall\nnever get rid of it!\" And as I fully concurred with this statement, and\nhad no suggestions to offer, I thanked him for his story, and wished him\ngood night. But I did not leave him alone. He still had his cat. I saw\nit return to him as I passed through the doorway. Of course, I had no\nmeans of verifying his story; it might have been true, or it might not.\nBut there was the cat!--thoroughly objective and as perfect a specimen\nof a feline, occult bestiality as I have ever seen or wish to see again.\n\nThat a spirit should appear in the form of a pig need not seem\nremarkable when we remember that those who live foul lives, _i.e._ the\nsensual and greedy, must, after death, assume the shape that is most\nappropriate to them; indeed, in these circumstances, one might rather be\nsurprised that a phantasm in the shape of a hog is not a more frequent\noccurrence.\n\nThere are numerous instances of hauntings by phenomena of this kind, in\nsome cases the phantasms being wholly animal, and in other cases\nsemi-animal.\n\nWhat I have said with regard to the phantasms of dogs--namely, the\ndifficulty, practically the impossibility, of deciding whether the\nmanifestation is due to an elemental or to a spirit of the dead--holds\ngood in the case of \"pig\" as well as every other kind of bestial\nphenomenon.\n\nThe phantasm in the shape of a horse I am inclined to attribute to the\nonce actually material horse and not to elementals.\n\nWith regard to phantom birds--and there are innumerable cases of occult\nbird phenomena--I fancy it is otherwise, and that the majority of bird\nhauntings are caused either by the spirits of dead people, or by vicious\nforms of elementals.\n\nThough one hears of few cases of occult bestialities in the shape of\ntigers, lions, or any other wild animal--saving bears and wolves,\nphantasms of which appear to be common--I nevertheless believe, from\nhearsay evidence, that they are to be met with in certain of the jungles\nand deserts in the East, and that for the most part they are the\nphantasms of the dead animals themselves, still hankering to be\ncruel--still hankering to kill.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\nVAMPIRES, WERE-WOLVES, FOX-WOMEN, ETC.\n\n\n_Vampires_\n\nAccording to a work by Jos. Ennemoser, entitled _The Phantom World_,\nHungary was at one time full of vampires. Between the river Theiss and\nTransylvania, were (and still are, I believe) a people called Heyducs,\nwho were much pestered with this particularly noxious kind of phantasm.\nAbout 1732, a Heyduc called Arnauld Paul was crushed to death by a\nwaggon. Thirty days after his burial a great number of people began to\ndie, and it was then remembered that Paul had said he was tormented by a\nvampire. A consultation was held and it was decided to exhume him. On\ndigging up his body, it was found to be red all over and literally\nbursting with blood, some of which had forced a passage out and wetted\nhis winding sheet. Moreover, his hair, nails, and beard had grown\nconsiderably. These being sure signs that the corpse was possessed by a\nvampire, the local bailie was fetched and the usual proceedings for the\nexpulsion of the undesirable phantasm began. A stake, sharply pointed at\none end, was handed to the bailie, who, raising it above his head,\ndrove it with all his might into the heart of the corpse. There then\nissued from the body the most fearful screams, whereupon it was at once\nthrown into a fire that had been specially prepared for it, and burned\nto ashes. But, though this was the end of that particular vampire, it\nwas by no means the end of the hauntings; for the deaths, far from\ndecreasing in number, continued in rapid succession, and no less than\nseventeen people in the village died within a period of three months.\nThe question now arose as to which of the other bodies in the cemetery\nwere \"possessed,\" it being very evident that more than one vampire lay\nburied there. Whilst the matter was at the height of discussion, the\nsolution to the problem was brought about thus. A girl, of the name of\nStanoska, awoke in the middle of the night, uttering the most\nheartrending screams, and declaring that the son of a man called Millo\n(who had been dead nine weeks) had nearly strangled her. A rush was at\nonce made to the cemetery, and a general disinterment taking place,\nseventeen out of the forty corpses (including that of the son of Millo)\nshowed unmistakable signs of vampirism. They were all treated according\nto the mode described, and their ashes cast into the adjacent river. A\ncommittee of inquiry concluded that the spread of vampirism had been due\nto the eating of certain cattle, of which Paul had been the first to\npartake. The disturbances ceased with the death of the girl and the\ndestruction of her body, and the full account of the hauntings, attested\nto by officers of the local garrison, the chief surgeons, and most\ninfluential of the inhabitants of the district, was sent to the\nImperial Council of War at Venice, which caused a strict inquiry to be\nmade into the matter, and were subsequently, according to Ennemoser,\nsatisfied that all was _bona fide_.\n\nIn another work, _A History of Magic_, Ennemoser also refers to a case\nin the village of Kisilova, in Hungary, where the body of an old man,\nthree days after his death, appeared to his son on two consecutive\nnights, demanding something to eat, and, being given some meat, ate it\nravenously. The third night the son died, and the succeeding day\nwitnessed the deaths of some five or six others. The matter was reported\nto the Tribunal of Belgrade, which promptly sent two officers to inquire\ninto the case. On their arrival the old man's grave was opened, and his\nbody found to be full of blood and natural respiration. A stake was then\ndriven through its heart, and the hauntings ceased.\n\nThough far fewer in number than they were, and more than ever confined\nto certain localities, I am quite sure that vampires are by no means\nextinct. Their modes and habits--they are no longer gregarious--have\nchanged with the modes and habits of their victims, but they are none\nthe less vampires. Have I seen them? No! but my not having been thus\nfortunate, or rather unfortunate, does not make me so discourteous as to\ndisbelieve those who tell me that they have seen a vampire--that\npeculiar, indefinably peculiar shape that, wriggling along the ground\nfrom one tombstone to another, crawls up and over the churchyard wall,\nand making for the nearest house, disappears through one of its upper\nwindows. Indeed, I have no doubt that had I watched that house some few\ndays afterwards, I should have seen a pale, an\u00e6mic looking creature,\nwith projecting teeth and a thoroughly imbecile expression, come out of\nit. I believe a large percentage of idiots and imbecile epileptics owe\ntheir pitiable plight to vampires which, in their infancy, they had the\nmisfortune to attract. I do not think that, as of old, the vampires come\nto their prey installed in stolen bodies, but that they visit people\nwholly in spirit form, and, with their superphysical mouths, suck the\nbrain cells dry of intellect. The baby, who is thus the victim of a\nvampire, grows up into something on a far lower scale of intelligence\nthan dumb animals, more bestial than monkeys, and more dangerous (far\nmore dangerous, if the public only realised it) than tigers; for,\nwhereas the tiger is content with one square meal a day, the hunger of\nvampirism is never satisfied, and the half-starved, mal-shaped brain\ncells, the prey of vampirism, are in a constant state of suction, ever\ntrying to draw in mental sustenance from the healthy brain cells around\nthem. Idiots and epileptics are the cephalopoda of the land--only, if\nanything, fouler, more voracious, and more insatiable than their aquatic\nprototypes. They never ought to be at large. If not destroyed in their\nearly infancy (which one cannot help thinking would be the most merciful\nplan both for the idiot and the community in general), those polyp\nbrains ought to be kept in some isolated place where they would have\nonly each other to feed upon. When I see an idiot walking in the\nstreets, I always take very good care to give him a wide berth, as I\nhave no desire that the vampire buried in his withered brain cells\nshould derive any nutrition at my expense. From the fact that some towns\nwhich are close to cromlechs, ancient burial-grounds, woods, or moors\nare full of idiots, leads me to suppose that vampires often frequent the\nsame spots as barrowvians, vagrarians and other types of elementals.\nWhilst, on the other hand, since many densely crowded centres have fully\ntheir share of idiots, I am led to believe that vampires are equally\nattracted by populous districts, and that, in short, unlike barrowvians\nand vagrarians, they can be met with pretty nearly everywhere. And now\nfor examples.\n\nA man I know, who spends most of his time in Germany, once had a strange\nexperience when staying in the neighbourhood of the Hartz mountains. One\nsultry evening in August he was walking in the country, and noticed a\nperambulator with a white figure, which he took to be that of a\nremarkably tall nursemaid, bending over it. As he drew nearer, however,\nhe found that he had been mistaken. The figure was nothing human; it had\nno limbs; it was cylindrical. A faint, sickly sound of sucking caused my\nfriend to start forward with an exclamation of horror, and as he did so,\nthe phantasm glided away from the perambulator and disappeared among the\ntrees. The baby, my friend assured me, was a mere bag of bones, with a\nghastly, grinning an\u00e6mic face. Again, when touring in Hungary, he had a\nsimilar experience. He was walking down a back street in a large,\nthickly populated town, when he beheld a baby lying on the hot and\nsticky pavement with a queer-looking object stooping over it. Wondering\nwhat on earth the thing was, he advanced rapidly, and saw, to his\nunmitigated horror, that it was a phantasm with a limbless, cylindrical\nbody, a huge flat, pulpy head, and protruding, luminous lips, which were\ntightly glued to the infant's ears; and again my friend heard a faint,\nsickly sound of sucking, and a sound more hideously nauseating, he\ninformed me, could not be imagined. He was too dumbfounded to act; he\ncould only stare; and the phantasm, after continuing its loathsome\noccupation for some seconds, leisurely arose, and moving away with a\ngliding motion, vanished in the yard of an adjacent house. The child did\nnot appear to be human, but a concoction of half a dozen diminutive\nbestialities, and as my friend gazed at it, too fascinated for the\nmoment to tear himself away, it smiled up at him with the hungry,\nleering smile of vampirism and idiocy.\n\nSo much for vampires in the country and in crowded cities, but, as I\nhave already remarked, they are ubiquitous. As an illustration, there is\nsaid to be a maritime town in a remote part of England, which, besides\nbeing full of quaintness (of a kind not invariably pleasant) and of foul\nsmells, is also full of more than half-savage fishermen and idiots;\nidiots that often come out at dusk, and greatly alarm strangers by\nrunning after them.\n\nSome years ago, one of these idiots went into a stranger's house, took a\nnoisy baby out of its cot, and after tubbing it well (which I think\nshowed that the idiot possessed certain powers of observation), cut off\nits head, throwing the offending member into the fire. The parents were\nnaturally indignant, and so were some of the inhabitants; but the affair\nwas speedily forgotten, and although the murderer was confined to a\nlunatic asylum, nothing was done to rid the town of other idiots who\nwere, collectively, doing mischief of a nature far more serious than\nthat of the recently perpetrated murder.\n\nThe wild and rugged coast upon which the town is situated was formerly\nthe hunting-ground of wreckers, and I fear the present breed of\nfishermen, in spite of their hypocritical pretensions to religion, prove\nonly too plainly by their abominable cruelty to birds and inhospitable\ntreatment of strangers, that they are in reality no better than their\nforbears. This inherited strain of cruelty in the fishermen would alone\naccount for the presence of vampires and every other kind of vicious\nelemental; but the town has still another attraction--namely, a\nprehistoric burial-ground, on a wide expanse of thinly populated\nmoorland--in its rear.\n\n_\u00c0 propos_ of vampires, my friend Mrs South writes to me as follows (I\nquote her letter _ad verbum_): \"The other night, I was dining with a\nvery old friend of mine whom I had not seen for years, and, during a\npause in the conversation, he suddenly said, 'Do you believe in\nvampires?' I wondered for a moment if he had gone mad, and I think, in\nmy matter-of-fact way, I blurted out something of the sort; but I saw in\na moment, from the expression in his eyes, that he had something to\ntell me, and that he was not at all in the mood to be laughed at or\nmisunderstood, 'Tell me,' I said, 'I am listening.' 'Well,' he replied,\n'I had an extraordinary experience a few months ago, and not a word of\nit have I breathed to any living soul. But sometimes the horror of it so\noverpowers me that I feel I must share my secret with someone; and\nyou--well, you and I have always been such pals.' I answered nothing,\nbut gently pressed his hand.\n\n\"After lighting a cigarette, he commenced his story, which I will give\nyou as nearly as possible in his own words:--\n\n\"'It is about six months ago since I returned from my travels. Up to\nthat time I had been away from England for nearly three years, as you\nknow. About a couple of nights after my return, I was dining at my Club,\nwhen someone tapped me on the shoulder, and turning round, I saw my old\nfriend S----.\n\n\"'As I had no idea he was in London, you may imagine my delight. He\njoined me at dinner and we went over old times together. He asked me if\nI had heard anything of our mutual friend G----, to whom we were both\nvery much attached. I said I had had a few lines from him about six\nmonths previously, announcing his marriage, but that I had never heard\nfrom him nor seen him since. He had settled, I believe, in the heart of\nthe country. S---- then told me that he had not seen G---- since his\nengagement, neither had he heard from him; in fact he had written to him\nonce or twice, but his letters had received no answer. There were\nwhispered rumours that he was looking ill and unhappy. Hearing this, I\ngot G----'s address from S----, and made up my mind I would run down and\nsee him as soon as I could get away from town.\n\n\"'About a week afterwards I found myself, after driving an interminable\ndistance, so it seemed to me, through Devonshire lanes, stopping outside\na beautiful house which appeared to be entirely isolated from any other\ndwelling.\n\n\"'A few more minutes and I was standing before a blazing log fire in a\nfine old hall, eagerly awaiting the welcome I knew my old friend would\ngive me. I did not anticipate long; in less time than it takes to tell\nG---- appeared, and with slow, painfully slow steps, crossed the hall to\ngreet me. He was wasted to a shadow, and I felt a lump rise in my throat\nas I thought of the splendid, athletic boy I used to know. He made no\nexcuse for his wife, who did not accompany him; and though I was\nnaturally anxious to see her, I was glad that Jack and I were alone. We\nchatted together utterly regardless of the time, and it was not until\nthe first gong had sounded that I thought of dressing for dinner. After\nperforming a somewhat hurried toilette, I was hastening downstairs, when\nI suddenly became conscious that I was being watched. I looked all round\nand could see no one. I then heard a low, musical laugh just above my\nhead, and looking up, I saw a figure leaning over the banisters. The\nbeauty of the face dazzled me for a moment, and the loveliness of the\neyes, which looked into mine and seemed to shine a red gold, held me\nspellbound. Presently a voice, every whit as lovely as the face, said:\n\"So you are Jack's chum?\" The most beautiful woman I have ever seen then\ncame slowly down the stairs, and slipping her arm through mine, led me\nto the dining-room. As her hand rested on my coat-sleeve, I remember\nnoticing that the fingers were long, and thin, and pointed, and the\nnails so polished that they almost shone red. Indeed, I could not help\nfeeling somewhat puzzled by the fact that everything about her shone red\nwith the exception of her skin, which, with an equal brilliancy, shone\nwhite. At dinner she was lively, but she ate and drank very sparingly,\nand as though food was loathsome to her.\n\n\"'Soon after dinner I felt so exceedingly tired and sleepy, a most\nunusual thing for me, that I found it absolutely impossible to keep\nawake, and consequently asked my host and hostess to excuse me. I woke\nnext morning feeling languid and giddy, and, while shaving, I noticed a\ncurious red mark at the base of my neck. I imagined I must have cut\nmyself shaving hurriedly the evening before, and thought nothing more\nabout it.\n\n\"'The following night, after dinner, I experienced the same sensation of\nsleepiness, and felt almost as if I had been drugged. It was impossible\nfor me to keep awake, so I again asked to be excused! On this occasion,\nafter I had retired, a curious thing happened. I dreamed--or at least I\nsuppose I dreamed--that I saw my door slowly open, and the figure of a\nwoman carrying a candle in one hand, and with the other carefully\nshading the flame, glide noiselessly into my room. She was clad in a\nloose red gown, and a great rope of hair hung over one shoulder. Again\nthose red-gold eyes looked into mine; again I heard that low musical\nlaugh; and this time I felt powerless either to speak or to move. She\nleaned down, nearer and nearer to me; her eyes gradually assumed a\nfiendish and terrible expression; and with a sucking noise, which was\nhorrible to hear, she fastened her crimson lips to the little wound in\nmy neck. I remembered nothing more until the morning. The place on my\nneck, I thought, looked more inflamed, and as I looked at it, my dream\ncame vividly back to me and I began to wonder if after all it was only a\ndream. I felt frightfully rotten, so rotten that I decided to return to\ntown that day; and yet I yielded to some strange fascination, and\ndetermined, after all, to stay another night. At dinner I drank\nsparingly; and, making the same excuse as on the previous nights, I\nretired to bed at an early hour. I lay awake until midnight, waiting for\nI know not what; and was just thinking what a mad fool I was, when\nsuddenly the door gently opened and again I saw Jack's wife. Slowly she\ncame towards me, gliding as stealthily and noiselessly as a snake. I\nwaited until she leaned over me, until I felt her breath on my cheek,\nand then--then flung my arms round her. I had just time to see the mad\nterror in her eyes as she realised I was awake, and the next instant,\nlike an eel, she had slipped from my grasp, and was gone. I never saw\nher again. I left early the next morning, and I shall never forget dear\nold Jack's face when I said good-bye to him. It is only a few days since\nI heard of his death.'\"\n\n\n_Were-wolves_\n\nClosely allied to the vampire is the were-wolf, which, however, instead\nof devouring the intellect of human beings, feeds only on their flesh.\nLike the vampire, the were-wolf belongs to the order of elementals; but,\nunlike the vampire, it is confined to a very limited sphere--the wilds\nof Norway, Sweden, and Russia, and only appears in two guises, that of a\nhuman being in the daytime and a wolf at night. I have closely\nquestioned many people who have travelled in those regions, but very few\nof them--one or two at the most--have actually come in contact with\nthose to whom the existence of the were-wolf is not a fable but a fact.\nOne of these travellers, a mere acquaintance whom I met in an hotel in\nthe Latin Quarter of Paris, assured me that the authenticity of a story\nhe would tell me, relating to the were-wolf, was, in the neighbourhood\nthrough which he travelled, never for a single moment doubted.\n\nMy informant, a highly cultured Russian, spoke English, French, German,\nand Italian with as great fluency as I spoke my native tongue, and I\nbelieved him to be perfectly genuine. The incident he told me, to which\nunanimous belief was accredited, happened to two young men (whom I will\ncall Hans and Carl), who were travelling to Nijni Novgorod, a city in\nthe province of Tobolsk. The route they took was off the beaten track,\nand led them through a singularly wild and desolate tract of country.\nOne evening, when they were trotting mechanically along, their horses\nsuddenly came to a standstill and appeared to be very much frightened.\nThey inquired of the driver the reason of such strange behaviour, and he\npointed with his whip to a spot on the ice--they were then crossing a\nfrozen lake--a few feet ahead of them. They got out of the sleigh, and,\napproaching the spot indicated, found the body of a peasant lying on his\nback, his throat gnawed away and all his entrails gone. \"A wolf without\na doubt,\" they said, and getting back into the sleigh, they drove on,\ntaking good care to see that their rifles were ready for instant action.\nThey had barely gone a mile when the horses again halted, and a second\ncorpse was discovered, the corpse of a child with its face and thighs\nentirely eaten away. Again they drove on, and had progressed a few more\nmiles when the horses stopped so abruptly that the driver was pitched\nbodily out; and before Carl and Hans could dismount, the brutes started\noff at a wild gallop. They were eventually got under control, but it was\nwith the greatest difficulty that they were forced to turn round and go\nback, in order to pick up the unfortunate driver. The farther they went,\nthe more restless they became, and when, at length, they approached the\nplace where the driver had been thrown, they came to a sudden and\nresolute standstill. As no amount of whipping would now make them go on,\nHans got out, and advancing a few steps, espied something lying across\nthe track some little distance ahead of them. Gun in hand, he advanced\na few more steps, when he suddenly stopped. To his utter amazement he\nsaw, bending over a body, which he at once identified as that of their\ndriver, the figure of a woman. She started as he approached, and,\nhastily springing up, turned towards him. The strange beauty of her\nface, her long, lithe limbs (she stood fully six feet high) and slender\nbody,--the beauty of the latter enhanced by the white woollen costume in\nwhich she was clad,--had an extraordinary effect upon Hans. Her shining\nmasses of golden hair, that curled in thick clusters over her forehead\nand about her ears; the perfect regularity of her features, and the\nlustrous blue of her eyes, enraptured him; whilst the expression both in\nher face and figure--in her sparkling eyes and firmly modelled mouth; in\nher red lips, and even in her pearly teeth, repulsed and almost\nfrightened him. He gazed steadily at her, and, as he did so, the hold on\nhis rifle involuntarily tightened. He then glanced from her face to her\nhands, and noticed with a spasm of horror that the tips of her long and\nbeautifully shaped nails were dripping with blood, and that there was\nblood, too, on her knees and feet, blood all over her. He then looked at\nthe driver and saw the wretched man's clothes had been partially\nstripped off, and that there were great gory holes in his throat and\nabdomen.\n\n\"Oh, I am so glad you have come!\" the woman cried, addressing him in a\nstrangely peculiar voice, that thrilled him to the marrow of his bones.\n\"It is the wolves. Do come and see what they have done. I saw them, from\na distance, attack this poor man, and leaving my sleigh, for my horses\ncame to a dead halt, and nothing I could do would induce them to move, I\nran to his assistance. But, alas! I was too late!\" Then, looking at her\ndress, from which Hans could scarcely remove his eyes, she cried out:\n\"Ugh! How disgusting--blood! My hands and clothes are covered with it. I\ntried to stop the bleeding, but it was no use\"; and she proceeded to\nwipe her fingers on the snow.\n\n\"But why did you venture here alone?\" Hans inquired, \"and why unarmed?\nHow foolhardy! The wolves would have made short work of you had you\nencountered them!\"\n\n\"Then you cannot have heard the report of my gun!\" the woman cried, in\nwell-feigned astonishment. \"How strange! I fired at the wolves from over\nthere\"; and she pointed with one of her slender, milky-white fingers to\na spot on the ice some fifty yards away. \"Fortunately, they all made\noff,\" she continued, \"and I hastened hither, dropping my gun that I\nmight run the faster.\"\n\n\"I can see no gun,\" Hans exclaimed, shading his eyes with his hand and\nstaring hard.\n\nThe woman laughed. \"What a disbelieving Jew it is!\" she said. \"The gun\nis there; I can see it plainly. You must be short-sighted.\" And then,\nstraining her eyes on the far distance, she shrieked: \"Great Heavens! My\nsleigh has gone! Oh! what shall I do? What shall I do?\"\n\nGiving way to every gesture of despair, she looked so forlorn and\nbeautiful that Hans would have been full of pity for her, had not\ncertain vague suspicions, which he could neither account for nor\novercome, entered his heart. Sorely perplexed, he did not know what to\ndo, and stood looking at her in critical silence.\n\n\"Won't you come with me?\" she said, clasping her hands beseechingly.\n\"Come with me to look for it. The horses may only have strayed a short\ndistance, and we might overtake them without much difficulty.