Some Haunted Houses of England & Wales.

by Elliott O'Donnell

SOME HAUNTED HOUSES

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NOVELS BY
ELLIOTT O’DONNELL

• FOR SATAN’S SAKE
• THE UNKNOWN DEPTHS
• JENNIE BARLOWE, ADVENTURESS
• DINEVAH THE BEAUTIFUL

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SOME
HAUNTED HOUSES
OF ENGLAND & WALES

BY
ELLIOTT O’DONNELL
ASSOCIATE OF THE SOCIETY FOR PSYCHICAL RESEARCH

LONDON
EVELEIGH NASH
FAWSIDE HOUSE
1908

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PREFACE

In selecting a series of ghost stories for this volume I have taken the greatest care to make use of those only which are thoroughly well authenticated.

The result of this discrimination has been that the majority of these accounts of psychic phenomena have been taken from the lips of eye-witnesses and transferred to manuscript in as nearly as possible the narrator’s own language.

First-hand narratives of unfamiliar hauntings, albeit they refer to the meaner class of houses, will, I think, be more welcome to the reader than the mere repetition of such hackneyed stories as those appertaining to Glamis Castle, the Tower of London, &c.

In one other point, too, this work may be said to differ from others dealing with the same subject—viz., it is compiled and written by a very keen psychic—one who has not only investigated (and lectured on) haunted houses, but has himself seen many occult manifestations.

As there have been several libel cases quite recently in connection with the alleged haunting of houses, I have been obliged (save where it is stated to the contrary) to give fictitious names to both people and localities.

Elliott O’Donnell.

Guilsborough, Northampton.

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CONTENTS

	PAGE
The Green Bank Hotel, Bardsley	[9]
No. — Southgate Street, Bristol	[15]
Mulready Villa, near Basingstoke	[26]
No. — Park Street, Bath	[42]
The Minery, Devon	[53]
Thurlow Hall, near Exeter	[59]
The Guilsborough Ghost	[73]
Wolsey Abbey, near Gloucester	[97]
No. XYZ Euston Road, London	[106]
Panmaur Hollow, Merioneth	[113]
Catchfield Hall, the Midlands	[118]
Burle Farm, North Devon	[140]
Carne House, near Northampton	[148]
Harley House, Portishead	[160]
The Way Meadow, Somerset	[166]
No. — Hackham House, Swindon	[177]
Appendix to above, The Screaming Woman of Tehiddy	[182]
Park House, Westminster	[187]
Glossary	[191]

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HAUNTED HOUSES

THE GREEN BANK HOTEL,
BARDSLEY
THE RACE FOR LIFE

Technical form of apparitions: Phantasms of the dead

Source of authenticity: Evidence of eye-witness

Cause of haunting: Murder

One afternoon in the July of this year I took tea with Lady B—— at her club in the West End. Lady B—— is a very old friend of mine, our friendship dating back to the days when I wore Eton collars and a preparatory school cap. She was in unusually high spirits at the thought of a cruise in the Baltic, whilst I was equally exuberant at being once again in London after a very trying sojourn in a particularly remote and isolated town—a town renowned for pilchards, pasties and Painters.

Now, there is nothing mean nor petty about Lady B——; she is generosity itself: so kind, so courteous, and withal so daintily pretty that to be near her, even, is to be in Elysium.

Remembering the interest I had always taken in matters psychical, she had invited several friends especially to meet me, and it was from one of them—Miss Charlotte Napier—that I heard the following story:

“Chancing to be stranded late one night at Bardsley,” she began, “owing to a slight miscalculation of the time-table, I had no other resource than to put up at the Green Bank Hotel in Russell Street.

“It was a very ordinary hotel; ordinary both in accommodation and appearance. One part of it—that in which I slept—possibly dated back to the Elizabethan period, but the rest—most hideously renovated—was quite modern.

“Outside my room—No. 56—was a long and somewhat gloomy corridor connecting the old and new portions of the house.

“I retired to rest about eleven—closing time—and had been asleep barely an hour before I awoke with a start to find the room flooded with a pale, phosphorescent light.

“The moon shone through my window-panes: it gleamed with an unearthly whiteness across the bed, and thence across the room, glancing upon the panels of the door in such a manner that I was constrained to follow its course and to fix my gaze wherever it shone.

“The door was a mass of light: I could see each crack and scar upon it, even the finger-prints on the white handle, with painful distinctness. A sudden sensation of horror overcame me; I would have given anything to have been able to look elsewhere. I could not.

“All my senses were centred upon the door; it enchained, it drew me, and as I gazed at it in helpless awe the sound of footsteps from without suddenly broke upon my ears. Instantly all my faculties were on the alert, and I became the victim of a curious sensation unlike any I had hitherto experienced, but which I have since learned is the usual effect of psychic manifestation. I felt the proximity of the unnatural. An icy coldness stole down my back, my teeth chattered, my hair seemed to rise on end, and the violent palpitation of my heart made me sick and dizzy. My faculties had indeed become abnormally acute, but my body seemed no longer alive, and I knew that whatever happened I should be absolutely incapable of action. My powerlessness was soon to be put to the test. Sitting bolt upright in bed, in obedience to an irresistible impulse, I listened, listened with all my might. What were those sounds? They were certainly unlike any I had ever heard before, and the kind of terror they imparted was hitherto unknown to me. Perhaps the nearest semblance to the kind of fear I then felt is the fear inspired by the sight of a lunatic. I could not stir, I could only wait and listen. The unnatural nature of the footsteps was emphasised by the brilliancy of the moonlight—quite an abnormal feature in itself—and the intense hush, which, stealing surreptitiously upon the house, obliterated every other sound.

“The footsteps gradually became interpretative—two people were rushing headlong down the corridor!

“From the light, flying footsteps of the foremost, and the heavier tread and ever-increasing pace of the hindermost, I concluded it was a race entailing vital consequences, and that the fugitive would soon be caught. Caught! but not, pray Heaven! at my door.

“What on earth had happened? What could happen in a well-regulated hotel?

“Fire, robbery, or murder?

“Murder! Great drops of sweat broke out upon my brow at the bare thought.

“The moon shone in, whiter and more coldly than ever, whilst the steps drew nearer and nearer—so near, in fact, that I fancied I could detect the sound of breathing. Short, sharp-drawn gasps of agony accompanied by easier and more strenuous inhalations.

“Who were the actors in this invisible drama? Were they both men? I imagined not! Indeed, a thousand horrible ideas suggested themselves to my mind—to be interrupted by a terrific crash on the upper panels of the door that made me all but die with terror. Never had I suffered as at that moment. I strove to scream—it was in vain; my tongue clave to the roof of my mouth; I could utter no sound.

“The door (which I had taken the precaution to lock) was unceremoniously burst open, and into the room rushed a very young and fragile looking man clad in the costume of a Cavalier of the time of Naseby, whilst close at his heels there followed a gigantic Roundhead armed with all the terrible paraphernalia of war.

“The tableau was so totally different from anything I had anticipated, and withal horribly real—so real that had it been in my power I must inevitably have raised a hand to interpose.

