me his card and asked me to call on him next day. I did so, and in the
course of a very entertaining chat he narrated to me the following
story:
“Some years ago some friends of mine, named Hartley, took a house in
Park Street, which, as you may know, is built on the side of a hill.
“The house suited them; it was warm, dry, and in a very tolerable state
of repair; it was also in a quiet and thoroughly respectable part of
the town, and the rent was low--ridiculously low--so low, indeed, that
they began to wonder why it was so low.
“Anxious to find out if their neighbours were equally fortunate in the
matter of rent, they made enquiries, and learned to their astonishment
that every other house in the row was let at more than double the price
of theirs.
“Why was this? Was their landlord a philanthropist, a Carnegie, a
madman, or what?
“Or did the house contain some subtle flaw they were yet to discover to
their disadvantage? Perhaps, very much to their disadvantage; for they
were sufficiently worldly to discredit sentiment in business!
“Getting on the track of former tenants, they plied them with cautious
questions; it was of no avail, the bait did not take; they could
ascertain nothing. Then they gave up--and the truth at last leaked out.
“One dreary afternoon in a particularly dreary November, I believe
it was the fourth of November, the Rev. Silas Wetherby, vicar of an
adjoining Parish, called on them.
“They were delighted to see him; Mrs. Hartley was fond of the clergy;
her father and uncles and brothers were all in the Church; she had
lived in a clerical atmosphere from the day she was born.
“But the Rev. Silas Wetherby puzzled her. Had he been a deacon, a
_locum_, or a newly ordained curate, she would have passed him over
as excusably shy; but he was too old a stager for that. Why did he
puzzle her, then? He was orthodox, urbane, and--she would stake her
handkerchief--no small tatler of ecclesiastical gossip, but yet there
was something amiss with him, something that made him pause, something
that made him fidget.
“Probably she never would have found out why he behaved in such an odd
manner but for an unexpected occurrence.
“Without even as much as a rap, Bobby, their youngest boy, who is, as
a rule, very shy before visitors, suddenly burst into the room. He was
pale with excitement.
“‘Oh, do come, mummy,’ he cried, ‘there is such a queer old man in such
a quaint dress on the staircase. He is coughing horribly. I fancy he
must be very sick. Do come, mummy--please.’
“Mr. Wetherby’s behaviour was now odd in the extreme. Half rising from
his seat and trembling all over, he pointed his finger violently at the
door.
“‘Run away, little man,’ he said, ‘run away! No one is coughing now.
Your invalid has recovered, he is gone. Go directly, and shut the door
behind you. Mind--shut the door, and keep clear of the staircase,’ and
Bobby, completely at a loss what to make of this despotic stranger,
beat a hasty retreat.
“Mrs. Hartley, disregarding the pleading look from her husband,
was about to expostulate; like the majority of modern mothers, her
tender--might I add unsound--sensibilities could not bear to see her
offspring treated in any but the most deferential manner.
“The Rev. Silas, however, forestalled her. With a wave of his hand that
was as eloquent as it was peremptory he completely took the wind out of
her sails, and before she had time to recover from her surprise he had
commenced:
“‘For Heaven’s sake, Mrs. Hartley!’ he said in a semi-whisper, leaning
forward in such a manner as emphasised the mysterious air he had
suddenly assumed, ‘for Heaven’s sake! leave this house as quickly as
you can!’
“‘There now, Arthur!’ Mrs. Hartley exclaimed, the angry expression in
her eyes being replaced by a mixture of triumph and curiosity--‘There
now! didn’t I tell you all along something was wrong with the place?’
“‘Drains, I suppose!’ her husband said mournfully, ‘drains or rats!--and
I do hate moving.’
“‘Neither one nor the other!’ the Rev. Silas whispered. ‘No! the house
is haunted.’
“At this announcement Mrs. Hartley gave a slight ejaculation of
terror--an ejaculation which, reduced to its constituent parts, might be
found to consist of affectation, fear, and no small amount of pleasure,
the latter engendered by the glamour of something both ENIGMATICAL and
FASHIONABLE.
“‘What’s it haunted by? Teapots?’ Mr. Hartley muttered with a
contemptuous movement of his mouth. ‘If it’s not haunted by teapots
now, it will be some day, for that new maid of yours, my dear, is
always breaking them. She has smashed two since yesterday, and if you
examine this one closely you will observe that the spout is already
chipped.’
“Mrs. Hartley puckered her dainty brows into the most alarming frown.
