SOME HAUNTED HOUSES
[Illustration]
_NOVELS BY
ELLIOTT O’DONNELL_
[Illustration]
FOR SATAN’S SAKE
THE UNKNOWN DEPTHS
JENNIE BARLOWE, ADVENTURESS
DINEVAH THE BEAUTIFUL
SOME
HAUNTED HOUSES
OF ENGLAND & WALES
BY
ELLIOTT O’DONNELL
ASSOCIATE OF THE SOCIETY FOR PSYCHICAL RESEARCH
LONDON
EVELEIGH NASH
FAWSIDE HOUSE
1908
PREFACE
In selecting a series of ghost stories for this volume I have taken
the greatest care to make use of those only which are thoroughly well
authenticated.
The result of this discrimination has been that the majority of
these accounts of psychic phenomena have been taken from the lips of
eye-witnesses and transferred to manuscript in as nearly as possible
the narrator’s own language.
First-hand narratives of unfamiliar hauntings, albeit they refer to
the meaner class of houses, will, I think, be more welcome to the
reader than the mere repetition of such hackneyed stories as those
appertaining to Glamis Castle, the Tower of London, &c.
In one other point, too, this work may be said to differ from others
dealing with the same subject--viz., it is compiled and written by a
very keen psychic--one who has not only investigated (and lectured on)
haunted houses, but has himself seen many occult manifestations.
As there have been several libel cases quite recently in connection
with the alleged haunting of houses, I have been obliged (save where it
is stated to the contrary) to give fictitious names to both people and
localities.
ELLIOTT O’DONNELL.
GUILSBOROUGH, NORTHAMPTON.
CONTENTS
PAGE
THE GREEN BANK HOTEL, BARDSLEY 9
NO. -- SOUTHGATE STREET, BRISTOL 15
MULREADY VILLA, NEAR BASINGSTOKE 26
NO. -- PARK STREET, BATH 42
THE MINERY, DEVON 53
THURLOW HALL, NEAR EXETER 59
THE GUILSBOROUGH GHOST 73
WOLSEY ABBEY, NEAR GLOUCESTER 97
NO. XYZ EUSTON ROAD, LONDON 106
PANMAUR HOLLOW, MERIONETH 113
CATCHFIELD HALL, THE MIDLANDS 118
BURLE FARM, NORTH DEVON 140
CARNE HOUSE, NEAR NORTHAMPTON 148
HARLEY HOUSE, PORTISHEAD 160
THE WAY MEADOW, SOMERSET 166
NO. -- HACKHAM HOUSE, SWINDON 177
APPENDIX TO ABOVE, THE SCREAMING WOMAN OF TEHIDDY 182
PARK HOUSE, WESTMINSTER 187
GLOSSARY 191
HAUNTED HOUSES
THE GREEN BANK HOTEL, BARDSLEY
THE RACE FOR LIFE
Technical form of apparitions: Phantasms of the dead
Source of authenticity: Evidence of eye-witness
Cause of haunting: Murder
One afternoon in the July of this year I took tea with Lady B---- at
her club in the West End. Lady B---- is a very old friend of mine,
our friendship dating back to the days when I wore Eton collars and
a preparatory school cap. She was in unusually high spirits at the
thought of a cruise in the Baltic, whilst I was equally exuberant
at being once again in London after a very trying sojourn in a
particularly remote and isolated town--a town renowned for pilchards,
pasties and Painters.
Now, there is nothing mean nor petty about Lady B----; she is generosity
itself: so kind, so courteous, and withal so daintily pretty that to be
near her, even, is to be in Elysium.
Remembering the interest I had always taken in matters psychical, she
had invited several friends especially to meet me, and it was from one
of them--Miss Charlotte Napier--that I heard the following story:
“Chancing to be stranded late one night at Bardsley,” she began, “owing
to a slight miscalculation of the time-table, I had no other resource
than to put up at the Green Bank Hotel in Russell Street.
“It was a very ordinary hotel; ordinary both in accommodation and
appearance. One part of it--that in which I slept--possibly dated back
to the Elizabethan period, but the rest--most hideously renovated--was
quite modern.
“Outside my room--No. 56--was a long and somewhat gloomy corridor
connecting the old and new portions of the house.
“I retired to rest about eleven--closing time--and had been asleep
barely an hour before I awoke with a start to find the room flooded
with a pale, phosphorescent light.
“The moon shone through my window-panes: it gleamed with an unearthly
whiteness across the bed, and thence across the room, glancing upon the
panels of the door in such a manner that I was constrained to follow
its course and to fix my gaze wherever it shone.
“The door was a mass of light: I could see each crack and scar upon it,
even the finger-prints on the white handle, with painful distinctness.
A sudden sensation of horror overcame me; I would have given anything
to have been able to look elsewhere. I could not.
“All my senses were centred upon the door; it enchained, it drew me,
and as I gazed at it in helpless awe the sound of footsteps from
without suddenly broke upon my ears. Instantly all my faculties were on
the alert, and I became the victim of a curious sensation unlike any I
had hitherto experienced, but which I have since learned is the usual
effect of psychic manifestation. I felt the proximity of the unnatural.