“Indeed, the wretched fugitive made straight for my bed, and, falling on his knees beside it, clutched the counterpane convulsively in his fingers. His ashy face was so near mine that I not only saw every feature in it with damning clearness, but I read the many varied expressions in his eyes.

“They were awful. I read in them despair, terror, hate, overshadowed in the background by an insatiable craving for every imaginable vice.

“Yet they were beautiful eyes—beautiful both in formation and colour—too effeminately beautiful for a man.

“His hair, which fell in a wild profusion of ringlets over forehead and shoulders, was of a rich chestnut hue and most luxuriant.

“He wore neither beard nor moustaches; he was absolutely clean shaven, and his skin shone with all the milky whiteness of that of a young woman.

“His features were neatly moulded and extremely delicate; his hands well shaped and narrow, whilst his fingers, long and tapering, were crowned with pellucid filbert nails.

“Attired in the most costly and elegant manner, a manner that suggested the court fop rather than the soldier, he formed in every way a marked contrast to his puritan pursuer. The Roundhead was a huge, brawny fellow, dressed in a leathern jerkin and heavy riding-boots—his soiled and muddy clothes betokening the wear and tear of an arduous campaign.

“His face, always ugly, and naturally, perhaps, sullen and forbidding, was now positively diabolical; rage, hatred, and triumph vieing with one another for supremacy.

“Catching hold of the Cavalier by his silken tresses, and pulling back his head by brute force, the Cromwellian slowly and deliberately drew the keen blade of his knife across the doomed man’s throat.

“The horrid deed—transacted amid the most preternatural silence—was perpetrated so close to me that I was obliged to witness every revolting detail, and although I felt sure the victim was bad and vicious, I did not think the vileness of his character in any way justified the atrocity of his assassin.

“The murderer had barely accomplished his fiendish design before a deadly sickness came over me, and I fainted.

“On recovering consciousness, the room was once again in darkness, nor could I discover in the morning any sign whatever of the awful tragedy.

“On making inquiries in the town, I learned that the inn was well known to be haunted, other people, as well as I, having witnessed the same phenomenon, and that during the recent renovations a skeleton had been unearthed at the foot of the main staircase.

“I saw it in the local museum, and instantly identified the costume it wore as the one I had seen on the hapless fugitive. But—the skeleton was that of a WOMAN!”

NO. — SOUTHGATE STREET
BRISTOL
THE NOTORIOUS SERVANT WHO
ANSWERS THE DOOR

Technical form of apparition: Phantasm of the dead

Source of authenticity: (1) MS. signed by three eye-witnesses; (2) seen by author himself. Names of people and locality alone being altered

In the spring of 1899, being then a member of a certain Psychical Research Society, and hearing that a ghost had been seen at No. — Southgate Street, Bristol, I set off to interview the ladies who were reported to have seen it. I found them (the Misses Rudd) at home, and on their very graciously consenting to relate to me their psychical experiences, I sat and listened to the following story (told as nearly as possible in the eldest lady’s own words): “It is now,” she began, “some ten years since we were the tenants of the house you mention, but I recollect what I saw there as vividly as if it were yesterday.

“The house, I must tell you, is very small (only eight or so rooms), dingy, and in a chronic state of dilapidation; it stands in the middle of a terrace with no front garden to speak of, save a few yards of moss-covered tiles, slate-coloured and broken, whilst its back windows overlooked a dreary expanse of deep and silent water. Nothing more dismal could be imagined.

“Still, when we took it, the idea of it being haunted never for one instant entered our minds, and our first intimation that such was the case came upon us like a thunderbolt.

“We only kept one maid, Jane (a girl with dark hair and pleasant manners), my sisters and I doing all the cooking and helping with the light work. The morning on which incident No. 1 happened, knowing Jane to be upstairs occupied in dusting the rooms, and my sisters being out, my mother asked me to go into the kitchen and see if the stove was all right as ‘there was a smell of burning.’

“Doing as she bid, I hastened to the kitchen, where a strange spectacle met my sight.

“Kneeling in front of the stove, engaged apparently in polishing the fender, was a servant-girl with RED hair; I started back in astonishment. ‘Who could she be?’

“Too intent at first to notice my advent, she kept on at her work, giving me time to observe that she was wearing a very dirty dress, and that her ‘rag’ of a cap was quite askew. Satisfied she was not ‘Jane,’ and wondering whether some one else’s maid had mistaken our kitchen for her own—the houses in the terrace being all alike—I called out, ‘Who are you? what do you want?’—whereupon, dropping the fire-irons with a clatter, she quickly turned round, displaying an ashen-pale face, the expression on which literally froze me with horror.

“Never! never had I seen such an awful look of hopeless, of desperate, of diabolical abandonment in any one’s eyes as in those of hers when their glance met mine.

“For some seconds we glared at one another without moving, and then, still regarding me with a furtive look from out of the corner of her horrible eyes, she slowly rose from the hearth, and gliding stealthily forward, disappeared in the diminutive scullery opposite.

“Curiosity now overcoming fear, I at once followed. She was nowhere to be seen; nor was there any other mode of exit by which she could have made her departure than a tiny window, some four feet or so from the floor and directly overlooking the deep waters of the pond to which I have already alluded.

“Here, then, was a mystery! What had I seen? Had I actually encountered a phantasm, or was I but the victim of an exceedingly unpleasant and falsidical hallucination? I preferred to think the former.

“Not wishing to frighten my mother, I intended keeping the incident to myself, writing, however, a complete account of it in my diary for the current year, but, a further incident occurring to my youngest sister within the next few days, I determined to reveal what I had seen and compare notes.”

The eldest Miss Rudd now concluded, and on my expressing a desire to hear more, her youngest sister very obligingly commenced:

“I had been out shopping in the Triangle one morning,” she said, “and having omitted to take the latchkey, I was obliged to ring. Jane answered the summons. There was nothing, of course, unusual in this, as it was her duty to do so, but there was something extremely singular in what appeared at her elbow.

“Standing close beside—I might almost say, leaning against her (though Jane was apparently unaware of it)—was a strange, a VERY STRANGE, servant-girl, with RED HAIR and the most uncanny eyes; she had on a bedraggled print dress and a cap all askew; but it was her expression that most attracted my attention—it was HORRID.

“‘Oh Jane!’ I cried, ‘whoever is it with you?’

“Following the direction of my gaze, Jane immediately turned round, and, without a word, FAINTED.

“That is all. The apparition, or whatever you may please to call it, vanished, and the next time I saw it was under different circumstances.”

“Will you be so kind as to relate them?” I inquired.

Miss Rudd proceeded: “Oh! it is nothing very much!” she exclaimed, “only it was very unpleasant at the time—especially as I was all alone.

“You see, mother, being delicate, went to bed early, my sisters were at a concert, and it was Jane’s ‘night out.’