“‘Really, Arthur! how mundane you are,’ she remarked loftily; then,
turning to Mr. Wetherby, ‘My husband is, as you see, one of those solid
individuals who believes in nothing till he sees it.’
“‘And not always then,’ Arthur murmured, gazing intently at the parson
as the latter was about to pour the contents of the cream-jug into his
cup. ‘Everything that appears to the eye white and sticky is not cream!
Some animals have brains, even pigs--and some dairymen are frauds--most
of them!’
“‘Good gracious me!’ the Rev. Silas cried hastily replacing the jug.
‘You surely don’t mean to insinuate----’
“‘He doesn’t mean anything!’ Mrs. Hartley interrupted with considerable
impatience, ‘he is unusually silly this afternoon--so pray excuse
him!’ and--with the regular six-months-in-Paris accent--‘revenons à nos
moutons, s’il vous plait. I am anxious to hear about the ghost.’
“Mr. Wetherby looked a trifle sulky; he fought shy of sceptics, and he
no longer enjoyed his tea.
“‘Now, mind I don’t ask you to believe me!’ he began, ‘although there
are plenty of people in this parish who will confirm what I say; but
eighty, or a hundred or so years ago, a son poisoned his father in this
very house.
“‘The manner of the poisoning was quite orthodox--arsenic in apple
dumplings. There have been many parallel cases, chiefly, I believe, in
Liverpool.
“‘Arsenic being an irritant, causes considerable vomiting, hence the
old man must have had several attacks of sickness prior to the one that
terminated his existence as he was travelling downstairs to fetch a
doctor. He died, it is said, in excruciating agony on the landing at
the top of the first flight of stairs.’
“‘And it is his ghost that haunts the house?’ Mrs. Hartley hazarded.
“The Rev. gentleman nodded. ‘Just so,’ he said, ‘and it was this
apparition, undoubtedly, that your little boy saw just now. It always
appears on November 4, the anniversary of the murder, and--’ Mr.
Wetherby was going to add something that, judging from the increased
solemnity of his voice, would have been very impressive, when Mr.
Hartley cut in: ‘Then at all events we shall have a reprieve, a year’s
undisputed possession, subject to no interference on the part of the
spook--Mr. Whatever’s his name.’ He laughed irreverently, ‘You certainly
won’t catch me giving up this lease for any so immaterial a reason.
No, thank you! I cannot get as good a bargain as this every day in the
week!’
“The Rev. Silas rose to go. ‘Very well then!’ he said, bowing stiffly,
‘I could say more--but I won’t! I am sorry I have said as much.
Some sceptics are never convinced! Some sceptics do not wish to be
convinced! Some sceptics may be convinced, but prefer to appear
unconvinced!
“‘I am no metaphysician! I will not attempt to classify YOU. I will
only say, “May you never be AFRAID.”
“‘I trust Mrs. Hartley, at all events, is not a sceptic: I hope she is
not a psychic! especially not a psychic in this house. I wish you good
day!’
“‘He did not wish us good luck!’ Mr. Hartley explained as the door
banged. ‘By Jove! I have no patience to listen to such stuff! Haunted,
indeed!’
“But his wife shook her head. ‘Scepticism is one thing, and what Bobbie
saw is another!’ she argued. ‘You can’t get over that, Arthur! Now, are
we doing the right thing for the children in remaining here?’
“In all matters concerning her children Mrs. Hartley’s instincts were
always acute--one or two of them were babies, even younger than Bobbie.
“On this occasion, however, Mr. Hartley held his own. ‘BOBBIE,’
he reasoned, ‘must have had the daymare, and even if he did see
anything, no harm has come of it. You must recollect, my dear,’ he
observed, ‘that I have not been doing over-well on the Stock Exchange
lately; moving is a costly thing, and if I spend money in one way,
I must recoup in another, which means no new dress for you and no
Weston-super-Mare for the children.’
“The validity of this logic was not lost upon Mrs. Hartley. She
reflected; and then with her customary adroitness gave a turn to the
conversation.
* * * * *
“It was once again November, the fourth of November, and the staircase
incident of a year ago now seemed remote and improbable. It was,
however, uppermost in the minds of both Mr. and Mrs. Hartley, though
they both pretended to have forgotten it.
“They had neither seen Mr. Wetherby again, nor had they mentioned
the appearance of the ghost to anyone. It was really of so little
consequence.
“It was a wet afternoon--wet and chilly, and as neither Mr. or Mrs.
Hartley had any particular inducement to face the elements, they
decided to stay indoors, Mrs. Hartley reclining in an easy chair before
the drawing-room fire whilst her husband seated himself in like manner
before a blazing hearth in the dining-room.
