AN AUSTRIAN ADVENTURE
Only once did I ever see an elemental of the terrifying type, and I have
no desire to repeat the experience.
Several years ago I was traveling alone on my way to Bohemia. With me,
in the railway carriage, I had an aluminum traveler's typewriter,
enclosed in, and fastened down to a leather case. I had also a large
leather dispatch box, containing several chapters of a new novel I was
writing, and which I meant to finish whilst abroad.
At the last moment, just as I was starting on my journey, a friend had
given me a small Russian ikon, and I had put that in the box with my
writing materials.
On reaching the frontier into Austria, I got out with the other
travelers, carrying the typewriter in my hand to ensure its safety. A
porter brought along the dispatch box, and the luggage from the van to
the Custom House.
I had nothing to declare and said so, but when the officials came to
look at the typewriter and the contents of the dispatch box, their civil
attitude changed, and I was curtly told that I would have to remain
behind, in order that a more thorough examination might be made.
There was little use in expostulating, no one took the smallest notice
of any explanations I made, and I had the unhappy fate to behold all my
fellow travelers stream out onto the platform, and make for the waiting
train, and the growing conviction that they would proceed on their
journey without me.
When alone with the officials I had the field to myself, and I explained
that I was a British subject, and a British novelist, but they merely
looked at me with the same blend of incredulity my fellow countrymen so
often favor me with, when they accidentally discover that I am
synonymous with the writer, Violet Tweedale.
How well I know the look and the words accompanying it: "Are you Violet
Tweedale, the novelist? Well! who'd have thought it? I never would have
guessed."
Their expression says plainly enough, "You don't look capable of writing
out a laundry bill, far less a novel."
Seeing that my statements made no impression upon the Customs officials,
I resigned myself to an unknown fate, and in a few moments, looking
through the open door, I had the misery of seeing my train glide out of
the station, leaving me behind.
An animated conversation now began which occupied at least ten minutes,
and my typewriter and dispatch box were subjected to a most rigid
scrutiny. I kept on imploring the officials not to break the typewriter,
but they paid no heed, and at last, after playing about with it for some
time, they requested me to give them an exhibition of its powers. Alas!
it was too late. The machine was thoroughly upset with the rough
fingering it had been subjected to, and I could not get it to work.
I saw that this fact was set down as another black mark of suspicion
against me, and they then began another long discussion upon the ikon. I
began to be so bored and tired that I sat down on my trunk, lit a
cigarette, and attempted to preserve a certain amount of outward calm,
whilst mentally I raged furiously within.
I noticed that a messenger had been sent out of the room, but could not
catch the object of his errand. When all chattering and gesticulating
together, they abandoned ordinary German, and fell into a dialect of
their own which I could not understand.
In a few moments the messenger returned with two more officials, and a
waiter from the station restaurant. The waiter was given a chapter of my
novel--each chapter had an ordinary exercise book to itself--and told to
translate my English into German.
I presume he honestly tried to do his best, but the translation bore no
resemblance to the original. Even the officials soon wearied of the
fumbled nonsense, and the waiter was sent away.
Then the head official informed me that I might continue my journey by
the next train, but I must consider myself under arrest, till further
information concerning my business and identity was obtained. He
informed me, finally, that I was a Russian spy.
I retaliated by informing him that I was a British subject. That my
husband was at that moment in Bavaria, and directly I could communicate
with him he would obtain my release through our Embassy at Vienna. Never
did I regret anything more than my own stupidity in having left my
much-vised passport behind me in England.
The typewriter was then closed down, tied with string and heavily
sealed. I was ordered to carry it myself, and place it in the very
center of an empty luggage wagon.
As I complied it flashed upon me that they had never seen a typewriter
before, and suspected it to be a sort of infernal machine. My dispatch
box disappeared altogether, and I got into a first-class carriage,
accompanied by two very smart attendants. They wore cocked hats, much
gold braid, and many gold buttons, and they each carried a sword and a
revolver, with which to shoot me, I presume, if I tried to run away.
We three were not alone in the carriage. In a corner sat a dark man with
a small black mustache, and smoking a very long cigar. He was neatly
dressed in a long dust coat, and on his smooth black hair he wore a
brown Homburg hat. In one dark eye was a single monocle, through which
he regarded me with a mild surprise.