“I never, somehow, fancied the basement of the house; it was so cold and damp, reminding me not a little of a MORGUE or charnel-house; consequently I never stayed there a moment longer than was absolutely necessary, and on this night in question I was in the act of scurrying back to the drawing-room when a gentle tap! tap! at the scullery-window made me defer my departure. Entering the back kitchen, somewhat timidly I admit, I saw a face peering in at me through the tiny window.

“Though the night was dark and there was no artificial lighting at this side of the house, every feature of that face was revealed to me as clearly as if it had been day. The little, untidy cap, all awry, surmounting the shock-head of red hair now half-down and dripping with water, the ghastly white cheeks, the widely open mouth, and the eyes, their pupils abnormally dilated and full of lurid light, were more appallingly horrible than ever.

“I stood and gazed at it, my heart sick with terror, nor do I know what would have happened to me had not the loud rap of the postman acted like magic; the THING vanished, and ‘turning tail,’ I fled upstairs into the presence of my mother. That is all.”

I was profuse in my thanks, and the third Miss Rudd then spoke:

“My bedroom,” she began, “was on the top landing—the window over-looking the water. I slept alone some months after the anecdotes just related, and was awakened one night by feeling some disgusting, wet object lying on my forehead.

“With an ejaculation of alarm I attempted to brush it aside, and opening my eyes, encountered a ghastly white face bending right over me.

“I instantly recognised it, by the description my sisters had given, as the phantasm of the red-headed girl.

“The eyes were TERRIBLE! Shifting its slimy hand from my forehead, and brandishing it aloft like some murderous weapon, it was about to clutch my throat, when human nature would stand it no longer—and—I fainted. On recovering, I found both my sisters in the room, and after that I never slept by myself.”

“Did your mother ever see it?” I asked.

“Frequently,” the eldest Miss Rudd replied, “and it was chiefly on her account we relinquished our tenancy—her nervous system was completely prostrated.”

“Other people saw the ghost besides us,” the youngest Miss Rudd interrupted, “for not only did the long succession of maids after Jane ALL see it, but many of the subsequent tenants; the house was never let for any length of time.”

“Then, perhaps, it is empty now?” I soliloquised, “in which case I shall most certainly experiment there.”

This proved to be the case; the house was tenantless, and I easily prevailed upon the agent to loan me the key.

But the venture was fruitless. Three of us and a dog undertook it. We sat at the foot of the gloomy staircase; twelve o’clock struck, no ghost appeared, the dog became a nuisance—and—we came away disgusted.

A one-night’s test, however, is no test at all; there is no reason to suppose apparitions are always to be seen by man; as yet we know absolutely nothing of the powers or conditions regulating their appearances, and it is surely feasible that the unknown controlling elements of one night may have been completely altered, may even have ceased to exist by the next. At all events, that was my opinion. I was by no means daunted at a single failure. But it was impossible to get any one to accompany me. The sceptic is so boastfully eager by day. “Ghosts,” he sneers, “what are ghosts? Indigestion and imagination! I’ll challenge you to show me the house I wouldn’t sleep in alone! Ghosts indeed! Give me a poker or a shovel and I will scare away the lot of them.” And when you do show him the house he always has a prior engagement, or else the weather is too cold, or he has too much work to do next day, or it isn’t really worth the trouble, or—well! he is sure to have some very plausible excuse; at least, that has been my invariable experience.

There is no greater coward than the sceptic, and so, unable to procure a friend for the occasion, I did without one; neither did I have the key of the house, but—taking French leave—gained admittance through a window.

It was horribly dark and lonely, and although on the former occasion I did not feel the presence of the superphysical, I did so now, the very moment I crossed the threshold. Striking a light, I looked around me: I was in the damp and mouldy den that served as a kitchen; outside I saw the moon reflected on the black and silent water.

A long and sleek cockroach disappeared leisurely in a hole in the skirting as I flashed my light in its direction, and I thought I detected the movement of a rat or some large animal in the cupboard at the foot of the stairs. I forthwith commenced a search—the cupboard was empty. I must have been mistaken. For some minutes I stood in no little perplexity as to my next move. Where should I go? Where ought I to go if my adventure were to prove successful?

I glanced at the narrow, tortuous staircase winding upwards into the grim possibilities of the deserted hall and landings—and—my courage failed.

Here, at least, I was safe! Should the Unknown approach me, I could escape by the same window through which I had entered. I felt I dare not! I really COULD not go any further. Seized with a sudden panic at nothing more substantial than my own thoughts, I was groping my way backwards to the window when a revulsion of feeling made me pause. If all men were poltroons, how much would humanity ever know of the Occult? We should leave off where we began, and it had ever been my ambition to go—FURTHER.

My self-respect returning, I felt in my pocket for pencil, notebook and revolver, and trimming my lamp I mounted the stairs.

A house of such minute dimensions did not take long to explore; what rooms there were, were Lilliputian—mere boxes; the walls from which hung the tattered remnants of the most offensively inartistic papers were too obviously Jerry built; the wainscoting was scarred, the beading broken, not a door fitted, not a window that was not either loose or sashless—the entire house was rotten, paltry, mean; I would not have had it as a gift. But where could I wait to see the ghost? Disgust at my surroundings had, for a time, made me forget my fears; these now returned reinforced: I thought of Miss Rudd’s comparison with a morgue—and shuddered. The rooms looked ghastly! Selecting the landing at the foot of the upper storey, I sat down, my back against the wall—and—waited.

Confronting me was the staircase leading up and down, equally dark, equally ghostly; on my right was what might once have been the drawing-room, but was now a grim conglomeration of bare boards and moonlight, and on my left was an open window directly overtopping the broad expanse of colourless, motionless water. Twelve o’clock struck, the friendly footsteps of a pedestrian died away in the distance; I was now beyond the pale of assistance, alone and deserted—deserted by all save the slimy, creeping insects below—and the shadows. Yes! the shadows; and as I watched them sporting phantastically at my feet, I glanced into the darkness beyond—and shivered.

All was now intensely suggestive and still, the road alone attractive; and despite my spartonic resolutions I would have given much to be out in the open.

The landing was so cramped, so hopeless.

A fresh shadow, the shadow of a leaf that had hitherto escaped my notice, now attracted and appalled me; the scratching of an insect made my heart stand still; my sight and hearing were painfully acute; a familiar and sickly sensation gradually crept over me, the throbbing of my heart increased, the most inconceivable and desperate terror laid hold of me: the house was no longer empty—the supernatural had come! Something, I knew not, I dare not think what, was below, and I KNEW it would ascend.

All the ideas I had previously entertained of addressing the ghost and taking notes were entirely annihilated by my fear—fear mingled with a horrible wonder as to what form the apparition would take, and I found myself praying Heaven it might not be that of an ELEMENTAL.

The THING had now crossed the hall (I knew this somehow instinctively) and was beginning to mount the stairs.

I could not cry out, I could not stir, I could not close my eyes: I could only sit there staring at the staircase in the most awful of dumb, apprehensive agonies. The THING drew nearer, nearer; up, up, UP it came until I could see it at last—see the shock-head of red hair, the white cheeks, the pale, staring eyes, all rendered hideously ghastly by the halo of luminous light that played around it. This was a ghost—an apparition—a bonâ fide phantasm of the dead! And without any display of physical power—it overcame me.