“They tried to read--they could not; they tried to sleep--they could
not: and somehow they felt that they ought to go and look at the
children--but they would not; and so they whiled away the hours in this
half-hearted and wholly unsatisfactory manner.
“It seems the sudden opening of the nursery door first disturbed
Mrs. Hartley, and fancying she heard someone steal gently across the
landing, she called out; there was no reply, so, thinking it was fancy,
she was about to settle down again when the sound of some one coughing
made her heart beat quickly.
“Who could it be? Not the nurse! The nurse wouldn’t cough in such a
deep and hoarse manner! nor yet Arthur; she would recognise his cough
anywhere. Hark! there it was again--cough! cough! cough! just as if some
one was being sick. Someone being sick! Ah! who could that someone be?
who indeed? but--and fearing lest one of the children might be on the
stairs, she overcame a momentary weakness and sallied forth.
“What she saw froze her with horror.
“At the top of the hall staircase was the figure of a man clad in the
costume of the eighteenth century, viz., long maroon tail-coat with
vest to match, knee breeches, and coarse yellow stockings. Mrs. Hartley
couldn’t see his face, as he was in a recumbent position and vomiting
horribly. Looking up at him from below, her eyes big with pity and
wonder--not fear--was Kitty, the Hartley’s youngest child.
“Catching sight of her mother, Kitty cried, ‘Oh! mummy, do tum down!
the poor man is awful ill. Do help him! I’ll tum too,’ and suiting the
action to her words the little mite prepared to ascend. No sooner,
however, had she set a foot on the staircase than the old man slipped,
and, falling sideways, plunged through the air.
“Making sure Kitty would be hurt, and regardless of the fact that she
was merely clutching at a phantom, Mrs. Hartley appears to have made
frantic efforts to stay the disaster. Whether in her agitation she
tried to go down the stairs too quickly, or whether in her anxiety
to save her child she lost her head and simply leaped forward, it
is impossible to say; she herself always declares that the stairs
‘collapsed’ under her. Anyhow, she fell, and crashing into Kitty,
literally crushed the life out of her. Mr. Hartley found mother and
child lying together at the foot of the stairs, and although he saw no
sign of any apparition, he is no longer a sceptic.
“His wife recovered--at least, she is alive--though I am told some
internal complaint--the result of the catastrophe--makes her long for
death.
“Some months after Kitty’s burial, when time had to a certain extent
mollified the poignancy of suffering caused by her death, Mr. Hartley
received a letter of condolence from the Rev. Silas Wetherby.
“The greater portion of the epistle was simply a formal declaration
of sympathy, but the concluding lines, inasmuch as they bear on the
haunting, are worth repeating.
“The worthy divine wrote as follows:
“‘If you recollect, at our last meeting I gave you to understand that I
had something further to tell you _re_ the occult disturbances in your
late abode.
“‘You will probably treat my statement with contempt, badly concealed
under cover of a pretty pasquinade, but I am prepared to run the
gauntlet of your scepticism in order to relieve my conscience.
“‘What I would have told you had I not been silenced (culpably I own)
by your ridicule, is this: the appearance of the sick man had always
been followed by some dire calamity, whenever any attempt has been
made to set even as much as one foot on the staircase during the
manifestations--hence my warning to Bobbie.
“‘I cannot, of course, explain to you why a phenomenon of this sort
should entail physical disaster any more than I can elucidate the
mystery of the Ghost Candles of Wales, or the Banshees of Ireland,
between which manifestations and the phenomena in question there is
a strong analogy. But should you feel sufficiently interested in the
subject to ask for further information, or even be sufficiently dubious
to demand testimony, I will with pleasure provide you with an abundance
of creditable corroborations both documentary and oral.’
“But Mr. Hartley was perfectly satisfied.”
THE MINERY, DEVON
THE MAN WITH THE BUCKET
Technical form of apparition: Phantasm of dead
Source of authenticity: Letter from the person who saw the ghost
Cause of haunting: Murder
HOTEL RIETZ, VIENNA.
_Feb. 10, 1908._
DEAR MR. O’DONNELL,
In reply to your inquiry as to that psychic experience I had in Devon,
I will do my best to make the affair explicit, although, as you know
very well, I do not pose as a scribe.
Well! it took place three years ago--June 15th, 1905--shall I ever
forget the date! My friends, the Maitlands had only just taken “The
Minery,” a pretty yellow stone villa, modern in every respect. It stood
some few yards away from the road and was fronted by a lawn, bordered
with honeysuckle, sweet-peas and Devon roses.