An icy coldness stole down my back, my teeth chattered, my hair seemed
to rise on end, and the violent palpitation of my heart made me sick
and dizzy. My faculties had indeed become abnormally acute, but my body
seemed no longer alive, and I knew that whatever happened I should be
absolutely incapable of action. My powerlessness was soon to be put to
the test. Sitting bolt upright in bed, in obedience to an irresistible
impulse, I listened, listened with all my might. What were those
sounds? They were certainly unlike any I had ever heard before, and the
kind of terror they imparted was hitherto unknown to me. Perhaps the
nearest semblance to the kind of fear I then felt is the fear inspired
by the sight of a lunatic. I could not stir, I could only wait and
listen. The unnatural nature of the footsteps was emphasised by the
brilliancy of the moonlight--quite an abnormal feature in itself--and
the intense hush, which, stealing surreptitiously upon the house,
obliterated every other sound.
“The footsteps gradually became interpretative--two people were rushing
headlong down the corridor!
“From the light, flying footsteps of the foremost, and the heavier
tread and ever-increasing pace of the hindermost, I concluded it was a
race entailing vital consequences, and that the fugitive would soon be
caught. Caught! but not, pray Heaven! at my door.
“What on earth had happened? What could happen in a well-regulated
hotel?
“Fire, robbery, or murder?
“MURDER! Great drops of sweat broke out upon my brow at the bare
thought.
“The moon shone in, whiter and more coldly than ever, whilst the steps
drew nearer and nearer--so near, in fact, that I fancied I could detect
the sound of breathing. Short, sharp-drawn gasps of agony accompanied
by easier and more strenuous inhalations.
“Who were the actors in this invisible drama? Were they both men? I
imagined not! Indeed, a thousand horrible ideas suggested themselves to
my mind--to be interrupted by a terrific crash on the upper panels of
the door that made me all but die with terror. Never had I suffered as
at that moment. I strove to scream--it was in vain; my tongue clave to
the roof of my mouth; I could utter no sound.
“The door (which I had taken the precaution to lock) was
unceremoniously burst open, and into the room rushed a very young and
fragile looking man clad in the costume of a Cavalier of the time of
Naseby, whilst close at his heels there followed a gigantic Roundhead
armed with all the terrible paraphernalia of war.
“The tableau was so totally different from anything I had anticipated,
and withal horribly real--so real that had it been in my power I must
inevitably have raised a hand to interpose.
“Indeed, the wretched fugitive made straight for my bed, and, falling
on his knees beside it, clutched the counterpane convulsively in his
fingers. His ashy face was so near mine that I not only saw every
feature in it with damning clearness, but I read the many varied
expressions in his eyes.
“They were awful. I read in them despair, terror, hate, overshadowed in
the background by an insatiable craving for every imaginable vice.
“Yet they were beautiful eyes--beautiful both in formation and
colour--too effeminately beautiful for a man.
“His hair, which fell in a wild profusion of ringlets over forehead and
shoulders, was of a rich chestnut hue and most luxuriant.
“He wore neither beard nor moustaches; he was absolutely clean shaven,
and his skin shone with all the milky whiteness of that of a young
woman.
“His features were neatly moulded and extremely delicate; his hands
well shaped and narrow, whilst his fingers, long and tapering, were
crowned with pellucid filbert nails.
“Attired in the most costly and elegant manner, a manner that suggested
the court fop rather than the soldier, he formed in every way a marked
contrast to his puritan pursuer. The Roundhead was a huge, brawny
fellow, dressed in a leathern jerkin and heavy riding-boots--his soiled
and muddy clothes betokening the wear and tear of an arduous campaign.
“His face, always ugly, and naturally, perhaps, sullen and forbidding,
was now positively diabolical; rage, hatred, and triumph vieing with
one another for supremacy.
“Catching hold of the Cavalier by his silken tresses, and pulling back
his head by brute force, the Cromwellian slowly and deliberately drew
the keen blade of his knife across the doomed man’s throat.
“The horrid deed--transacted amid the most preternatural silence--was
perpetrated so close to me that I was obliged to witness every
revolting detail, and although I felt sure the victim was bad and
vicious, I did not think the vileness of his character in any way
justified the atrocity of his assassin.
“The murderer had barely accomplished his fiendish design before a
deadly sickness came over me, and I fainted.
“On recovering consciousness, the room was once again in darkness, nor
could I discover in the morning any sign whatever of the awful tragedy.
“On making inquiries in the town, I learned that the inn was well known
to be haunted, other people, as well as I, having witnessed the same
phenomenon, and that during the recent renovations a skeleton had been
unearthed at the foot of the main staircase.
“I saw it in the local museum, and instantly identified the costume it
wore as the one I had seen on the hapless fugitive. But--the skeleton
was that of a WOMAN!”
NO. -- SOUTHGATE STREET BRISTOL
THE NOTORIOUS SERVANT WHO ANSWERS THE DOOR
Technical form of apparition: Phantasm of the dead
Source of authenticity: (1) MS. signed by three eye-witnesses;
(2) seen by author himself. Names of people and locality alone
being altered
In the spring of 1899, being then a member of a certain Psychical
Research Society, and hearing that a ghost had been seen at No. --
Southgate Street, Bristol, I set off to interview the ladies who were
reported to have seen it. I found them (the Misses Rudd) at home, and
on their very graciously consenting to relate to me their psychical
experiences, I sat and listened to the following story (told as nearly
as possible in the eldest lady’s own words): “It is now,” she began,
“some ten years since we were the tenants of the house you mention, but
I recollect what I saw there as vividly as if it were yesterday.
“The house, I must tell you, is very small (only eight or so rooms),
dingy, and in a chronic state of dilapidation; it stands in the middle
of a terrace with no front garden to speak of, save a few yards of
moss-covered tiles, slate-coloured and broken, whilst its back windows
overlooked a dreary expanse of deep and silent water. Nothing more
dismal could be imagined.
