THE POOL IN WALES THAT LURES PEOPLE TO DEATH
I think there is very little doubt that two of the mediums through
which the occult forces “get at” humanity are colour and locality.
Red, for example, being the colour of blood, is made the medium for
instilling thoughts of murder; green, in a similar manner, is used to
suggest suicide by drowning; yellow suggests madness; pink—vice of the
most alluring and attractive nature; and so on, until, by a careful
study of human crimes in their relation to colour, one might tabulate a
complete list.
And so with localities. Certain spots attract certain types of spirits,
and these, in turn, suggest certain thoughts, some beautiful and some
the reverse.
I was still in North Wales, when, a week or so before the expiration
of the tour, I did a day’s tramping on the hills, and, being caught in
a heavy rain-storm, I had to take shelter under one of those low stone
walls with which the whole country-side is intersected. The afternoon
was drawing to a close, and the fading light made me a bit anxious as
to how I should find my way back to my lodgings. As I was crouching
there, praying to heaven that the storm would soon cease, so that I
could continue my way, I suddenly heard a loud cry, as of someone in
distress, and, on its being repeated, I scrambled up and hastened in
the direction of the sounds. About a hundred yards further on there
was a break in the wall, and I caught the glimmer of water. It was one
of those roadside pools, not uncommon in Wales, and usually of great
depth. As I drew nearer, I saw it was fringed on the far side by a
cluster of tall pines, that creaked and groaned dismally as the strong
west wind drove volumes of water through their bowed branches.
I was noticing all this, when the form of a man in a mackintosh rose
from the gorze close by my side, and, thrusting his head forward so
that I could not see his face, walked with great swinging strides
towards the pool. I thought this rather queer, but I thought it
still queerer when the cries I had heard before broke out again with
increased violence, unmistakably this time from the trees, and the man,
breaking into a run, rushed up to the margin of the pool, where he
abruptly disappeared.
I was close behind him at the time, and am positive he did not enter
the water. His whole body seemed to melt away as he stood on the bank.
What became of him I could not say, I only know he vanished. The
incident so unnerved me that it was only with a considerable effort
of mind I went on. I threaded my way through the trees, and looked
everywhere, but there was no one about and nothing whatever, as far as
I could see, to account for the sounds. I looked at the water: it was
inky black, and there was something sinister about it, something that
strangely suggested to me, that away down in its cold, still depths
was life—some peculiar, venomous, repellant living thing that was
watching me, and longing to entwine its arms round me, and drag me
ruthlessly down. I was appalled. The apparent loneliness of the spot
was frightful, and, as I tore myself away and renewed my journey home,
I fancied I heard laughter—laughter in which all the trees seemed to
join in chorus. On arriving at my rooms, I enquired about the pool, and
my landlady informed me it bore a very evil reputation. Several people
had been found drowned there, and no one would go near it after dark.
This stimulated me to make further enquiries. I came across one or two
men who testified to having heard cries there, and one old woman, who
declared she had seen a curious figure, half human and half animal,
vanish in the pine trees; but I could get nothing in the way of details
for some months, not until I had returned to London, when, quite by
chance and under rather extraordinary circumstances, I was introduced
to a man, long since dead, who many years before had had a somewhat
harrowing experience there. The gist of what he narrated to me was as
follows:—
“Philip Delaney was a member of the London Stock Exchange, and at
nine-thirty one August evening was sitting before the empty grate in
his study, smoking. Though not naturally a pessimist, his thoughts
were at that moment excessively gloomy; business during the past few
years had been steadily getting worse and worse, and it now seemed as
if the day of general stagnation must be very near at hand. From an
average of fifteen hundred a year his income had fallen to less than
eight hundred. Consequently, he could not as usual take his holiday
abroad; he could only just afford to send his wife and children to
Hastings, where he might possibly be able to join them for week-ends.
As a fitting accompaniment to his thoughts, the weather was vile, cold
and wet—eternally wet. He could hear the raindrops beating against
the glass, and falling on the window-sill with an incessant, wearying
and worrying patter. He was too depressed to read, it was too early
to sleep, he could only sit and think, everlastingly think. Indeed,
he was deeply engaged in thought—thought in which two, and two and a
half percentages were paramount—when, hearing someone cough, he turned
sharply round. No one was there.
“This was odd. He could have sworn the sound came from just behind
him. With his eyes focussed on the door, he listened. The cough
was repeated, footsteps accompanied it, and from out of the wall
stepped the figure of a man. Philip Delaney gasped in astonishment.