Happily for me, the duration of its passage was brief.

It came within a yard of me, the water dripping from its clinging clothes, yet leaving no marks on the flooring. It thrust its face forward; I thought it was going to touch me, and tried to shrink away from it, but could not. Yet it did nothing but stare at me, and its eyes were all the more horrible because they were blank; not diabolical, as Miss Rudd had described them, but simply Blank!—Blank with the glassiness of the Dead.

Gliding past with a slightly swaying motion, it climbed upstairs, the night air blowing through the bedraggled dress in a horribly natural manner; I watched it till it was out of sight with bated breath—for a second or so it stopped irresolutely beside an open window; there was a slight movement as of some one mounting the sill: a mad, hilarious chuckle, a loud splash—and then—silence, after which I went home.

I subsequently discovered that early in the seventies a servant-girl, who was in service at that house, had committed suicide in the manner I have just described, but whether or not she had RED HAIR I have never been able to ascertain.

P.S.—The Ghost I am informed on very reliable authority, is still (August 1908) to be seen.

MULREADY VILLA, NEAR
BASINGSTOKE
THE BLACK CLOCK

Technical form of apparition: Either a phantasm of the dead or sub-human elemental

Source of authenticity: Eye-witness

Cause of haunting: A matter of surmise

When I was reading for the Royal Irish Constabulary at that excellent and ever-popular Queen’s Service Academy in Dublin, I made many friends among my fellow students, certain of whom it has been my good fortune to meet in after life.

Quite recently, for example, whilst on a visit of enjoyment to London, I ran up against T. at Daly’s Theatre. T, one of the best-hearted fellows who ever trod in Ely Square, passed in second for the Royal Irish Constabulary, and is now a District Inspector in some outlandish village in Connemara.

And again, a summer or two ago, when I was on the pier at Bournemouth, I “plumped” myself down on a seat near to “G,” who, although never a very great friend of mine, I was uncommonly glad to meet under the circumstances.

But last year I was unusually lucky, chancing to find, a passenger on the same boat as myself, Harry O’Moore, one of my very best “chums,” from whom I learned the following story:

“You must know,” he began, as we sat on deck watching the lofty outlines of St. David’s Head slowly fade in the distance, “you must know, O’Donnell, that after leaving Crawley’s I inherited a nice little sum of money from my aunt, Lady Maughan of Blackrock, who, dying quite unexpectedly, left the bulk of her property to my family. My brother Bob had her estate in Roscommon; Charley, the house near Dublin; whilst I—lucky beggar that I am—(for I was head over heels in debt at the time) suddenly found myself the happy possessor of £20,000 and—a bog-oak grandfather clock.”

Here I thought fit to interrupt.

“A bog-oak clock!” I exclaimed. “Good gracious me! what a funny legacy! Had you taken a fancy to it?”

“I had never even seen it!” O’Moore laughed—then, looking suddenly serious: “My aunt, O’Donnell, as I daresay you recollect, was rather dry and satirical. The clock has not been exactly a pleasant acquisition to my establishment; so I fancy she may have bequeathed it to me as a sort of antidote to the exhilarating effect of £20,000. A sort of ‘bitter with the sweet,’ don’t you know! You appear astonished! You would like to hear more about the clock? And you are quite right, too; the history of a really antique piece of furniture is a million times more interesting a subject to discuss than a ton of gold. To begin with, it was almost as new to my aunt as to me; she had only had it a week before she died, and during that brief interval she had made up her mind to leave it to me. Odd, was it not? I thought so, too, at her funeral! Now it seems quite natural; I was her metaphysician, I knew her and understood her idiosyncrasies better than most people. She bought the clock for a mere song from a second-hand furniture dealer in Grafton Street. I was living at the time near Basingstoke in a small house—one of those horrible anachronisms, an up-to-date villa in an old-world village.

“It’s a charming neighbourhood—suited me down to the ground: flat country (hills tire me to death), excellent roads (I am fond of riding), trout streams, pretty meadows, crowds of honeysuckle and that sort of thing, and, to crown all else, Pines!!! Now, if there is one scent for which I have a special weakness, it is that of the pine. I could sit out of doors ad infinitum sniffing pines. It intoxicates me; hence I grew very fond of Hampshire.

“Let me return to the clock. It came from Dublin to Bristol viâ the good old Argo (what Bristolian is there, I should like to know, who doesn’t love the Argo!) and thence by rail to Basingstoke, arriving at my house after dusk. You see, I am talking of it almost as if it were some live person! But then, you see, it was a bog-oak grandfather’s clock—no common grinder I can assure you; and I was prepared to pay it every homage the moment it was landed in the hall.

“The carter, however, was by no means so enamoured of it; he was a rough, churlish fellow (what British workmen is not?). ‘If you take my advice, mister!’ he growled, ‘you’ll pitch the himpish thing in some one helse’s garden rightaway.’ (How characteristic of the charitable Briton.)

“I gently rebuked the irate man. Of course, he could afford to be more prodigal with his belongings than I. With evident haste, and still muttering angrily, he went—and I—I called to my housekeeper (Mrs. Partridge), and we examined the heirloom together.

“It certainly was a most imposing piece of furniture. Standing at least eight feet high, with a face large in proportion, it towered above me like a giant negro—black—I can’t describe to you how black—black as ebony and shining.

“I asked Mrs. Partridge how she liked it; for, to tell you the truth, there was something so indefinably queer about it that I began to wonder if the carter had spoken the truth.

“‘It is truly magnificent!’ she said, running her hand over its polished surface, ‘I have never seen so fine a piece of workmanship! It will be the making of this hall—but—it reminds me of a hearse!!!’

“We laughed—the analogy was simply ludicrous. A grandfather’s clock and a hearse! But then—it told the Time! and Time is sometimes represented in the guise of Death! Father Death with the sickle!

“My laughter left me and I shivered.

“We placed the clock in the right-hand corner of the hall, opposite the front door, so that every one coming to the house could see it; and, as we anticipated, it was much admired—so much admired, in fact, that I became quite jealous—jealous, and of a clock! How very singular. But then I recollected I was ‘engaged,’ and, of course, I resented my fiancée taking notice of any one or anything save myself.

“Like all the other visitors, however, she never passed by the clock without pausing to look at it.

“‘I can’t help it,’ she whispered. ‘It’s its size! it’s stupendous! It quite fills the house! there is hardly any room to breathe! It’s a monstrous clock! It fascinates me! It’s more than a clock. You must GET RID of it.’

“Avice was whimsical. What, get rid of the Ebony Clock! Impossible—the idea tickled me. I laughed.

“I laughed then—but not later, when she had gone and all was quiet.

“From the hall below I heard it strike one, two, three—twelve!

“Its pendulum swung to and fro with a dull and ponderous clang, and the sound that came from its brazen lungs, though loud and deep and musical, was far too thrilling.