“Still, when we took it, the idea of it being haunted never for one
instant entered our minds, and our first intimation that such was the
case came upon us like a thunderbolt.
“We only kept one maid, Jane (a girl with dark hair and pleasant
manners), my sisters and I doing all the cooking and helping with the
light work. The morning on which incident No. 1 happened, knowing Jane
to be upstairs occupied in dusting the rooms, and my sisters being out,
my mother asked me to go into the kitchen and see if the stove was all
right as ‘there was a smell of burning.’
“Doing as she bid, I hastened to the kitchen, where a strange spectacle
met my sight.
“Kneeling in front of the stove, engaged apparently in polishing
the fender, was a servant-girl with RED hair; I started back in
astonishment. ‘Who could she be?’
“Too intent at first to notice my advent, she kept on at her work,
giving me time to observe that she was wearing a very dirty dress, and
that her ‘rag’ of a cap was quite askew. Satisfied she was not ‘Jane,’
and wondering whether some one else’s maid had mistaken our kitchen for
her own--the houses in the terrace being all alike--I called out, ‘Who
are you? what do you want?’--whereupon, dropping the fire-irons with a
clatter, she quickly turned round, displaying an ashen-pale face, the
expression on which literally froze me with horror.
“Never! never had I seen such an awful look of hopeless, of desperate,
of diabolical abandonment in any one’s eyes as in those of hers when
their glance met mine.
“For some seconds we glared at one another without moving, and then,
still regarding me with a furtive look from out of the corner of her
horrible eyes, she slowly rose from the hearth, and gliding stealthily
forward, disappeared in the diminutive scullery opposite.
“Curiosity now overcoming fear, I at once followed. She was nowhere to
be seen; nor was there any other mode of exit by which she could have
made her departure than a tiny window, some four feet or so from the
floor and directly overlooking the deep waters of the pond to which I
have already alluded.
“Here, then, was a mystery! What had I seen? Had I actually encountered
a phantasm, or was I but the victim of an exceedingly unpleasant and
falsidical hallucination? I preferred to think the former.
“Not wishing to frighten my mother, I intended keeping the incident to
myself, writing, however, a complete account of it in my diary for the
current year, but, a further incident occurring to my youngest sister
within the next few days, I determined to reveal what I had seen and
compare notes.”
The eldest Miss Rudd now concluded, and on my expressing a desire to
hear more, her youngest sister very obligingly commenced:
“I had been out shopping in the Triangle one morning,” she said, “and
having omitted to take the latchkey, I was obliged to ring. Jane
answered the summons. There was nothing, of course, unusual in this, as
it was her duty to do so, but there was something extremely singular in
what appeared at her elbow.
“Standing close beside--I might almost say, leaning against her (though
Jane was apparently unaware of it)--was a strange, a VERY STRANGE,
servant-girl, with RED HAIR and the most uncanny eyes; she had on a
bedraggled print dress and a cap all askew; but it was her expression
that most attracted my attention--it was HORRID.
“‘Oh Jane!’ I cried, ‘whoever is it with you?’
“Following the direction of my gaze, Jane immediately turned round,
and, without a word, FAINTED.
“That is all. The apparition, or whatever you may please to call it,
vanished, and the next time I saw it was under different circumstances.”
“Will you be so kind as to relate them?” I inquired.
Miss Rudd proceeded: “Oh! it is nothing very much!” she exclaimed,
“only it was very unpleasant at the time--especially as I was all alone.
“You see, mother, being delicate, went to bed early, my sisters were at
a concert, and it was Jane’s ‘night out.’
“I never, somehow, fancied the basement of the house; it was so cold
and damp, reminding me not a little of a MORGUE or charnel-house;
consequently I never stayed there a moment longer than was absolutely
necessary, and on this night in question I was in the act of scurrying
back to the drawing-room when a gentle tap! tap! at the scullery-window
made me defer my departure. Entering the back kitchen, somewhat timidly
I admit, I saw a face peering in at me through the tiny window.
“Though the night was dark and there was no artificial lighting at
this side of the house, every feature of that face was revealed to me
as clearly as if it had been day. The little, untidy cap, all awry,
surmounting the shock-head of red hair now half-down and dripping with
water, the ghastly white cheeks, the widely open mouth, and the eyes,
their pupils abnormally dilated and full of lurid light, were more
appallingly horrible than ever.
“I stood and gazed at it, my heart sick with terror, nor do I know what
would have happened to me had not the loud rap of the postman acted
like magic; the THING vanished, and ‘turning tail,’ I fled upstairs
into the presence of my mother. That is all.”
I was profuse in my thanks, and the third Miss Rudd then spoke:
“My bedroom,” she began, “was on the top landing--the window
over-looking the water. I slept alone some months after the anecdotes
just related, and was awakened one night by feeling some disgusting,
wet object lying on my forehead.
“With an ejaculation of alarm I attempted to brush it aside, and
opening my eyes, encountered a ghastly white face bending right over me.
“I instantly recognised it, by the description my sisters had given,
as the phantasm of the red-headed girl.
“The eyes were TERRIBLE! Shifting its slimy hand from my forehead, and
brandishing it aloft like some murderous weapon, it was about to clutch
my throat, when human nature would stand it no longer--and--I fainted.
On recovering, I found both my sisters in the room, and after that I
never slept by myself.”
“Did your mother ever see it?” I asked.
“Frequently,” the eldest Miss Rudd replied, “and it was chiefly on her
account we relinquished our tenancy--her nervous system was completely
prostrated.”