He recognised the figure at once. It was Markham Davidson, a very old
friend of his, the author of several well-known works on Metaphysics
and Psychology. There was nothing peculiar about him—features,
complexion, expression, clothes, and walk were all perfectly natural.
They belonged to the Markham Davidson he knew, but whom he had not
seen for ages. And yet, how, if he were flesh and blood, had he passed
through several inches of solid brick and mortar? How? Unquestionably
he could not have done so, unless—well, unless he had suddenly
acquired superphysical properties, and projected his immaterial body
after the manner of one of the phantasms about which he was so fond
of writing. Walking across the room with a quick tread, the figure
displayed certain mannerisms—a forward poke of the head, a prematurely
old stoop of the shoulders, and a bend of the arms—unmistakably
those of Davidson. Delaney noted, too, that Markham looked remarkably
well—his cheeks were ruddy and full, his eyes were bright, his
movements full of energy. In one hand he carried a stamped envelope,
and in the other an umbrella, with which he tapped the ground
vigorously as he walked. He moved in a straight line without looking
to the right or left, and, stepping into the wall a few feet from the
window, disappeared before Delaney could utter a sound.
“As the whole occurrence had occupied so short a space of time—three
or four seconds at the most—Delaney tried hard to persuade himself
that the phenomena was an hallucination, but, try as he would, he
could not bring himself to believe that what he had seen was entirely
subjective. There on the wall was the very spot where the figure had
emerged, and there, exactly opposite, the very spot through which it
had vanished. No hallucination, he argued, could have been so vivid,
nor could it have embraced so many graphic and minute details. Details!
Yes, crowds of details. He remembered them all distinctly, especially
the tie. There was a redness about it—a very peculiar redness he did
not recollect seeing in any other tie. It impressed him greatly, and he
could not eradicate it from his mind.
“He noticed the envelope, too, not so much because it was addressed to
P. Delaney, Esq., as because it was white, startlingly white, whilst
the stamp was the same very pronounced red as the tie. Long after the
figure had gone, Philip pondered over these idiosyncrasies, and the
more he thought of them, the more perplexed he grew. What he had seen
was, without doubt, the phantasm of Markham Davidson—of the living
Markham Davidson, identical with his old friend, Markham Davidson, in
all but the colour of the tie. Red, blood-red! What one earth could
have possessed Davidson to wear such a colour! He pondered over this as
deeply as though it had been one of the most weighty problems of the
Stock Exchange, and when he went to bed that night and looked in his
mirror, he saw, instead of his own tie, a blood-red one.
“His dreams took disturbing forms. Three times following he saw Markham
Davidson struggling for dear life in a dreary looking pool, situated
by the side of a very lonely mountain road, and overshadowed by tall
pines, that creaked and groaned like lost souls every time the wind
smote them. With such perspicuity were the details in these dreams
stamped on his mind, that each time he awoke he saw them again; there
they were, everywhere he turned—the glimmering white road with the
wide expanse of snow on one side and on the other the long line of low
stone wall, beyond which lay darkness and the pool. Heavens! what a
pool it was—inky black, unfathomably deep, and hideously suggestive of
an antagonistic, insatiable something that lay crouching in its bosom,
ever on the look-out for prey.
“Delaney was fascinated. Although he realised that the very atmosphere
of the place was intensely evil, that it had a wholly demoralising
effect and contaminated everybody and everything that came near it,
although absolutely he understood all this, yet he allowed himself to
be drawn unresistingly towards it.
“When he awoke from one vision of it, he craved heaven and hell to
permit him to see another. And in this manner he passed the whole night.
“On coming down to breakfast, the first thing that arrested his
attention was an envelope—an envelope addressed to him in the
well-known writing of Markham Davidson. He tore it open, and with
breathless excitement read as follows:—‘Dear Phil,—It is a very
long time since I heard from you.... An irresistible craze has just
come over me to go to North Wales. Strange, because, as I daresay you
remember, I have always detested Wales. Now, however, I am eaten up
with a mad desire to go to Llanginney, an out-of-the-way spot somewhere
near Cader Idris. I never heard of it till yesterday, when it suddenly
attracted my attention as I was gazing at an atlas. Will you join me
there for a day or two? I go to-morrow (Wednesday), and intend staying
a week. It would be very pleasant once again to tramp the country-side
with you....’