“Against my will, it made me think, and my thoughts were none too pleasant.

“Hardly had its vibrations ceased before I sat up in bed and listened! At first I attributed the noise I had heard to the pulsations of my heart—bump! bump! bump!—but as I crouched there, waiting, I was soon undeceived; the sounds not only increased in intensity, but drew nearer—bump! bump! bump!—just as if something huge and massive was moving across the hall floor and ascending the stairs!

“An icy fear stole all over me! What!—what in Heaven’s name could it be?

“I glanced in terror at the door—it was locked—locked and BOLTED—the village was much frequented by tramps, and I always went to bed prepared.

“But this noise—this series of heavy, mechanical booms—THIS could never be attributed to any burglar!

“It reached the top of the staircase, it pounded down the passage leading to my room; and then, with the most terrific crash, it FELL against my door!

“I was spellbound—petrified. I dared not—I COULD NOT move.

“It was the clock! the gigantic, monstrous clock!—the funereal, hideous clock! I heard it ticking! The suspicions that I entertained all along with regard to it were now confirmed—it lived!!! That was no ordinary striking—THIS was no ordinary ticking. The thing breathed, it spoke, it laughed—laughed in some diabolically ghoulish manner.

“I would have sacrificed my house and fortune to have been able to reach the bell. I could not. I could do nothing but sit there listening—listening to its mocking voice. The minutes passed by slowly—never had I had the leisure to count them with such painful accuracy; for the tickings, though of equal duration, varied most alarmingly in intonation.

“This horrible farce lasted without cessation till one, when, apparently convinced of its inability to gain admittance, it gave an extra loud and emphatic clang and took its departure.

“In the morning it was standing as usual in its corner in the hall, nor could I detect the slightest evidences of animation, neither in its glassy face nor in its sepulchral tone.

“Happening to pass by at that instant, Mrs. Partridge surprised me in my act of examination, and from her ashy cheeks and frightened glances I concluded she, too, had heard the noises and had rightly guessed their origin. Nor was I mistaken, for, on putting a few leading questions to her, she reluctantly admitted she had heard everything. ‘But,’ she whispered, ‘I have kept it from the maids, for if once they get hold of the idea the house is haunted they will leave to-morrow.’

“Unfortunately, her circumspection proved of no avail; night after night the clock repeated its vagaries, bumping on the staircases and passages to such a degree that the noise not only awakened the entire household, but aroused general suspicion.

“Nor were its attentions any longer restricted to me; it gradually extended the length of its wanderings till every part of the house had been explored and every door visited.

“The maids now complained to me. ‘They could not do their work,’ they argued, ‘if they were deprived of sleep, and sleep was out of the question whilst the disturbances continued. I must get rid of the clock.’

“To this proposition, however, I was by no means agreeable. I certainly had no reason to like the clock—indeed I loathed and hated it—but in some indefinable manner it fascinated me. I could not, I dare not part with it. ‘I have no doubt,’ I protested, ‘the annoyances will cease as soon as the clock has become at home with its surroundings. Have patience and all will be well.’

“They agreed to wait a little longer before giving me notice, and I fully hoped that my prophecy would be fulfilled. But the clock was far more persistent than I had anticipated. Adopting fresh tactics, it began a series of persecutions that speedily brought matters to a crisis.

“Christina, the cook, was the first victim.

“Not being a very fluent scribe, her letters caused her endless labour, and she often sat up writing long after the other servants had gone to bed.

“On the night in question she was plodding on wearily when the intense stillness of the house made her suddenly think of the time; it must be very late! Dare she venture in the hall?

“Christina was not a nervous woman; she had hitherto discredited all ghost-stories, and was quite the last person in the house to accept the theory that the present disturbances were due to any superphysical agency. She now, however, recollected all that had been said on the subject, and the close proximity of the clock filled her with dread; her fears being further augmented by the knowledge of her isolation—unluckily her room was completely cut off from any other in the house.

“Hastily putting away her writing materials, she was preparing to make a precipitate rush for the stairs when a peculiar thumping riveted her attention.

“Her blood congealed, her legs tottered, she could not move an inch. What was it?

“Her heart—only the pulsations of her heart.

“She burst out laughing. How truly ridiculous.

“Catching her breath and casting fearful looks of apprehension on all sides, she advanced towards the stairs and ‘tiptoeing’ stealthily across the hall, tried in vain to keep her eyes from the clock. But its sonorous ticking brought her to a peremptory halt.

“She stood and listened. Tick! tick! tick! It was so unlike any other ticking she had ever heard, it appalled her.

“The clock, too, seemed to have become blacker and even more gigantic.

“It reared itself above her like a monstrous coffin.

“She was now too terrified to think of escape, and could only clutch hold of the bannisters in momentary terror of some fresh phenomenon.

“In this helpless condition she watched the clock slowly increase in stature till its grotesquely carved summit all but swept the ceiling, whilst a pair of huge, toeless, grey feet protruded from beneath its base.

“Nor were these the only changes, for during their accomplishment others of an equally alarming nature had taken place, and the ticking, after having passed through many transitional stages, was now replaced by a spasmodic breathing, forcibly suggestive of something devilish and bestial.

“At this juncture words cannot convey any idea of what Christina suffered; nor had she seen the worst.

“Midnight at length came. In dumb agony she watched the minute-hand slowly make its last circuit; there were twelve frantic clangs, the door concealing the pendulum flew open, and an enormous hand, ashy grey, with long, mal-shaped fingers, made a convulsive grab at her.[1] Swinging to one side, she narrowly avoided capture and, glancing upwards, saw something so diabolically awful that her heart turned to ice.

“The face of the clock had disappeared, and in its place Christina saw a frightful head—grey and evil. It was very large and round, half human, half animal, and wholly beastly, with abnormally long, lidless eyes of pale blue that leered at the affrighted girl in the most sinister manner.

“Such a creature must have owed its origin to Hell.

“For some seconds she stared at it, too enthralled with horror even to breathe; and, then a sudden movement on its part breaking the spell, she regained control over her limbs and fled for her life.

*****

“Christina reported all this to me the next morning. She had narrowly escaped capture by darting through the front door which some one, fortunately for her, had forgotten to bolt. She had not returned to the house, but had, instead, passed the rest of the night in a neighbouring cottage.

“‘I won’t, under any circumstances, sir,’ she added, ‘sleep here again. Indeed, I could not, because I can’t abide the presence of that clock. I shan’t feel easy until I am miles away from it—in some big town, where the bustle and noise of life may help me to forget it—FORGET it!!’—and she shuddered.

“Partly as a compensation for what she had undergone and partly to avoid a scandal, I presented her with a substantial cheque.

“Despite Mrs. Partridge’s pleadings, I kept the clock. I could not—I dare not—part with it. It was my aunt’s bequest—it fascinated me! Do you understand, O’Donnell?—it fascinated me.

“But I did make one concession: I permitted them to remove it to the summer-house.

“My first care now was to see that all the doors were locked, and windows bolted before retiring to bed; a precaution that was speedily justified.