“Other people saw the ghost besides us,” the youngest Miss Rudd
interrupted, “for not only did the long succession of maids after Jane
ALL see it, but many of the subsequent tenants; the house was never let
for any length of time.”
“Then, perhaps, it is empty now?” I soliloquised, “in which case I
shall most certainly experiment there.”
This proved to be the case; the house was tenantless, and I easily
prevailed upon the agent to loan me the key.
But the venture was fruitless. Three of us and a dog undertook it. We
sat at the foot of the gloomy staircase; twelve o’clock struck, no
ghost appeared, the dog became a nuisance--and--we came away disgusted.
A one-night’s test, however, is no test at all; there is no reason
to suppose apparitions are always to be seen by man; as yet we know
absolutely nothing of the powers or conditions regulating their
appearances, and it is surely feasible that the unknown controlling
elements of one night may have been completely altered, may even have
ceased to exist by the next. At all events, that was my opinion. I was
by no means daunted at a single failure. But it was impossible to get
any one to accompany me. The sceptic is so boastfully eager by day.
“Ghosts,” he sneers, “what are ghosts? Indigestion and imagination!
I’ll challenge you to show me the house I wouldn’t sleep in alone!
Ghosts indeed! Give me a poker or a shovel and I will scare away the
lot of them.” And when you do show him the house he always has a prior
engagement, or else the weather is too cold, or he has too much work
to do next day, or it isn’t really worth the trouble, or--well! he is
sure to have some very plausible excuse; at least, that has been my
invariable experience.
There is no greater coward than the sceptic, and so, unable to procure
a friend for the occasion, I did without one; neither did I have the
key of the house, but--taking French leave--gained admittance through a
window.
It was horribly dark and lonely, and although on the former occasion I
did not feel the presence of the superphysical, I did so now, the very
moment I crossed the threshold. Striking a light, I looked around me: I
was in the damp and mouldy den that served as a kitchen; outside I saw
the moon reflected on the black and silent water.
A long and sleek cockroach disappeared leisurely in a hole in the
skirting as I flashed my light in its direction, and I thought I
detected the movement of a rat or some large animal in the cupboard at
the foot of the stairs. I forthwith commenced a search--the cupboard was
empty. I must have been mistaken. For some minutes I stood in no little
perplexity as to my next move. Where should I go? Where ought I to go
if my adventure were to prove successful?
I glanced at the narrow, tortuous staircase winding upwards into the
grim possibilities of the deserted hall and landings--and--my courage
failed.
Here, at least, I was safe! Should the Unknown approach me, I could
escape by the same window through which I had entered. I felt I dare
not! I really COULD not go any further. Seized with a sudden panic at
nothing more substantial than my own thoughts, I was groping my way
backwards to the window when a revulsion of feeling made me pause.
If all men were poltroons, how much would humanity ever know of the
Occult? We should leave off where we began, and it had ever been my
ambition to go--FURTHER.
My self-respect returning, I felt in my pocket for pencil, notebook and
revolver, and trimming my lamp I mounted the stairs.
A house of such minute dimensions did not take long to explore; what
rooms there were, were Lilliputian--mere boxes; the walls from which
hung the tattered remnants of the most offensively inartistic papers
were too obviously Jerry built; the wainscoting was scarred, the
beading broken, not a door fitted, not a window that was not either
loose or sashless--the entire house was rotten, paltry, mean; I would
not have had it as a gift. But where could I wait to see the ghost?
Disgust at my surroundings had, for a time, made me forget my fears;
these now returned reinforced: I thought of Miss Rudd’s comparison
with a morgue--and shuddered. The rooms looked ghastly! Selecting the
landing at the foot of the upper storey, I sat down, my back against
the wall--and--waited.
Confronting me was the staircase leading up and down, equally dark,
equally ghostly; on my right was what might once have been the
drawing-room, but was now a grim conglomeration of bare boards and
moonlight, and on my left was an open window directly overtopping the
broad expanse of colourless, motionless water. Twelve o’clock struck,
the friendly footsteps of a pedestrian died away in the distance; I
was now beyond the pale of assistance, alone and deserted--deserted by
all save the slimy, creeping insects below--and the shadows. Yes! the
shadows; and as I watched them sporting phantastically at my feet, I
glanced into the darkness beyond--and shivered.
All was now intensely suggestive and still, the road alone attractive;
and despite my spartonic resolutions I would have given much to be out
in the open.
The landing was so cramped, so hopeless.
A fresh shadow, the shadow of a leaf that had hitherto escaped my
notice, now attracted and appalled me; the scratching of an insect made
my heart stand still; my sight and hearing were painfully acute; a
familiar and sickly sensation gradually crept over me, the throbbing of
my heart increased, the most inconceivable and desperate terror laid
hold of me: the house was no longer empty--the supernatural had come!
Something, I knew not, I dare not think what, was below, and I KNEW it
would ascend.
All the ideas I had previously entertained of addressing the ghost and
taking notes were entirely annihilated by my fear--fear mingled with a
horrible wonder as to what form the apparition would take, and I found
myself praying Heaven it might not be that of an ELEMENTAL.
The THING had now crossed the hall (I knew this somehow instinctively)
and was beginning to mount the stairs.