\"\n\nAs she spoke thus, her piercing, earnest gaze thrilled him to the very\nsoul, and his heart rose in rebellion against his reason. He had seen\nmany fair women, but assuredly none as fair as this one. What eyes! What\nhair! What a complexion! What limbs! It seemed to him that she was not\nlike ordinary women, that she was not of the same flesh and blood as any\nof the women he had ever met, and that she was in reality something far\nsuperior; something generated by the primitive glamour of the starry\nnight, of the great, sparkling, ice-covered lake, and the lone,\nsnow-capped peaks beyond. And all the while he was thinking thus, and\nunconsciously coming under the spell of her weird beauty, the woman\ncontinued to gaze entreatingly at him from under the long lashes which\nswept her cheeks. At last he could refuse her no longer--he would have\ngone to hell with her had she asked it--and shouting to Carl to remain\nwhere he was, he bade her lead the way. Setting off with long, quick\nstrides that made Hans wonder anew, she soon put a considerable distance\nbetween herself and companion, and Carl. Hans now perceived a change;\nthe sky grew dark, the clouds heavy, and the farther they went, the more\nperceptible this change became. The brightness and sense of joy in the\nair vanished, and, with its dissipation, came a chill and melancholy\nwind that rose from the bosom of the lake and swept all around them,\nmoaning and sighing like a legion of lost souls.\n\nBut Hans, who came of a military stock, feared little, and, with his\nbeautiful guide beside him, would cheerfully have faced a thousand\ndevils. He had no eyes for anything save her, no thought of anything but\nher, and when she sidled up to him, playfully fingering his gun, he\nallowed her to take it from him and do what she liked with it. Indeed,\nhe was so absorbed in the contemplation of her marvellous beauty, that\nhe did not perceive her deftly unload his rifle and throw it from her on\nthe ice; nor did he take any other notice than to think it a very\npretty, playful trick when she laughingly caught his two hands, and\nbound them securely together behind his back. He was still drinking in\nthe wondrous beauty of her eyes, when she suddenly slipped one of her\npretty, shapely feet between his, and with a quick, subtle movement,\ntripped him and threw him to the ground. There was a dull crash, and,\namid the hundred and one sounds that echoed and re-echoed through his\nhead as it came in contact with the ice, he seemed to hear the far-off\npatter of horses' hoofs. Then something deliciously soft and cool\ntouched his throat, and opening his eyes, he found his beautiful\ncompanion bending over him and undoing the folds of his woollen\nneckerchief with her shapely fingers. For such an experience he would\nfall and faint till further orders. He sought her eyes, and all but\nfainted again--the expression in them appalled him. They were no longer\nthose of a woman but a devil, a horrible, sordid devil that hungered not\nmerely for his soul, but for his flesh and blood. Then, in a second, he\nunderstood it all--she was a were-wolf, one of those ghastly creatures\nhe had hitherto scoffingly attributed to the idle superstitions of the\npeasants. It was she who had mutilated the bodies they had passed on the\nroad; it was she who had killed and half-eaten their driver; it was\nshe--but he could think no more, it was all too horrible, and the\nrevulsion of his feelings towards her clogged his brain. He longed to\ngrapple with her, strangle her, and he could do nothing. The bare touch\nof those fingers--those cool, white, tapering fingers, with their long,\nshining filbert nails, all ready and eager to tear and rend his flesh to\npieces--had taken all the life from his limbs, and he could only gaze\nfeebly at her and damn her from the very bottom of his soul. One by one,\nmore swiftly now, she unfastened the buttons of his coat and vest and\nthen, baring her cruel teeth with a soft gurgle of excitement, and a\nsmack of her red glistening lips, she prepared to eat him. Strangely\nenough, he experienced no pain as her nails sank into the flesh of his\nthroat and chest and clawed it asunder. He was numb, numb with the\nnumbness produced by hypnotism or paralysis--only some of his faculties\nwere awake, vividly, startlingly awake. He was abruptly roused from this\nstate by the dull crack of a rifle, and an agonising, blood-curdling\nscream, after which he knew no more till he found himself sitting\nupright on the ice, gulping down brandy, his throat a mass of bandages,\nand Carl kneeling beside him.\n\n\"Where is she?\" he asked, and Carl pointed to an object on the ice. It\nwas the body of a huge white wolf, with half its head blown away.\n\n\"An explosive bullet,\" Carl said grimly. \"I thought I would make certain\nof the beast, even at the risk of hurting you; and, mein Gott! it was a\nnear shave! You have lost some of your hair, but nothing more. When I\nsaw you go away with the woman, I guessed something was up. I did not\nlike the look of her at all; she was a giantess, taller than any woman I\nhave ever seen; and the way she had you in tow made me decidedly\nuncomfortable. Consequently, I followed you at a distance, and when I\nsaw her trip you, I lashed up our horses and came to your rescue as fast\nas I could. Unfortunately, I had to dismount when I was still some\ndistance off, as no amount of lashing would induce the horses to\napproach you nearer, and after arriving within range, it took me some\nseconds to get my rifle ready and select the best position for a shot.\nBut, thank God! I was just in time, and, beyond a few scratches, you are\nall right. Shall we leave the beast here or take it with us?\"\n\n\"We will do neither,\" Hans said, with a shudder, whilst a new and sad\nexpression stole into his eyes. \"I cannot forget it was once a woman!\nand, my God! what a woman! We will bury her here in the ice.\"\n\nThe story here terminated, and from the fact that I have heard other\nstories of a similar nature, I am led to believe that there is in this\none some substratum of truth. Were-wolves are not, of course, always\nprepossessing; they vary considerably. Moreover, they are not restricted\nto one sex, but are just as likely to be met with in the guise of boys\nand men as of girls and women.\n\n\n_Fox-women_\n\nVery different from this were-wolf, though also belonging to the great\nfamily of elementals, are the fox-women of Japan and China, about which\nmuch has been written, but about which, apparently, very little is\nknown.\n\nIn China the fox was (and in remote parts still is) believed to attain\nthe age of eight hundred or a thousand years. At fifty it can assume the\nform of a woman, and at one hundred that of a young and lovely girl,\ncalled Kao-Sai, or \"Our Lady.\" On reaching the thousand years' limit, it\ngoes to Paradise without physical dissolution. I have questioned many\nChinese concerning these fox-women, but have never been able to get any\nvery definite information. One Chinaman, however, assured me that his\nbrother had actually seen the transmigration from fox to woman take\nplace. The man's name I have forgotten, but I will call him Ching Kang.\nWell, Ching Kang was one day threading his way through a lovely valley\nof the Tapa-ling mountains, when he came upon a silver (_i.e._ white)\nfox crouching on the bank of a stream in such a peculiar attitude that\nChing Kang's attention was at once arrested. Thinking that the animal\nwas ill, and delighted at the prospect of lending it aid, for silver\nfoxes are regarded as of good omen in China, Ching Kang approached it,\nand was about to examine it carefully, when to his astonishment he found\nhe could not move--he was hypnotised. But although his limbs were\nparalysed, his faculties were wonderfully active, and his heart almost\nceased beating when he saw the fox slowly begin to get bigger and\nbigger, until at last its head was on a level with his own. There was\nthen a loud crash, its skin burst asunder, and there stepped out of it\nthe form of a girl of such entrancing beauty that Ching Kang thought he\nmust be in Heaven. She was fairer than most Chinese women; her eyes were\nblue instead of brown, and her shapely hands and feet were of milky\nwhiteness. She was gaily dressed in blue silk, with earrings and\nbracelets of blue stone, and carried in one of her hands a blue fan.\nWith a wave of her slender palms she released Ching Kang from his spell,\nand, bidding him follow her, plunged into a thick clump of bushes. Madly\ninfatuated, Ching Kang needed no second bidding, but, keeping close to\nher heels, stolidly pushed his way through barricades of brambles that,\nwhilst yielding to her touch, closed on him and beat him on the face and\nbody so unmercifully that in a very short time he was barely\nrecognisable, being literally bathed in blood. However, despite his\nwounds increasing and multiplying with every step he took, and naturally\ncausing him the most excruciating agony, Ching Kang never, for one\ninstant, thought of turning back; he always kept within touching\ndistance of the blue form in front of him. But at last human nature\ncould stand it no longer; his strength gave way, and as with a mad\nshriek of despair he implored her to stop, his senses left him and he\nfell in a heap to the ground. When he recovered he was lying alone,\nquite alone in the middle of the road, exactly opposite the spot where\nhe had first seen the fox, and by his side was a fan, a blue fan.\nPicking it up sadly, he placed it near his heart (where it remained to\nthe very day of his death), and with one last lingering look at the bank\nof the stream, he continued his solitary journey.\n\nThis was Ching Kang's story. His brother did not think he ever met the\nfox-woman again. He believed Ching Kang was still searching for her when\nhe died.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\nDEATH WARNINGS AND FAMILY GHOSTS\n\n\nCandles are very subject to psychic influences. Many years ago, when I\nwas a boy, I was sitting in a room with some very dear friends of mine,\nwhen one of them, suddenly turning livid, pointed at the candle, and\nwith eyes starting out of their sockets, screamed, \"A winding-sheet! A\nwinding-sheet! See! it is pointing at me!\" We were all so frightened by\nthe suddenness of her action, that for some seconds no one spoke, but\nall sat transfixed with horror, gaping at the candle. \"It must be my\nbrother Tom,\" she continued, \"or Jack. Can't you see it?\" Then, one\nafter another, we all examined the candle and discovered that what she\nsaid was quite true--there was an unmistakable winding-sheet in the wax,\nand it emphatically pointed in her direction. Nor were her surmisings in\nvain, for the next morning she received a telegram to say her brother\nTom had died suddenly. I am sceptical with regard to some\nmanifestations, but I certainly do believe in this one, and I often\nregard my candle anxiously, fearing that I may see a winding-sheet in\nit.\n\nTo have three candles lighted at the same time is also an omen of\ndeath, and as I have known it to be fulfilled in several cases within my\nown experience, I cannot help regarding it as one of the most certain.\n\nI am sometimes informed of the advent of the occult in a very startling\nmanner--my candle burns blue. It has done this when I have been sitting\nalone in my study, at night, writing. I have been busily engaged penning\ndescriptions of the ghosts I and others have seen, when I have been\nstartled by the fact that my paper, originally white, has suddenly\nbecome the colour of the sky, and on looking hastily up to discover a\nreason, have been in no small measure shocked to see my candle burning a\nbright blue. An occult manifestation of sorts has invariably followed. I\nam often warned of the near advent of the occult in this same manner\nwhen I am investigating in a haunted house--the flame of the candle\nburns blue before the appearance of the ghost. It is, by the way, an\nerror to think that different types of phantasms can only appear in\ncertain colours--colours that are peculiar to them. I have seen the same\nphenomenon manifest itself in half a dozen different colours, and blue\nis as often adopted by the higher types of spirits as by the lower, and\nis, in fact, common to both. I have little patience with occultists who\ndraw hard and fast lines, and, ignoring everybody else's experiences,\npresume to diagnose within the narrow limits of their own. No one can as\nyet say anything for certain with regard to the superphysical, and the\nstatements of the most humble psychic investigator, provided he has had\nactual experience, and is genuine, are just as worthy of attention as\nthose of the most eminent exponents of theosophy or spiritualism, or of\nany learned member of the Psychical Research Societies. The occult does\nnot reveal itself to the rich in preference to the poor, and, for\nmanifestation, is not more partial to the Professor of Physics and Law\nthan to the Professor of Nothing--other than keen interest and common\nsense.\n\n\n_Corpse-candles_\n\nIn Wales there are corpse-candles. According to the account of the Rev.\nMr Davis in a work by T. Charley entitled _The Invisible World_,\ncorpse-candles are so called because their light resembles a material\ncandle-light, and might be mistaken for the same, saving that when\nanyone approaches them they vanish, and presently reappear. If the\ncorpse-candle be small, pale, or bluish, it denotes the death of an\ninfant; if it be big, the death of an adult is foretold; and if there\nare two, three, or more candle-lights, varying in size, then the deaths\nare predicted of a corresponding number of infants and adults. \"Of\nlate,\" the Rev. Mr Davis goes on to say (I quote him _ad verbum_), \"my\nsexton's wife, an aged, understanding woman, saw from her bed a little\nbluish candle upon her table: within two or three days after comes a\nfellow in, inquiring for her husband, and, taking something from under\nhis cloak, clapt it down directly upon the table end where she had seen\nthe candle; and what was it but a dead-born child? Another time, the\nsame woman saw such another candle upon the other end of the same\ntable: within a few days later, a weak child, by myself newly\nchristened, was brought into the sexton's house, where presently he\ndied; and when the sexton's wife, who was then abroad, came home, she\nfound the women shrouding the child on that other end of the table where\nshe had seen the candle. On a time, myself and a huntsman coming from\nour school in England, and being three or four hours benighted ere we\ncould reach home, saw such a light, which, coming from a house we well\nknew, held its course (but not directly) in the highway to church:\nshortly after, the eldest son in that house died, and steered the same\ncourse.... About thirty-four or thirty-five years since, one Jane Wyatt,\nmy wife's sister, being nurse to Baronet Rud's three eldest children,\nand (the lady being deceased) the lady of the house going late into a\nchamber where the maid-servants lay, saw there no less than five of\nthese lights together. It happened awhile after, the chamber being newly\nplastered, and a great grate of coal-fire therein kindled to hasten the\ndrying up of the plastering, that five of the maid-servants went there\nto bed as they were wont; but in the morning they were all dead, being\nsuffocated in their sleep with the steam of the newly tempered lime and\ncoal. This was at Llangathen in Carmarthen.\"\n\nSo wrote the Rev. Mr Davis, and in an old number of _Frazer's Journal_ I\ncame across the following account of death-tokens, which, although not\nexactly corpse-candles, might certainly be classed in the same category.\nIt ran thus:\n\n\"In a wild and retired district in North Wales, the following\noccurrence took place, to the great astonishment of the mountaineers. We\ncan vouch for the truth of the statement, as many of our own teutu, or\nclan, were witnesses of the facts. On a dark evening a few weeks ago,\nsome persons, with whom we are well acquainted, were returning to\nBarmouth on the south or opposite side of the river. As they approached\nthe ferry house at Penthryn, which is directly opposite Barmouth, they\nobserved a light near the house, which they conjectured to be produced\nby a bonfire, and greatly puzzled they were to discover the reason why\nit should have been lighted. As they came nearer, however, it vanished;\nand when they inquired at the house respecting it, they were surprised\nto learn that not only had the people there displayed no light, but they\nhad not even seen one; nor could they perceive any signs of it on the\nsands. On reaching Barmouth, the circumstance was mentioned, and the\nfact corroborated by some of the people there, who had also plainly and\ndistinctly seen the light. It was settled, therefore, by some of the old\nfishermen that this was a death-token; and, sure enough, the man who\nkept the ferry at that time was drowned at high water a few nights\nafterwards, on the very spot where the light was seen. He was landing\nfrom the boat, when he fell into the water, and so perished. The same\nwinter the Barmouth people, as well as the inhabitants of the opposite\nbank, were struck by the appearance of a number of small lights, which\nwere seen dancing in the air at a place called Borthwyn, about half a\nmile from the town. A great number of people came out to see these\nlights; and after awhile they all but one disappeared, and this one\nproceeded slowly towards the water's edge to a little bay where some\nboats were moored. The men in a sloop which was anchored near the spot\nsaw the light advancing, they saw it also hover for a few seconds over\none particular boat, and then totally disappear. Two or three days\nafterwards, the man to whom that particular boat belonged was drowned in\nthe river, while he was sailing about Barmouth harbour in that very\nboat.\"\n\nAs the corpse-candle is obviously a phantasm whose invariable custom is\nto foretell death, it must, I think, be classified with that species of\nelementals which I have named--for want of a more appropriate\ntitle--CLANOGRIAN. CLANOGRIANS embrace every kind of national and family\nghost, such as The White Owl of the Arundels, the Drummer of the\nAirlies, and the Banshee of the O'Neills and O'Donnells.\n\nWith regard to the origin of corpse-candles, as of all other\nclanogrians, one can only speculate. The powers that govern the\nsuperphysical world have much in their close keeping that they\nabsolutely refuse to disclose to mortal man. Presuming, however, that\ncorpse-candles and all sorts of family ghosts are analogous, I should\nsay that the former are spirits which have attached themselves to\ncertain localities, either owing to some great crime or crimes having\nbeen committed there in the past, or because at some still more remote\nperiod the inhabitants of those parts--the Milesians and Nemedhians, the\nearly ancestors of the Irish, dabbled in sorcery.\n\n\n_Fire-coffins_\n\nWho has not seen all manner of pictures in the fire? Who has not seen,\nor fancied he has seen, a fire-coffin? A fire-coffin is a bit of red-hot\ncoal that pops mysteriously out of the grate in the rude shape of a\ncoffin, and is prophetic of death, not necessarily the death of the\nbeholder, but of someone known to him.\n\n\n_The Death-watch_\n\nThough this omen in a room is undoubtedly due to the presence in the\nwoodwork of the wall of a minute beetle of the timber-boring genus\nANOBIUM, it is a strange fact that its ticking should only be heard\nbefore the death of someone, who, if not living in the house, is\nconnected with someone who does live in it. From this fact, one is led\nto suppose that this minute beetle has an intuitive knowledge of\nimpending death, as is the case with certain people and also certain\nanimals.\n\nThe noise is said to be produced by the beetle raising itself upon its\nhind legs (see _Popular Errors explained_, by John Timbs), with the body\nsomewhat inclined, and beating its head with great force and agility\nupon the plane of position; and its strokes are so powerful as to be\nheard from some little distance. It usually taps from six to twelve\ntimes in succession, then pauses, and then recommences. It is an error\nto suppose it only ticks in the spring, for I know those who have heard\nits ticking at other, and indeed, at all times in the year.\n\n\n_Owls_\n\nOwls have always been deemed psychic, and they figure ominously in the\nfolk-lore of many countries. I myself can testify to the fact that they\nare often the harbinger of death, as I have on several occasions been\npresent when the screeching of an owl, just outside the window, has\noccurred almost coincident with the death of someone, nearly related\neither to myself or to one of my companions. That owls have the faculty\nof \"scenting the approach of death\" is to my mind no mere idle\nsuperstition, for we constantly read about them hovering around gibbets,\nand they have not infrequently been known to consummate Heaven's wrath\nby plucking out the eyes of the still living murderers and feeding on\ntheir brains. That they also have tastes in common with the least\ndesirable of the occult world may be gathered from the fact that they\nshow a distinct preference for the haunts of vagrarians, barrowvians,\nand other kinds of elementals; and even the worthy Isaiah goes so far as\nto couple them with satyrs.\n\nOccasionally, too, as in the case of the Arundels of Wardour, where a\nwhite owl is seen before the death of one of the family, they perform\nthe function of clanogrians.\n\n\n_Ravens_\n\nA close rival of the owl in psychic significance is the raven, the\nsubtle, cunning, ghostly raven that taps on window-panes and croaks\ndismally before a death or illness. I love ravens--they have the\ngreatest fascination for me. Years ago I had a raven, but, alas! only\nfor a time, a very short time. It came to me one gloomy night, when the\nwind was blowing and the rain falling in cataracts. I was at the\ntime--and as usual--writing ghost tales. Thought I to myself, this raven\nis just what I want; I will make a great friend of it, it shall sit at\nmy table while I write and inspire me with its eyes--its esoteric eyes\nand mystic voice. I let it in, gave it food and shelter, and we settled\ndown together, the raven and I, both revellers in the occult, both\nlovers of solitude. But it proved to be a worthless bird, a shallow,\nempty-minded, shameless bird, and all I gleaned from it was--idleness.\nIt made me listless and restless; it filled me with cravings, not for\nwork, but for nature, for the dark open air of night-time, for the vast\nloneliness of mountains, the deep secluded valleys, the rushing, foaming\nflow of streams, and for woods--ah! how I love the woods!--woods full of\nstalwart oaks and silvery beeches, full of silent, moon-kissed glades,\nnymphs, sirens, and pixies. Ah! how I longed for all these, and more\nbesides--for anything and everything that appertained neither to man nor\nhis works. Then I said good-bye to the raven, and, taking it with me to\nthe top of a high hill, let it go. Croaking, croaking, croaking it flew\naway, without giving me as much as one farewell glance.\n\n\n_Mermaids_\n\nWho would not, if they could, believe in mermaids? Surely all save those\nwho have no sense of the beautiful--of poetry, flowers, painting, music,\nromance; all save those who have never built fairy castles in the air\nnor seen fairy palaces in the fire; all save those whose minds, steeped\nin money-making, are both sordid and stunted. That mermaids did exist,\nand more or less in legendary form, I think quite probable, for I feel\nsure there was a time in the earth's history when man was in much closer\ntouch with the superphysical than he is at present. They may, I think,\nbe classified with pixies, nymphs, and sylphs, and other pleasant types\nof elementals that ceased to fraternise with man when he became more\nplentiful and forsook the simple mode of living for the artificial.\n\nPixies, nymphs, sylphs, and other similar kinds of fairies are all\nharmless and benevolent elementals, and I believe they were all fond of\nvisiting this earth, but that they seldom visit it now, only appearing\nat rare intervals to a highly favoured few.\n\n\n_The Wandering Jew_\n\nNo story fascinated me more when I was a boy than that of Ahasuerus, the\nWandering Jew. How vividly I saw him--in my mental vision--with his\nhooked nose, and wild, dark eyes, gleaming with hatred, cruelty, and\nterror, spit out his curses at Christ and frantically bid him begone!\nAnd Christ! How plainly I saw Him, too, bathed in the sweat of agony,\nstumbling, staggering, reeling, and tottering beneath the cross he had\nto carry! And then the climax--the calm, biting, damning climax. \"Tarry\nthou till I come!\" How distinctly I heard Christ utter those words, and\nwith what relief I watched the pallor of sickly fear and superstition\nsteal into the Jew's eyes and overspread his cheeks! And he is said to\nbe living now! Periodically he turns up in some portion or other of the\nglobe, causing a great sensation. And many are the people who claim to\nhave met him--the man whom no prison can detain, no fetters hold; who\ncan reel off the history of the last nineteen hundred odd years with the\nmost minute fluency, and with an intimate knowledge of men and things\nlong since dead and forgotten. Ahasuerus, still, always, ever\nAhasuerus--no matter whether we call him Joseph, Cartaphilus, or\nSalathiel, his fine name and guilty life stick to him--he can get rid of\nneither. For all time he is, and must be, Ahasuerus, the Wandering\nJew--the Jew Christ damned.\n\n\n_Attendant Spirits_\n\nI believe that, from the moment of our birth, most, if not all of us,\nhave our attendant spirits, namely, a spirit sent by the higher occult\npowers that are in favour of man's spiritual progress, whose function it\nis to guide us in the path of virtue and guard us from physical danger,\nand a spirit sent by the higher occult powers that are antagonistic to\nman's spiritual progress, whose function it is to lead us into all sorts\nof mental, moral, and spiritual evil, and also to bring about our path\nsome bodily harm. The former is a benevolent elemental, well known to\nthe many, and termed by them \"Our Guardian Angel\"; the latter is a vice\nelemental, equally well known perhaps, to the many, and termed by them\n\"Our Evil Genie.