“Delaney looked at the postmark; it was stamped 11.30 p.m. Could
Davidson have been on the way to the pillar-box, when he (Delaney) had
seen his phantasm? If that were so, then, undoubtedly, it was a case
of unconscious projection. Markham, whilst thinking of him (Delaney)
in connection with the invitation to Llanginney, had unconsciously
separated his immaterial from his material body and projected it.
Delaney had read one or two works on psychic phenomena, and understood
from them that spirit projection was not only quite feasible but far
from uncommon. However, he could not accept Davidson’s invitation. He
had not the money. Go to Llanginney, indeed! Why, Davidson might as
well have asked him to travel to Petrograd. And yet—the pool, that
white road, those shaking pine-trees, that lurking invisible something.
Could he resist? For a solid hour he battled with himself, battled till
the sweat rose to his brow and poured down his throat and chest. Then
he decided. To join Davidson was utterly out of the question. He had
neither the time, money, nor inclination. Like the majority of writers,
Davidson was a creature of impulse—erratic and irresponsible. He,
Philip Delaney, was different. He was a materialist, wholly practical
and level-headed. He never acted on the spur of the moment, never
chased wild geese. In a very superior frame of mind he sat down and
wrote to Davidson, expressing his extreme regret at not being able to
accept his invitation. Then he got up, breathed a sigh of relief, and,
clapping on his hat, went off to business.
“All that day, however, whilst he was brooding over figures in his
office, and listening to the ceaseless babble at the ‘Change, his mind
reverted to the pool. It was that black piece of water, always that
water, and Davidson in his red tie, always that particular red tie,
struggling in it. At last he could stand it no longer. He felt that
even if he had to sell his wife, and house, and children, he must yield
to this attraction—this damnable attraction—and go!
“Darting out of his office, shortly after luncheon, he hurried to the
railway station and took the first train home. In less than half an
hour he had made all the necessary arrangements for a brief absence,
packed his valise and secured a hansom. (All this happened long before
the advent of taxis.)
“The train was an express to Chester, but the rest of the journey was
slow, and it was nine o’clock before he found himself on the single
platform of Llangelly, the nearest station to Llanginney.
“Delaney enquired as to how he was to reach his destination, and was
informed by the solitary porter that, if he wished to get there, he
must walk.
“‘There ain’t no vehicles for hire in this part of the country,’ the
porter said. ‘Everyone that comes here has to use their feet. You can’t
mistake the road. You’ve only to keep straight on—and you are bound to
arrive there.’
“Delaney smiled grimly. He felt as little like walking as he had ever
done in his life, and, besides his gladstone, he had a raincoat and
umbrella.
“Fortunately the night was fine, and ere he had covered his first
half-mile, the moon broke out from behind a cloud and illuminated the
entire landscape. For the next mile or two the road was fairly flat,
and then it gradually began to rise, the scenery becoming wilder
and wilder. Every now and then he paused, and, throwing back his
head, drank in deep breaths of the heather-scented air. Delicious!
What a change from London! He calculated he must have done about
three-quarters of the distance, when he arrived at a turning—the
entrance to a lane—a lane that at once made him shudder. He paused
opposite the turning, and tried to find some explanation for his fear.
“It was certainly very lonely, and the white patches of moonlight on
the footpath and hedgerows suggested much; but, after all, it was only
suggestion—suggestion which a few sunbeams would at once dissipate. He
was standing within the shadow of a clump of firs facing the lane, and
looking intently ahead of him, when, at a distance of some fifty or so
yards, the figure of a man in a mackintosh slowly emerged from a gap in
the hedge.
“The man merely glanced in Delaney’s direction, and then, turning
round, moved on down the lane. But the glimpse, momentary though it had
been, was sufficient to enable Delaney to identify the person. It was
Davidson; he knew him at once by his mannerisms, and he instinctively
felt he had on that tie—that flagrantly vulgar, blood-red tie. In an
instant he formed a resolution. He would give his friend a surprise.
With this intention in view he dropped his valise, and, stepping
noiselessly forward, he followed Davidson. On and on they went, the one
keeping fifty or so yards behind the other, till there came a sudden
bend in the lane, and then Delaney received a shock. Spread out before
him, exactly as he had seen it in his dreams, was the panorama of the
white glimmering road with the wide, wild expanse of moorland on one
side, and on the other the long line of wall, and—the pool. Nothing
could have been more like, and it was intensified by the brilliancy
of the moonbeams. Crouching in the heather, Delaney watched Davidson
slowly walk up to the edge of the water, fold his arms, and gaze in a
reflective manner into the shadowy depths. The moments flew by, and
still he gazed. Then there came a brief, distracting interval, during
which the moon disappeared behind a bank of black, funereal clouds.