I could not cry out, I could not stir, I could not close my eyes: I
could only sit there staring at the staircase in the most awful of
dumb, apprehensive agonies. The THING drew nearer, nearer; up, up,
UP it came until I could see it at last--see the shock-head of red
hair, the white cheeks, the pale, staring eyes, all rendered hideously
ghastly by the halo of luminous light that played around it. This was a
ghost--an apparition--a _bonâ fide_ phantasm of the dead! And without
any display of physical power--it overcame me.
Happily for me, the duration of its passage was brief.
It came within a yard of me, the water dripping from its clinging
clothes, yet leaving no marks on the flooring. It thrust its face
forward; I thought it was going to touch me, and tried to shrink
away from it, but could not. Yet it did nothing but stare at me, and
its eyes were all the more horrible because they were blank; not
diabolical, as Miss Rudd had described them, but simply Blank!--Blank
with the glassiness of the Dead.
Gliding past with a slightly swaying motion, it climbed upstairs, the
night air blowing through the bedraggled dress in a horribly natural
manner; I watched it till it was out of sight with bated breath--for a
second or so it stopped irresolutely beside an open window; there was
a slight movement as of some one mounting the sill: a mad, hilarious
chuckle, a loud splash--and then--silence, after which I went home.
I subsequently discovered that early in the seventies a servant-girl,
who was in service at that house, had committed suicide in the manner I
have just described, but whether or not she had RED HAIR I have never
been able to ascertain.
P.S.--The Ghost I am informed on very reliable authority, is still
(August 1908) to be seen.
MULREADY VILLA, NEAR BASINGSTOKE
THE BLACK CLOCK
Technical form of apparition: Either a phantasm of the dead or
sub-human elemental
Source of authenticity: Eye-witness
Cause of haunting: A matter of surmise
When I was reading for the Royal Irish Constabulary at that excellent
and ever-popular Queen’s Service Academy in Dublin, I made many friends
among my fellow students, certain of whom it has been my good fortune
to meet in after life.
Quite recently, for example, whilst on a visit of enjoyment to London,
I ran up against T. at Daly’s Theatre. T, one of the best-hearted
fellows who ever trod in Ely Square, passed in second for the Royal
Irish Constabulary, and is now a District Inspector in some outlandish
village in Connemara.
And again, a summer or two ago, when I was on the pier at Bournemouth,
I “plumped” myself down on a seat near to “G,” who, although never a
very great friend of mine, I was uncommonly glad to meet under the
circumstances.
But last year I was unusually lucky, chancing to find, a passenger on
the same boat as myself, Harry O’Moore, one of my very best “chums,”
from whom I learned the following story:
“You must know,” he began, as we sat on deck watching the lofty
outlines of St. David’s Head slowly fade in the distance, “you must
know, O’Donnell, that after leaving Crawley’s I inherited a nice little
sum of money from my aunt, Lady Maughan of Blackrock, who, dying quite
unexpectedly, left the bulk of her property to my family. My brother
Bob had her estate in Roscommon; Charley, the house near Dublin;
whilst I--lucky beggar that I am--(for I was head over heels in debt at
the time) suddenly found myself the happy possessor of £20,000 and--a
bog-oak grandfather clock.”
Here I thought fit to interrupt.
“A bog-oak clock!” I exclaimed. “Good gracious me! what a funny legacy!
Had you taken a fancy to it?”
“I had never even seen it!” O’Moore laughed--then, looking suddenly
serious: “My aunt, O’Donnell, as I daresay you recollect, was
rather dry and satirical. The clock has not been exactly a pleasant
acquisition to my establishment; so I fancy she may have bequeathed it
to me as a sort of antidote to the exhilarating effect of £20,000. A
sort of ‘bitter with the sweet,’ don’t you know! You appear astonished!
You would like to hear more about the clock? And you are quite right,
too; the history of a really antique piece of furniture is a million
times more interesting a subject to discuss than a ton of gold. To
begin with, it was almost as new to my aunt as to me; she had only had
it a week before she died, and during that brief interval she had made
up her mind to leave it to me. Odd, was it not? I thought so, too, at
her funeral! Now it seems quite natural; I was her metaphysician, I
knew her and understood her idiosyncrasies better than most people. She
bought the clock for a mere song from a second-hand furniture dealer in
Grafton Street. I was living at the time near Basingstoke in a small
house--one of those horrible anachronisms, an up-to-date villa in an
old-world village.
“It’s a charming neighbourhood--suited me down to the ground: flat
country (hills tire me to death), excellent roads (I am fond of
riding), trout streams, pretty meadows, crowds of honeysuckle and that
sort of thing, and, to crown all else, Pines!!! Now, if there is one
scent for which I have a special weakness, it is that of the pine. I
could sit out of doors _ad infinitum_ sniffing pines. It intoxicates
me; hence I grew very fond of Hampshire.
“Let me return to the clock. It came from Dublin to Bristol _viâ_ the
good old Argo (what Bristolian is there, I should like to know, who
doesn’t love the Argo!) and thence by rail to Basingstoke, arriving at
my house after dusk. You see, I am talking of it almost as if it were
some live person! But then, you see, it was a bog-oak grandfather’s
clock--no common grinder I can assure you; and I was prepared to pay it
every homage the moment it was landed in the hall.
“The carter, however, was by no means so enamoured of it; he was a
rough, churlish fellow (what British workmen is not?). ‘If you take my
advice, mister!’ he growled, ‘you’ll pitch the himpish thing in some
one helse’s garden rightaway.’ (How characteristic of the charitable
Briton.)
“I gently rebuked the irate man. Of course, he could afford to be more
prodigal with his belongings than I. With evident haste, and still
muttering angrily, he went--and I--I called to my housekeeper (Mrs.