\" The benevolent creative powers and the evil creative\npowers (in whose service respectively our attendant spirits are\nemployed) are for ever contending for man's superphysical body, and it\nis, perhaps, only in the proportion of our response to the influences of\nthese attendant spirits, that we either evolve to a higher spiritual\nplane, or remain earth-bound. I, myself, having been through many\nvicissitudes, feel that I owe both my moral and physical preservation\nfrom danger entirely to the vigilance of my guardian attendant spirit. I\nwas once travelling in the United States at the time of a great railway\nstrike. The strikers held up my train at Crown Point, a few miles\noutside Chicago; and as I was forced to take to flight, and leave my\nbaggage (which unfortunately contained all my ready money), I arrived in\nChicago late at night without a cent on me. Beyond the clothes I had on,\nI had nothing; consequently, on my presenting myself at a hotel with the\nrequest for a night's lodging, I was curtly refused. One hotel after\nanother, one house after another, I tried, but always with the same\nresult; having no luggage, and being unable to pay a deposit, no one\nwould take me. The night advanced; the streets became rougher and\nrougher, for Chicago just then was teeming with the scum of the earth,\nruffians of every description, who would cheerfully have cut any man's\nthroat simply for the sake of his clothes. All around me was a sea of\nswarthy faces with insolent, sinister eyes that flashed and glittered in\nthe gaslight. I was pushed, jostled, and cursed, and the bare thought of\nhaving to spend a whole night amid such a foul, cut-throat horde filled\nme with dismay. Yet what could I do? Clearly nothing, until the morning,\nwhen I should be able to explain my position to the British Consul. The\nknowledge that in all the crises through which I had hitherto passed, my\nguardian spirit had never deserted me, gave me hope, and I prayed\ndevoutly that it would now come to my assistance and help me to get to\nsome place of shelter.\n\nTime passed, and as my prayers were not answered, I repeated them with\nincreased vigour. Then, quite suddenly, a man stepped out from the dark\nentrance to a by-street, and, touching me lightly on the arm, said, \"Is\nthere anything amiss? I have been looking at you for some time, and a\nfeeling has come over me that you need assistance. What is the matter?\"\nI regarded the speaker earnestly, and, convinced that he was honest,\ntold him my story, whereupon to my delight he at once said, \"I think I\ncan help you, for a friend of mine runs a small but thoroughly\nrespectable hotel close to here, and, if you like to trust yourself to\nmy guidance, I will take you there and explain your penniless\ncondition.\" I accepted his offer; what he said proved to be correct; the\nhotel-keeper believed my story, and I passed the night in decency and\ncomfort. In the morning the proprietor lent me the requisite amount of\nmoney for a cablegram to Europe. My bank in England cabled to a bank in\nChicago, and the hotel-keeper generously made himself responsible for my\nidentity; the draft was cashed, and I was once again able to proceed on\nmy journey. But what caused the man in the street to notice me? What\nprompted him to lend me his aid? Surely my guardian spirit. Again, when\nin Denver, in the Denver of old times, before it had grown into anything\nlike the city it is now, I was seized with a severe attack of dysentery,\nand the owner of the hotel in which I was staying, believing it to be\ncholera, turned me, weak and faint as I was, into the street. I tried\neverywhere to get shelter; the ghastly pallor and emaciation of my\ncountenance went against me--no one, not even by dint of bribing, for I\nwas then well off, would take me in. At last, completely overcome by\nexhaustion, I sank down in the street, where, in all probability, I\nshould have remained all night, had not a negro suddenly come up to me,\nand, with a sympathetic expression in his face, asked if he could help\nme. \"I passed you some time ago,\" he said, \"and noticed how ill you\nlooked, but I did not like to speak to you for fear you might resent it,\nbut I had not got far before I felt compelled to turn back. I tried to\nresist this impulse, but it was no good. What ails you?\" I told him. For\na moment or so he was silent, and then, his face brightening up, he\nexclaimed, \"I think I can help you. Come along with me,\" and, helping me\ngently to my feet, he conducted me to his own house, not a very grand\none, it is true, but scrupulously clean and well conducted, and I\nremained there until I was thoroughly sound and fit. The negro is not as\na rule a creature of impulse, and here again I felt that I owed my\npreservation to the kindly interference of my guardian spirit.\n\nThrice I have been nearly drowned, and on both occasions saved as by a\nmiracle, or, in other words, by my attendant guardian spirit. Once, when\nI was bathing alone in a Scotch loch and had swum out some considerable\ndistance, I suddenly became exhausted, and realised with terror that it\nwas quite impossible for me to regain the shore. I was making a last\nfutile effort to strike out, when something came bobbing up against me.\nIt was an oar! Whence it had come Heaven alone knew, for Heaven alone\ncould have sent it. Leaning my chin lightly on it and propelling myself\ngently with my limbs, I had no difficulty in keeping afloat, and\neventually reached the land in safety. The scene of my next miraculous\nrescue from drowning was a river. In diving into the water off a boat, I\ngot my legs entangled in a thick undergrowth of weeds. Frantically\nstruggling to get free and realising only too acutely the seriousness of\nmy position, for my lungs were on the verge of bursting, I fervently\nsolicited the succour of my guardian spirit, and had no sooner done so,\nthan I fancied I felt soft hands press against my flesh, and the next\nmoment my body had risen to the surface. No living person was within\nsight, so that my rescuer could only have been--as usual--my guardian\nspirit.\n\nSeveral times I fancy I have seen her, white, luminous, and shadowy,\nbut for all that suggestive of great beauty. Once, too, in the wilder\nmoments of my youth, when I contemplated rash deeds, I heard her sigh,\nand the sigh, sinking down into the furthermost recesses of my soul,\ndrowned all my thoughts of rash deeds in a thousand reverberating\nechoes. I have been invariably warned by strangers against taking a\nfalse step that would unquestionably have led to the direst misfortune.\nI meet a stranger, and without the slightest hint from me, he touches\nupon the very matter uppermost in my mind, and, in a few earnest and\nnever-to-be-forgotten words of admonition, deters me from my scheme.\nWhence come these strangers, to all appearance of flesh and blood like\nmyself? Were they my guardian spirit in temporary material guise, or\nwere they human beings that, like the hotel proprietor's friend in\nChicago, and the negro, have been impelled by my guardian spirit to\nconverse with me and by their friendly assistance save me? Many of the\nfaces we see around us every day are, I believe, attendant spirits, and\nphantasms of every species, that have adopted physical form for some\nspecific purpose.\n\n\n_Banshees_\n\nIt has been suggested that banshees are guardian spirits and evil genii;\nbut I do not think so, for whereas one or other of the two latter\nphantasms (sometimes both) are in constant attendance on man, banshees\nonly visit certain families before a catastrophe about to happen in\nthose families, or before the death of a member of those families. As\nto their origin, little can be said, for little is at present known.\nSome say their attachment to a family is due to some crime perpetrated\nby a member of that family in the far dim past, whilst others attribute\nit to the fact that certain classes and races in bygone times dabbled in\nsorcery, thus attracting the elementals, which have haunted them ever\nsince. Others, again, claim that banshees are mere thought\nmaterialisations handed down from one generation to another. But\nalthough no one knows the origin and nature of a banshee, the statements\nof those who have actually experienced these hauntings should surely\ncarry far more weight and command more attention than the statements of\nthose who only speak from hearsay; for it is, after all, only the\nsensation of actual experience that can guide us in the study of this\nsubject; and, perhaps, through our \"sensations\" alone, the key to it\nwill one day be found. A phantasm produces an effect on us totally\nunlike any that can be produced by physical agency--at least such is my\nexperience--hence, for those who have never come in contact with the\nunknown to pronounce any verdict on it, is to my mind both futile and\nabsurd. Of one thing, at least, I am sure, namely, that banshees are no\nmore thought materialisations than they are cats--neither are they in\nany way traceable to telepathy or suggestion; they are entirely due to\nobjective spirit forms. I do not base this assertion on a knowledge\ngained from other people's experiences--and surely the information thus\ngained cannot properly be termed knowledge--but from the sensations I\nmyself, as a member of an old Irish clan, have experienced from the\nhauntings of the banshee--the banshee that down through the long links\nof my Celtic ancestry, through all vicissitudes, through all changes of\nfortune, has followed us, and will follow us, to the end of time.\nBecause it is customary to speak of an Irish family ghost by its generic\ntitle, the banshee, it must not be supposed that every Irish family\npossessing a ghost is haunted by the same phantasm--the same banshee.\n\nIn Ireland, as in other countries, family ghosts are varied and\ndistinct, and consequently there are many and varying forms of the\nbanshee. To a member of our clan, a single wail signifies the advent of\nthe banshee, which, when materialised, is not beautiful to look upon.\nThe banshee does not necessarily signify its advent by one wail--that of\na clan allied to us wails three times. Another banshee does not wail at\nall, but moans, and yet another heralds its approach with music. When\nmaterialised, to quote only a few instances, one banshee is in the form\nof a beautiful girl, another is in the form of a hideous prehistoric\nhag, and another in the form of a head--only a head with rough matted\nhair and malevolent, bestial eyes.\n\n\n_Scottish Ghosts_\n\nWhen it is remembered that the ancestors of the Highlanders, _i.e._, the\nPicts and Scots, originally came from Ireland and are of Formosian and\nMilesian descent, it will be readily understood that their proud old\nclans--and rightly proud, for who but a grovelling money grubber would\nnot sooner be descended from a warrior, elected chief, on account of his\nall-round prowess, than from some measly hireling whose instincts were\nall mercenary?--possess ghosts that are nearly allied to the banshee.\n\nThe Airlie family, whose headquarters are at Cortachy Castle, is haunted\nby the phantasm of a drummer that beats a tattoo before the death of one\nof the members of the clan. There is no question as to the genuineness\nof this haunting, its actuality is beyond dispute. All sorts of theories\nas to the origin of this ghostly drummer have been advanced by a prying,\ninquisitive public, but it is extremely doubtful if any of them approach\nthe truth. Other families have pipers that pipe a dismal dirge, and\nskaters that are seen skating even when there is no ice, and always\nbefore a death or great calamity.\n\n\n_English Family Ghosts_\n\nThere are a few old English families, too, families who, in all\nprobability, can point to Celtic blood at some distant period in their\nhistory, that possess family ghosts. I have, for example, stayed in one\nhouse where, prior to a death, a boat is seen gliding noiselessly along\na stream that flows through the grounds. The rower is invariably the\nperson doomed to die. A friend of mine, who was very sceptical in such\nmatters, was fishing in this stream late one evening when he suddenly\nsaw a boat shoot round the bend. Much astonished--for he knew it could\nbe no one from the house--he threw down his rod and watched. Nearer and\nnearer it came, but not a sound; the oars stirred and splashed the\nrippling, foaming water in absolute silence. Convinced now that what he\nbeheld was nothing physical, my friend was greatly frightened, and, as\nthe boat shot past him, he perceived in the rower his host's youngest\nson, who was then fighting in South Africa. He did not mention the\nincident to his friends, but he was scarcely surprised when, in the\ncourse of the next few days, a cablegram was received with the tidings\nthat the material counterpart of his vision had been killed in action.\n\nA white dove is the harbinger of death to the Arundels of Wardour; a\nwhite hare to an equally well-known family in Cornwall. Corby Castle in\nCumberland has its \"Radiant Boy\"; whilst Mrs E. M. Ward has stated, in\nher reminiscences, that a certain room at Knebworth was once haunted by\nthe phantasm of a boy with long yellow hair, called \"The Yellow Boy,\"\nwho never appeared to anyone in it, unless they were to die a violent\ndeath, the manner of which death he indicated by a series of ghastly\npantomimics.\n\nOther families, I am told, lay claim to phantom coaches, clocks, beds,\nladies in white, and a variety of ghostly phenomena whose manifestations\nare always a sinister omen.\n\n\n_Welsh Ghosts_\n\nIn addition to corpse-candles and blue lights, the Welsh, according to\nMr Wirt Sykes, in his work, _British Goblins_, pp. 212-216, possess a\nspecies of ill-omened ghost that is not, however, restricted to any one\nfamily, but which visits promiscuously any house or village prior to a\ndeath. Sometimes it flaps its leathern wings against the window of the\nroom containing the sick person, and in a broken, howling tone calls\nupon the latter to give up his life; whilst, at other times, according\nto Mr Dyer in his _Ghost World_, it actually materialises and appears in\nthe form of an old crone with streaming hair and a coat of blue, when it\nis called the \"Ellyllon,\" and, like the banshee, presages death with a\nscream.\n\nAgain, when it is called the \"Cyhyraeth,\" and is never seen, it\nforetells the death of the insane, or those who have for a long time\nbeen ill, by moaning, groaning, and rattling shutters in the immediate\nvicinity of the doomed person.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\n\"SUPERSTITIONS AND FORTUNES\"\n\n\n_Thirteen at Table_\n\nThere is no doubt that there have been many occasions upon which\nthirteen people have sat down to dinner, all of which people at the end\nof a year have been alive and well; there is no doubt also that there\nhave been many occasions upon which thirteen have sat down to dine, and\nthe first of them to rise has died within twelve months. Therefore, I\nprefer not to take the risk, and to sit down to dinner in any number but\nthirteen.\n\nA curious story is told in connection with this superstition. A lady was\npresent at a dinner party given by the Count D---- in Buda-Pesth, when\nit was discovered that the company about to sit down numbered thirteen.\nImmediately there was a loud protest, and the poor Count was at his\nwits' end to know how to get out of the difficulty, when a servant\nhurriedly entered and whispered something in his ear. Instantly the\nCount's face lighted up. \"How very fortunate!\" he exclaimed, addressing\nhis guests. \"A very old friend of mine, who, to tell the truth, I had\nthought to be dead, has just turned up. We may, therefore, sit down in\npeace, for we shall now be fourteen.\" A wave of relief swept through\nthe party, and, in the midst of their congratulations, in walked the\nopportune guest, a tall, heavily bearded young man, with a strangely set\nexpression in his eyes and mouth, and not a vestige of colour in his\ncheeks. It was noticed that after replying to the Count's salutations in\nremarkably hollow tones that made those nearest him shiver, he took no\npart in the conversation, and partook of nothing beyond a glass of wine\nand some fruit. The evening passed in the usual manner; the guests, with\nthe exception of the stranger, went, and, eventually, the Count found\nhimself alone with the friend of his boyhood, the friend whom he had not\nseen for years, and whom he had believed to be dead.\n\nWondering at the unusual reticence of his old chum, but attributing it\nto shyness, the Count, seeing that he now had an opportunity for a chat,\nand, anxious to hear what his friend had been doing in the long interval\nsince they had last met, sat down beside him on the couch, and thus\nbegan: \"How very odd that you should have turned up to-night! If you\nhadn't come just when you did, I don't know what would have happened!\"\n\n\"But I do!\" was the quiet reply. \"You would have been the first to rise\nfrom the table, and, consequently, you would have died within the year.\nThat is why I came.\"\n\nAt this the Count burst out laughing. \"Come, come, Max!\" he cried. \"You\nalways were a bit of a wag, and I see you haven't improved. But be\nserious now, I beg you, and tell me what made you come to-night and what\nyou have been doing all these years? Why, it must be sixteen years, if a\nday, since last I saw you!\"\n\nMax leaned back in his seat, and, regarding the Count earnestly with his\ndark, penetrating eyes, said, \"I have already told you why I came here\nto-night, and you don't believe me, but WAIT! Now, as to what has\nhappened to me since we parted. Can I expect you to believe that?\nHardly! Anyhow, I will put you to the test. When we parted, if you\nremember rightly, I had just passed my final, and having been elected\njunior house surgeon at my hospital, St Christopher's, at Brunn, had\ntaken up my abode there. I remained at St Christopher's for two years,\njust long enough to earn distinction in the operating theatre, when I\nreceived a more lucrative appointment in Cracow. There I soon had a\nprivate practice of my own and was on the high road to fame and fortune,\nwhen I was unlucky enough to fall in love.\"\n\n\"Unlucky!\" laughed the Count. \"Pray what was the matter with her? Had\nshe no dowry, or was she an heiress with an ogre of a father, or was she\nalready married?\"\n\n\"Married,\" Max responded, \"married to a regular martinet who, whilst\ntreating her in the same austere manner he treated his soldiers--he was\ncolonel of a line regiment--was jealous to the verge of insanity. It was\nwhen I was attending him for a slight ailment of the throat that I met\nher, and we fell in love with each other at first sight.\"\n\n\"How romantic!\" sighed the Count. \"How very romantic! Another glass of\nMoselle?\"\n\n\"For some time,\" Max continued, not noticing the interruption, \"all went\nsmoothly. We met clandestinely and spent many an hour together, unknown\nto the invalid. We tried to keep him in bed as long as we could, but his\nconstitution, which was that of an ox, was against us, and his recovery\nwas astonishingly rapid. An indiscreet observation on the part of one of\nthe household first led him to suspect, and, watching his wife like a\ncat does a mouse, he caught her one evening in the act of holding out\nher hand for me to kiss. With a yell of fury he rushed upon us, and in\nthe scuffle that followed----\"\n\n\"You killed him,\" said the Count. \"Well! I forgive you! We all forgive\nyou! By the love of Heaven! you had some excuse.\"\n\n\"You are mistaken!\" Max went on, still in the same cold, unmoved\naccents, \"it was I who was killed!\" He looked at the Count, and the\nCount's blood turned to ice as he suddenly realised he was, indeed,\ngazing at a corpse.\n\nFor some seconds the Count and the corpse sat facing one another in\nabsolute silence, and then the latter, rising solemnly from the chair,\nmounted the window-sill, and, with an expressive wave of farewell,\ndisappeared in the absorbing darkness without. Now, as Max was never\nseen again, and it was ascertained without any difficulty that he had\nactually perished in the manner he had described, there is surely every\nreason to believe that a _bona fide_ danger had threatened the Count,\nand that the spirit of Max in his earthly guise had, in very deed,\nturned up at the dinner party with the sole object of saving his friend.\n\n\n_Spilling Salt_\n\nEveryone knows that to avoid bad luck from spilling salt, it is only\nnecessary to throw some of it over the left shoulder; but no one knows\nwhy such an act is a deterrent to misfortune, any more than why\nmisfortune, if not then averted, should accrue from the spilling.\n\nThat the superstition originated in a tradition that Judas Iscariot\noverturned a salt-cellar is ridiculous, for there is but little doubt it\nwas in vogue long before the advent of Christ, and is certainly current\nto-day among tribes and races that have never heard of the \"Last\nSupper.\"\n\nIn all probability the superstition is derived from the fact that salt,\nfrom its usage in ancient sacrificial rites, was once regarded as\nsacred. Hence to spill any carelessly was looked upon as sacrilegious\nand an offence to the gods, to appease whom the device of throwing it\nover the left, the more psychic shoulder, was instituted.\n\n\n_Looking-glasses_\n\nThe breaking of a looking-glass is said to be an ill omen, and I have\ncertainly known many cases in which one misfortune after another has\noccurred to the person who has had the misfortune to break a\nlooking-glass. Some think that because looking-glasses were once used in\nsorcery, they possess certain psychic properties, and that by reason of\ntheir psychic properties any injury done to a mirror must be fraught\nwith danger to the doer of that injury, but whether this is so or not is\na matter of conjecture.\n\n\n_Psychic Days_\n\n\"Friday's child is full of woe.\" Of all days Friday is universally\nregarded as the most unlucky. According to Soames in his work, _The\nAnglo-Saxon Church_, Adam and Eve ate the forbidden fruit on a Friday\nand died on a Friday. And since Jesus Christ was crucified on a Friday,\nit is naturally of small wonder that Friday is accursed.\n\nTo travel on Friday is generally deemed to be courting accident; to be\nmarried on Friday, courting divorce or death. Few sailors care to embark\non Friday; few theatrical managers to produce a new play on Friday. In\nLivonia most of the inhabitants are so prejudiced against Friday, that\nthey never settle any important business, or conclude a bargain on that\nday; in some places they do not even dress their children.\n\nFor my part, I so far believe in this superstition that I never set out\nfor a journey, or commence any new work on Friday, if I have the option\nof any other day. Thursday has always been an unlucky day for me. Most\nof my accidents, disappointments, illnesses have happened on Thursdays.\nWednesday has been my luckiest day. Monday, Thursday, Friday, and\nSaturday the days when I have mostly experienced occult phenomena. On\nAll-Hallows E'en the spirits of the dead are supposed to walk. I\nremember when a child hearing from the lips of a relative how in her\ngirlhood she had screwed up the courage to shut herself in a dark room\non All-Hallows E'en and had eaten an apple in front of the mirror; and\nthat instead of seeing the face of her future husband peering over her\nshoulder, she had seen a quantity of earth falling. She was informed\nthat this was a prognostication of death, and, surely enough, within the\nyear her father died. I have heard, too, of a girl who, on All-Hallows\nE'en, walked down a gloomy garden path scattering hempseed for her\nfuture lover to pick up, and on hearing someone tiptoeing behind her,\nand fancying it was a practical joker, turned sharply round, to confront\na skeleton dressed exactly similar to herself. She died before the year\nwas out from the result of an accident on the ice.\n\nI have often poured boiling lead into water on All-Hallows E'en and it\nhas assumed strange shapes, once--a boot, once--a coffin, once--a ship;\nand I have placed all the letters of the alphabet cut out of pasteboard\nby my bedside, and on one occasion (my door was locked, by the way, and\nI fully satisfied myself no one was in hiding) found, on awakening in\nthe morning, the following word spelt out of them--\"Merivale.\" It was\nnot until some days afterwards that I remembered associations with this\nword, and then it all came back to me in a trice--it was the name of a\nman who had once wanted me to join him in an enterprise in British West\nAfrica.\n\nOn New Year's Eve a certain family, with whom I am very intimately\nacquainted, frequently see ghosts of the future, as well as phantasms of\nthe dead, and, when I stay with them, which I often do at Christmas, I\nam always glad when this night is over. On one occasion, one of them saw\na lady come up the garden path and vanish on the front doorsteps. She\nsaw the lady's face distinctly; every feature in it, together with the\nclothes she was wearing, stood out with startling perspicuity.\n\nSome six months later, she was introduced to the material counterpart of\nthe phantasm, who was destined to play a most important part in her\nlife. On another New Year's Eve she saw the phantasm of a dog, to which\nshe had been deeply attached, enter her bedroom and jump on her bed,\njust as it had done during its lifetime. Not in the least frightened,\nshe put down her hand to stroke it, when it vanished. I have given\nseveral other instances of this kind in my _Haunted Houses of London_\nand _Ghostly Phenomena_--they all, I think, tend to prove a future\nexistence for dumb animals.\n\nThe 28th of December, Childermass Day, or the Feast of the Holy\nInnocents, the day on which King Herod slaughtered so many infants (if\nthey were no better mannered than the bulk of the County Council\nchildren of to-day, one can hardly blame him), is held to be\nunpropitious for the commencement of any new undertaking by those of\ntender years.