I saw at once that if I was to be burdened with the constant society of
my two officials for several days, the only thing to do was to make
friends with them. The circumstances had not arisen through any fault of
theirs, and they had to obey the orders of their superiors. Both were
men who looked between the age of thirty to forty, and they had quite
pleasant faces. I began by offering them cigarettes from my case--no
Customs officials object to enough tobacco being carried to last out a
journey--and they accepted my civility with profuse thanks.
The man in the corner still regarded us from time to time with interest,
and when we had finished our cigarettes he leaned forward and most
politely offered us each a big cigar. The voice of this person so
amazed me that in refusing with thanks, and saying I never smoked
cigars, I looked very closely at him. The voice was that of a cultured
gentlewoman, and that was exactly what this person turned out to be. Not
a man, but a woman dressed exactly to resemble a man. When she stood up
I saw that she wore a divided skirt, and by the manner in which my
guards addressed her when they accepted her cigars, I knew that she was
some great personage. Later on I discovered that she was a member of the
Imperial House of Austria. She spoke English perfectly, and I explained
my position, which seemed to amuse her immensely. We found that we had
mutual friends, and we were chattering most amicably when I reached my
destination.
Evidently a wire had preceded us, for other officials were waiting on
the platform to take possession of the typewriter, and I said good-by to
it, as I thought, forever.
The amazement of the hotel manager may be imagined when he saw me arrive
under escort. Though I had engaged my rooms he had never seen me before,
and I was secretly uneasy lest he should refuse to take me in under the
circumstances, but my attendants appeared to possess unlimited
authority. I was shown into a good bedroom at the very end of the
corridor. The manager spoke perfect English, and I explained my position
from my point of view. He was quite civil, but I thought rather
non-committal. He evidently did not like the situation, but at that
moment I had a stroke of luck.
There entered the head waiter, carrying the usual paper of
identification which one always fills in abroad. His face was quite
familiar to me. I never forget a face, but I cannot always fit a name to
it. Where had I seen this man before? Then in a flash I remembered. It
was in Egypt.
When I had filled the paper, both men remaining in the room, I recalled
myself to his memory, and the occasions when he had waited upon some
members of our royal family, to whose table I had been bidden. These
occasions had been of comparatively recent happening, and though
possibly not being quite sure in his recollection of me, he remembered
our royal family perfectly, and several little personal incidents that
had occurred whilst we were all in the same hotel.
For instance, there had been a very brilliant ball given at the hotel,
and the royalties had looked on for several hours, and included me in
their circle. This man had been specially detailed to wait upon the
circle, all the evening.
This conversation produced a great effect upon the manager, who
volunteered to make matters as easy as he could for me, till the Embassy
moved. The officials would sit by the door, and not at my table during
meals, and they would be accommodated with chairs in the corridor by the
top of the staircase, instead of outside my bedroom door. He regretted
that they would closely follow me whenever I went out, but doubtless I
would communicate with my husband at once, and the mistake would soon be
corrected.
After I had had some tea, I began to feel quite light-hearted, and I
unpacked and wrote to my husband in Bavaria.
That night when I went to bed I locked my door securely, and composed
myself to sleep after a tiring and disturbing day. I had been in a
railway "sleeper" all the night before, and though I sleep like a top in
a train, I am always unusually sleepy on the following night in bed.
It was summer-time, and very hot weather, and my blinds were drawn up
and the window thrown wide open. No houses faced me; I looked out on a
big public garden.
I was soon fast asleep, but was awakened again by some noise in the
room. I lay still for a little, listening intently, all the unpleasant
incidents of the past day rushing back upon me. The noise was not
continuous, but now and again came the sound of something soft, dragging
about the floor. The room was fairly light, with the glow of a waning
moon, and I judged the hour to be between two and three o'clock.
At last I determined to ascertain what produced this curious sound. I
had an electric light over my bed, and I sat up and suddenly switched it
on.
Then I realized with horror that I was in the presence of something I
had never encountered before, but had often read and heard of. An
elemental of a malignant type, and of grotesque form.
