MANY years ago, I used to visit a brother and sister-in-law living in
a rambling old house in Ireland. Nightly, the household would gather
in the dining-room for prayers, after which we retired to our
rooms—the maids to their quarters at the far end of the house—my
brother and sister-in-law would leave me at my door and then pass
down the corridor to their own room.
I am usually a sound sleeper. Nevertheless, midnight would find me
awake listening to the ructions in the dining-room below—the click,
click of glasses and decanters, excited voices, doors opening,
banging—after a little while, silence. On the first occasion I asked
my brother why he made so much unnecessary noise at midnight. He
looked troubled and simply remarked that he had not gone downstairs
again. I tackled my sister-in-law, but all to no purpose. Deciding
that they were indulging in drinking bouts on the sly, I said no more.
One night, however, feeling very tired and unable to sleep because of
the noise, I was furious and decided to see for myself what my
relations were up to. I slipped on my dressing-gown and slippers and
made for my door; but not before the handle was turned violently and,
although in total darkness, I could feel a current of air from the
open door (I always locked it before retiring). Then a tremendous
“Force” seemed to be pushing me backwards towards the bed, where,
conscious of another “presence” in the room, I fell back exhausted.
My brother and sister-in-law listened attentively to the recital of
the previous night’s happenings, expressed their regret for so
disturbed a night, and advised me to forget all about it.
Not a little chagrined at their reticence, I resolved to return home
at once.
On the way to the station, I met the clergyman—a very intellectual
man—who happened to be a frequent visitor at the house. I related the
midnight happenings, my surmise, and, lastly, the unaccountable
experience of the previous night. I quite expected him to pooh-pooh
the whole thing. Instead, he looked very grave, said that in olden
times the surrounding hills were infested by a band of particularly
murderous brigands who made that house their occasional headquarters.
Men were decoyed, robbed and disposed of within its gates. “And,” he
ended, “we can but pray and hope that the poor, unquiet spirits may
be granted a final resting-place. Do not, my child, make it a subject
of idle gossip.”