\n\nThe fishermen who dwell on the Baltic seldom use their nets between All\nSaints and St Martin's Day, or on St Blaise's Day; if they did, they\nbelieve they would not take any fish for a whole year. On Ash Wednesday\nthe women in those parts neither sew nor knit for fear of bringing\nmisfortune upon their cattle, whilst they do not use fire on St\nLawrence's Day, in order to secure themselves against fire for the rest\nof the year.\n\nIn Moravia the peasants used not to hunt on St Mark's or St Catherine's\nDay, for fear they should be unlucky all the rest of the year. In\nYorkshire it was once customary to watch for the dead on St Mark's\n(April 24) and Midsummer Eve. On both those nights (so says Mr Timbs in\nhis _Mysteries of Life and Futurity_) persons would sit and watch in the\nchurch porch from eleven o'clock at night till one in the morning. In\nthe third year (for it must be done thrice), the watchers were said to\nsee the spectres of all those who were to die the next year pass into\nthe church.\n\nI am quite sure there is much truth in this, for I have heard of\nsceptics putting it to the test, and of \"singing to quite a different\ntune\" when the phantasms of those they knew quite well suddenly shot up\nfrom the ground, and, gliding past them, vanished at the threshold of\nthe church. Occasionally, too, I have been informed of cases where the\nwatchers have seen themselves in the ghastly procession and have died\nshortly afterwards.\n\n\n_Fortune-telling_\n\nBefore ridiculing the possibility of telling fortunes by cards, it would\nbe just as well for sceptics to inquire into the history of cards, and\nthe reason of their being designated the Devil's pasteboards. Their\norigin may be traced to the days when man was undoubtedly in close touch\nwith the occult, and each card, _i.e._ of the original design, has a\npsychic meaning. Hence the telling of fortunes by certain people--those\nwho have had actual experience with occult phenomena--deserves to be\ntaken seriously; and I am convinced many of the fortunes thus told come\ntrue.\n\n\n_Palmistry_\n\nThat there is much truth in palmistry--the palmistry of those who have\nmade a thorough study of the subject--should by this time, I think, be\nan established fact. I can honestly say I have had my hand told with\nabsolute accuracy, and in such a manner as utterly precludes the\npossibility of coincidence or chance. Many of the events, and\nout-of-the-way events, of my life have been read in my lines with\nperfect veracity, my character has been delineated with equal fidelity,\nand the future portrayed exactly in the manner it has come about--and\nall by a stranger, one who had never seen or heard of me before he \"told\nmy hand.\"\n\nTo attempt to negative the positive is the height of folly, but fools\nwill deny anything and everything save their own wit. It does not follow\nthat because one palmist has been at fault, all palmists are at fault. I\nbelieve in palmistry, because I have seen it verified in a hundred and\none instances.\n\nApart from the lines, however, there is a wealth of character in hands:\nI am never tired of studying them. To me the most beautiful and\ninteresting hands are the pure psychic and the dramatic--the former with\nits thin, narrow palm, slender, tapering fingers and filbert nails; the\nlatter a model of symmetry and grace, with conical finger-tips and\nfilbert nails--indeed, filbert nails are more or less confined to these\ntwo types; one seldom sees them in other hands.\n\nThen there are the literary and artistic hands, with their mixed types\nof fingers, some conical and some square-tipped, but always with some\nredeeming feature of refinement and elegance in them; and the musical\nhand, sometimes a modified edition of the psychic, and sometimes quite\ndifferent, with short, supple fingers and square tips. And yet\nagain--would that it did not exist!--the business hand, far more common\nin England, where the bulk of the people have commercial minds, than\nelsewhere. It has no redeeming feature, but is short, and square, and\nfat, with stumpy fingers and hideous, spatulate nails, the very sight of\nwhich makes me shudder. Indeed, I have heard it said abroad, and not\nwithout some reason, that, apart from other little peculiarities, such\nas projecting teeth and big feet, the English have two sets of toes!\nWhen I look at English children's fingers, and see how universal is the\ncustom of biting the nails, I feel quite sure the day will come when\nthere will be no nails left to bite--that the day, in fact, is not far\ndistant, when nails, rather than teeth, will become extinct.\n\nThe Irish, French, Italians, Spanish, and Danes, being far more dramatic\nand psychic than the English, have far nicer hands, and for one set of\nfilbert nails in London, we may count a dozen in Paris or Madrid.\n\nMurderers' hands are often noticeable for their knotted knuckles and\nclub-shaped finger-tips; suicides--for the slenderness of the thumbs\nand strong inclination of the index to the second finger; thieves--for\nthe pointedness of the finger-tips, and the length and suppleness of the\nfingers. Dominating, coarse-minded people, and people who exert undue\ninfluence over others, generally have broad, flat thumbs. The hands of\nsoldiers and sailors are usually broad, with short, thick, square-tipped\nfingers; the hands of clergy are also more often broad and coarse than\nslender and conical, which may be accounted for by the fact that so many\nof them enter the Church with other than spiritual motives. The really\nspiritual hand is the counterpart of the psychical, and rarely seen in\nEngland. Doctors, doctors with a genuine love of their profession, in\nother words, \"born\" doctors, have broad but slender palms, with long,\nsupple fingers and moderately square tips. This type of hand is typical,\nalso, of the hospital nurse.\n\nIt is, of course, a gross error to think that birth has everything to do\nwith the shape of the hand; for the latter is entirely dependent on\ntemperament; but it is also a mistake to say that as many\nbeautiful-shaped hands are to be found among the lower as among the\nupper classes in England. It is a mistake, because the psychic and\ndramatic temperaments (and the psychic and dramatic type of hand is\nunquestionably the most beautiful) are rarely to be found in the middle\nand lower classes in England--they are almost entirely confined to the\nupper classes.\n\n\n_Pyromancy_\n\nPredicting the future by fire is one of the oldest methods of\nfortune-telling, and has been practised from time immemorial. I have\noften had my fortune told in the fire, but I cannot say it has ever\nproved to be very correct; only once a prognostication came true,--a\nsudden death occurred in a family very nearly connected with me, after a\nvery fanciful churchyard had been pointed out to me amid the glowing\nembers.\n\n\n_Hydromancy_\n\nThere are many ways of telling the fortune by means of water. One of the\nmost usual methods is to float some object on the water's surface,\npredicting the future in accordance with the course that object takes;\nbut I believe future events are just as often foretold by means of the\nwater only.\n\nMany people believe that especially successful results in\nfortune-telling may be obtained by means of water only, on All-Hallows\nE'en or New Year's Eve.\n\nOn the former night, the method of divining the future is as\nfollows:--Place a bowl of clear spring water on your lap at midnight,\nand gaze into it. If you are to be married, you will see the face of\nyour future husband (or bride) reflected in the water; if you are to\nremain single all your life, you will see nothing; and if you are to die\nwithin the year, the water will become muddy. On New Year's Eve a\ntumbler of water should be placed at midnight before the looking-glass,\nwhen any person, or persons, destined to play a very important r\u00f4le in\nyour life within the coming year, will suddenly appear and sip the\nwater. Should you be doomed to die within that period, the tumbler will\nbe thrown on the ground and dashed to pieces.\n\nThe conditions during the trial of both these methods are that you\nshould be alone in the room, with only one candle burning.\n\n\n_The Crystal_\n\nI often practise crystal-gazing, and the results are strangely\ninconsistent. I see with startling vividness events that actually come\nto pass, and sometimes with equal perspicuity events that, as far as I\nknow, are never fulfilled. And this I feel sure must be the case with\nall crystal-gazers, if they would but admit it. My method is very\nsimple. As I cannot concentrate unless I have absolute quiet, I wait\ntill the house is very still, and I then sit alone in my room with my\nback to the light, in such a position that the light pours over my\nshoulders on to the crystal, which I have set on the table before me.\nSometimes I sit for a long time before I see anything, and sometimes,\nafter a lengthy sitting, I see nothing at all; but when a tableau does\ncome, it is always with the most startling vividness. When I want to be\ninitiated into what is happening to certain of my friends, I concentrate\nmy whole mind on those friends--I think of nothing but them--their\nfaces, forms, mannerisms, and surroundings--and then, suddenly, I see\nthem in the crystal! Visions are sometimes of the future, sometimes of\nthe present, sometimes of the past, and sometimes of neither, but of\nwhat never actually transpires--and there is the strange inconsistency.\nI do not know what methods other people adopt, I daresay some of them\ndiffer from mine, but I feel quite sure that, look at the crystal how\nthey will, it will invariably lie to them at times.\n\nA day or so before the death of Lafayette, when I was concentrating my\nwhole mind on forthcoming events, I distinctly saw, in the crystal, a\nstage with a man standing before the footlights, either speaking or\nsinging. In the midst of his performance, a black curtain suddenly fell,\nand I intuitively realised the theatre was on fire. The picture then\nfaded away and was replaced by something of a totally different\ncharacter. Again, just before the great thunder-storm at the end of May,\nwhen Holy Trinity Church, Marylebone, was struck, I saw, in the crystal,\na black sky, vivid flashes of lightning, a road rushing with brown\nwater, and a church spire with an enormous crack in it.\n\nOf course, it is very easy to say these visions might have been mere\ncoincidences; but if they were only coincidences, they were surpassingly\nuncommon ones.\n\n\n_Talismans and Amulets_\n\nAmulets, though now practically confined to the East, were once very\nmuch in vogue throughout Europe.\n\nCount Daniel O'Donnell, brigadier-general in the Irish Brigade of Louis\nXIV., never went into battle without carrying with him an amulet in the\nshape of the jewelled casket \"Cathach of Columbcille,\" containing a\nLatin psalter said to have been written by St Columba. It has quite\nrecently been lent to the Royal Irish Academy (where it is now) by my\nkinsman, the late Sir Richard O'Donnell, Bart. Count O'Donnell used to\nsay that so long as he had this talisman with him, he would never be\nwounded, and it is a fact that though he led his regiment in the thick\nof the fight at Borgoforte, Nago, Arco, Vercelli, Ivrea, Verrua,\nChivasso, Cassano, and other battles in the Italian Campaign of 1701-7,\nand at Oudenarde, Malplaquet, Arleux, Denain, Douai, Bouchain, and\nFuesnoy, in the Netherlands, he always came through scathless. Hence,\nlike him, I am inclined to attribute his escapes to the psychic\nproperties of the talisman.\n\nThe great family of Lyons were in possession of a talisman in the form\nof a \"lion-cup,\" the original of Scott's \"Blessed Bear of Bradwardine,\"\nwhich always brought them good luck till they went to Glamis, and after\nthat they experienced centuries of misfortune.\n\nAnother famous talisman is the \"Luck of Edenhall,\" in the possession of\nSir Richard Musgrave of Edenhall, in Cumberland; and many other ancient\nfamilies still retain their amulets.\n\n\n_\"The Evil Eye\"_\n\nI was recently speaking to an Italian lady who informed me that belief\nin \"the evil eye\" is still very prevalent in many parts of Italy. \"I\nmyself believe in it,\" she said, \"and whenever I pass a person whom I\nthink possesses it, I make a sign with my fingers\"--and she held up two\nof her fingers as she spoke. I certainly have observed that people with\na peculiar and undefinable \"something\" in their eyes are particularly\nunlucky and invariably bring misfortune on those with whom they are in\nany degree intimate. These people, I have no doubt, possess \"the evil\neye,\" though it would not be discernible except to the extremely\npsychic, and there is no doubt that the Irish and Italians are both far\nmore psychic than the English.\n\nPeople are of opinion that the eye is not a particularly safe indicator\nof true character, but I beg to differ. To me the eye tells everything,\nand I have never yet looked directly into a person's eyes without being\nable to satisfy myself as to their disposition. Cruelty, vanity, deceit,\ntemper, sensuality, and all the other vices display themselves at once;\nand so with vulgarity--the glitter of the vulgar, of the ignorant,\npetty, mean, sordid mind, the mind that estimates all things and all\npeople by money and clothes, cannot be hidden; \"vulgarity\" will out, and\nin no way more effectually than through the eyes. No matter how \"smart\"\nthe _parvenu_ dresses, no matter how perfect his \"style,\" the glitter of\nthe eye tells me what manner of man he is, and when I see that strange\nanomaly, \"nature's gentleman,\" in the service of such a man, I do not\nsay to myself \"Jack is as good\"--I say, \"Jack is better than his\nmaster.\"\n\nBut to me \"the evil eye,\" no less than the vulgar eye, manifests\nitself. I was at an \"at home\" one afternoon several seasons ago, when an\nold friend of mine suddenly whispered:\n\n\"You see that lady in black, over there? I must tell you about her. She\nhas just lost her husband, and he committed suicide under rather\nextraordinary circumstances in Sicily. He was not only very unlucky\nhimself, but he invariably brought misfortune on those to whom he took a\nliking--even his dogs. His mother died from the effects of a railway\naccident; his favourite brother was drowned; the girl to whom he was\nfirst engaged went into rapid consumption; and no sooner had he married\nthe lady you see, than she indirectly experienced misfortune through the\nheavy monetary losses of her father. At last he became convinced that he\nmust be labouring under the influence of a curse, and, filled with a\ncurious desire to see if he had 'the evil eye,'--people of course said\nhe was mad--he went to Sicily. Arriving there, he had no sooner shown\nhimself among the superstitious peasants, than they made a sign with\ntheir fingers to ward off evil, and in every possible way shunned him.\nConvinced then that what he had suspected was true, namely, that he was\ngenuinely accursed, he went into a wood and shot himself.\"\n\nThis, I daresay, is only one of many suicides in similar circumstances,\nand not a few of the suicides we attribute, with such obvious\ninconsistency (thinking thereby to cover our ignorance), to \"temporary\ninsanity,\" may be traceable to the influence of \"the evil eye.\"\n\n\n_Witches_\n\nThough witches no longer wear conical hats and red cloaks and fly\nthrough the air on broomsticks, and though their _modus operandi_ has\nchanged with their change of attire, I believe there are just as many\nwitches in the world to-day, perhaps even more, than in days gone by.\nAll women are witches who exert baleful influence over others--who wreck\nthe happiness of families by setting husbands against wives (or, what is\neven more common, wives against husbands), parents against children, and\nbrothers against sisters; and, who steal whole fortunes by inveigling\ninto love, silly, weak-minded old men, or by captivating equally silly\nand weak-willed women. Indeed, the latter is far from rare, and there\nare instances of women having filled other women with the blindest\ninfatuation for them--an infatuation surpassing that of the most doting\nlovers, and, without doubt, generated by undue influence, or, in other\nwords, by witchcraft. Indeed, I am inclined to believe that the orthodox\nwitch of the past was harmless compared with her present-day\nrepresentative. There is, however, one thing we may be thankful for, and\nthat is--that in the majority of cases the modern witch, despite her\ndisregard of the former properties of her calling, cannot hide her\ndanger signals. Her manners are soft and insinuating, but her eyes are\nhard--hard with the steely hardness, which, granted certain conditions,\nwould not hesitate at murder. Her hands, too, are coarse--an\nexaggeration of the business type of hand--the fingers short and\nclub-shaped, the thumbs broad and flat, the nails hideous; they are the\nantipodes of the psychic or dramatic type of hands: a type that,\nneedless to say, witches have never been known to possess. Once the\ninvocation of the dead was one of the practices of ancient witchcraft:\none might, perhaps, not inappropriately apply the term witch to the\nmodern spiritualist.\n\nIf we credit the Scriptures with any degree of truth, then witches most\ncertainly had the power of calling up the dead in Biblical days, for at\nEndor the feat--rare even in those times--was accomplished of invoking\nin material form the phantasms of the good as well as the evil. Though I\nam of the opinion that no amount of invocation will bring back a\nphantasm from the higher spiritual planes to-day, unless that invocation\nbe made in very exceptional circumstances, with a specific purpose, I am\nquite sure that _bona fide_ spirits of the earth-bound do occasionally\nmaterialise in answer to the summons of the spiritualist. I do not base\nthis statement on any experience I have ever had, for it is a rather\nsingular fact that, although I have seen many spontaneous phenomena in\nhaunted houses, I have never seen anything resembling, in the slightest\ndegree, a genuine spirit form, at a s\u00e9ance. Therefore, I repeat, I do\nnot base my statement, as to the occasional materialisation of _bona\nfide_ earth-bound spirits, on any of my experiences, but on those of\n\"sitters\" with whom I am intimately acquainted. What benefit can be\nderived from getting into close touch with earth-bound spirits, _i.e._\nwith vice and impersonating elementals and the phantasms of dead idiots,\nlunatics, murderers, suicides, rakes, drunkards, immoral women and silly\npeople of all sorts, is, I think, difficult to say; for my own part, I\nam only too content to steer clear of them, and confine my attentions to\ntrying to be of service to those apparitions that are, obviously, for\nsome reason, made to appear by the higher occult powers. Thus, what is\npopularly known as spiritualism is, from my point of view, a mischievous\nand often very dangerous form of witchcraft.\n\nA Frenchman to whom I was recently introduced at a house in Maida Vale,\ntold me the following case, which he assured me actually happened in the\nmiddle of the eighteenth century, and was attested to by judicial\ndocuments. A French nobleman, whom I will designate the Vicomte\nDavergny, whilst on a visit to some friends near Toulouse, on hearing\nthat a miller in the neighbourhood was in the habit of holding Sabbats,\nwas seized with a burning desire to attend one. Consequently, in\nopposition to the advice of his friends, he saw the miller, and, by dint\nof prodigious bribing, finally persuaded the latter to permit him to\nattend one of the orgies. But the miller made one stipulation--the\nVicomte was on no account to carry firearms; and to this the latter\nreadily agreed. When, however, the eventful night arrived, the Vicomte,\nbecoming convinced that it would be the height of folly to go to a\nnotoriously lonely spot, in the dark, and unarmed, concealed a brace of\npistols under his clothes. On reaching the place of assignation, he\nfound the miller already there, and on the latter enveloping him in a\nheavy cloak, the Vicomte felt himself lifted bodily from the ground and\nwhirled through the air. This sensation continued for several moments,\nwhen he was suddenly set down on the earth again and the cloak taken off\nhim. At first he could scarcely make out anything owing to a blaze of\nlight, but as soon as his eyes grew accustomed to the illumination, he\nperceived that he was standing near a huge faggot fire, around which\nsquatted a score or so of the most hideous hags he had ever conceived\neven in his wildest imagination. After going through a number of strange\nincantations, which were more or less Greek to the Vicomte, there was a\nmost impressive lull, that was abruptly broken by the appearance of an\nextraordinary and alarming-looking individual in the midst of the\nflames. All the witches at once uttered piercing shrieks and prostrated\nthemselves, and the Vicomte then realised that the remarkable being who\nhad caused the commotion was none other than the devil. Yielding to an\nirresistible impulse, but without really knowing what he was doing, the\nVicomte whipped out a pistol, and, pointing at Mephistopheles, fired. In\nan instant, fire and witches vanished, and all was darkness and silence.\n\nTerrified out of his wits, the Count sank on the ground, where he\nremained till daylight, when he received another shock, on discovering,\nstretched close to him, the body of the miller with a bullet wound in\nhis forehead. Flying from the spot, he wandered on and on, until he\ncame to a cottage, at which he inquired his way home. And here another\nsurprise awaited him. For the cottagers, in answer to his inquiries,\ninformed him that the nearest town was not Toulouse but Bordeaux, and if\nhe went on walking in such and such a direction, he would speedily come\nto it. Arriving at Bordeaux, as the peasant had directed, the Vicomte\nrested a short time, and then set out for Toulouse, which city he at\nlength reached after a few days' journeying. But he had not been back\nlong before he was arrested for the murder of the miller, it being\ndeposed that he had been seen near Bordeaux, in the immediate\nneighbourhood of the tragedy, directly after its enaction. However, as\nit was obviously impossible that the Vicomte could have taken less than\na few days to travel from Toulouse to a spot near Bordeaux, where the\nmurder had taken place, a distance of several hundreds of miles, on the\nevidence of his friends, who declared that he had been with them till\nwithin a few hours of the time when it was presumed the crime was\ncommitted, the charge was withdrawn, and the Vicomte was fully\nacquitted.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X\n\n  THE HAND OF GLORY; THE BLOODY HAND OF\n    ULSTER; THE SEVENTH SON; BIRTHMARKS;\n    NATURE'S DEVIL SIGNALS; PRE-EXISTENCE; THE\n    FUTURE; PROJECTION; TELEPATHY, ETC.\n\n\n_The Hand of Glory_\n\nBelief in the power of the Hand of Glory still, I believe, exists in\ncertain parts of European and Asiatic Russia. Once it was prevalent\neverywhere. The Hand of Glory was a hand cut off from the body of a\nrobber and murderer who had expiated his crimes on the gallows. To endow\nit with the properties of a talisman, the blood was first of all\nextracted; it was then given a thorough soaking in saltpetre and pepper,\nand hung out in the sun. When perfectly dry, it was used as a\ncandlestick for a candle made of white wax, sesame seed, and fat from\nthe corpse of the criminal. Prepared thus, the Hand of Glory was deemed\nto have the power of aiding and protecting the robbers in their\nnefarious work by sending to sleep their intended victims. Hence no\nrobber ever visited a house without having such a talisman with him.\n\n\n_The Bloody Hand of Ulster_\n\nThe Red Right Hand of Ulster is the badge of the O'Neills, and according\nto tradition it originated thus:--On the approach of an ancient\nexpedition to Ulster, the leader declared that whoever first touched the\nshore should possess the land in the immediate vicinity. An ancestor of\nthe O'Neills, anxious to obtain the reward, at once cut off his right\nhand and threw it on the coast, which henceforth became his territory.\n\nSince then the O'Neills have always claimed the Red Right Hand of Ulster\nas their badge, and it figured only the other day on the banner which,\nfor the first time since the days of Shane the Proud, was flown from the\nbattlements of their ancient stronghold, Ardglass Castle, now in the\npossession of Mr F. J. Bigger.\n\nA very similar story to that of the O'Neill is told of an O'Donnell,\nwho, with a similar motive, namely, to acquire territory, on arriving\nwithin sight of Spain, cut off his hand and hurled it on the shore, and,\nlike the O'Neills, the O'Donnells from that time have adopted the hand\nas their badge.\n\n\n_The Seventh Son_\n\nIt was formerly believed that a seventh son could cure diseases, and\nthat a seventh son of a seventh son, with no female born in between,\ncould cure the king's evil. Indeed, seven was universally regarded as a\npsychic number, and according to astrologers the greatest events in a\nperson's life, and his nearest approach to death without actually\nincurring it, would be every seven years. The grand climacterics are\nsixty-three and eighty-four, and the most critical periods of a\nperson's life occur when they are sixty-three and eighty-four years of\nage.\n\n\n_Birthmarks_\n\nSome families have a heritage of peculiar markings on the skin. The only\nbirthmark of this description which I am acquainted with is \"The\nHistoric Baldearg,\" or red spot that has periodically appeared on the\nskins of members of the O'Donnell clan. Its origin is dubious, but I\nimagine it must go back pretty nearly to the time of the great Niall. In\nthe days when Ireland was in a chronic state of rebellion, it was said\nthat it would never shake off the yoke of its cruel English oppressors\ntill its forces united under the leadership of an O'Donnell with the\nBaldearg. An O'Donnell with the Baldearg turned up in 1690, in the\nperson of Hugh Baldearg O'Donnell, son of John O'Donnell, an officer in\nthe Spanish Army, and descendant of the Calvagh O'Donnell of Tyrconnell,\nwho had been created Earl of Wexford by Queen Elizabeth. But the Irish,\nas has ever been the case, would not unite, and despite the aid given\nhim by Talbot (who had succeeded the O'Donnells in the Earldom of\nTyrconnell), he met with but little success, and returning to Spain,\ndied there with the rank of Major-General in 1704.