I tell you this to impress upon you the fact that there was positively
nothing suggestive of ghosts either in the grounds or building, the
latter being as unlike the orthodox haunted house as one can well
imagine. If anything should have warned me it was the hesitating and
half nervous manner (so unlike herself) with which Dora Maitland showed
me my room.
“I do hope you will like it and be comfortable, dear!” she said as she
stood for a moment on the threshold, a strangely perplexing expression
in her eyes, and one which I couldn’t then interpret. “Be sure to tell
us if you DON’T and we will have you moved at once.”
“Why shouldn’t I?” I asked in unfeigned astonishment. “It is
delightfully snug and sunny--a south aspect--a charming view and--oh!
the most delightful of dainty furniture. Why, Dora! I should indeed
be an ungrateful Sybarite if I didn’t revel in it.” And Dora forced a
smile.
The hot summer days drove us into the open: we got up early and went
to bed late. Being a man, and fond of cricket and fishing, you would
hardly appreciate the life we led. We are women of the old school,
and consequently spent all our time at home on the lawn, plying our
needles, possibly at the same time chewing chocolates or discussing our
favourite books; motoring and golf we left to others.
The 15th of June was warm and sultry; we had been invited to spend the
evening at the adjoining vicarage; Dora had a headache, her mother was
a chronic invalid, and so--willy-nilly--I went alone.
It was a stupid affair: mediocre music, still more mediocre
supper--and--BRIDGE!
Fancy Bridge in a sleepy country Parsonage, fancy Bridge anywhere! I
hate Bridge!
The guests were of the usual sort, prudish, prosy and plain; a widow
and twins, the Miss Somebodies of Somewhere; a curate, a doctor
and a lawyer! What (with the exception of the last) could be more
respectable, what more dull--deadly dull?
They were all (the men, I mean) very anxious I should play cards, but
for once in a way I made myself positively disagreeable--and sat--alone!
Eleven o’clock came. It was time to go! I rose with alacrity, omitting,
I believe, in the intensity of joy, the formal expressions of regret.
The vicar accompanied me as far as the gates; bidding me a bland
good-night, he retraced his steps with a sigh of relief. Mrs. Maitland
had left a light burning in the hall. I turned it out, and taking up
my candle proceeded to my bedroom and was beginning to undress when a
strange thing happened.
My bedroom door (which I felt positively certain I had locked) slowly
opened and a man peered in.
I can see him now--strong, regular features with piercing dark and
somewhat sinister eyes that were in marked contrast to the iron-grey
brows and wavy, neatly parted hair. The chin was square, the head well
shaped; he was a handsome man, yet he did not please me!
I was frightened.
For some seconds he glanced furtively round the room, his eyes finally
resting on the bedstead, which he regarded in a manner that made my
flesh creep! Who could he be? what on earth did he want?
Terrified lest he should see me--though why it was he hadn’t done so
I couldn’t for the life of me imagine--I kept shrinking backwards,
backwards into the alcove where I hung my dresses, in the wild hope
that they would afford me a safe hiding-place.
Presently, to my unutterable relief, he disappeared, and I heard his
footsteps tiptoeing gently down the staircase.
Here then was my chance of escape! Hardly daring to breathe, I rushed
frantically to the door (Heaven preserve me!--it was locked again!) and
tearing it open, I made directly for the passage leading to Dora’s room.
On my way I heard a noise--a noise that fascinated and kept me
still--the clanging of a bucket.
What could a man be doing with a bucket at this time of night--a
bucket!--and on that staircase so daintily furnished with velvet pile?
Breathlessly I watched him ascend, his step light and springing, his
head bent low, and the bucket clanging each time he mounted--clang!
clang! clang!
The agony I suffered--for I could now only conclude he was either a
madman or burglar--was indescribable; I dreaded above all things the act
of being seen--of encountering a glance from those evil eyes.
Nearer and nearer he came! One more step, and he stood on the little
lobby outside my bedroom door. What was he going to do--to enter my room
or follow me?
My heart stood still; a cold sweat burst out all over me; I essayed
to shriek and implore the aid of Dora; my throat dried up, my tongue
stuck to the palate of my mouth--I was speechless! helpless! hopeless!
Another yard, and the uncanny stranger would have me in his clutches.
At the crucial moment Heaven heard my silent prayer; he halted, I was
saved! With one hand on the handle, he slowly--very slowly--opened the
door, and crouching down on his hands and feet, crept quietly in,
muffling the sound of the bucket.