Just for an instant I saw nothing but what looked like an enormous
pillow, but suddenly out of this grayish-green pillow emerged a head of
frog-like shape, and two bright yellow eyes were fixed on mine. I
suppose I was too terrified even to remember what my sensations were. A
sort of paralysis of fear and horror held me spellbound. There it
squatted, thrusting out its misshapen head, its yellow eyes regarding me
fixedly. I have no idea how long it remained there, or how long we
continued to gaze at one another, but I gradually became aware that it
was receding from view. It grew smaller and smaller, and dimmer and
more indistinct, till at length it vanished altogether.
Elliott O'Donnell mentions in one of his books having seen such
creatures, and of having had a number of such cases reported to him, but
generally as the forerunners of illness. To such phantasms he has given
the name of "Morbas," and he believes that certain apparitions are
symbolical of certain diseases "if not the actual creators of the
bacilli from which these diseases arise." This seems to me to be a
reasonable explanation of such phenomena, but in my case there was no
disease in question. I was perfectly well at the time, and remained so.
It is possible, however, that a sick person might have occupied my room
the night before. One never knows in hotels, and I had not then read
O'Donnell's explanation and made no inquiries. Many of the experiences
related in his deeply interesting books are no doubt regarded as
fiction, but I know that they are cases common to very many psychics.
For some time I lay awake, fearful of a recurrence of the horrible
phenomenon, but gradually sleep overcame me, and I did not wake again
till seven o'clock on a lovely summer morning.
That day I took two long walks, closely followed by my escort. They
walked immediately behind me, and often we stopped to converse, or to
sit down to rest and smoke a cigarette together. They told me all their
family history, and about their wives and children, and really they made
themselves as agreeable as they possibly could. In the afternoon we
climbed up the mountains to one of the many cafes, and had chocolate and
cakes, which they thoroughly enjoyed. When I finally went back to the
hotel for the night they complained of being tired, and hoped I would
not walk so far on the morrow. Their idea of enjoyment was the usual
foreign custom of taking a seat outside a street cafe, and sitting there
hour after hour idly watching the passers-by, smoking endless cigarettes
and drinking beer.
That night I prepared myself for a recurrence of the abnormal phenomenon
I had witnessed, and gathered up all my courage, and decided to attack
it with the Sacred command. For a long time I lay awake, but nothing
happened, and finally I fell asleep.
I awoke to pandemonium. My room was in a hub-bub of high-pitched noise.
Screams of glee and frolic, shouts of thin laughter, and pattering feet
with little thuds interspersed. The sounds were all pitched in an
unknown key. They can best be described as ordinary sounds intensely
rarefied, and pitched in so high a treble that they had run out of the
scale altogether.
It was a much darker night, and very hot. Thunder clouds hung over the
town, and now and again there was a gleam of lightning and a mutter of
distant thunder. I peeped over the edge of the bed, but could see
nothing. The noises continued with unabated merriment. A hundred
creatures of sorts apparently were playing round me.
Summoning all my courage I sat up and switched on the light. What I saw
must read like pure nonsense to the majority, but nevertheless I mean to
record facts as they happened to me.
About a dozen small forms, half-man, half-animal, were playing leap-frog
round the room. They were about three feet in height, some slightly
smaller, and though their bodies, legs and feet were human, their heads
resembled apes.
I forgot all about being afraid, they were so amazingly grotesque, and
they were so thoroughly happy. One would go down on all fours, and the
creatures immediately behind him would leap his back, and so on down the
chain, and all the while they kept up that shrill, high-pitched note of
intense enjoyment.
I have come to the conclusion that it was the light that finally put an
end to their revels. They took no heed of me, but gradually their
energies flagged, they faded and became blurred in outline; one by one
they simply went out like sparks until not one was left.
Though I occupied that room for a month I was never disturbed again.
Perfect quiet reigned for the rest of my stay.
At the end of five days a police official came to call upon me, and
informed me that my identity had been perfectly established by the
British Embassy at Vienna, and that my escort was now withdrawn. He also
begged to return my typewriter, rendered utterly useless I discovered,
to my great dismay, and the dispatch box arrived intact the next
morning.
I have no explanation to offer of the phenomena I have described. They
belong to the many unsolved mysteries that constantly surround us. It
will be said that my mind was in an excited and abnormal condition owing
to my adventures in the Customs House, and that I probably imagined the
scene instead of really seeing the creatures I have described.