\n\nReferences to the Baldearg may be seen in various of the Memoirs of the\nO'Donnells in the libraries of the British Museum, Madrid, Dublin, and\nelsewhere.\n\n\n_Nature's Devil Signals_\n\nI have already alluded to the fingers typical of murderers; I will now\nrefer in brief to a form of Nature's other danger signals. The feet of\nmurderers are, as a rule, very short and broad, the toes flat and\nsquare-tipped. As a rule, too, they either have very receding chins, as\nin the case of Mapleton Lefroy, or very massive, prominent chins, as in\nthe case of Gotfried.\n\nIn many instances the ears of murderers are set very far back and low\ndown on their heads, and the outer rims are very much crumpled; also\nthey have very high and prominent cheek-bones, whilst one side of the\nface is different from the other. The backs of many murderers' heads are\nnearly perpendicular, or, if anything, rather inclined to recede than\notherwise--they seldom project--whilst the forehead is unusually\nprominent.\n\nIt is a noteworthy fact that a large percentage of modern murderers have\nhad rather prominent light, steely blue eyes--rarely grey or brown.\n\nTheir voices--and there is another key to the character--are either\nhollow and metallic, or suggestive of the sounds made by certain\nanimals.\n\nMany of these characteristics are to be found in criminal lunatics.\n\n\n_Pre-existence and the Future_\n\nTo talk of a former life as if it were an established fact is, of\ncourse, an absurdity; to dogmatise at all on such a question, with\nregard to which one man's opinion is just as speculative as another's,\nis, perhaps, equally ridiculous. Granted, then, the equal value of the\nvarying opinions of sane men on this subject, it is clear that no one\ncan be considered an authority; my opinion, no less than other people's,\nis, as I have said, merely speculation. That I had a former life is, I\nthink, extremely likely, and that I misconducted myself in that former\nlife, more than likely, since it is only by supposing a previous\nexistence in which I misbehaved, that I can see the shadow of a\njustification for all the apparently unmerited misfortunes I have\nsuffered in my present existence.\n\nI do not, however, see any specific reason why my former existence\nshould have been here; on the contrary, I think it far more probable\nthat I was once in some other sphere--perhaps one of the planets--where\nmy misdeeds led to my banishment and my subsequent appearance in this\nworld. With regard to a future life, eternal punishment, and its\nconverse, everlasting bliss, I fear I never had any orthodox views, or,\nif I had, my orthodoxy exploded as soon as my common sense began to\ngrow.\n\nHell, the hell hurled at my head from the pulpit, only excited my\nindignation--it was so unjust--nor did the God of the Old Testament fill\nme with aught save indignation and disgust. Lost in a quagmire of doubts\nand perplexities, I inquired of my preceptors as to the authorship of\nthe book that held up for adoration a being so stern, relentless, and\nunjust as God; and in answer to my inquiries was told that I was very\nwicked to talk in such a way about the Bible; that it was God's own\nbook--divinely inspired--in fact, written by God Himself. Then I\ninquired if the original manuscript in God's handwriting was still in\nexistence; and was told I was very wicked and must hold my tongue. Yet I\nhad no idea of being in any way irreverent or blasphemous; I was merely\nperplexed, and longed to have my difficulties settled. Failing this,\nthey grew, and I began to question whether the terms \"merciful\" and\n\"almighty\" were terms that could be applied with any degree of\nconsistency to the scriptural one and only Creator. Would that God, if\nHe were almighty, have permitted the existence of such an enemy (or\nindeed an enemy at all) as the Devil? And if He were merciful, would He,\nfor the one disobedient act of one human being, have condemned to the\nmost ghastly and diabolical sufferings, millions of human beings, and\nnot only human beings, but animals? Ah! that's where the rub comes in,\nfor though there may be some sense, if not justice, in causing men and\nwomen, who have sinned--to suffer, there is surely neither reason nor\njustice in making animals, who have not sinned--to suffer.\n\nAnd yet, for man's one act of disobedience, both man and beast have\nsuffered thousands of years of untold agonies. Could anyone save the\nblindest and most fanatical of biblical bigots call the ordainer of such\na punishment merciful? How often have I asked myself who created the\nlaws and principles of Nature! They are certainly more suggestive of a\nfiendish than a benevolent author. It is ridiculous to say man owes\ndisease to his own acts--such an argument--if argument at all--would\nnot deceive an infant. Are the insects, the trees, the fish responsible\nfor the diseases with which they are inflicted? No, Nature, or rather\nthe creator of Nature, is alone responsible. But, granted we have lived\nbefore, there may be grounds for the suffering both of man and beast.\nThe story of the Fall may be but a contortion of something that has\nhappened to man in a former existence, in another sphere, possibly, in\nanother planet; and its description based on nothing more substantial\nthan memory, vague and fleeting as a dream. Anyhow, I am inclined to\nthink that incarnation here might be traced to something of\nmore--infinitely more--importance than an apple; possibly, to some cause\nof which we have not, at the present, even the remotest conception.\nPeople, who do not believe in the former existence, attempt to justify\nthe ills of man here, by assuming that a state of perfect happiness\ncannot be attained by man, except he has suffered a certain amount of\npain; so that, in order to attain to perfect happiness, man must of\nnecessity experience suffering--a theory founded on the much\nmisunderstood axiom, that nothing can exist save by contrast. But\nsupposing, for the sake of argument, that this axiom, according to its\neveryday interpretation, is an axiom, _i.e._ a true saying, then God,\nthe Creator of all things, must have created evil--evil that good may\nexist, and good that evil may exist. This deduction, however, is\nobviously at variance with the theory that God is all goodness, since if\nnothing can exist save by contrast, goodness must of necessity\npresuppose badness, and we are thus led to the conclusion that God is\nat the same time both good and bad, a conclusion which is undoubtedly a\n_reductio ad absurdum_.\n\nSeeing, then, that a God all good cannot have created evil, surely we\nshould be more rational, if less scriptural, were we to suppose a\nplurality of gods. In any case I cannot see how pain, if God is indeed\nall mighty and all good, can be the inevitable corollary of pleasure.\nNor can I see the necessity for man to suffer here, in order to enjoy\nabsolute happiness in the hereafter. No, I think if there is any\njustification for the suffering of mankind on this earth, it is to be\nfound, not in the theory of \"contrast,\" but in a former existence, and\nin an existence in some other sphere or plane. Vague recollections of\nsuch an existence arise and perplex many of us; but they are so elusive,\nthe moment we attempt to grapple with them, they fade away.\n\nThe frequent and vivid dreams I have, of visiting a region that is\npeopled with beings that have nothing at all in common with mankind, and\nwho welcome me as effusively as if I had been long acquainted with them,\nmakes me wonder if I have actually dwelt amongst them in a previous\nlife.\n\nI cannot get rid of the idea that in everything I see (in these\ndreams)--in the appearance, mannerisms, and expressions of my queer\ncompanions, in the scenery, in the atmosphere--I do but recall the\nactual experience of long ago--the actual experience of a previous\nexistence. Nor is this identical dreamland confined to me; and the fact\nthat others whom I have met, have dreamed of a land, corresponding in\nevery detail to my dreamland, proves, to my mind, the possibility that\nboth they and I have lived a former life, and in that former life\ninhabited the same sphere.\n\n\n_Projection_\n\nI have, as I have previously stated in my work, _The Haunted Houses of\nLondon_, succeeded, on one occasion, in separating at will, my\nimmaterial from my material body. I was walking alone along a very\nquiet, country lane, at 4 P.M., and concentrating with all my mind, on\nbeing at home. I kept repeating to myself, \"I WILL be there.\" Suddenly a\nvivid picture of the exterior of the house rose before me, and, the next\ninstant, I found myself, in the most natural manner possible, walking\ndown some steps and across the side garden leading to the conservatory.\nI entered the house, and found all my possessions--books, papers, shoes,\netc.--just as I had left them some hours previously. With the intention\nof showing myself to my wife, in order that she might be a witness to my\nappearance, I hastened to the room, where I thought it most likely I\nshould find her, and was about to turn the handle of the door, when, for\nthe fraction of a second, I saw nothing. Immediately afterwards there\ncame a blank, and I was once again on the lonely moorland road, toiling\nalong, fishing rod in hand, a couple of miles, at least, away from home.\nWhen I did arrive home, my wife met me in the hall, eager to tell me\nthat at four o'clock both she and the girls had distinctly heard me come\ndown the steps and through the conservatory into the house. \"You\nactually came,\" my wife continued, \"to the door of the room in which I\nwas sitting. I called out to you to come in, but, receiving no reply, I\ngot up and opened the door, and found, to my utter amazement, no one\nthere. I searched for you everywhere, and should much like to know why\nyou have behaved in this very extraordinary manner.\"\n\nMuch excited in my turn, I hastened to explain to her that I had been\npractising projection, and had actually succeeded in separating my\nmaterial from my immaterial body, for a brief space of time, just about\nfour o'clock. The footsteps she had heard were indeed my own\nfootsteps--and upon this point she was even more positive than I--the\nfootsteps of my immaterial self.\n\nI have made my presence felt, though I have never \"appeared,\" on several\nother occasions. In my sleep, I believe, I am often separated from my\nphysical body, as my dreams are so intensely real and vivid. They are so\nreal that I am frequently able to remember, almost _verbatim_, long\nconversations I have had in them, and I awake repeating broken-off\nsentences. Often, after I have taken active exercise, such as running,\nor done manual labour, such as digging or lifting heavy weights in the\nland of my dreams, my muscles have ached all the following day.\n\nWith regard to the projections of other people, I have often seen\nphantasms of the living, and an account of one appearing to me, when in\nthe company of three other persons, all of whom saw it, may be read in\nthe Psychical Research Society's Magazine for October 1899. I have\nreferred to it as well as to other of my similar experiences in\n_Ghostly Phenomena_ and _Haunted Houses of London_.\n\n_Doubles_, _i.e._ people who are more or less the exact counterpart of\nother people, may easily be taken for projections by those who have but\nlittle acquaintance with the occult. I, myself, have seen many doubles,\nbut though they be as like as the proverbial two peas, I can tell at a\nglance whether they be the material or immaterial likeness of those they\nso exactly resemble. I think there is no doubt that, in a good many\ninstances, doubles have been mistaken for projections, and, of course,\n_vice vers\u00e2_.\n\n\n_Telepathy and Suggestion_\n\nThough telepathy between two very wakeful minds is an established fact,\nI do not think it is generally known that it can also take place between\ntwo minds when asleep, or between one person awake and another asleep,\nand yet I have proved this to be the case. My wife and I continually\ndream of the same thing at the same time, and if I lie down in the\nafternoon and fall asleep alone, she often thinks of precisely what I am\ndreaming about. Though telepathy and suggestion may possibly account for\nhauntings when the phenomenon is only experienced individually, I cannot\nsee how it can do so when the manifestations are witnessed by numbers,\n_i.e._ collectively. I am quite sure that neither telepathy nor\nsuggestion are in any degree responsible for the phenomena I have\nexperienced, and that the latter hail only from one quarter--the\nobjective and genuine occult world.\n\n\n_The Psychic Faculty and Second Sight_\n\nWhereas some people seem fated to experience occult phenomena and others\nnot, there is this inconsistency: the person with the supposed psychic\nfaculty does not always witness the phenomena when they appear. By way\nof illustration: I have been present on one occasion in a haunted room\nwhen all present have seen the ghost with the exception of myself;\nwhilst on other occasions, either I have been the only one who has seen\nit, or some or all of us have seen it. It would thus seem that the\npsychic faculty does not ensure one's seeing a ghost, whenever a ghost\nis to be seen.\n\nI think, as a matter of fact, that apparitions can, whilst manifesting\nthemselves to some, remain invisible to others, and that they themselves\ndetermine to whom they will appear. Some types of phantasms apparently\nprefer manifesting themselves to the spiritual or psychic-minded person,\nwhilst other types do not discriminate, but appear to the spiritual and\ncarnal-minded alike. There is just as much variety in the tastes and\nhabits of phantasms as in the tastes and habits of human beings, and in\nthe behaviour of both phantasm and human being, I regret to say, there\nis an equal and predominant amount of inconsistency.\n\n\n_Intuition_\n\nI do not think it can be doubted that psychic people have the faculty of\nintuition far more highly developed than is the case with the more\nmaterial-minded.\n\n\"Second sight\" is but another name for the psychic faculty, and it is\ngenerally acknowledged to be far more common among the Celts than the\nAnglo-Saxons. That this is so need not be wondered at, since the Irish\nand the Highlanders of Scotland (originally the same race) are far more\nspiritual-minded than the English (in whom commerciality and worldliness\nare innate), and consequently have, on the whole, a far greater\nattraction for spirits who would naturally prefer to reveal themselves\nto those in whom they would be the more likely to find something in\ncommon.\n\nThere is still a belief in certain parts of the Hebrides that second\nsight was once obtained there through a practice called \"The Taigheirm.\"\nThis rite, which is said to have been last performed about the middle of\nthe seventeenth century, consisted in roasting on a spit, before a slow\nfire, a number of black cats. As soon as one was dead another took its\nplace, and the sacrifice was continued until the screeches of the\ntortured animals summoned from the occult world an enormous black cat,\nthat promised to bestow as a perpetual heritage on the sacrificer and\nhis family, the faculty of second sight, if he would desist from any\nfurther slaughter.\n\nThe sacrificer joyfully closed with the bargain, and the ceremony\nconcluded with much feasting and merriment, in which, however, it is\nhighly improbable that the phantasms of the poor roasted \"toms\" took\npart.\n\n\n_Clairvoyance_\n\nClairvoyance is a branch of occultism in which I have had little\nexperience, and can, therefore, only refer to in brief. When I was the\nPrincipal of a Preparatory School, I once had on my staff a Frenchman of\nthe name of Deslys. On recommencing school after the Christmas vacation,\nM. Deslys surprised me very much by suddenly observing: \"Mr O'Donnell,\ndid you not stay during the holidays at No. ... The Crescent, Bath?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I replied; \"but how on earth do you know?\" I had only been there\ntwo days, and had certainly never mentioned my visit either to him or to\nanyone acquainted with him.\n\n\"Well!\" he said, \"I'll tell you how I came to know. Hearing from my\nfriends that Mme. Lepr\u00e8s, a well-known clairvoyante, had just come to\nParis, I went to see her. It is just a week ago to-day. After she had\ndescribed, with wonderful accuracy, several houses and scenes with which\nI was familiar, and given me several pieces of information about my\nfriends, which I subsequently found to be correct, I asked her to tell\nme where you were and what you were doing. For some moments she was\nsilent, and then she said very slowly: 'He is staying with a friend at\nNo. ... The Crescent, Bath. I can see him (it was then three o'clock in\nthe afternoon) sitting by the bedside of his friend, who has his head\ntied up in bandages. Mr O'Donnell is telling him a very droll story\nabout Lady B----, to whom he has been lately introduced.' She then\nstopped, made a futile effort to go on, and after a protracted pause\nexclaimed: 'I can see no more--something has happened.' That was all I\nfound out about you.\"\n\n\"And enough, too, M. Deslys,\" I responded, \"for what she told you was\nabsolutely true. A week ago to-day I was staying at No. ... The\nCrescent, Bath, and at three o'clock in the afternoon I was sitting at\nthe bedside of my friend, who had injured his head in a fall, and had it\ntied up in bandages; and amongst other bits of gossip, I narrated to him\na very amusing anecdote concerning Lady B----, whom I have only just\nmet, for the first time, in London.\"\n\nNow M. Deslys could not possibly have known, excepting through psychical\nagency, where I had been staying a week before that time, or what I had\nbeen doing at three o'clock on that identical afternoon.\n\n\n_Automatic Writing_\n\nI have frequently experimented in automatic writing. Who that is\ninterested in the occult has not! But I cannot say I have ever had any\nastonishing results. However, though my own experiences are not worth\nrecording, I have heard of many extraordinary results obtained by\nothers--results from automatic messages that one can not help believing\ncould only be due to superphysical agency.\n\n\n_Table-turning_\n\nI do not think there is anything superphysical in merely turning the\ntable, or making it move across the room, or causing it to fall over on\nto the ground, and to get up again. I am of the opinion that all this is\ndue to animal magnetism, and to the unconscious efforts of the audience,\nwho are ever anxious for the ghost to come and something startling to\nhappen. The ladies, in particular, I would point out, press a little\nhard with their dainty but determined hands, or with their self-willed\nknees resort to a few sly pushes. When this does not happen, I think it\nis quite possible that an elemental or some other equally undesirable\ntype of phantasm does actually attend the s\u00e9ance, and, emphasising its\narrival by sundry noises, is responsible for many, if not all the\nphenomena. On the other hand, I certainly think that ninety per cent. of\nthe rappings and the manifestations of musical enthusiasts is due to\ntrickery on the part of the medium, or, if there be no professional\nmedium present, to an over-zealous sitter.\n\nBut since ghosts can and do show themselves spontaneously in haunted\nhouses, why the necessity of musical instruments, professional medium,\nand sitting round a table with fingers linked? Surely, when one comes to\nthink of it, the _modus operandi_ of the s\u00e9ance, besides being extremely\nundignified, is somewhat superfluous. Tin trumpets, twopenny\ntambourines, and concertinas are all very well in their way, but, try\nhow I will, I cannot associate them with ghosts. What phantasm of any\nstanding at all would be attracted by such baubles? Surely only the\nphantasms of the very silliest of servant girls, of incurable idiots,\nand of advanced imbeciles. But even they, I think, might be \"above it,\"\nin which case the musical instruments, tin trumpets, tambourines, and\nconcertinas, disdained by the immaterial, must be manipulated by the\nmaterial! And this rule with regard to table-turning, the manipulation\nof musical instruments, etc., equally applies to materialisation. I have\nno doubt that genuine phantasms of the earth-bound or elementals do\noccasionally show themselves, but I am quite sure in nine cases out of\nten the manifestations are manifestations of living flesh and blood.\n\n\n_Charms and Checks against Ghosts_\n\n\"When I feel the approach of the superphysical, I always cross myself,\"\nan old lady once remarked to me; and this is what many people do;\nindeed, the sign of the cross is the most common mode of warding off\nevil. Whether it is really efficacious is doubtful. I, for my part, make\nuse of the sign, involuntarily rather than otherwise, because the custom\nis innate in me, and is, perhaps, with various other customs, the\nheritage of all my race from ages past; but I cannot say it always or\neven often answers, for ghosts frequently manifest themselves to me in\nspite of it. Then there is the magic circle which is described\ndifferently by divers writers. According to Mr Dyer, in his _Ghost\nWorld_, pp. 167-168, the circle was prepared thus: \"A piece of ground\nwas usually chosen, nine feet square, at the full extent of which\nparallel lines were drawn, one within the other, having sundry crosses\nand triangles described between them, close to which was formed the\nfirst or outer circle; then about half a foot within the same, a second\ncircle was described, and within that another square corresponding to\nthe first, the centre of which was the spot where the master and\nassociate were to be placed. The vacancies formed by the various lines\nand angles of the figure were filled up by the holy names of God, having\ncrosses and triangles described between them.... The reason assigned for\nthe use of the circles was, that so much ground being blessed and\nconsecrated by such holy words and ceremonies as they made use of in\nforming it, had a secret force to expel all evil spirits from the bounds\nthereof, and, being sprinkled with pure sanctified water, the ground was\npurified from all uncleanliness; besides, the holy names of God being\nwritten over every part of it, its forces became so powerful that no\nevil spirits had ability to break through it, or to get at the magician\nand his companion, by reason of the antipathy in nature they bore to\nthese sacred names. And the reason given for the triangles was, that if\nthe spirits were not easily brought to speak the truth, they might by\nthe exorcist be conjured to enter the same, where, by virtue of the\nnames of the essence and divinity of God, they could speak nothing but\nwhat was true and right.\"\n\nAgain according to Mr Dyer, when a spot was haunted by the spirit of a\nmurderer or suicide who lay buried there, a magic circle was made just\nover the grave, and he who was daring enough to venture there, at\nmidnight, preferably when the elements were at their worst, would\nconjure the ghost to appear and give its reason for haunting the spot.\nIn answer to the summons there was generally a long, unnatural silence,\nwhich was succeeded by a tremendous crash, when the phantasm would\nappear, and, in ghastly, hollow tones answer all the questions put to\nit. Never once would it encroach on the circle, and on its interrogator\npromising to carry out its wishes, it would suddenly vanish and never\nagain walk abroad. If the hauntings were in a house, the investigator\nentered the haunted room at midnight with a candle, and compass, and a\ncrucifix or Bible. After carefully shutting the door, and describing a\ncircle on the floor, in which he drew a cross, he placed within it a\nchair, and table, and on the latter, put the crucifix, a Bible, and a\nlighted candle. He then sat down on the chair and awaited the advent of\nthe apparition, which either entered noiselessly or with a terrific\ncrash. On the promise that its wishes would be fulfilled, the ghost\nwithdrew, and there were no more disturbances. Sometimes the\ninvestigator, if he were a priest, would sprinkle the phantasm with holy\nwater and sometimes make passes over it with the crucifix, but the\nresults were always the same; it responded to all the questions that\nwere put to it and never troubled the house again.\n\nHow different from what happens in reality! Though I have seen and\ninterrogated many ghosts, I have never had a reply, or anything in the\nshape of a reply, nor perceived any alteration in their expression that\nwould in any way lead me to suppose they had understood me; and as to\nexorcism--well, I know of innumerable cases where it has been tried,\nand tried by the most pious of clergy--clergy of all denominations--and\nsingularly failed. It is true I have never experimented with a magic\ncircle, but, somehow, I have not much faith in it.\n\nIn China the method of expelling ghosts from haunted houses has been\ndescribed as follows:--An altar containing tapers and incense sticks is\nerected in the spot where the manifestations are most frequent. A Taoist\npriest is then summoned, and enters the house dressed in a red robe,\nwith blue stockings and a black cap. He has with him a sword, made of\nthe wood of the peach or date tree, the hilt and guard of which are\ncovered with red cloth. Written in ink on the blade of the sword is a\ncharm against ghosts. Advancing to the altar, the priest deposits his\nsword on it. He then prepares a mystic scroll, which he burns,\ncollecting and emptying the ashes into a cup of spring water. Next, he\ntakes the sword in his right hand and the cup in his left, and, after\ntaking seven paces to the left and eight to the right, he says: \"Gods of\nheaven and earth, invest me with the heavy seal, in order that I may\neject from this dwelling-house all kinds of evil spirits. Should any\ndisobey me, give me power to deliver them for safe custody to rulers of\nsuch demons.