Partridge), and we examined the heirloom together.
“It certainly was a most imposing piece of furniture. Standing at least
eight feet high, with a face large in proportion, it towered above me
like a giant negro--black--I can’t describe to you how black--black as
ebony and shining.
“I asked Mrs. Partridge how she liked it; for, to tell you the truth,
there was something so indefinably queer about it that I began to
wonder if the carter had spoken the truth.
“‘It is truly magnificent!’ she said, running her hand over its
polished surface, ‘I have never seen so fine a piece of workmanship! It
will be the making of this hall--but--it reminds me of a hearse!!!’
“We laughed--the analogy was simply ludicrous. A grandfather’s clock and
a hearse! But then--it told the Time! and Time is sometimes represented
in the guise of Death! Father Death with the sickle!
“My laughter left me and I shivered.
“We placed the clock in the right-hand corner of the hall, opposite
the front door, so that every one coming to the house could see it;
and, as we anticipated, it was much admired--so much admired, in fact,
that I became quite jealous--jealous, and of a clock! How very singular.
But then I recollected I was ‘engaged,’ and, of course, I resented my
_fiancée_ taking notice of any one or anything save myself.
“Like all the other visitors, however, she never passed by the clock
without pausing to look at it.
“‘I can’t help it,’ she whispered. ‘It’s its size! it’s stupendous!
It quite fills the house! there is hardly any room to breathe! It’s a
monstrous clock! It fascinates me! It’s more than a clock. You must GET
RID of it.’
“Avice was whimsical. What, get rid of the Ebony Clock! Impossible--the
idea tickled me. I laughed.
“I laughed then--but not later, when she had gone and all was quiet.
“From the hall below I heard it strike one, two, three--twelve!
“Its pendulum swung to and fro with a dull and ponderous clang, and
the sound that came from its brazen lungs, though loud and deep and
musical, was far too thrilling.
“Against my will, it made me think, and my thoughts were none too
pleasant.
“Hardly had its vibrations ceased before I sat up in bed and listened!
At first I attributed the noise I had heard to the pulsations of my
heart--bump! bump! bump!--but as I crouched there, waiting, I was soon
undeceived; the sounds not only increased in intensity, but drew
nearer--bump! bump! bump!--just as if something huge and massive was
moving across the hall floor and ascending the stairs!
“An icy fear stole all over me! What!--what in Heaven’s name could it
be?
“I glanced in terror at the door--it was locked--locked and BOLTED--the
village was much frequented by tramps, and I always went to bed
prepared.
“But this noise--this series of heavy, mechanical booms--THIS could
never be attributed to any burglar!
“It reached the top of the staircase, it pounded down the passage
leading to my room; and then, with the most terrific crash, it FELL
against my door!
“I was spellbound--petrified. I dared not--I COULD NOT move.
“It was the clock! the gigantic, monstrous clock!--the funereal, hideous
clock! I heard it ticking! The suspicions that I entertained all along
with regard to it were now confirmed--it lived!!! That was no ordinary
striking--THIS was no ordinary ticking. The thing breathed, it spoke, it
laughed--laughed in some diabolically ghoulish manner.
“I would have sacrificed my house and fortune to have been able
to reach the bell. I could not. I could do nothing but sit there
listening--listening to its mocking voice. The minutes passed by
slowly--never had I had the leisure to count them with such painful
accuracy; for the tickings, though of equal duration, varied most
alarmingly in intonation.
“This horrible farce lasted without cessation till one, when,
apparently convinced of its inability to gain admittance, it gave an
extra loud and emphatic clang and took its departure.
“In the morning it was standing as usual in its corner in the hall, nor
could I detect the slightest evidences of animation, neither in its
glassy face nor in its sepulchral tone.
“Happening to pass by at that instant, Mrs. Partridge surprised me
in my act of examination, and from her ashy cheeks and frightened
glances I concluded she, too, had heard the noises and had rightly
guessed their origin. Nor was I mistaken, for, on putting a few leading
questions to her, she reluctantly admitted she had heard everything.
‘But,’ she whispered, ‘I have kept it from the maids, for if once they
get hold of the idea the house is haunted they will leave to-morrow.’
“Unfortunately, her circumspection proved of no avail; night after
night the clock repeated its vagaries, bumping on the staircases and
passages to such a degree that the noise not only awakened the entire
household, but aroused general suspicion.
“Nor were its attentions any longer restricted to me; it gradually
extended the length of its wanderings till every part of the house had
been explored and every door visited.
“The maids now complained to me. ‘They could not do their work,’ they
argued, ‘if they were deprived of sleep, and sleep was out of the
question whilst the disturbances continued. I must get rid of the
clock.’
“To this proposition, however, I was by no means agreeable. I certainly
had no reason to like the clock--indeed I loathed and hated it--but in
some indefinable manner it fascinated me. I could not, I dare not part
with it. ‘I have no doubt,’ I protested, ‘the annoyances will cease
as soon as the clock has become at home with its surroundings. Have
patience and all will be well.’
“They agreed to wait a little longer before giving me notice, and I
fully hoped that my prophecy would be fulfilled. But the clock was
far more persistent than I had anticipated. Adopting fresh tactics,
it began a series of persecutions that speedily brought matters to a
crisis.
“Christina, the cook, was the first victim.
“Not being a very fluent scribe, her letters caused her endless labour,
and she often sat up writing long after the other servants had gone to
bed.
“On the night in question she was plodding on wearily when the intense
stillness of the house made her suddenly think of the time; it must be
very late! Dare she venture in the hall?