I agree that probably my mental faculties, for the time being, were
possibly abnormal, but I hold that when the consciousness is in an
abnormal condition it is naturally much easier to see the abnormal. At
ordinary times the veil of the flesh seems denser, and the consciousness
much less acute.
The question seems to me to hang more on the query--do such creatures
actually exist, than on the argument did I, or did I not see them? There
are creatures living in the physical world quite as horrible to look
upon as the astral entities I saw. The octopus and some apes, for
instance. Innumerable people of unimpeachable veracity have testified to
seeing grotesque and hideous creatures, which can only be placed in the
category of astral denizens, and in that category I place the phenomena
I certainly witnessed on two successive nights.
The following story has been given to me by a barrister who kindly
allows me to give his name:
E. F. WILLIAMS, B.A.
Trinity College, Cambridge.
"It is clear that Needle Jim was murdered by the proprietor, Corbett of
the Tally Ho, and that his wraith haunted the spot. Horses appear to be
as sensitive as dogs are to apparitions, and there are several instances
on record where horses have been the means of bringing murder to light.
"It is a difficult matter, indeed, to be asked to write a ghost story if
you do not believe in ghosts; however, I will endeavor to relate the
nearest approach to one which has come within my knowledge.
"The winter of the year 1849 was an exceptionally severe one, very heavy
falls of snow and deep drifts in many places, especially in the
neighborhood of Worcester, near which the scene of my story lies.
"It was, in those days, the custom of packmen as they were called, to
travel around the country with various assortments of goods--calling at
the various farmhouses and cottages offering their wares for sale; some
would have cutlery, some laces and ribbons, but the packman with whom we
are concerned carried pins, needles, and such like, hailing from
Redditch, where they are manufactured. He used to go his round four
times a year, and was known by the name of Needle Jim.
"About the beginning of January, in spite of the snow, Jim left
Worcester for Upper Onslow, Clayton and Broadway, with a view of going
to Cleobury Mortimer, Wyn Forest, and back to Redditch. Apparently he
was seen at Onslow and Clayton, but after that, there was no further
trace of him.
"Now at the village of Broadway, there is a little cider house called
the Tally Ho, and a few cottages. The road is narrow, with three very
sharp corners, protected only from a very steep dingle by an ill-kept,
low, out-of-repair hedge--very dangerous on a dark night. The old
proprietor of the inn, named Corbett, lived there with his old wife, and
was in the poorest of circumstances, the customers at the inn not being
very numerous. Nothing more was heard of Needle Jim.
"Now opposite the Tally Ho, on the far bank of the dingle, was a piece
of ground facing the south, and old Corbett thought it would make an
excellent cherry orchard. So the hitherto impecunious Corbett bought a
portion, and when he had bought it he fenced it round, and from the
opposite side it looked exactly the shape of a coffin, and the coffin
piece it is called to this day.
"At the time of which I am writing, if was permissible after a man had
been hung, for his relatives to take the body away home for burial. One
day, two men arrived at the Tally Ho, with such a body fastened across
the back of a horse; tying up the horse they went into the inn for some
refreshment, shortly to be called out by a woman who said the horse,
burden and all, had jumped over the hedge into the dingle and was lying
at the bottom. They hurried down and there found the horse with his neck
broken and his ghastly burden under him. It was a curious fact that
after the disappearance of Needle Jim, horses approaching this corner
broke into heavy sweats and showed great signs of fear, and a number of
people preferred to travel by the longer route, _via_ the Hundred Horse.
"Some years ago some alterations were being made to the front of an old
hotel in a little country town about five miles from the scenes depicted
above, and on raising the large flagstone of the bottom step, there was
discovered the skeleton of a man with his skull smashed. The old folks
declared it must be the body of the missing packman; anyhow, after the
discovery, the spirit or ghost seems to have departed from the precincts
of the Tally Ho.
"Now I am not a believer in ghosts or their allies, but when I was a
small boy I went on my pony accompanied by two servants, who were taking
a parcel to a house next door to the Tally Ho, and whilst they were
inside the house, all at once the pony snorted and started full gallop
for home as hard as he could go; we parted company going down a steep
hill, and I have often thought it was a good thing for me we did, for if
he had bolted into his stable (which he did do) I should probably have
had my head smashed, as the doorway was very low.
"Still, I do not believe in ghosts, I think it is more convenient not
to!"