\" Then, addressing the ghost in a loud voice, he says: \"As\nquick as lightning depart from this house.\" This done, he takes a bunch\nof willow, dips it in the cup, and sprinkles it in the east, west,\nnorth, and south corners of the house, and, laying it down, picks up his\nsword and cup, and, going to the east corner of the building, calls\nout: \"I have the authority, Tai-Shaong-Loo-Kivan.\" He then fills his\nmouth with water from the cup, and spits it out on the wall, exclaiming:\n\"Kill the green evil spirits which come from unlucky stars, or let them\nbe driven away.\" This ceremony he repeats at the south, west, and north\ncorners respectively, substituting, in turn, red, white, and yellow in\nthe place of green. The attendants then beat gongs, drums, and tom-toms,\nand the exorcist cries out: \"Evil spirits from the east, I send back to\nthe east; evil spirits from the south, I send back to the south,\" and so\non. Finally, he goes to the door of the house, and, after making some\nmystical signs in the air, manoeuvres with his sword, congratulates the\nowner of the establishment on the expulsion of the ghosts, and demands\nhis fee.\n\nIn China the sword is generally deemed to have psychic properties, and\nis often to be seen suspended over a bed to scare away ghosts. Sometimes\na horse's tail--a horse being also considered extremely psychic--or a\nrag dipped in the blood from a criminal's head, are used for the same\npurpose. But no matter how many, or how varied, the precautions we take,\nghosts will come, and nothing will drive them away. The only protection\nI have ever found to be of any practical value in preventing them from\nmaterialising is a powerful light. As a rule they cannot stand _that_,\nand whenever I have turned a pocket flashlight on them, they have at\nonce dematerialised; often, however, materialising again immediately the\nlight has been turned off.\n\nThe cock was, at one time, (and still is in some parts of the world)\nregarded as a psychic bird; it being thought that phantasms invariably\ntook their departure as soon as it began to crow. This, however, is a\nfallacy. As ghosts appear at all hours of the day and night, in season\nand out of season, I fear it is only too obvious that their\nmanifestations cannot be restricted within the limits of any particular\ntime, and that their coming and going, far from being subject to the\ncrowing of a cock, however vociferous, depend entirely on themselves.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI\n\nOCCULT INHABITANTS OF THE SEA AND RIVERS\n\n\n_Phantom Ships_\n\nFrom time to time, one still hears of a phantom ship being seen, in\nvarious parts of the world. Sometimes it is in the Straits of Magellan,\nvainly trying to weather the Horn; sometimes in the frozen latitudes of\nthe north, steering its way in miraculous fashion past monster icebergs;\nsometimes in the Pacific, sometimes in the Atlantic, and only the other\nday I heard of its being seen off Cornwall. The night was dark and\nstormy, and lights being suddenly seen out at sea as of a vessel in\ndistress, the lifeboat was launched. On approaching the lights, it was\ndiscovered that they proceeded from a vessel that mysteriously vanished\nas soon as the would-be rescuers were within hailing. Much puzzled, the\nlifeboat men were about to return, when they saw the lights suddenly\nreappear to leeward. On drawing near to them, they again disappeared,\nand were once more seen right out to sea. Utterly nonplussed, and\nfeeling certain that the elusive bark must be the notorious phantom\nship, the lifeboat men abandoned the pursuit, and returned home.\n\nA fisherman of the same town--the town to which the lifeboat that had\ngone to the rescue of the phantom ship belonged--told me, when I was out\nwith him one evening in his boat, that one of the oldest inhabitants of\nthe place had on one occasion, when the phantom ship visited the bay,\nactually got his hands on her gunwales before she melted away, and he\nnarrowly escaped pitching headlong into the sea. Though the weather was\nthen still and warm, the yards of the ship, which were coated with ice,\nflapped violently to and fro, as if under the influence of some mighty\nwind. The appearance of the phenomenon was followed, as usual, by a\ncatastrophe to one of the local boats.\n\nI very often sound sailors as to whether they have ever come across this\nominous vessel, and sometimes hear very enthralling accounts of it. An\nold sea captain whom I met on the pier at Southampton, in reply to my\ninquiry, said: \"Yes! I have seen the phantom ship, or at any rate a\nphantom ship, once--but only once. It was one night in the fifties, and\nwe were becalmed in the South Pacific about three hundred miles due west\nof Callao. It had been terrifically hot all day, and, only too thankful\nthat it was now a little cooler, I was lolling over the bulwarks to get\na few mouthfuls of fresh air before turning into my berth, when one of\nthe crew touched me on the shoulder, and ejaculating, 'For God's\nsake----' abruptly left off. Following the direction of his glaring\neyes, I saw to my amazement a large black brig bearing directly down on\nus. She was about a mile off, and, despite the intense calmness of the\nsea, was pitching and tossing as if in the roughest water. As she drew\nnearer I was able to make her out better, and from her build--she\ncarried two masts and was square-rigged forward and schooner-rigged\naft--as well as from her tawdry gilt figurehead, concluded she was a\nhermaphrodite brig of, very possibly, Dutch nationality. She had\nevidently seen a great deal of rough weather, for her foretopmast and\npart of her starboard bulwarks were gone, and what added to my\nastonishment and filled me with fears and doubts was, that in spite of\nthe pace at which she was approaching us and the dead calmness of the\nair, she had no other sails than her foresail and mainsail, and\nflying-jib.\n\n\"By this time all of our crew were on deck, and the skipper and the\nsecond mate took up their positions one on either side of me, the man\nwho had first called my attention to the strange ship, joining some\nother seamen near the forecastle. No one spoke, but, from the expression\nin their eyes and ghastly pallor of their cheeks, it was very easy to\nsee that one and all were dominated by the same feelings of terror and\nsuspicion. Nearer and nearer drew the brig, until she was at last so\nclose that we could perceive her crew--all of whom, save the helmsman,\nwere leaning over the bulwarks--grinning at us. Never shall I forget the\nhorror of those grins. They were hideous, meaningless, hellish grins,\nthe grins of corpses in the last stage of putrefaction. And that is just\nwhat they were--all of them--corpses, but corpses possessed by spirits\nof the most devilish sort, for as we stared, too petrified with fear to\nremove our gaze, they nodded their ulcerated heads and gesticulated\nvehemently. The brig then gave a sudden yaw, and with that motion there\nwas wafted a stink--a stink too damnably foul and rotten to originate\nfrom anywhere, save from some cesspool in hell. Choking, retching, and\nall but fainting, I buried my face in the skipper's coat, and did not\nventure to raise it, till the far-away sounds of plunging and tossing\nassured me the cursed ship had passed. I then looked up, and was just in\ntime to catch a final glimpse of the brig, a few hundred yards to\nleeward, (she had passed close under our stern) before her lofty stern\nrose out of the water, and, bows foremost, she plunged into the stilly\ndepths and we saw her no more. There was no need for the skipper to tell\nus that she was the phantom ship, nor did she belie her sinister\nreputation, for within a week of seeing her, yellow fever broke out on\nboard, and when we arrived at port, there were only three of us left.\"\n\n\n_The Sargasso Sea_\n\nOf all the seas in the world, none bear a greater reputation for being\nhaunted than the Sargasso. Within this impenetrable waste of rank,\nstinking seaweed, in places many feet deep, are collected wreckages of\nall ages and all climes, grim and permanent records of the world's\nmaritime history, unsinkable and undestroyable. It has ever been my\nambition to explore the margins of this unsightly yet fascinating marine\nwilderness, but, so far, I have been unable to extend my peregrinations\nfurther south than the thirty-fifth degree of latitude.\n\nAmong the many stories I have heard in connection with this sea, the\nfollowing will, I think, bear repeating:--\n\n\"A brig with twelve hands aboard, bound from Boston to the Cape Verde\nIslands, was caught in a storm, and, being blown out of her course,\ndrifted on to the northern extremities of the Sargasso. The wind then\nsinking, and an absolute calm taking its place, there seemed every\nprospect that the brig would remain where it was for an indefinite\nperiod. A most horrible fate now stared the crew in the face, for\nalthough they had food enough to last them for many weeks, they only had\na very limited supply of water, and the intense heat and terrific stench\nfrom the weeds made them abnormally thirsty.\n\n\"After a long and earnest consultation, in which the skipper acted as\nchairman, it was decided that on the consumption of the last drop of\nwater they should all commit suicide, anything rather than to perish of\nthirst, and it would be far less harrowing to die in a body and face the\nawful possibilities of the next world in company than alone.\n\n\"As there was only one firearm on board, and the idea of throat-cutting\nwas disapproved of by several of the more timid, rat poison, of which\nthere was just enough to go all round, was chosen. Meanwhile, in\nconsideration of the short time left to them on earth, the crew insisted\nthat they should be allowed to enjoy themselves to the utmost. To this\nthe captain, knowing only too well what that would mean, reluctantly\ngave his consent. A general pandemonium at once ensued, one of the men\nproducing a mouth accordion and another a concertina, whilst the rest,\nselecting partners with much mock gallantry, danced to the air of a\npopular Vaudeville song till they could dance no longer.\n\n\"The next item on the programme was dinner. The best of everything on\nboard was served up, and they all ate and drank till they could hold no\nmore. They were then so sleepy that they tumbled off their seats, and,\nlying on the floor, soon snored like hogs. The cool of the evening\nrestoring them, they played pitch and toss, and poker, till tea-time,\nand then fooled away the remainder of the evening in more cards and more\ndrink. In this manner the best part of a week was beguiled. Then the\nskipper announced the fact that the last drop of liquor on board had\ngone, and that, according to the compact, the hour had arrived to commit\nsuicide. Had a bombshell fallen in their midst, it could not have caused\na greater consternation than this announcement. The men had, by this\ntime, become so enamoured with their easy and irresponsible mode of\nliving, that the idea of quitting it in so abrupt a manner was by no\nmeans to their liking, and they evinced their displeasure in the\nroughest and most forcible of language. 'The skipper could d----d well\nput an end to himself if he had a mind to, but they would see themselves\nsomewhere else before they did any such thing--it would be time enough\nto talk of dying when the victuals were all eaten up.' Then they\nthoroughly overhauled the ship, and on discovering half a dozen bottles\nof rum and a small cask of water stowed away in the skipper's cabin,\nthey threw him overboard and pelted him with empty bottles till he sank;\nafter which they cleared the deck and danced till sunset.\n\n\"Two nights later, when they were all lying on the deck near the\ncompanion way, licking their parched lips and commiserating with\nthemselves on the prospect of their gradually approaching end--for they\nhad abandoned all idea of the rat poison--they suddenly saw a hideous,\nseaweedy object rise up over the bulwarks on the leeward side of the\nship. In breathless expectation they all sat up and watched. Inch by\ninch it rose, until they saw before them a tall form enveloped from head\nto foot in green slime, and horribly suggestive of the well-known figure\nof the murdered captain. Gliding noiselessly over the deck, it shook its\nhands menacingly at each of the sailors, until it came to the\ncabin-boy--the only one among them who had not participated in the\nskipper's death--when it touched him gently on the forehead, and,\nstooping down, appeared to whisper something in his ears. It then\nrecrossed the deck, and, mounting the bulwarks, leaped into the sea.\n\n\"For some seconds no one stirred; and then, as if under the influence of\nsome hypnotic spell, one by one, each of the crew, with the exception of\nthe cabin-boy, got up, and, marching in Indian file to the spot where\nthe apparition had vanished, flung themselves overboard. The last of the\nprocession had barely disappeared from view, when the cabin-boy, whose\nagony of mind during this infernal tragedy cannot be described, fell\ninto a heavy stupor, from which he did not awake till morning. In the\nmeanwhile the brig, owing to a stiff breeze that had arisen in the\nnight, was freed from its environment, and was drifting away from the\nseaweed. It went on and on, day after day, and day after day, till it\nwas eventually sighted by a steamer and taken in tow. The cabin-boy, by\nthis time barely alive, was nursed with the tenderest care, and, owing\nto the assiduous attention bestowed on him, he completely recovered.\"\n\nI think this story, though naturally ridiculed and discredited by some,\nmay be unreservedly accepted by those whose knowledge and experience of\nthe occult warrant their belief in it.\n\nAlong the coast of Brittany are many haunted spots, none more so than\nthe \"Bay of the Departed,\" where, in the dead of night, wails and cries,\npresumably uttered by the phantasms of drowned sailors, are distinctly\nheard by the terrified peasantry on shore. I can the more readily\nbelieve this, because I myself have heard similar sounds off the Irish,\nScottish, and Cornish coasts, where shrieks, and wails, and groans as of\nthe drowning have been borne to me from the inky blackness of the\nfoaming and tossing sea. According to Mr Hunt in his _Romances of the\nWest of England_, the sands of Porth Towan were haunted, a fisherman\ndeclaring that one night when he was walking on them alone, he suddenly\nheard a voice from the sea cry out, \"The hour is come, but not the man.\"\nThis was repeated three times, when a black figure, like that of a man,\nappeared on the crest of an adjacent hill, and, dashing down the steep\nside, rushed over the sands and vanished in the waves.\n\nIn other parts of England, as well as in Brittany and Spain, a voice\nfrom the sea is always said to be heard prior to a storm and loss of\nlife. In the Bermudas, I have heard that before a wreck a huge white\nfish is often seen; whilst in the Cape Verde Islands maritime disasters\nare similarly presaged by flocks of peculiarly marked gulls.\n\nOn no more reliable authority than hearsay evidence, I understand that\noff the coast of Finland a whirlpool suddenly appears close beside a\nvessel that is doomed to be wrecked, and that a like calamity is\nforetold off the coast of Peru by the phantasm of a sailor who, in\neighteenth-century costume, swarms up the side of the doomed ship,\nenters the captain's cabin, and, touching him on the shoulder, points\nsolemnly at the porthole and vanishes.\n\n\n_River Ghosts_\n\nIn China there is a strong belief that spots in rivers, creeks, and\nponds where people have been drowned are haunted by devils that,\nconcealing themselves either in the water itself or on the banks, spring\nout upon the unwary and drown them. To warn people against these\ndangerous elementals, a stone or pillar called \"The Fat-pee,\" on which\nthe name of the future Buddha or Pam-mo-o-mee-to-foo is inscribed, is\nset up near the place where they are supposed to lurk, and when the\nhauntings become very frequent the evil spirit is exorcised. The\nceremony of exorcism consists in the decapitation of a white horse by a\nspecially selected executioner, on the site of the hauntings. The head\nof the slaughtered animal is placed in an earthenware jar, and buried in\nthe exact spot where it was killed, which place is then carefully marked\nby the erection of a stone tablet with the words \"O-me-o-to-fat\"\ntranscribed on it. The performance concludes with the cutting up and\nselling of the horse's body for food. Amongst the numerous other creeks\nthat have witnessed this practice in recent years are those adjoining\nthe villages of Tsze-tow (near Whampoa) and Gna-zew (near Canton).\n\nVarious of the lakes, particularly the crater lakes of America, were\nonce thought to be haunted by spirits or devils of a fiery red who\nraised storms and upset canoes.\n\n\n_Sirens_\n\nBut by far the most fascinating of all the phantasms of the water are\nthe sirens that haunted (and still occasionally haunt) rivers and\nwaterfalls, particularly those of Germany and Austria. Not so very long\nago on my travels I came across an aged Hungarian who declared that he\nhad once seen a siren. I append the story he told me, as nearly as\npossible in his own words.\n\n\"My brother Hans and I were wandering, early one morning, along the\nbanks of a tributary of the Drave, in search of birds' eggs. The shores\non either side the river were thickly wooded, and so rough and uneven in\nplaces that we had to exercise the greatest care to avoid getting hurt.\nFew people visited the neighbourhood, save in the warmest and brightest\ntime of the day, and, with the exception of a woodcutter, we had met no\none. Much, then, to our astonishment, on arriving at an open space on\nthe bank, we heard the sound of singing and music. 'Whoever can it be?'\nwe asked ourselves, and then, advancing close to the water's edge, we\nstrained our heads, and saw, perched high on a rock in midstream a few\nfeet to our left, a girl with long yellow hair and a face of the most\nexquisite beauty. Though I was too young then to trouble my head about\ngirls, I could not help being struck with this one, whilst Hans, who was\nseveral years older than I, was simply spellbound. 'My God! how lovely!'\nhe cried out, 'and what a voice--how exquisite! Isn't she divine? She is\naltogether too beautiful for a human being; she must be an angel,' and\nhe fell on his knees and extended his hands towards her, as if in the\nact of worship. Never having seen Hans behave in such a queer way\nbefore, I touched him on the shoulder, and said: 'Get up! If you go on\nlike this the lady will think you mad. Besides, it is getting late, we\nought to be going on!' But Hans did not heed me. He still continued to\nexclaim aloud, expressing his admiration in the most extravagant\nphrases; and then the girl ceased singing, and, looking at Hans with her\nlarge blue eyes, smiled and beckoned him to approach. I caught hold of\nhim, and begged and implored him to do nothing so foolish, but he\nwrenched himself free, and, striking me savagely on the chest, leaped\ninto the water and swam towards the rock.\n\n\"With what eagerness I counted his strokes and watched the dreaded\ndistance diminish! On and on he swam, till at length he was close to the\nrock, and the lady, bending down, was holding out her lily hands to him.\nHans clutched at them, and they were, I thought, already in his fevered\ngrasp, when she coyly snatched them away and struck him playfully on the\nhead. The cruel, hungry waters then surged over him. I saw him sink\ndown, down, down: I saw him no more. When I raised my agonised eyes to\nthe rocks, all was silent and desolate: the lady had vanished.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII\n\nBUDDHAS AND BOGGLE CHAIRS\n\n\nIt was in Paris, at the Hotel Mandeville, that I met the Baroness Paoli,\nan almost solitary survivor of the famous Corsican family. I was\nintroduced to her by John Heroncourt, a friend in common, and the\nintroduction was typical of his characteristic unorthodoxy.\n\n\"Mr Elliott O'Donnell, the Baroness Paoli. Mr Elliott O'Donnell is a\nwriter on the superphysical. He is unlike the majority of psychical\nresearchers, inasmuch as he has not based his knowledge on hearsay, but\nhas actually seen, heard, and felt occult phenomena, both collectively\nand individually.\"\n\nThe Baroness smiled.\n\n\"Then I am delighted to meet Mr O'Donnell, for I, too, have had\nexperience with the superphysical.\"\n\nShe extended her hand; the introduction was over.\n\nA man in my line of life has to work hard. My motto is promptness. I\nhave no time to waste on superfluity of any kind. I come to the point at\nonce. Consequently, my first remark to the Baroness was direct from the\nshoulder:\n\n\"Your experiences. Please tell them--they will be both interesting and\nuseful.\"\n\nThe Baroness gently clasped her hands--truly psychic hands, with slender\nfingers and long shapely nails--and, looking at me fixedly, said:\n\n\"If you write about it, promise that you will not mention names.\"\n\n\"They shall at all events be unrecognisable,\" I said. \"Please begin.\"\n\nAnd without further delay the Baroness commenced her story.\n\n\"You must know,\" she said, \"that in my family, as in most historical\nfamilies--particularly Corsican--there have been many tragedies. In some\ncases merely orthodox tragedies--a smile, a blow, a groan; in other\ncases peculiar tragedies--peculiar even in that country and in the\ngrimness of the medi\u00e6val age.\n\n\"Since 1316 the headquarters of my branch of the Paolis has been at\nSartoris, once the strongest fortified castle in Corsica, but now, alas!\nalmost past repair, in fact little better than a heap of crumbling\nruins. As you know, Mr O'Donnell, it takes a vast fortune to keep such a\nplace merely habitable.\n\n\"I lived there with my mother until my marriage two years ago, and\nneither she nor I had ever seen or heard any superphysical\nmanifestations. From time to time some of the servants complained of odd\nnoises, and there was one room which none of them would pass alone even\nin daylight; but we laughed at their fears, merely attributing them to\nthe superstition which is so common among the Corsican peasants.\n\n\"The year after my marriage, my husband, a Mr Vercoe, who was a great\nfriend of ours, and I, accepted my mother's invitation to spend\nChristmas with her, and we all three travelled together to Sartoris.\n\n\"It was an ideal season, and the snow--an exceptional sight in my native\ntown--lay thick in the Castle grounds.\n\n\"But to get on with my story--for I see I must not try your patience\nwith unnecessary detail--I must give you a brief description of the\nbedroom in which my husband and I slept. Like all the rooms in the\nCastle, it was oak panelled throughout. Floor, ceiling, and walls, all\nwere of oak, and the bed, also of oak, and certainly of no later date\nthan the fourteenth century, was superbly carved, and had been recently\nvalued at \u00a330,000.\n\n\"There were two entrances, the one leading into a passage, and the other\ninto a large reception room, formerly a chapel, at the furthest\nextremity of which was a huge barred and bolted door that had not been\nopened for more than a hundred years. This door led down a flight of\nstone steps to a series of ancient dungeons that occupied the space\nunderneath our bedroom and the reception room.\n\n\"On Christmas Eve we retired to rest somewhat earlier than usual, and,\nbeing tired after a long day's motoring, speedily fell into a deep\nsleep. We awoke simultaneously, both querying the time and agreeing that\nit must be about five o'clock.\n\n\"Whilst we were talking, we suddenly heard, to our utter astonishment,\nthe sound of footsteps--heavy footsteps--accompanied by a curious\nclanging sound, immediately beneath us; and, as if by mutual consent, we\nboth held our breath and listened.\n\n\"The footsteps moved on, and we presently heard them begin to ascend the\nstone steps leading to the adjoining room. Up, up, up, they came, until,\nhaving reached the summit, they paused. Then we heard the huge, heavy\nbolts of the fast-closed door shoot back with a sonorous clash. So far I\nhad been rather more puzzled than frightened, and the idea of ghosts had\nnot entered my mind, but when I heard the door--the door which I knew to\nbe so securely fastened from the inside--thus opened, a great fear swept\nover me, and I prayed Heaven to save us from what might ensue.\n\n\"Several people, talking rapidly in gruff voices, now entered the room,\nand we distinctly heard the jingling of spurs and the rattling of sword\nscabbards coming to us distinctly through the cracks of the door.\n\n\"I was so paralysed with fear that I could do nothing. I could neither\nspeak nor move, and my very soul was concentrated in one great, sickly\ndread, one awful anticipation that the intruders would burst into our\nroom, and, before our very eyes, perform unthinkable horrors.\n\n\"To my immeasurable relief, however, this did not happen. The footsteps,\nas far as I could judge, advanced into the middle of the room--there was\na ghastly suggestion of a scuffle, of a smothered cry, a gurgle; and the\nmailed feet then retired whence they had come, dragging with them some\nheavy load which bumped, bumped, bumped down the stairs and into the\ncellar. Then a brief silence followed, abruptly broken by the sound of a\ngirlish voice, which, though beautifully tintinnabulous, was unearthly,\nand full of suggestions so sinister and blood-curdling, that the fetters\nwhich had hitherto held me tongue-tied snapped asunder, and I was able\nto give vent to my terror in words. The instant I did so the singing\nceased, all was still, and not another sound disturbed us till morning.