“Christina was not a nervous woman; she had hitherto discredited all
ghost-stories, and was quite the last person in the house to accept
the theory that the present disturbances were due to any superphysical
agency. She now, however, recollected all that had been said on
the subject, and the close proximity of the clock filled her with
dread; her fears being further augmented by the knowledge of her
isolation--unluckily her room was completely cut off from any other in
the house.
“Hastily putting away her writing materials, she was preparing to make
a precipitate rush for the stairs when a peculiar thumping riveted her
attention.
“Her blood congealed, her legs tottered, she could not move an inch.
What was it?
“Her heart--only the pulsations of her heart.
“She burst out laughing. How truly ridiculous.
“Catching her breath and casting fearful looks of apprehension on all
sides, she advanced towards the stairs and ‘tiptoeing’ stealthily
across the hall, tried in vain to keep her eyes from the clock. But its
sonorous ticking brought her to a peremptory halt.
“She stood and listened. Tick! tick! tick! It was so unlike any other
ticking she had ever heard, it appalled her.
“The clock, too, seemed to have become blacker and even more gigantic.
“It reared itself above her like a monstrous coffin.
“She was now too terrified to think of escape, and could only clutch
hold of the bannisters in momentary terror of some fresh phenomenon.
“In this helpless condition she watched the clock slowly increase in
stature till its grotesquely carved summit all but swept the ceiling,
whilst a pair of huge, toeless, grey feet protruded from beneath its
base.
“Nor were these the only changes, for during their accomplishment
others of an equally alarming nature had taken place, and the ticking,
after having passed through many transitional stages, was now replaced
by a spasmodic breathing, forcibly suggestive of something devilish and
bestial.
“At this juncture words cannot convey any idea of what Christina
suffered; nor had she seen the worst.
“Midnight at length came. In dumb agony she watched the minute-hand
slowly make its last circuit; there were twelve frantic clangs, the
door concealing the pendulum flew open, and an enormous hand, ashy
grey, with long, mal-shaped fingers, made a convulsive grab at her.[1]
Swinging to one side, she narrowly avoided capture and, glancing
upwards, saw something so diabolically awful that her heart turned to
ice.
[1] In the March number of the _Psychical Research Magazine_
for 1908, a well-authenticated instance is given of a
Poltergeist’s hand being seen on a pillow--“a long hand with
knotty joints.”
“The face of the clock had disappeared, and in its place Christina
saw a frightful head--grey and evil. It was very large and round, half
human, half animal, and wholly beastly, with abnormally long, lidless
eyes of pale blue that leered at the affrighted girl in the most
sinister manner.
“Such a creature must have owed its origin to Hell.
“For some seconds she stared at it, too enthralled with horror even to
breathe; and, then a sudden movement on its part breaking the spell,
she regained control over her limbs and fled for her life.
* * * * *
“Christina reported all this to me the next morning. She had narrowly
escaped capture by darting through the front door which some one,
fortunately for her, had forgotten to bolt. She had not returned to the
house, but had, instead, passed the rest of the night in a neighbouring
cottage.
“‘I won’t, under any circumstances, sir,’ she added, ‘sleep here again.
Indeed, I could not, because I can’t abide the presence of that clock.
I shan’t feel easy until I am miles away from it--in some big town,
where the bustle and noise of life may help me to forget it--FORGET
it!!’--and she shuddered.
“Partly as a compensation for what she had undergone and partly to
avoid a scandal, I presented her with a substantial cheque.
“Despite Mrs. Partridge’s pleadings, I kept the clock. I could not--I
dare not--part with it. It was my aunt’s bequest--it fascinated me! Do
you understand, O’Donnell?--it fascinated me.
“But I did make one concession: I permitted them to remove it to the
summer-house.
“My first care now was to see that all the doors were locked, and
windows bolted before retiring to bed; a precaution that was speedily
justified.
“For the next few nights after the removal of the clock I was awakened
about twelve by a violent ringing of the front door bell, whilst
a heavy crunching of the gravel beneath my window informed me our
persecutor was trying to gain admittance.
“These nocturnal disturbances ceasing, I had begun to congratulate
myself upon having seen the last of the hauntings, when a rumour
reached me that the clock had actually begun to infest the more lonely
of the lanes and by-roads.
“Nor did this report, as the sequel will show, long remain unverified.
“My uncle John, a rare old ‘sport,’ came to stay with me. He arrived
about ten, and we had not yet gone to bed when the vicar of the parish
burst into our presence in the greatest state of agitation.
“‘I must apologise for this late visit,’ he gasped, sinking into
an easy chair, ‘I couldn’t get here before. Indeed, I did not
intend calling this evening, and would not have done so but for an
extraordinary incident that has just happened. Would you think it very
unclerical if I were to ask you for a glass of neat brandy?’
“I glanced at him in ill-disguised terror. His blanched cheeks and
trembling hands told their own tale--he had seen the clock.
“‘Thanks awfully,’ he said, replacing the empty glass on the table. ‘I
feel better now--but, by jove! it DID unnerve me. Let me tell you from
the beginning. I had been calling at Gillet’s Farm, which, as you know,
is two or more miles from here, and the night being fine, I decided to
go home by the fields. Well! all was right till I got to the little
spinney lying at the foot of Dickson’s Hollow.
“‘Even in broad daylight I always feel a trifle apprehensive before
entering it, as it is often frequented by tramps and other doubtful
characters: in fact, there isn’t a more murderous looking spot in the
county.