“For the next few nights after the removal of the clock I was awakened about twelve by a violent ringing of the front door bell, whilst a heavy crunching of the gravel beneath my window informed me our persecutor was trying to gain admittance.

“These nocturnal disturbances ceasing, I had begun to congratulate myself upon having seen the last of the hauntings, when a rumour reached me that the clock had actually begun to infest the more lonely of the lanes and by-roads.

“Nor did this report, as the sequel will show, long remain unverified.

“My uncle John, a rare old ‘sport,’ came to stay with me. He arrived about ten, and we had not yet gone to bed when the vicar of the parish burst into our presence in the greatest state of agitation.

“‘I must apologise for this late visit,’ he gasped, sinking into an easy chair, ‘I couldn’t get here before. Indeed, I did not intend calling this evening, and would not have done so but for an extraordinary incident that has just happened. Would you think it very unclerical if I were to ask you for a glass of neat brandy?’

“I glanced at him in ill-disguised terror. His blanched cheeks and trembling hands told their own tale—he had seen the clock.

“‘Thanks awfully,’ he said, replacing the empty glass on the table. ‘I feel better now—but, by jove! it DID unnerve me. Let me tell you from the beginning. I had been calling at Gillet’s Farm, which, as you know, is two or more miles from here, and the night being fine, I decided to go home by the fields. Well! all was right till I got to the little spinney lying at the foot of Dickson’s Hollow.

“‘Even in broad daylight I always feel a trifle apprehensive before entering it, as it is often frequented by tramps and other doubtful characters: in fact, there isn’t a more murderous looking spot in the county.

“‘All was so still, so unusually still I thought, and the shadows so incomprehensible that I had half a mind to retrace my steps, but, disliking to appear cowardly, and remembering, I must confess, that I had ordered a roast duck for supper, I climbed the wooden fence and plunged into the copse.

“‘At every step the silence increased, the cracking of twigs under my feet sounding like the report of firearms, whilst it grew so dark that I had in certain places literally to feel my way. When about halfway through the wood the shrubs that line the path on either side abruptly terminate, bringing into view a circle of sward, partially covered with ferns and bracken, and having in its midst a stunted willow that has always struck me as being peculiarly out of place there.

“‘Indeed, I was pondering over this incongruity when a tall figure stalked out from behind the tree, and, gliding swiftly forward, took to the path ahead of me.

“‘I rubbed my eyes and stared in amazement, and no doubt you will think me mad when I tell you the figure was nothing human.’

“‘What was it, then—an anthropoid ape?’ my Uncle John laughed.

“The vicar shook his head solemnly.

“‘I will describe it to you to the best of my ability,’ he said. ‘To begin with it was naked—stark, staring naked!’

“‘How positively indecent,’ murmured Uncle John, ‘really vicar, I don’t wonder you were frightened.’

“‘And then,’ the vicar continued, disregarding the interruption, ‘it was grey!—from head to foot a uniform livid grey.’

“‘A grey monstrosity! Ah! now THAT is interesting!’

“I looked at my uncle quizzically—was he still joking? But no! he was in sober earnest: could it be possible he knew anything about the clock.

“I leaned back in my chair and smiled—feebly.

“‘In height,’ the vicar went on, ‘it could not have been far from seven feet, it had an enormous round head crowned with a black mass of shock hair, no ears, huge spider-like hands and toeless feet.

“‘I could not see its face as its back was turned on me.

“‘Urged on by an irresistible impulse (although half dead with terror), I followed the Thing.

“‘Striding noiselessly along, it left the spinney, and crossing several fields entered your grounds by the gate in the rear of the house.’

“‘What!’ my uncle roared, banging the table with his fist, ‘what! do you mean to tell me you allowed it to come here!’

“‘I couldn’t stop it,’ the vicar said apologetically, stretching forward to help himself to some more brandy. ‘It led me to your summer-house, vanishing through the doorway. Resolved on seeing the last, and hoping thereby to discover some clue to the mystery, I cautiously approached the window, and, peering through the glass, saw the creature walk stealthily across the floor and disappear into a gigantic clock. I verily believe I was as much scared by the sight of that clock as I had been by the appearance of the spectre—they were both satanically awful.’

“‘Is that all?’ my Uncle John inquired.

“‘It is,’ the vicar replied, ‘and is it not enough?’

“My Uncle John got on his feet.

“‘Before returning a verdict,’ he said, ‘I must see the clock. Let us go to the summer-house at once.’

“The vicar and I were loud in our protests—‘We were sure my uncle must be tired; better put off the investigation to the morrow.’

“It was, however, of no avail; there was no gainsaying Uncle John when once he had made up his mind to do anything.

“We accordingly escorted him without further delay to the garden.

“The clock was standing quite peacefully where I had had it set.

“As soon as my uncle saw it he caught hold of my arm. ‘Where on earth did you get it from, Harry?’ he cried, bubbling over with excitement. ‘The last time I saw that clock was in Kleogh Castle, the home of the Blakes. It had been in their possession for centuries, and was made from what is supposed to be the oldest bog-oak in Ireland. Ah! the old lady left it you, did she? and you say she got it from Kelly’s in Grafton Street.

“‘Come! that explains everything. The Blakes—poor beggars—were sold up last year, and Kelly’s, I know, were represented at the sale.

“‘But now comes the extraordinary part of the affair. The grey figure our friend the vicar has just described to us tallies exactly with the phantasm that used to haunt Kleogh, and which the Blakes have always regarded in the light of a family ghost.

“‘Now it would appear that they are entirely wrong—that it is with the clock and not Kleogh this apparition is connected—a fact that is not at all surprising when we come to consider its origin and the vast antiquity of its frame.

“‘But let us examine it more carefully to-morrow.’

“We did so, and discovered that the frontal pillars on either side of the face of the clock consisted of two highly polished femur-bones which, although blackened through countless ages of immersion in the bog, and abnormally long (as is inevitably the case with Paleolithic man), were very unmistakably human.

*****

“I returned the clock anonymously to Kelly’s.”[2]

NO. — PARK STREET, BATH
THE HORRIBLE COUGHING ON
THE STAIRS

Technical form of apparition: Phantasm of the dead

Cause of haunting: Murder

Source of authenticity: Reliable hearsay evidence

Bath is a veritable cockpit of Ghostdom; its grey and venerable mansions abound in ghosts; it is for its size the most psychic town in England.

I say this because I have at my elbow no less than twenty-five well authenticated stories of haunted houses in this city: a collection that is numerically superior to that of any other town in England, saving London, and to the ghosts of London there is, as I stated at my recent lecture in Chandos Street, no end—positively no end.

One evening last January I read a paper on “My Superphysical Experiences” before an extremely intelligent, and, I venture to say, appreciative audience of Theosophists, at their headquarters, Argyll Street, Bath.

Among the number was a gentleman—quite a stranger I believe—who gave 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

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.

“She is even more fastidious than I. She cannot bear anything coarse or uncouth—in comparison a local servant would have made purgatory seem pleasant.