When it emerged, the figure of Davidson had vanished, and Delaney
occupied the spot where he had stood.
“‘The pool, the greedy, insatiable pool!’ he muttered. ‘Dark, deep and
devilish. The three D’s. I might even add a fourth—damnable!’ And
turning round with a chuckle, he was preparing to go, when someone
vaulted the stone wall to his left and rapidly approached him.
“‘You don’t mean to say you are still pottering about here,’ the
stranger, a man about Delaney’s own height and build, panted. ‘I
thought you had returned to the inn long ago.’ Then, perceiving his
mistake, he said in amazement, ‘Why, it’s someone else! I beg your
pardon, sir; I quite thought you were an acquaintance of mine.’
“‘Davidson, by any chance?’ Delaney asked pleasantly.
“‘Yes, Markham Davidson,’ the stranger said in astonishment. ‘Do you
know him, too?’
“‘I am his old friend,’ Delaney laughed, ‘and I am on my way to join
him at Llanginney. I merely stopped here to look at the pool.’
“‘The pool,’ the stranger ejaculated, eyeing him curiously. ‘It is not
the pleasantest place in the world, is it?’
“‘No,’ Delaney replied, ‘but it has its fascination. Where did you
leave Davidson?’
“‘At the entrance to this lane half an hour ago,’ the stranger
answered, scanning the dark surface of the water anxiously. ‘I wanted
to get as far as the brow of the hill over yonder, but, as Davidson
complained of feeling tired, I set out alone. He said he would follow
me slowly and wait for me somewhere about here. Did you by any chance
hear a cry?’
“‘A cry!’ Delaney exclaimed. ‘A cry? No. Did you?’
“‘I thought I did,’ the stranger said, moving away from the edge of
the water; ‘that is why I hurried here. Perhaps he is somewhere about.
Supposing we call.’
“They shouted till they were hoarse, and the great hills opposite
hurled back the echoes of their voices, but there was no other reply.
Not a sign of Davidson. At last the stranger touched Delaney on the arm.
“‘Come,’ he said with a shiver, ‘the night air is cold. Davidson must
have gone back to the inn, and unless we make haste we shall be locked
out. They go to bed at eleven.’
“Very reluctantly Delaney gave up the search, and the men were soon
tramping along the road in silence—each apparently too pre-occupied
with their own thoughts to speak. Occasionally Delaney glanced covertly
at his companion, and whenever he did so, he surprised the latter
in the act of peeping cautiously at him. Eventually the lights of
Llanginney hove in view, and several of the other visitors at the inn
strolled out to meet them.
“‘No, Davidson has not returned,’ was the reply to their enquiries. ‘We
have seen nothing of him since you left. It’s not eleven yet, however;
he has still half an hour, and on such a night as this it would be
practically impossible to lose one’s way.’
“Delaney engaged his bed, and half an hour later, as Davidson had not
yet come back, he made his way to the landlord’s private parlour. On
the threshold he met his recent companion.
“‘Who is he?’ he enquired of the landlord, directly the door was
closed, and he heard the stranger’s footsteps echoing softly down the
passage.
“‘Who is he?’ the landlord sleepily exclaimed. ‘Why, Mr. Hartney, a
London lawyer. Quite a well-known man in town, so I’m told. No, he has
never been here before, and as far as I’m aware he had never met Mr.
Davidson till to-day. Will I send someone to look for Mr. Davidson?
Why, that is what Mr. Hartney has just asked me! No, sir, I have no
one to send,’ and he spoke somewhat testily. ‘Some of my men have
gone—those who sleep out, and the rest are in bed. I shall leave the
door open. We aren’t afraid of burglars in this part of the country.
No, as I told Mr. Hartney, there is no fear of the gentleman being
lost—he has gone a little further than he intended, that is all.’ And
the landlord yawned so emphatically that Delaney beat a hasty retreat.
“‘I’m going to bed,’ he said, as he passed Hartney in the hall. ‘The
landlord assures me there is no fear of any harm having befallen
Davidson, and that he is sure to turn up all right.’
“‘Do you think so?’ the lawyer queried.
“Delaney nodded.