“‘All was so still, so unusually still I thought, and the shadows so
incomprehensible that I had half a mind to retrace my steps, but,
disliking to appear cowardly, and remembering, I must confess, that I
had ordered a roast duck for supper, I climbed the wooden fence and
plunged into the copse.
“‘At every step the silence increased, the cracking of twigs under my
feet sounding like the report of firearms, whilst it grew so dark that
I had in certain places literally to feel my way. When about halfway
through the wood the shrubs that line the path on either side abruptly
terminate, bringing into view a circle of sward, partially covered with
ferns and bracken, and having in its midst a stunted willow that has
always struck me as being peculiarly out of place there.
“‘Indeed, I was pondering over this incongruity when a tall figure
stalked out from behind the tree, and, gliding swiftly forward, took to
the path ahead of me.
“‘I rubbed my eyes and stared in amazement, and no doubt you will think
me mad when I tell you the figure was nothing human.’
“‘What was it, then--an anthropoid ape?’ my Uncle John laughed.
“The vicar shook his head solemnly.
“‘I will describe it to you to the best of my ability,’ he said. ‘To
begin with it was naked--stark, staring naked!’
“‘How positively indecent,’ murmured Uncle John, ‘really vicar, I don’t
wonder you were frightened.’
“‘And then,’ the vicar continued, disregarding the interruption, ‘it
was grey!--from head to foot a uniform livid grey.’
“‘A grey monstrosity! Ah! now THAT is interesting!’
“I looked at my uncle quizzically--was he still joking? But no! he was
in sober earnest: could it be possible he knew anything about the clock.
“I leaned back in my chair and smiled--feebly.
“‘In height,’ the vicar went on, ‘it could not have been far from seven
feet, it had an enormous round head crowned with a black mass of shock
hair, no ears, huge spider-like hands and toeless feet.
“‘I could not see its face as its back was turned on me.
“‘Urged on by an irresistible impulse (although half dead with terror),
I followed the Thing.
“‘Striding noiselessly along, it left the spinney, and crossing several
fields entered your grounds by the gate in the rear of the house.’
“‘What!’ my uncle roared, banging the table with his fist, ‘what! do
you mean to tell me you allowed it to come here!’
“‘I couldn’t stop it,’ the vicar said apologetically, stretching
forward to help himself to some more brandy. ‘It led me to your
summer-house, vanishing through the doorway. Resolved on seeing the
last, and hoping thereby to discover some clue to the mystery, I
cautiously approached the window, and, peering through the glass, saw
the creature walk stealthily across the floor and disappear into a
gigantic clock. I verily believe I was as much scared by the sight of
that clock as I had been by the appearance of the spectre--they were
both satanically awful.’
“‘Is that all?’ my Uncle John inquired.
“‘It is,’ the vicar replied, ‘and is it not enough?’
“My Uncle John got on his feet.
“‘Before returning a verdict,’ he said, ‘I must see the clock. Let us
go to the summer-house at once.’
“The vicar and I were loud in our protests--‘We were sure my uncle must
be tired; better put off the investigation to the morrow.’
“It was, however, of no avail; there was no gainsaying Uncle John when
once he had made up his mind to do anything.
“We accordingly escorted him without further delay to the garden.
“The clock was standing quite peacefully where I had had it set.
“As soon as my uncle saw it he caught hold of my arm. ‘Where on earth
did you get it from, Harry?’ he cried, bubbling over with excitement.
‘The last time I saw that clock was in Kleogh Castle, the home of the
Blakes. It had been in their possession for centuries, and was made
from what is supposed to be the oldest bog-oak in Ireland. Ah! the
old lady left it you, did she? and you say she got it from Kelly’s in
Grafton Street.
“‘Come! that explains everything. The Blakes--poor beggars--were sold up
last year, and Kelly’s, I know, were represented at the sale.
“‘But now comes the extraordinary part of the affair. The grey figure
our friend the vicar has just described to us tallies exactly with the
phantasm that used to haunt Kleogh, and which the Blakes have always
regarded in the light of a family ghost.
“‘Now it would appear that they are entirely wrong--that it is with the
clock and not Kleogh this apparition is connected--a fact that is not
at all surprising when we come to consider its origin and the vast
antiquity of its frame.
“‘But let us examine it more carefully to-morrow.’
“We did so, and discovered that the frontal pillars on either side of
the face of the clock consisted of two highly polished femur-bones
which, although blackened through countless ages of immersion in the
bog, and abnormally long (as is inevitably the case with Paleolithic
man), were very unmistakably human.
* * * * *
“I returned the clock anonymously to Kelly’s.”[2]
[2] A solution as to the nature of this type of ghost will
appear in a subsequent volume.
NO. -- PARK STREET, BATH
THE HORRIBLE COUGHING ON THE STAIRS
Technical form of apparition: Phantasm of the dead
Cause of haunting: Murder
Source of authenticity: Reliable hearsay evidence
Bath is a veritable cockpit of Ghostdom; its grey and venerable
mansions abound in ghosts; it is for its size the most psychic town in
England.
I say this because I have at my elbow no less than twenty-five well
authenticated stories of haunted houses in this city: a collection that
is numerically superior to that of any other town in England, saving
London, and to the ghosts of London there is, as I stated at my recent
lecture in Chandos Street, no end--positively no end.
One evening last January I read a paper on “My Superphysical
Experiences” before an extremely intelligent, and, I venture to say,
appreciative audience of Theosophists, at their headquarters, Argyll
Street, Bath.