Incongruous sight!--a man, a madman, or a burglar with a common, an
every-day bucket, and in the ecstasies of salvation I gave a weak,
hysterical laugh!--a madman with a bucket! and what a bucket!
After this little display of emotion, and being now in the full
possession of all my motive faculties, I promptly fled, not pausing for
the fraction of a second till I had reached the bedside of Dora and
had shaken her to wakefulness. She listened to my story with blanched
cheeks, beseeching me with terror in her eyes to make sure the door was
locked and that her Bible was well in evidence.
Her fears adding to my own, for I now concluded that there was some
horrible mystery attached to what I had just witnessed, I hastily
scrambled into bed, and, drawing the clothes well over our heads,
begged her to confide in me the secret.
“I hardly know how to explain it, Kate,” she whispered, “you will be
so shocked! and I’m afraid you will blame us horribly for putting you
in that room; but, to tell you the truth, we had nowhere else--at least
nowhere suitable, as the ceilings and walls are sadly out of repair.
“You see, we bought this house at a very low price; it had stood empty
for a good many months, was in a sad state of dilapidation, and the
owner was only too glad to get rid of it.
“After we had settled in, he coolly informed us that it was reputed to
be haunted; that the remains of a woman had been found under the cement
of the back-kitchen floor (it is now nicely tiled), and that on the
anniversary of its committal the tragedy was reported to be re-enacted
in all its grim details.”
“And was she murdered in my room?” I inquired.
“It is supposed so,” Dora murmured. “There is a tell-tale stain (which
nothing will efface) under the carpet--and--former tenants are reported
to have seen all you have witnessed, and rather more.”
“And the murderer! what of him?” I asked, thinking with a shudder of
his eyes.
“No one knows anything!” Dora whispered, edging closer to me as we
heard a distant clang. “It is only surmised he was her husband--she was
quite a stranger here--and--he was never caught.”
“But the bucket, what could he want with such an absurd thing as a
bucket?” and as I heard it clanging from below I gave a ghastly chuckle.
“For Heaven’s sake don’t laugh!” Dora shivered. “They found that
bucket--he had used it for transporting her remains!”
* * * * *
Please remember me, &c., to all.
Ever yours sincerely,
KATHLEEN M. DEAN.
THURLOW HALL,[3] NEAR EXETER
FIRE! FIRE! BRING ME FIRE!
Technical form of apparition: Phantasm of dead
Source of authenticity: First-hand evidence
[3] All names altered by request.
The following story was related to me by Miss Constance Delaunay, and
is given as near as possible in her own words:
“The early spring of 1898 was, I daresay you remember, exceptionally
fine--so fine, indeed, that my mother, a chronic sufferer from
rheumatism, determined to remain in England instead of going, as was
her custom, to the Riviera.
“We did not want, however, to stay in town, an unusually gay Christmas
having given us an appetite for the country; so we sub-let our flat and
took Thurlow Hall, furnished, on a three months’ lease.
“We had never been to Devon; we had heard much of its beauty; we were
disappointed.
“Possibly, being of foreign extraction, I am prejudiced, but in my
opinion the scenery of Devon is almost, if not quite, as inferior to
that of Belgium and Switzerland as the manners of its peasants are
inferior to those of the corresponding class of Continentals.
“The West Country rustics did not impress us favourably; on our arrival
they welcomed us with gapes and stares and boorish grunts; not a few of
them giggled, whilst others, slouching up to our boxes, read the labels
and muttered disparaging things about foreigners.
“We were told it was the spirit of independence, a spirit presumably
fostered by the democratic teaching of the board school which--if it
had accomplished nothing else--had effectually taught the children to
be RUDE. The pretty simplicity and deferential mannerism described as
characteristics of these villagers by mid-Victorian writers had become
obsolete; courtseying was now regarded as _infra dig_: no one touched
their hats to or moved aside for ladies, and the colloquial ‘sir’ and
‘mam’ had long since given place to a familiar and condescending ‘Mr.’
or ‘Mrs.’ as the case might be.
“In Cornwall, we were informed, the manners of the people are even
worse, and if that is a fact, one can hardly believe it possible, I am
quite certain we shall never cross the Tamar.
“Fortunately we had taken two of our favourite servants with us,
namely, Marie and Eugenie--the latter my mother’s own maid, a capable
person who could turn her hand to anything, the former a clever little
cook we had imported from our own country. But for this foresight on my
part, I do not know how my mother could have managed to exist.