MY father was a Nonconformist minister. In the autumn of 18— he went
to reside in the country town of W——, which has the distinction of
possessing a large county gaol.
Going down, as a schoolgirl, to spend my first Christmas holidays
there, I was astonished to find such a palatial “manse.” It was
situated a mile out of the town, had a square turreted tower, an old
moat (then the channel for a running stream), an encircling
verandah, stabling for four horses, and a long carriage drive, at the
gates of which was an old, ivy-covered, uninhabited lodge—an
altogether unusual dwelling for its modest tenant!
The only room in the turreted tower was occupied by my father as his
“study,” but he rarely made his sermons in it, we children observed,
and when asked why, he would reply evasively that he always felt
chilly and uncomfortable there.
On the night of Christmas Eve, I was restless and fidgety. A younger
sister occupied another bed in the same room, but she soon dropped
off to sleep. It was a moonlight night, so I drew up my blind and lay
watching the fitful shadows of a tree outside as they played over my
walls.
At last I had an uncanny feeling that another presence was added to
the occupants of the large old bedroom. I looked towards the door and
saw a dark figure gliding through it, apparently in a cloak, the hood
of which encircled the small white face of a woman.
I sprang up frightened. The dark figure walked slowly towards me,
then deviated to the window, and, without opening it, went through to
the verandah. I ran across to my sister's bed, thinking she was
playing a trick on me, but, no, she lay there fast asleep.
I had no sleep that night, you may be sure. On telling my story at
the breakfast-table next morning, I was merely told that I had been
reading too many Christmas ghost stories and had doubtless had a bad
nightmare. Though hardly convinced, I dropped the subject.
A few weeks later my father sent me with a note to the office of a
solicitor in the town, an elderly man who was deeply versed in all
the topographical, historical and social knowledge of the place. He
was a Celt, and the custodian of half the human secrets of the
district, which may or may not bear on the rest of my story. As I was
leaving, he asked in a friendly fashion: “How do you like the manse?”
Taken aback somewhat, I replied: “Oh, very much, but—er—” His
spectacled, curious eyes seemed seeking some private confidence.
“‘But' what? You haven’t seen the manse ghost, I suppose? You have! I
can see it in your face. Well, did it frighten you?”
Seeing that evasion was impossible, I replied: “Yes, it did—but
father—”
“Oh, never mind your father. He pooh-poohed it, no doubt. Not psychic
enough to see it himself, of course. Tell me about it.”
Half ashamed, I told my little story. When I had finished, he pulled
up his office chair confidentially and said in a low voice: “The
stewards of my church bought the manse some ten years ago very
cheaply on account of its reputation for being haunted. Most of its
tenants since, being religious men, like your father, have never been
troubled by the story and never see anything spectral; being
temperamentally unable to, probably. But you, young lady, are
doubtless psychic and therefore have been privileged. I'll now tell
you the story its reputation is founded on.
“Fifteen Christmases ago a young lady visitor came to stay at what
you now know as the manse. A wealthy, rather profligate young
bachelor in the town fell in love with her and persecuted her with
his attentions. She rejected his suit. On Christmas Eve he
accompanied her home from a local party. As she did not return, her
friends set out in the early morning to look for her and found her
lying dead in her evening cloak and hood just outside the little
lodge at the gates.
“Suspicion fell on her rejected suitor. He was tried for murder and
hanged in the local gaol here, the last execution, by the way, that
has taken place. It is said that every Christmas Eve this poor girl's
spirit comes back and haunts the place of the tragedy.”
“So you think the hooded lady I saw was the spirit of that poor young
girl?” I questioned, horrified.
“Undoubtedly, and it interests me exceedingly that you have had this
experience before either hearing the story or the traditional
reputation of the house. Probably I ought not to have told you, but,
as every Christmas comes round, I, as a believer in psychic
phenomena, look expectantly for someone to corroborate this
tradition. Do not be troubled; the ghost will not appear again this
year. Good morning!”
I spent several more Christmases at the manse, but never again saw
the ghost.
I leave it to my readers to decide how much my youth and temperament
and my old friend the solicitor’s Celtic bias towards the romantic
and the occult had to do with my sincere belief in the objective
reality of that hooded lady whom I saw twenty years ago.