\n\n\"We got up as soon as we dared and found the door at the head of the\ndungeon steps barred and bolted as usual, while the heavy and antique\nfurniture in the apartment showed no sign of having been disturbed.\n\n\"On the following night my husband sat up in the room adjoining our\nbedroom, to see if there would be a repetition of what had taken place\nthe night before, but nothing occurred, and we never heard the noises\nagain.\n\n\"That is one experience. The other, though not our own, was almost\ncoincidental, and happened to our engineer friend, Mr Vercoe. When we\ntold him about the noises we had heard, he roared with laughter.\n\n\"'Well,' he said, 'I always understood you Corsicans were superstitious,\nbut this beats everything. The regulation stereotype ghost in armour and\nclanking chains, eh! Do you know what the sounds were, Baroness? Rats!'\nand he smiled odiously.\n\n\"Then a sudden idea flashed across me. 'Look here, Mr Vercoe,' I\nexclaimed, 'there is one room in our Castle I defy even you--sceptic as\nyou are--to sleep in. It is the Barceleri Chamber, called after my\nancestor, Barceleri Paoli. He visited China in the fifteenth century,\nbringing back with him a number of Chinese curiosities, and a Buddha\nwhich I shrewdly suspect he had stolen from a Canton temple. The room is\nmuch the same as when my ancestor occupied it, for no one has slept in\nit since. Moreover, the servants declare that the noises they so\nfrequently hear come from it. But, of course, you won't mind spending a\nnight in it?'\n\n\"Mr Vercoe laughed. 'He, he, he! Only too delighted. Give me a bottle of\nyour most excellent vintage, and I defy any ghost that was ever\ncreated!'\n\n\"He was as good as his word, Mr O'Donnell, and though he had advised the\ncontrary, we--that is to say, my mother, my husband, our two old\nservants and I--sat up in one of the rooms close at hand.\n\n\"Eleven, twelve, one, two, and three o'clock struck, and we were\nbeginning to wish we had taken his advice and gone to bed, when we heard\nthe most appalling, agonising, soul-rending screams for help. We rushed\nout, and, as we did so, the door of Mr Vercoe's room flew open and\nsomething--something white and glistening--bounded into the\ncandle-light.\n\n\"We were so shocked, so absolutely petrified with terror, that it was a\nsecond or so before we realised that it was Mr Vercoe--not the Mr Vercoe\nwe knew, but an entirely different Mr Vercoe--a Mr Vercoe without a\nstitch of clothing, and with a face metamorphosed into a lurid, solid\nblock of horror, overspreading which was a suspicion of\nsomething--something too dreadful to name, but which we could have sworn\nwas utterly at variance with his nature. Close at his heels was the\nblurred outline of something small and unquestionably horrid. I cannot\ndefine it. I dare not attempt to diagnose the sensations it produced.\nApart from a deadly, nauseating fear, they were mercifully novel.\n\n\"Dashing past us, Mr Vercoe literally hurled himself along the corridor,\nand with almost superhuman strides, disappeared downstairs. A moment\nlater, and the clashing of the hall door told us he was in the open air.\nA breathless silence fell on us, and for some seconds we were all too\nfrightened to move. My husband was the first to pull himself together.\n\n\"'Come along!' he cried, gripping one of the trembling servants by the\narm. 'Come along instantly! We must keep him in sight at all costs,'\nand, bidding me remain where I was, he raced downstairs.\n\n\"After a long search he eventually discovered Mr Vercoe lying at full\nlength on the grass--insensible.\n\n\"For some weeks our friend's condition was critical--on the top of a\nviolent shock to the system, sufficient in itself to endanger life, he\nhad taken a severe chill, which resulted in double pneumonia. However,\nthanks to a bull-dog constitution, typically English, he recovered, and\nwe then begged him to give us an account of all that had happened.\n\n\"'I cannot!' he said. 'My one desire is to forget everything that\nhappened on that awful night.'\n\n\"He was obdurate, and our curiosity was, therefore, doomed to remain\nunsatisfied. Both my husband and I, however, felt quite sure that the\nimage of Buddha was at the bottom of the mischief, and, as there chanced\njust then to be an English doctor staying at a neighbouring chateau, who\nwas on his way to China, we entrusted the image to him, on the\nunderstanding that he would place it in a Buddhist temple. He deceived\nus, and, returning almost immediately to England, took the image with\nhim. We subsequently learned that within three months this man was\ndivorced, that he murdered a woman in Clapham Rise, and, in order to\nescape arrest, poisoned himself.\n\n\"The image then found its way to a pawnbroker's establishment in\nHoundsditch, which shortly afterwards was burned to the ground. Where it\nis now, I cannot definitely say, but I have been told that an image of\nBuddha is the sole occupant of an empty house in the Shepherd's Bush\nRoad--a house that is now deemed haunted. These are the experiences I\nwanted to tell you, Mr O'Donnell. What do you think of them?\"\n\n\"I think,\" I said, \"they are of absorbing interest. Can you see any\nassociation in the two hauntings--any possible connection between what\nyou heard and what Mr Vercoe saw?\"\n\nA look of perplexity crossed the Baroness's face. \"I hardly know,\" she\nsaid. \"What is your opinion on that point?\"\n\n\"That they are distinct--absolutely distinct. The phenomena you heard\nare periodical re-enactions, (either by the earth-bound spirits of the\nactual victim and perpetrators, or by impersonating phantoms), of a\ncrime once committed within the Castle walls. A girl was obviously\nmurdered in the chapel and her coffin dragged into the dungeons, where,\nno doubt, her remains are to be found. I presume it was her spirit you\nheard tintinnabulating. Very possibly, if her skeleton were unearthed\nand re-interred in an orthodox fashion, the hauntings would cease.\n\n\"Now, with regard to your friend's experience. The blurred figure you\nsaw pursuing the engineer was not the image of Buddha--it was one of Mr\nVercoe's many personalities, extracted from him by the image of Buddha.\nWe are all, as you are aware, complex creatures, all composed of diverse\nselves, each self possessing a specific shape and individuality. The\nmore animal of these separate selves, the higher spiritual forces\nattaching themselves to certain localities and symbols have the power of\ndrawing out of us, and eventually destroying. The higher spiritual\nforces, however, do not associate themselves with all crucifixes and\nBuddhas, but only with those moulded by true believers. For instance, a\nBuddha fashioned for mere gain, and by a person who was not a genuine\nfollower of the prophet, would have no power of attraction.\n\n\"I have proved all this, experimentally, times without number.\n\n\"Mr Vercoe must have had--as indeed many of us have--vices, in all\nprobability, little suspected. The close proximity of the Buddha acted\non them, and they began to leave his body and form a shape of their own.\nHad he allowed them to do so, all might have gone well; they would have\nbeen effectually overcome by the higher spiritual forces attached to the\nBuddha. But as soon as he saw a figure beginning to form--and no doubt\nit was very dreadful--he lost his head. His shrieks interrupted the\nwork, the power of the Buddha was, _pro tempus_, at an end, and the\nextracted personality commenced at once to re-enter Vercoe. Rushing at\nhim with that end in view, it so terrified him that he fled from the\nroom, and it was at that stage that you appeared upon the scene. What\nfollowed is, of course, pure conjecture on my part, but I fear, I\ngreatly fear, that by the time Mr Vercoe became unconscious the mischief\nwas done, and the latter's evil personality had once again united with\nhis other personalities.\"\n\n\"And what would be the after-effect, Mr O'Donnell?\" the Baroness\ninquired anxiously.\n\n\"I fear a serious one,\" I replied evasively. \"In the case of the doctor\nyou mentioned, who committed murder, an evil ego had doubtless been\nexpelled, and, receiving a rebuff, had reunited, for after a reunion the\nevil personality usually receives a new impetus and grows with amazing\nrapidity. Have you heard from Mr Vercoe lately?\"\n\nThe Baroness shook her head. \"Not for several months.\"\n\n\"You will let me know when you do?\"\n\nShe nodded.\n\nA week later she wrote to me from Rome.\n\n\"Isn't it terrible?\" she began, \"Mr Vercoe committed suicide on\nWednesday--the Birmingham papers--he was a Birmingham man--are full of\nit!\"\n\n\n_The Barrowvian_\n\nThe description of an adventure Mr Trobas, a friend of mine, had with a\nbarrowvian in Brittany (and which I omitted to relate when referring to\nbarrowvians), I now append as nearly as possible in his own words:--\n\n\"Night! A sky partially concealed from view by dark, fantastically\nshaped clouds, that, crawling along with a slow, stealthy motion,\nperiodically obscure the moon. The crest of a hill covered with\nshort-clipped grass, much worn away in places, and in the centre a\nDruidical circle broken and incomplete; a few of the stones are erect,\nthe rest either lie at full length on the sward, close to the mystic\nring, or at some considerable distance from it. Here and there are\ndistinct evidences of recent digging, and at the base of one of the\nhorizontal stones is an excavation of no little depth.\n\n\"A sudden, but only temporary clearance of the sky reveals the\nsurrounding landscape; the rugged mountain side, flecked with gleaming\ngranite boulders and bordered with sturdy hedges (a mixture of mud and\nbracken), and beyond them the meadows, traversed by sinuous streams\nwhose scintillating surfaces sparkle like diamonds in the silvery\nmoonlight. At rare intervals the scene is variegated, and nature\ninterrupted, by a mill or a cottage,--toy-like when viewed from such an\naltitude,--and then the sweep of meadowland continues, undulating gently\ntill it finds repose at the foot of some distant ridge of cone-shaped\nmountains. Over everything there is a hush, awe-inspiring in its\nintensity. Not the cry of a bird, not the howl of a dog, not the rustle\nof a leaf; there is nothing, nothing but the silence of the most\nprofound sleep. In these remote rural districts man retires to rest\nearly, the physical world accompanying him; and all nature dreams\nsimultaneously.\n\n\"It was shortly after the commencement of this period of universal\nslumber, one night in April, that I toiled laboriously to the summit of\nthe hill in question, and, spreading a rug on one of the fallen stones,\nconverted it into a seat. Naturally I had not climbed this steep ascent\nwithout a purpose. The reason was this--at eight-thirty that morning I\nreceived a telegram from a friend at Armennes, near Carnac, which ran\nthus: 'Am in great difficulty--Ghosts--Come.--KRANTZ.'\n\n\"Of course Krantz is not the real name of my friend, but it is one that\nanswers the purpose admirably in telegrams and on post-cards; and of\ncourse he well knew what he was about when he said 'Come.' Not only I\nbut everyone has confidence in Krantz, and I was absolutely certain that\nwhen he demanded my presence, the money I should spend on the journey\nwould not be spent in vain.\n\n\"Apart from psychical investigation, I study every phase of human\nnature, and am at present, among other things, engaged on a work of\ncriminology based on impressions derived from face-to-face communication\nwith notorious criminals.\n\n\"The morning I received Krantz's summons was the morning I had set aside\nfor a special study of S---- M----, whose case has recently commanded so\nmuch public attention; but the moment I read the wire, I changed my\nplans, without either hesitation or compunction. Krantz was Krantz, and\nhis dictum could not be disobeyed.\n\n\"Tearing down la rue Saint Denis, and narrowly avoiding collision with a\nlady who lives in la rue Saint Fran\u00e7ois, and will persist in wearing\nhats and heels that outrage alike every sense of decency and good form,\nI hustled into the station, and, rushing down the steps, just succeeded\nin catching the Carnac train. After a journey which, for slowness, most\nassuredly holds the record, I arrived, boiling over with indignation, at\nArmennes, where Krantz met me. After luncheon he led the way to his\nstudy, and, as soon as the servant who handed us coffee had left the\nroom, began his explanation of the telegram.\n\n\"'As you know, Trobas,' he observed, 'it's not all bliss to be a\nlandlord. Up to the present I have been singularly fortunate, inasmuch\nas I have never experienced any difficulty in getting tenants for my\nhouses. Now, however, there has been a sudden and most alarming change,\nand I have just received no less than a dozen notices from tenants\ndesirous of giving up their habitations at once. Here they are!' And he\nhanded me a bundle of letters, for the most part written in the\nscrawling hand of the illiterate. 'If you look,' he went on, 'you will\nsee that none of them give any reason for leaving. It is merely--\"We\nCANNOT POSSIBLY stay here any longer,\" or \"We MUST give up possession\nIMMEDIATELY,\" which they have done, and in every instance before the\nquarter was up. Being naturally greatly astonished and perturbed, I made\ncareful inquiries, and, at length--for the North Country rustic is most\nreticent and difficult to \"draw\"--succeeded in extracting from three of\nthem the reason for the general exodus. The houses are all HAUNTED!\nThere was nothing amiss with them, they informed me, till about three\nweeks ago, when they all heard all sorts of alarming noises--crashes as\nif every atom of crockery they possessed was being broken; bangs on the\npanels of doors; hideous groans; diabolical laughs; and blood-curdling\nscreams. Nor was that all; some of them vowed they had seen\nthings--horrible hairy hands, with claw-like nails and knotted joints,\nthat came out of dark corners and grabbed at them; naked feet with\nenormous filthy toes; and faces--HORRIBLE faces that peeped at them over\nthe banisters or through the windows; and sooner than stand any more of\nit--sooner than have their wives and bairns frightened out of their\nsenses, they would sacrifice a quarter's rent and go. \"We are sorry, Mr\nKrantz,\" they said in conclusion, \"for you have been a most considerate\nlandlord, but stay we cannot.\"' Here my friend paused.\n\n\"'And have you no explanation of these hauntings?' I asked.\n\n\"Krantz shook his head. 'No!' he said, 'the whole thing is a most\nprofound mystery to me. At first I attributed it to practical jokers,\npeople dressed up; but a couple of nights' vigil in the haunted district\nsoon dissipated that theory.'\n\n\"'You say district,' I remarked. 'Are the houses close together--in the\nsame road or valley?'\n\n\"'In a valley,' Krantz responded--'the Valley of Dolmen. It is ten miles\nfrom here.'\n\n\"'Dolmen!' I murmured, 'why Dolmen?'\n\n\"'Because,' Krantz explained, 'in the centre of the valley is a hill, on\nthe top of which is a Druids' circle.'\n\n\"'How far are the houses off the hill?' I queried.\n\n\"'Various distances,' Krantz replied; 'one or two very close to the base\nof it, and others further away.'\n\n\"'But within a radius of a few miles?'\n\n\"Krantz nodded. 'Oh yes,' he answered. 'The valley itself is small. I\nintend taking you there to-night. I thought we would watch outside one\nof the houses.'\n\n\"'If you don't mind,' I said, 'I would rather not. Anyway not to-night.\nTell me how to get there and I will go alone.'\n\n\"Krantz smiled. 'You are a strange creature, Trobas,' he said, 'the\nstrangest in the world. I sometimes wonder if you are an elemental. At\nall events, you occupy a category all to yourself. Of course go alone,\nif you would rather. I shall be far happier here, and if you can find a\nsatisfactory solution to the mystery and put an end to the hauntings, I\nshall be eternally grateful. When will you start, and what will you\ntake with you?'\n\n\"'If that clock of yours is right, Krantz,' I exclaimed, pointing to a\ngun-metal timepiece on the mantelshelf, 'in half an hour. As the night\npromises to be cold, let me have some strong brandy-and-water, a dozen\noatmeal biscuits, a thick rug, and a lantern. Nothing else!'\n\n\"Krantz carried out my instructions to the letter. His motor took me to\nDolmen Valley, and at eight o'clock I began the ascent of the hill. On\nreaching the summit, I uttered an exclamation. 'Someone has been\nexcavating, and quite recently!'\n\n\"It was precisely what I had anticipated. Some weeks previously, a\nmember of the Lyons literary club, to which I belong, had informed me\nthat a party of geologist friends of his had been visiting the cromlechs\nof Brittany, and had committed the most barbarous depredations there.\nHence, the moment Krantz mentioned the 'Druidical circle,' I associated\nthe spot with the visit of the geologists; and knowing only too well\nthat disturbances of ancient burial grounds almost always lead to occult\nmanifestations, I decided to view the place at once.\n\n\"That I had not erred in my associations was now only too apparent.\nAbominable depredations HAD been committed,--doubtless, by the people to\nwhom I have alluded--and, unless I was grossly mistaken, herein lay the\nclue to the hauntings.\n\n\"The air being icy, I had to wrap both my rug and my overcoat tightly\nround me to prevent myself from freezing, and every now and then I got\nup and stamped my feet violently on the hard ground to restore the\ncirculation.\n\n\"So far there had been nothing in the atmosphere to warn me of the\npresence of the superphysical, but, precisely at eleven o'clock, I\ndetected the sudden amalgamation, with the ether, of that enigmatical,\nindefinable SOMETHING, to which I have so frequently alluded in my past\nadventures. And now began that period of suspense which 'takes it out of\nme' even more than the encounter with the phenomenon itself. Over and\nover again I asked myself the hackneyed, but none the less thrilling\nquestion, 'What form will it take? Will it be simply a phantasm of a\ndead Celt, or some peculiarly grotesque and awful elemental[1] attracted\nto the spot by human remains?'\n\n[1] Either a barrowvian or vagrarian. Vide _Haunted Houses of London_\n(published by Eveleigh Nash) and _Ghostly Phenomena_ (published by\nWerner Laurie).\n\n\"Minute after minute passed, and nothing happened. It is curious, how at\nnight, especially when the moon is visible, the landscape seems to\nundergo a complete metamorphosis. Objects not merely increase in size,\nbut vary in shape, and become possessed of an animation suggestive of\nall sorts of lurking, secretive possibilities. It was so now. The\nboulders in front and around me, presented the appearance of grotesque\nbeasts, whose hidden eyes I could feel following my every movement with\nsly interest. The one solitary fir adorning the plateau was a tree no\nlonger but an ogre, _pro tempus_, concealing the grim terrors of its\nspectral body beneath its tightly folded limbs. The stones of the\ncircle opposite were ghoulish, hump-backed things that crouched and\nsquatted in all kinds of fantastic attitudes and tried to read my\nthoughts. The shadows, too, that, swarming from the silent tarns and\nmeadows, ascended with noiseless footsteps the rugged sides of the hill,\nand, taking cover of even the smallest obstacles, stalked me with\nunremitting persistency, were no mere common shadows, but intangible,\npulpy things that breathed the spirit of the Great Unknown. Yet nothing\nspecified came to frighten me. The stillness was so emphatic that each\ntime I moved, the creaking of my clothes and limbs created echoes. I\nyawned, and from on all sides of me came a dozen other yawns. I sighed,\nand the very earth beneath me swayed with exaggerated sympathy.\n\n\"The silence irritated me. I grew angry; I coughed, laughed, whistled;\nand from afar off, from the distant lees, and streams, and spinneys,\ncame a repetition of the noises.\n\n\"Then the blackest of clouds creeping slowly over the moor crushed the\nsheen out of the valley and smothered everything in sable darkness. The\nsilence of death supervened, and my anger turned to fear. Around me\nthere was now--NOTHING--only a void. Black ether and space! Space! a\nsanctuary from fear, and yet composed of fear itself. It was the space,\nthe nameless, bottomless SOMETHING spreading limitless all around me,\nthat, filling me with vague apprehensions, confused me with its terrors.\nWhat was it? Whence came it? I threw out my arms and Something,\nSomething which I intuitively knew to be there, but which I cannot\nexplain, receded. I drew them in again, and the same SOMETHING instantly\noppressed me with its close--its very close proximity.\n\n\"I gasped for breath and tried to move my arms again--I could not. A\nsudden rigor held me spellbound, and fixed my eyes on the darkness\ndirectly ahead of me. Then, from somewhere in my rear, came a\nlaugh--hoarse, malignant, and bestial, and I was conscious that the\nSOMETHING had materialised and was creeping stealthily towards me.\nNearer, nearer and nearer it came, and all the time I wondered what,\nWHAT in the name of God it was like! My anticipations became unbearable,\nthe pulsations of my heart and the feverish throbbing of my temples\nwarning me that, if the climax were postponed much longer, I should\neither die where I sat, or go mad. That I did neither, was due to a\ndivine inspiration which made me suddenly think of a device that I had\nonce seen on a Druidical stone in Brittany--the sun, a hand with the\nindex and little fingers pointing downwards, and a sprig of mistletoe.\nThe instant I saw them in my mind's eye, the cords that held me\nparalytic slackened.\n\n\"I sprang up, and there, within a yard of where I had sat, was a\nfigure--the luminous nude figure of a creature, half man and half ape.\nStanding some six feet high, it had a clumsy, thick-set body, covered in\nplaces with coarse, bristly hair, arms of abnormal length and girth,\nlegs swelling with huge muscles and much bowed, and a very large and\nlong dark head. The face was DREADFUL!--it was the face of something\nlong since dead; and out of the mass of peeling, yellow skin and\nmouldering tissues gleamed two lurid and wholly malevolent eyes. Our\nglances met, and, as they did so, a smile of hellish glee suffused its\ncountenance. Then, crouching down in cat-like fashion on its disgusting\nhands, it made ready to spring. Again the device of the sun and\nmistletoe arose before me. My fingers instinctively closed on my pocket\nflashlight. I pressed the button and, as the brilliant, white ray shot\nforth, the satanical object before me VANISHED. Then I turned tail, and\nnever ceased running till I had arrived at the spot on the high-road\nwhere Krantz's motor awaited me.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"After breakfast next morning, Krantz listened to my account of the\nmidnight adventure in respectful silence.\n\n\"'Then!' he said, when I had finished, 'you attribute the hauntings in\nthe valley to the excavations of the geologist Leblanc and his party, at\nthe cromlech six weeks ago?'\n\n\"'Entirely,' I replied.\n\n\"'And you think, if Leblanc and Cie were persuaded to restore and\nre-inter the remains they found and carted away, that the disturbances\nwould cease?'\n\n\"'I am sure of it!' I said.\n\n\"'Then,' Krantz exclaimed, banging his clenched fist on the table, 'I\nwill approach them on the subject at once!'\n\n\"He did so, and, after much correspondence, eventually received per\ngoods train, a Tate's sugar cube-box, containing a number of bones of\nthe missing link pattern, which he at once had taken to the Druids'\ncircle. As soon as they were buried and the marks of the recent\nexcavations obliterated, the hauntings in the houses ceased.\"\n\n\n_Boggle Chairs_\n\n\"Killington Grange,\" near Northampton, was once haunted, so my friend Mr\nPope informs me, by a chair, and the following is Mr Pope's own\nexperience of the hauntings, as nearly as possible as he related it to\nme:--\n\n\"Some years ago, shortly before Christmas, I received an invitation from\nmy old friend, William Achrow.\n\n\"'Killington Grange,\n'Northampton.\n\n\"'DEAR POPE' (he wrote)--'My wife and I are entertaining a few guests\nhere this Christmas, and are most anxious to include you among them.\n\n\"'When I tell you that Sir Charles and Lady Kirlby are coming, and that\nwe can offer you something startling in the way of a ghost, you will, I\nknow, need no further inducement to join our party.--Yours, etc.,\n\n\"'W. ACHROW.'\n\n\"Achrow was a cunning fellow; he knew I would go a thousand miles to\nmeet the Kirlbys, who had been my greatest friends in Ireland, and that\nghosts invariably drew me like magnets. At that time I was a bachelor; I\nhad no one to think about but myself, and as I felt pretty sure of a\nfresh theatrical engagement in the early spring, I was happily careless\nwith regard to expenditure--and to people of limited incomes like\nmyself, staying in country houses means expenditure, a great deal more\nexpenditure than a week or so at an ordinary hotel.\n\n\"However, as I have observed, I felt pretty secure just then; I could\nafford a couple of 'fivers,' and would gladly get rid of them to see\nonce more my dear old friends, Sir Charles and Lady K----. Accordingly,\nI accepted Achrow's invitation, and the afternoon of December 23rd saw\nme snugly ensconced in a first-class compartment _en route_ for Castle\nStreet, Northampton. Now, although I am, not unnaturally, perhaps,\nprejudiced in favour of Ireland and everything that is Irish, I must say\nI do not think the Emerald Isle shows her best in winter, when the banks\nof fair Killarney are shorn of their vivid colouring, and the whole\ncountry from north to south, and east to west, is carpeted with mud. No,\nthe palm of wintry beauty must assuredly be given to the English\nMidlands--the Midlands with their stolid and richly variegated\nwoodlands, and their pretty undulating meadows, clad in fleecy garments\nof the purest, softest, and most glittering snow. It was a typical\nMidland Christmas when I got to Northampton and took my place in the\nluxurious closed carriage Achrow had sent to meet me.