“‘I know Davidson,’ he said; ‘I have known him since boyhood. He is the
least likely person in the world to meet with mishap.’
“‘I am glad to hear you say so,’ Mr. Hartney responded. ‘Very glad.
I fancied somehow—but there, it must have only been fancy. Being
intimately acquainted with Mr. Davidson, you would of course know his
voice, and had he really called out, you would certainly have heard
him. It is doubtless a mere fancy on my part. Good-night!’
“As Delaney wearily climbed the staircase and peeped through the
bannister, his eyes encountered those of the lawyer steadily following
him. Dog-tired, he lost no time in undressing, but when he got into
bed he found sleep would not come to him. He lay first on one side and
then on the other, he tried not to think, he resorted to every possible
device, but it was all of no avail. It was the pool, always the pool,
the pool and the blood-red tie. He kept seeing them before him, and
they continually bade him get out of bed and come to them. At last,
unable to resist them any longer, he got up, and after slipping on his
clothes, stole noiselessly out into the still and narrow country road.
“When he had gone a few yards, he thought he heard a door shut behind
him, but, on turning round and perceiving no one, he attributed it
to fancy and went ahead at a brisk pace. At last, to his relief, the
pool came in view. There it was, just as he had seen it, moon-kissed
and silent, with the huge firs shaking their heads ominously on the
far side of it, and the long line of glittering white wall casting
its black shadow on the grass and gorse, running away from it, in an
apparently interminable line, on the side nearest him. It was a sight
he knew he would never forget as long as he lived.
“Approaching the brink of the pool, he walked slowly round it, peering
anxiously into the water. Suddenly he gave a start. Something white
abruptly bobbed to the surface. He looked closely at it, and fancied he
discerned a face. He was about to attach a name to it, when he heard
something behind him. Swinging sharply round, he confronted Hartney.
“‘Good heavens! You here!’ he exclaimed. ‘Whatever brought you out at
this time of night?’
“‘I might say the same to you,’ the lawyer replied. ‘What brought you
here?’
“‘Davidson,’ Delaney said. ‘Do you know, I can’t help associating him
with this pool. It is damnably fascinating.’
“‘I can’t help associating him with that cry,’ Hartney remarked. ‘I
am certain it was his voice! Good God! what’s that?’ And he pointed
frantically at the white thing bobbing up and down in the water, just
where the moonbeams fell thickest, and not half a dozen yards from
where they stood.
“‘Where?’ Delaney said, pressing close to him in a great state of
excitement. ‘Where? Ah! I see it now. It’s looking towards us.
That—well, if you wish to know what it is——’ He left off abruptly.
There was a wild scream, a heavy splash, and he continued his sentence.
‘That, Mr. Hartney, is the solution you seek to the mystery.’ And he
went back to the inn alone, chuckling.
“The sequel to this narrative comes as a surprise. Hartney was not
drowned. Being a very powerful swimmer, and lightly clad, he got to
the other side of the pool, and, clambering up the bank, he wrung the
water from his clothes and ran all the way to the inn. On arriving
there, to his intense astonishment, he found Davidson, safe and sound,
and dressed in clothes two or three sizes too small for him. Davidson’s
experience had been very similar to his own. Delaney had suddenly
seized him round the waist and hurled him into the middle of the
pool. There, he declared, he felt something like very big and icy cold
hands trying to pull him down. He cried for help and prayed, and, as
he prayed, the hands relaxed their grasp, and he managed to struggle
safely to shore. The shock of what he had gone through, however, was so
great that he felt too ill to get back to the inn, and he was compelled
to rest awhile at a farm, where he obtained a hot bath and a suit of
clothes. As Davidson knew Delaney’s wife and family, he begged Hartney,
for their sake, to keep the affair as secret as possible.
“The doctor, who was called in to examine Delaney, could not certify
him as being actually insane. However, he strongly recommended him
to go into a private home for a time, where he would be kept under
constant supervision, and Delaney did as the doctor advised. But after
being in the home about a month he escaped, and was eventually found
drowned in the lonely pool near Llanginney.
“From the description given me of Delaney, I am under the impression
that the figure I saw in the mackintosh was his ghost. But what about
the figure Hartney was positive he saw floating in the water? Was it
the phantom of someone who had perished there, or had Davidson again
unconsciously projected himself? I incline to the latter. This is
the case in toto, and it was told to me by Hartney, who got all the
details, apart from those he had himself experienced, direct from
Davidson and Delaney.”