“I am afraid you will conclude we are rather hard to please: perhaps we are somewhat exacting, but we cannot help it; we are women of the old school, may I add, of gentle birth, who claim to the full all the privileges of our sex and station; besides we offered a good sum for the house: we expected to be treated fairly.

“According to the advertisement, ‘The Hall’ was furnished: it was, in reality, nothing of the sort. Can any house in which there is neither bookcase nor bathroom be said to be furnished? Though standing alone on a fairly large piece of ground—I cannot truthfully say a garden—it might well have been called semi-detached, for we searched in it in vain to find a whole piece of furniture.

“Marie and Eugenie are smart young women: they pride themselves on being slim and elegant. Imagine then their disgust when the kitchen chairs actually collapsed under them.

“I, too, had a grievance. Without conceit I may say that it is not in my nature to be clumsy. How was it then that I broke three cups, a saucer, and a cream-jug within the short space of half an hour? The reason was obvious enough! The cups were all cracked, the saucers damaged, and the jugs should have been labelled ‘beware of the handle.’ Even moderately disfigured china is my mother’s pet aversion. How she suffered under these circumstances I will not attempt to describe.

“But the plate! I have heard of gold plate, silver plate, copper plate, brass plate, and electro plate, but with none of these could I associate this mongrel species, these odds and ends we were called upon to use. It was, indeed, an enigma, and I hate enigmas, especially when they are not worth the trouble of solving. Luckily, substitutes were easily obtainable. I wired for a complete supply of plate from home, after which the motley crew of hirelings were no longer in evidence.

“And the carpets! I have always thought such luxuries, even the most costly, a doubtful blessing; these were undoubtedly an unmixed evil. Fortunately, we were able to dispense with them. The floors underneath were of polished oak, and with these we were greatly taken. True, we were somewhat puzzled to account for certain irregularities in the boards, but, on the whole, I think we should have been more astonished had we found them intact.

“Could we, by any means, make the place tenantable? Marie and Eugenie are brave and forgiving girls! In spite of their recent adventure—they had never been so insulted in their lives—they thought it possible; mother and I were doubtful.

“We hired all the furniture there was to be hired from the village, we engaged by the day the only prepossessing and respectable woman it contained, and we tried to settle down and pretend we enjoyed it. From the beginning it was a fiasco—we were miserable! and to add to our distress, or rather, to fill to overflowing our cup of misfortune, the weather became miserable, too; it began to rain.

“What was there to hope for now? Nothing! What was there to do now? Nothing! Nothing but sit at the window and gaze at the dreary lawn, shut off from the road by a hideous wall, or to flit about from room to room wringing one’s hands like a distracted phantom.

“A phantom! I did not believe in phantoms when I came to Thurlow; I treated the Unknown with the blind levity of a Voltaire; I was inconsequently sceptical; I had been born psychic.

“Though I was sublimely unconscious of it, the dawn of my awakening was at hand.

“Though the house was undesirable in so many ways—cold, bare, comfortless, dilapidated—it was not without interest. It was old—old with the antiquity of two or more centuries—and age is always interesting.

“There were rooms in it, narrow, rectangular rooms darkened by Virginian creeper that dropped their crimson foliage over diamond panes, rooms the very air of which seemed charged with the shades of old-world wits and savants.

“In my imagination the house had once been a school: the severity of the walls, the coldness of their neat yellow stones suggested it; I even went so far as to fancy I could discern ink-stains on the skirting-boards; and who but schoolboys ever desecrate a floor with ink-stains?

“The predominating feature in the house was undoubtedly the staircase.

“It was the first thing one noticed on entering; there was no escaping it. Confronting the door in the very middle of the hall, it stood there like some grey and massive sentinel—and barred the way. One wondered how it had ever got there, it was so disproportionately large for the house. It was masterful, aggressive, FASCINATING (Marie declared ‘there was no getting away from it—that it LIVED’)—and—it was made of STONE. There was no doubt about it now ‘The Hall’ had indeed been a school; would any one but a pedagogue have a stone staircase? Eugh! my mother felt a twinge of rheumatism the moment she set eyes on it.

“It was curiously wanting in proportion; consisting of barely a dozen steps, it was most uncomfortably steep and of a most unnecessary width. I compared it with some strange, squatting animal—a comparison that grew on me the longer I remained in the house.

“At the top of the staircase was a gallery, protected by high rails, which I discovered connected the used and disused portions of the house. In the latter there were some rooms we did not care to inhabit; there were a few we were even unable to explore—they were locked.

“I felt no curiosity about them; they were certain to be both commonplace, prosaic and dusty: every time I passed them I smelt dust—and I cannot endure a particle of dust. If I had believed any of them to be a library, I might have been tempted to pick the lock; I am passionately fond of books—that is to say, of some books—when I am exiled in the country and it is always raining.

“I was in search of a book which I had laid down somewhere, when I crossed the hall one afternoon, and left my mother dozing in a big armchair before the drawing-room fire.

“Marie said she had seen it on the oak settle; most likely, for I often took my book and lounged on it. You see I had grown fond of the oak settle naturally, for it was the only piece of furniture in that monster house that stirred in me any friendly feeling whatever. But Marie must have been dreaming, it was certainly not there. I would have called to Marie to come and help me search for it, had I not remembered that she and Eugenie had gone into the village to do a little shopping on their own account. They laugh in their grandest manner at those ‘silly little shops,’ but with a true woman’s instinct they cannot resist ‘buying.’

“I felt indignant, provoked, angry! never had I wanted to read so much and never had I been at such a loss to find a book.

“Oh! I recollected there was one upstairs—an ancient and musty edition of ‘Eugene Aram’—(proof positive, this, that the place was once a school; would any one save a schoolmaster read ‘Eugene Aram’)? I had seen it lying on the floor of a disused cupboard—alone and forsaken: a solitary relic of the Academical bookshelf.

“Were I in a library, ‘Eugene Aram’ would probably be the last book I would choose to read; Lytton’s tales are horrible; I abominate horrors. I thought of the staircase, I glanced at it; it was really very dark. I shuddered!

“I did not understand why I shuddered, unless it was on account of a draught! Of course, a draught. The house was full of draughts. The hour was late, the afternoon was cold, it was March, and undoubtedly a door was open somewhere; the book was not worth the trouble, I was over-tired, I would return to my mother. This I was actually preparing to do when the sudden appearance of a light made me pause—it came from the disused wing overhead.

“I can assure you I wanted very much to go to my mother; I would have given all I possessed to have gone to my mother; I could not: I could not stir; that light enthralled me.

“I had never seen such a light—such a queer, unaccountable light—a light that to anyone less sceptical might have seemed an ‘UNNATURAL’ Light! Perhaps it was an unnatural light—and I laughed. But what—what in the name of Heaven could it be?

“Drawing rapidly nearer and quickly assuming the appearance and proportions of a FIRE, it filled me with the most unusual, the most preposterously unusual, doubts and fears.

“And now for the first time I detected it was accompanied by incongruous though perfectly intelligible sound—the sound of someone tapping with all their might, tapping with a pair of high-heeled shoes.