\n\n\"Killington Grange lies at the extremity of the village. It stands in\nits own grounds of some hundred or so acres, and is approached by a long\navenue that winds its way from the lodge gates through endless rows of\ngiant oaks and elms, and slender, silver birches. On either side, to\nthe rear of the trees, lay broad stretches of undulating pasture land,\nthat in one place terminated in the banks of a large lake, now\nglittering with ice and wrapped in the silence of death.\n\n\"The crunching of the carriage wheels on gravel, the termination of the\ntrees, and a great blaze of light announced the close proximity of the\nhouse, and in a few seconds I was standing on the threshold of an\nimposing entrance.\n\n\"A footman took my valise, and before I had crossed the spacious hall, I\nwas met by my host and kind old friends, whose combined and hearty\ngreetings were a happy forecast of what was to come. Indeed, at a\nmerrier dinner party I have never sat down, though in God's truth I have\ndined in all kinds of places, and with all sorts of people: with\nPrincesses of the Royal blood, aflame with all the hauteur of their\nrace; with earls and counts; with blood-thirsty anarchists; with bishops\nand Salvationists, miners and policemen, Dagos and Indians (Red and\nBrown); with Japs, Russians, and Poles; and, in short, with the _\u00e9lite_\nand the rag-tag and bobtail of all climes. But, as I have already said,\nI had seldom if ever enjoyed a dinner as I enjoyed this one.\n\n\"Possibly the reason was not far to find--there was little or no\nformality; we were all old friends; we had one cause in common--love of\nIreland; we hadn't met for years, and we knew not if we should ever meet\nagain, for our paths in life were not likely to converge.\n\n\"But Christmas is no season for prigs and dullards, and, possibly, this\nrare enjoyment was, in no small measure, due to the delightful snugness\nand, at the same time, artistic nature of our surroundings, and to the\nexcellence, the surpassing excellence of the vintage, which made our\nhearts mellow and our tongues loose.\n\n\"Long did our host, Sir Charles, and I sit over the dessert table, after\nthe ladies had left us, filling and refilling our glasses; and it was\nclose on ten before we repaired to the drawing-room.\n\n\"'Lady Kirlby,' I said, seating myself next her on a divan, 'I want to\nhear about the ghost. Up to the present I confess I have been so taken\nup with more material and, may I add'--casting a well-measured glance of\nadmiration at her beautifully moulded features and lovely eyes--lovely,\nin spite of the cruel hand of time which had streaked her chestnut hair\nwith grey--'infinitely more pleasing subjects, that I have not even\nthought about the superphysical. William, however, informs me that there\nis a ghost here--he has, of course, told you.'\n\n\"But at this very psychological moment Mrs Achrow interrupted: 'Now, no\nsecrets, you two,' she said laughingly, leaning over the back of the\ndivan and tapping Lady Kirlby playfully on the arm. 'There must be no\nmention of ghosts till it is close on bedtime, and the lights are low.'\n\n\"Lady Kirlby gave me a pitying look, but it was of no avail; the word of\nour hostess was paramount, and I did not learn what was in store for me\nuntil it was too late to retreat. At half-past eleven William Achrow\nturned out the gas, and when we were all seated round the fire, he\nsuggested we should each relate in turn, the most thrilling ghost tale\nwe had ever heard. The idea, being approved of generally, was carried\nout, and when we had been thrilled, as assuredly we had never been\nthrilled before, William coolly proclaimed that he had put me in the\nhaunted room.\n\n\"'I am sure,' he said, amid a roar of the most unfeeling laughter, in\nwhich all but the tender-hearted Lady Kirlby joined, 'that your nerves\nare now in the most suitable state for psychical investigation, and that\nit won't be your fault if you don't see the ghost. And a very horrible\none it is, at least so I am told, though I cannot say I have ever seen\nit myself. No! I won't tell you anything about it now--I want to hear\nyour version of it first.'\n\n\"With a few more delicate insinuations, made, as he candidly confessed,\nin the fervent hope of frightening me still more, on the stroke of\nmidnight my friend conducted me to my quarters. 'You will have it all to\nyourself,' he said, as we traversed a tremendously long and gloomy\ncorridor that connected the two wings of the house, 'for all the rooms\non this side are at present unoccupied, and those immediately next to\nyours haven't been slept in for years--there is something about them\nthat doesn't appeal to my guests. What it is I can't say--I leave that\nto you. Here we are!' and, as he spoke, he threw open a door. A current\nof icy cold air slammed it to and blew out my light, and as I groped for\nthe door-handle, I heard my host's footsteps retreating hurriedly down\nthe corridor, whilst he wished me a rather nervous good-night.\n\n\"Relighting my candle and shutting the window--Achrow is one of those\nopen-air fiends who never had a bronchial cold in his life, and expects\neveryone else to be equally immune--I found myself in a room that was\nwell calculated to strike even the most hardened ghost-hunter with awe.\n\n\"It was coffin-shaped, large, narrow, and lofty; and floor, panelling,\nand furniture were of the blackest oak.\n\n\"The bedstead, a four-poster of the most funereal type, stood near the\nfireplace, from which a couple of thick pine logs sent out a ruddy\nglare; and directly opposite the foot of the bed, with its back to the\nwall, stood an ebony chair, which, although in a position that should\nhave necessitated its receiving a generous share of the fire's rays, was\nnevertheless shrouded in such darkness that I could only discern its\nfront legs--a phenomenon that did not strike me as being peculiar till\nafterwards.\n\n\"Between the chair and the ingle, was a bay window overlooking one angle\nof the lawn, a side path connecting the back premises of the house with\nthe drive, and a dense growth of evergreens, poplars, limes, and copper\nbeeches, the branches of which were now weighed down beneath layer upon\nlayer of snow.\n\n\"The room, as I have stated, was long, but I did not realise how long\nuntil I was in the act of getting into bed, when my eyes struggled in\nvain to reach the remote corners of the chamber and the recesses of the\nvaulted and fretted ceiling, which were fast presenting the startling\nappearance of being overhung with an impenetrable pall, such a pall as\nforms the gloomy coverlet of a hearse; the similarity being increased by\nwaving plume-like shadows that suddenly appeared--from God knows\nwhere!--on the floor and wall.\n\n\"That the room was genuinely haunted I had not now the slightest doubt,\nfor the atmosphere was charged to the very utmost with superphysical\nimpressions--the impressions of a monstrous hearse, with all the sickly\nparaphernalia of black flowing drapery and scented pine wood.\n\n\"I was annoyed with William Achrow. I had wanted to see him; I had\nwanted to meet the Kirlbys; but a ghost--no! Honestly, candidly--no! I\nhad not slept well for nights, and after the good things I had eaten at\ndinner and that excellent vintage, I had been looking forward to a\nsound, an unusually sound sleep. Now, however, my hopes were dashed on\nthe head--the room was haunted--haunted by something gloomily, damnably\nevil, evil with an evilness that could only have originated in hell.\nSuch were my impressions when I got into bed. Contrary to my\nexpectations, I soon fell asleep. I was awakened by a creak, the loud\nbut unmistakable creak of a chair. Now, the creaking of furniture is no\nuncommon thing. There are few of us who have not at some time or other\nheard an empty chair creak, and attributed that creaking either to\nexpansion of the wood through heat, or to some other equally physical\ncause. But are we always right? May not that creaking be sometimes due\nto an invisible presence in the chair? Why not? The laws that govern\nthe superphysical are not known to us at present. We only know from our\nown experiences and from the compiled testimony of various reputable\nResearch Societies that there is a superphysical, and that the\nsuperphysical is a fact which is acknowledged by several of the greatest\nscientists of the day.\n\n\"But to continue. The creaking of a chair roused me from my sleep. I sat\nup in bed, and as my eyes wandered involuntarily to the ebony chair to\nwhich I have already alluded, I again heard the creaking.\n\n\"My sense of hearing now became painfully acute, and, impelled by a\nfascination I could not resist, I held my breath and listened. As I did\nso, I distinctly heard the sound of stealthy respiration. Either the\nchair or something in it was breathing, breathing with a subtle\ngentleness.\n\n\"The fire had now burned low; only a glimmer, the very faintest\nperceptible glimmer, came from the logs; hence I had to depend for my\nvision on the soft white glow that stole in through the trellised\nwindow-panes.\n\n\"The chair creaked again, and at the back of it, and at a distance of\nabout four feet from the ground, I encountered the steady glare of two\nlong, pale, and wholly evil eyes, that regarded me with a malevolency\nthat held me spellbound; my terror being augmented by my failure to\ndetect any other features saving the eyes, and only a vague Something\nwhich I took for a body.\n\n\"I remained in a sitting posture for many minutes without being able to\nremove my gaze, and when I did look away, I instinctively felt that the\neyes were still regarding me, and that the Something, of which the eyes\nwere a part, was waiting for an opportunity to creep from its\nhiding-place and pounce upon me.\n\n\"This is, I think, what would have happened had it not been for the very\nopportune arrival of the Killington Waits, who, bursting out with a\nterrific and discordant version of 'The Mistletoe Bough,' which, by the\nway, is somewhat inexplicably regarded as appropriate to the festive\nseason, effectually broke the superphysical spell, and when I looked\nagain at the chair, the eyes had gone.\n\n\"Feeling quite secure now, I lay down, and, in spite of the many\ninterruptions, managed to secure a tolerably good night's sleep.\n\n\"At breakfast everyone was most anxious to know if I had seen the ghost,\nbut I held my tongue. The spirit of adventure had been rekindled in me,\nmy sporting instinct had returned, and I was ready and eager to see the\nphenomena again; but until I had done so, and had put it to one or two\ntests, I decided to say nothing about it.\n\n\"The day passed pleasantly--how could it be otherwise in William\nAchrow's admirably appointed household?--and the night found me once\nagain alone in my sepulchral bed-chamber.\n\n\"This time I did not get into bed, but took my seat in an easy-chair by\nthe fire (which I took care was well replenished with fuel), my face\nturned in the direction of the spot where the eyes had appeared. The\nweather was inclined to be boisterous, and frequent gusts of wind,\nrumbling and moaning through the long and gloomy aisle of the avenue,\nplundered the trees of the loose-hanging snow and hurled it in fleecy\nclouds against the walls and windows.\n\n\"I had been sitting there about an hour when I suddenly felt I was no\nlonger alone; a peculiarly cold tremor, that was not, I feel sure, due\nto any actual fall in the temperature of the room, ran through me, and\nmy teeth chattered. As on the previous occasion, however, my senses were\nabnormally alive, and as I watched--instinct guiding my eyes to the\nebony chair--I heard a creak, and the sound of Something breathing. The\nantagonistic Presence was once again there. I essayed to speak, to\nrepeat the form of address I had constantly rehearsed, to say and do\nsomething that would tempt the unknown into some form of communication.\nI could do nothing. I was lip-bound, powerless to move; and then from\nout of the superphysical darkness there gleamed the eyes, lidless,\nlurid, bestial. A shape was there, too: a shape which, although still\nvague, dreadfully so, was nevertheless more pronounced than on the\nformer occasion, and I felt that it only needed time, time and an\nenforced, an involuntary amount of scrutiny on my part, to see that\nshape materialise into something satanical and definite.\n\n\"I waited--I was obliged to wait--when, even as before--Heaven be\npraised!--the arrival of the gallant waits, (I say, gallant, for the\nnight had fast become a white inferno) loosened my fetters, and as I\nsprang towards the chair, the eyes vanished.\n\n\"I then got into bed and slept heavily till the morning.\n\n\"To their great disappointment, the clamorous breakfasters learned\nnothing--I kept the adventure rigidly to myself, and that night,\nChristmas night, found me, for the third time, listening for the sounds\nfrom the mysterious, the hideously, hellishly mysterious, high-backed,\nebony chair.\n\n\"There had been a severe storm during the day, and the wind had howled\nwith cyclonic force around the house; but there was silence now, an\nalmost preternatural silence; and the lawn, lavishly bestrewn with huge\nheaps of driven snow, and broken, twisted branches, presented the\nappearance of a titanic battlefield. In marked contrast to the disturbed\ncondition of the ground, the sky was singularly serene, and broad beams\nof phosphorescent light poured in through the diamond window-panes on to\nthe bed, in which I was sitting, bolt upright.\n\n\"One o'clock struck, and ere the hollow-sounding vibrations had ceased,\nthe vague form once again appeared behind the chair, and the malignant,\nevil eyes met mine in a diabolical stare; whilst, as before, on trying\nto speak or move, I found myself tongue-tied and paralysed. As the\nmoments slowly glided away, the shape of the Thing became more and more\ndistinct; a dark and sexless face appeared, surmounted with a straggling\nmass of black hair, the ends of which melted away into mist. I saw no\ntrunk, but I descried two long and bony arms, ebony as the chair, with\ncrooked, spidery, misty fingers. As I watched its development with\nincreasing horror, hoping and praying for the arrival of the\nnever-again-to-be-despised waits, I suddenly realised with a fresh grip\nof terror that the chair had moved out of the corner, and that the Thing\nbehind it was slowly creeping towards me.\n\n\"As it approached, the outlines of its face and limbs became clearer. I\nknew that it was something repulsively, diabolically grotesque, but\nwhether the phantasm of man, or woman, or hellish elemental, I couldn't\nfor the life of me say; and this uncertainty, making my fear all the\nmore poignant, added to my already sublime sufferings, those of the\ndamned.\n\n\"It passed the chair on which my dress-shirt flashed whiter than the\nsnow in the moonlight; it passed the tomb-like structure constituting\nthe foot-board of the bed; and as in my frantic madness I strained and\nstrained at the cruel cords that held me paralytic, it crept on to the\ncounterpane and wriggled noiselessly towards me.\n\n\"Even then, though its long, pale eyes were close to mine, and the ends\nof its tangled hair curled around me, and its icy corpse-tainted breath\nscoured my cheeks, even then--I could not see its body nor give it a\nname.\n\n\"Clawing at my throat with its sable fingers, it thrust me backwards,\nand I sank gasping, retching, choking on to the pillow, where I\nunderwent all the excruciating torments of strangulation; strangulation\nby something tangible, yet intangible, something that could create\nsensation without being itself sensitive; something detestably,\nabominably wicked and wholly hostile, madly hostile in its attitude\ntowards mankind.\n\n\"What I suffered is indescribable, and it was to me interminable. Days,\nmonths, years, seemed to pass, and I was still being suffocated, still\nfeeling the inexorable crunch of those fingers, still peering into the\nlivid depths of those gloating, fiendish eyes. And then--then, as I was\non the eve of abandoning all hope, a thousand and one tumultuous noises\nbuzzed in my ears, my eyes swam blood, and I lost consciousness. When I\nrecovered, the dawn was breaking and all evidences of the superphysical\nhad disappeared.\n\n\"I did not tell Achrow what I had experienced, but expressed, instead,\nthe greatest astonishment that anyone should have thought the room was\nhaunted. 'Haunted indeed!' I said. 'Nonsense! If anything haunts it, it\nis the ghost of some philanthropist, for I never slept sounder in my\nlife. I am, as you know, William, extremely sensitive to the\nsuperphysical, but in this instance, I can assure you, I was\ndisappointed, greatly disappointed, so much so that I am going home at\nonce; it would be mere waste of my valuable time to stay any longer in\nthe vain hope of investigating, when there is NOTHING to investigate.\nHow came you to get hold of such a crazy idea?'\n\n\"'Well,' William replied, a puzzled expression on his face, 'you noticed\nan ebony chair in the room?'\n\n\"I nodded.\n\n\"'I bought it in Bruges, and there are two stories current in connection\nwith it. The one is to the effect that a very wicked monk, named\nGaboni, died in it (and, indeed, the man who sold me the chair was\nactually afraid to keep it any longer in his house, as he assured me\nGaboni's spirit had amalgamated with the wood); and the other story,\nwhich I learned from a different source, namely, from someone who, on\nfinding out where I bought the chair, told me he knew the whole history\nof it, is to the effect that it was of comparatively modern make, and\nhad been designed by W----, the famous nineteenth-century Belgian\npainter, who specialised, as you may know, in the most weird and\nfantastic subjects. W---- kept the chair in his studio, and my informant\nhalf laughingly, half seriously remarked that no doubt the chair was\nthoroughly saturated with the wave-thoughts from W----'s luridly fertile\nbrain. Of course, I do not know which story is true, or if, indeed,\neither story is true, but the fact remains that, up to now, everyone who\nhas slept in the room with that chair has complained of having had the\nmost unpleasant sensations. I own that after all that was told me, I was\nafraid to experiment with it myself, but after your experience, or\nrather lack of experience, I shall not hesitate to have it in my own\nbedroom. Both my wife and I have always admired it--it is such a\nuniquely beautiful piece of furniture.'\n\n\"Of course I agreed with my friend, and, after congratulating him most\neffusively on his good luck in having been able to secure so unique a\ntreasure, I again thanked him for his hospitality and bade him\ngood-bye.\"\n\n\n\n\nINDEX\n\n\nAdventure in Chicago, 143-145.\n  of Hans and Carl with a were-wolf, 121-129.\n  with pixies near Bray, 71.\n\n\u00c6neas, story of, 69-70.\n\nAll-Hallows E'en, 158-159.\n\n_Anglo-Saxon Church, The_, 158.\n\nArundels, White Owl of the, 137, 139, 151.\n\nAsh trees, 74-75.\n\nAspens, 73.\n\nAssam, haunted tree in, 64-67.\n\nAssiut, 42.\n\nAttendant spirits, 142-145.\n\nAutomatic writing, 190.\n\n\nBaldearg, the, 178.\n\nBanshee, the, 137, 147-149.\n\nBarrowvians, 78, 220-230.\n\nBay of the Departed, 205.\n\nBears, phantasms of, 79.\n\nBirthmarks, 178.\n\nBloody Hand of Ulster, 176.\n\nBlue hand, phantasm of a, 79.\n\nBoggle chairs, 230-243.\n\n_Book of Days_, 90.\n\nBrampton, haunted ash tree of, 74.\n\n_British Goblins_, Book of, 91, 151.\n\nBuddhas, 210-220.\n\n\nCandles, warnings by, 132.\n\nCastle on Dinas, 78.\n\nCats, phantasms of, 97-108.\n\nCharley, T., 134.\n\nCharms and checks against ghosts, 192-197.\n\nChildermass Day, 160.\n\nChing Kang and the Fox-woman, story of, 129-131.\n\nClairvoyance, 189.\n\nClanogrians, 37, 137.\n\nComplex hauntings and occult bestialities, 80.\n\nComplex hauntings by phantasms of one person, 81.\n\nCorpse-candles, 134-137.\n\nCount Daniel O'Donnell, 167.\n\nCrystal-gazing, 166-167.\n\n\nD., Lady, 7.\n\nDalmatian dog, phantasm of, 83.\n\nDavis, Rev. Mr, 135.\n\nDe B., Mrs, 6.\n\nDean Combe Ghost, 89.\n\nDeath warnings, 132-140.\n\nDeath-Watch, 138.\n\nDemon of Stockwell, 48.\n  of Tedworth, 48.\n\nDogs, spirits of, 79, 81, 83-91.\n\nDowsers, 76.\n\nDrummer of the Airlies, 137-150.\n\nDyer's _Ghost World_, 89.\n\n\nEarl of Lincoln and the ash tree, 75.\n\nElementals, 5.\n\nEllyllon, the, 151.\n\nEnglish family ghosts, 150.\n\nEnnemoser, works by Jos., 110.\n\nEpworth, hauntings at, 48.\n\nEvil eye, the, 168-170.\n\nExorcism, 195-196.\n\nEye, phantasm of, 82.\n\n\nFire-coffins, 138.\n\nForbes du Barry, Mrs, 86.\n\nFortune-telling, 161.\n\nFox-women, 119-131.\n\n_Frazer's Journal_, 135.\n\n\nGabriel's hounds, 91.\n\nGhost of Black Lion Lane, 48.\n\nGluttony, 29.\n\nGrandfather clocks, hauntings by, 35.\n\nGwyllgi, the, 91.\n\n\nHacon, Rev. Henry, 42.\n\nHand of Glory, 176.\n\nHands, 162-164.\n\nHartz mountains, vampirism in the, 114-115.\n\nHaunted trees, 60-70.\n    in Caucasus, 68.\n    in Slavonic mythology, 68.\n  seas, 198-206.\n\nHauntings on Wicklow nets, 83-85.\n\nHeadless dogs, 85, 87-88.\n\nHistory of magic, 112.\n\nHorses, phantasms of, 79, 108.\n\nHoward, phantasm of Lady, 89.\n\nHunt, works of Mr, 205-206.\n\nHydromancy, 165.\n\n\nIdiots and vampirism, 113-114.\n\nIntuition, 187-188.\n\n\nLand's End, 6.\n\nLooking-glasses, 157.\n\nLuck of Edenhall, 168.\n\nLyons family, 168.\n\n\nMandrake, the, 76.\n\nManias, 28-34.\n  for buttons, 38.\n  of manual workers, 30.\n  of women for dogs, 33.\n\nMauthe dog, the, 90.\n\nMermaids, 141.\n\nMidsummer eve, 161.\n\nMines, hauntings of, 58.\n\nMonomaniac musician, 33.\n\nMummy of Met-Om-Karema, haunted, 42-46.\n\n\nNature's devil signals, 179.\n\nNew year's eve, 160, 166.\n\n_News from the Invisible World_, 134.\n\nNorth, recitations of Miss Lilian, 86.\n\nNumbers, climacteric, 177.\n\n\nOak chests, haunted, 38.\n\nObsession and possession, 28.\n\nOccult hooligans, 47-55.\n\nOccult in shadows, 21.\n\nOwls, 139.\n\n\nPalm tree, 77.\n\nPalmistry, 162.\n\nPaul, vampirism of Arnauld, 110.\n\nPhantasms of living, 184-186.\n  of pigs, 108.\n  of sailors, 81.\n  of wild animals, 108.\n\nPhantom rowers, 150.\n  ships, 198-201.\n  white hares, 151.\n  world, 110.\n\nPixies, 70.\n\nPlutarch's account of satyrs, 67.\n\nPoltergeists, 47-50.\n  and Professor Schuppart, 48-50.\n  in Norwood, 50.\n\nPolydorus, story of, 70.\n\nPoor in Hyde Park, 25.\n\nPre-existence, 179-184.\n\nPremature burial, 2-18.\n\nPrimitive trees, visions of, 56-57.\n\nProjection, 184-186.\n\nPsychic days, 158.\n  faculty, 186.\n\nPyromancy, 165.\n\n\n\"Radiant Boy of Corby,\" the, 151.\n\nRavens, 140.\n\nRiver ghosts, 206-207.\n\nRomances of West of England, 205-206.\n\n\nSt Blaise's Day, 160.\n\nSt Catherine's Day, 161.\n\nSt Lawrence's Day, 161.\n\nSt Mark's Day, 161.\n\nSt Martin's Day, 160.\n\nSargasso Sea, 201-205.\n\nSatyrs and fawns, 67.\n\nScottish ghosts, 149-150.\n\nS\u00e9ances, 191-192.\n\nSecond sight, 187.\n\nSeventh son, the, 177.\n\nShadow on the Downs, the, 22-23.\n  in Hyde Park, 26.\n  of a tree, 24.\n\nShuck, the, 90.\n\nSinclair, Miss, 63.\n\nSirens, 207-209.\n\nSoames, work of Mr, 158.\n\nSouth's tale of a vampire, Mrs, 116-121.\n\nSpells, 159-161.\n\nSpilling salt, 157.\n\nStuker, the, 90.\n\nSuggestion, 186.\n\nSuperstitions and fortunes, 153.\n\nSycamore, the, 77.\n\nSylvan horrors, 56-79.\n\n\nTable-turning, 191-192.\n\nTalismans and amulets, 167.\n\nTelepathy, 186.\n\nThirteen at table, 153-157.\n\nTimbs, John, 74, 138, 161.\n\n\"Trash,\" 90.\n\nTree of life, the, 77.\n\nTrees, haunted, 60-70.\n\nTristam and Yseult, legend of, 69.\n\n\n\"Unknown depths,\" the, 20.\n\n\nVampires, 110-121.\n\n\nWandering Jew, the, 141-142.\n\nWelsh ghosts, 151.\n\nWere-wolves, 121-129.\n\nWirt Sikes, work by, 91, 151.\n\nWitches, 171-175.\n\nWorthing, 22, 86-88.\n\n\nX., phantasm of murderer, 91-97.\n\n\n\"Yellow Boy,\" the, 151.\n\n\n\n\n[Transcriber's Note:\n\n\nThe following corrections were made:\n\np. 23: extra comma removed (after \"time\" in \"but the next time I visited\nthe spot\")\n\np. 32: sensualty to sensuality (sensuality sometimes venial)\n\np. 34: thought germ to thought-germ to match other instances (how\nextraordinary the thought-germ)\n\np. 34: later-day to latter-day (even latter-day)\n\np. 67: extra comma removed (after \"degree\" in \"in the slightest degree\nwhat the monstrosity meant\")\n\np. 88: Du to du to match other instances (Mrs du Barry)\n\np. 90: Haviland to Harland (Harland and Wilkinson)\n\np. 91: Wyhr to Wybr (Cwn y Wybr), to match cited source\n\np. 110: missing period added (Jos. Ennemoser)\n\npp. 110, 112, and 244 (Index): Ennemoses to Ennemoser\n\np. 116: pretentions to pretensions (hypocritical pretensions)\n\np. 129: Thanking to Thinking (Thinking that the animal was ill)\n\np. 140: syrens to sirens (nymphs, sirens, and pixies)\n\np. 154: ont he to on the (on the couch)\n\np. 176: he to the (badge of the O'Neills)\n\np. 222: added missing single close quote (Here they are!')\n\np. 224: double close quote to single close quote (one of the houses.')\n\np. 225: had to has ('Someone has been excavating, and quite recently!')\n\np. 245: missing periods added after several Index entries (Gluttony,\n29.; Haunted Trees ... in Caucasus, 68.)\n\nOn page 110, the author refers to Jos. Ennemoser as the author of _The\nPhantom World_. In fact, the cited passage comes from a work by\nAugustine Calmet, which was translated into English by William Howitt as\n_The Phantom World_; Ennemoser quotes from it in his book _The History\nof Magic_. This error has not been corrected.\n\nIrregularities in hyphenation and capitalization have not been\ncorrected. Antiquated or misspelled place names have been left as in the\noriginal.\n\nFor the plain text version, oe ligatures have been changed to oe.]","title":"Byways of Ghost-Land","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":64604}