“Aghast at this discovery, my perplexities increased, and I was vainly endeavouring to extricate myself from a chaotic quagmire of unpleasant thoughts, when a scream, the very intensity of which made me tremble, echoed and re-echoed throughout the house.

“‘Fire! Fire! Bring me Fire!’ These words, apparently so strangely paradoxical, were repeated with renewed vigour and anguish, the voice after each effort dying away into the most appalling and piteous wail.

“The screams were coming nearer, but before I had time to realise the tumult was so close at hand, or to fortify myself against the tableau I now had every reason to anticipate, a girl, her hair and dress a mass of lurid flames, came rushing frantically into the gallery.

“The spectacle she presented was so satanically awful that I immediately crossed myself. An indescribable thrill of terror ran through me. I felt—I KNEW—I was actually in the presence of an apparition; nothing ‘earthly’ could possibly have produced a similar or in any way equivalent effect.

“Staring at me through the yellow inferno of flames was a woman’s face that, despite its horribly contorted features, was amazingly and uniquely beautiful, the perfect regularity of the Jewish lineaments being strikingly enhanced by the whiteness of the teeth, the blueness of the eyes.

“The latter came upon me as a further shock. Though very lovely both in their excessive length and hue, they did not match that style of face; to have done so they should have been black or brown—and their expression was repellent.

“I say repellent; I might with great accuracy say ‘hellish,’ for I saw in them the mirror of a sinful soul—of a VERY sinful soul.

“I could form no idea as to her dress, the blaze effectually hid everything save her face; but from the partial glimpse I caught of a pair of satin shoes, I surmised she was in some sort of ball-room costume. The duration of her transit, though to me an eternity, could not, I fancy, have occupied more than a very few seconds.

“Still gazing at me and beating the air with its hands, the phantom rushed shrieking onwards, disappearing with the impetus of a tornado in the inhabited portion of the house.

“I had no further ‘use’ for ‘Eugene Aram.’ I returned to my mother.

“The same phenomena was witnessed by Marie and Eugenie respectively within the next three days—on the fourth we left. Had we remained, there might have been a fatality; we were all genuinely frightened—and mother is an invalid—a very nervous invalid.

“Perhaps you feel inclined to say it was all a matter of nerves. What more likely! We were an isolated quartet of over-imaginative women! Or you might say that some story we had heard in connection with the house suggested these occult demonstrations.

“Do not be premature! We only heard a few weeks ago that ‘The Hall’ had a reputation for being haunted, and it is now several months since we left Thurlow. Our informant, a former tenant, was, we have every reason to believe, a person of indisputable veracity and common sense, in short, a person quite incapable of inventing any such story as the following which he kindly narrated for our satisfaction.

“It appears from what he told us (his MS. is still in my bureau) that Thurlow Hall once belonged to Mrs. Purvis, an old lady with one child, Charles.

“Charles was, of course, the apple of her eye; Charles ruled the house; every one must obey Mr. Charles; Mr. Charles could do nothing wrong. Nothing wrong until, in the heyday of his youth, in the season of wild oats, he unexpectedly fell in love with a Gaiety girl—Phyllis (no one remembered her other name)—and married her—and THAT was very wrong.

“His mother was indignant—FURIOUS—not with Charles, of course—but with that creature—Phyllis.

“Phyllis had inveigled him into marrying her; Phyllis would bring eternal disgrace on the family; Phyllis would run away with another man and ruin him.

“Ruin HIM—ruin Charles—and the fond mother grew despondent, very despondent, so despondent indeed that unkind neighbours said she was mad. They were wrong; the despondency was only a reaction, she suddenly cheered up, all was apparently forgiven and forgotten. Charles and Phyllis were invited to spend Christmas at Thurlow.

“They went, very naturally they went—Charles overjoyed at the prospect of displaying the Purvis estate to his charming wife.

“His mother welcomed Phyllis effusively; she made her feel thoroughly at home; she expressed an ardent desire to see her in her bridal robes.

“Phyllis consented—what else could she do? She had been a Gaiety girl! she had lived for admiration.

“Arrayed in her wedding garments she entered Mrs. Purvis’s room, surprising the old lady in the act of lighting an oil lamp—a rather ‘shaky’ old lamp filled to the brim with oil.

“Phyllis was radiant; her sole thought was of the sensation she would create at the coming Christmas festivities. Had she been less absorbed she might have noticed how the hand trembled that raised the lamp; she might even have been on her guard.

“But vanity as well as love is blind. Phyllis accepted Mrs. Purvis’s profuse expressions of admiration and delight in good faith; they were, of course, both genuine and natural; they were, moreover, her due. The bride was intent on examining herself in the mirror; her mother-in-law approached her from behind, and, bending suddenly forward, deliberately hurled the lamp on to the train of her dress. There was a loud crash—an explosion—and the wedding dress was on fire.

“No one was at hand to render assistance, Charles and the servants having been slyly inveigled out of the house, and the only response to her screams were loud peals of laughter from her now wholly insane mother-in-law.

“It was small wonder that the poor girl lost her head, and, craving water, cried in her agony, ‘Bring me fire, oh! bring me fire!’

“In that mad rush from the room along the disused corridors her one endeavour would appear to have been to reach her bedroom—perhaps she had forgotten that Charles had gone OUT—but her efforts were frustrated by the fiendish fury of the flames. The amount of oil on her dress must have made it blaze like a furnace.

“She had barely crossed the gallery into the opposite wing of the house before her scorched and smouldering limbs gave way, and falling to the ground she was speedily burned to ashes; her supreme and final agony being summed up in a despairing cry, so loud and piercing that it was even heard outside by Charles.

“Not daring to approach the house alone, Charles summoned some villagers, and keeping well in their rear, gingerly accompanied them across the lawn to the front entrance.

“There they were met by Mrs. Purvis, chuckling horribly.

“Corridors, gallery and staircase were in flames, and had it not been for the opportune arrival of the vicar the whole place would have been consumed; thanks, however, to his vigour and level-headedness the fire was eventually extinguished, and although the damage done was considerable, the bulk of the property remained unscathed.

“No trace of the unfortunate Mrs. Charles Purvis being found, the precise manner of her death for many years remained a mystery. But the erratic babblings of her mother-in-law supplied material for certain conjectures, which were afterwards confirmed by the lucid and exhaustive confession of the old lady, who regained her reason on her deathbed.

“Though a thorough restoration of the property was effected, Charles would never live at the Hall. A long series of unsatisfactory tenancies succeeded the events I have just related, and the story of a ghost has at length come to stay.

“N.B.—I have good reason for believing the house is still (August 1908) haunted; most probably this will always be the case.”

THE GUILSBOROUGH GHOST

or a
Minute Account[4] of the Appearance of
the Ghost of
JOHN CROXFORD
Executed at Northampton, August 4, 1764
For the Murder of a Stranger
in the Parish of Guilsborough

---

Printed in the year 1764 and reprinted by
F. Cordeaux, Northampton, 1819