Ghostly Phenomena

by Elliott O'Donnell

I laughingly told him I should be very pleased to see his ghost, and that I would do all I could to make it feel thoroughly at home. Some months later, "K." went to South Africa, where he eventually joined one of the Mounted Police Forces. One evening, when I was sitting alone in my room in D., I suddenly felt very cold, and on glancing towards the window saw a figure standing in the recess. Though the figure was misty, luminous, and not at all clearly defined, I had no difficulty in recognising it as the phantasm of "K.," who had certainly not been in my thoughts for some long time. He appeared to be wearing a khaki uniform, which was very much torn and blood-stained. His face was deathly white and shockingly mutilated, and his eyes, which were wide open and glassy, were fixed on me with a blank stare. It was a horrid spectacle, and I was so shocked that I fell back in my chair, feeling sick and faint. I do not think the manifestation lasted more than a minute at the most. A few days later, I read in the papers that Major Wilson's party had been ambushed and cut to pieces on the Shangani River, and among the names of the victims was that of "K."

Another experience of this nature happened to me whilst I was staying in Northamptonshire. I was cycling along a road one very hot summer day, when I suddenly perceived, pedalling steadily away ahead of me, a cyclist in a grey suit. How he had got there was a mystery, for the road was straight, there were no turnings, and I had not seen him pass me. Moreover, there was something very odd both about the rider and his machine, for despite the dryness of the day, the man's clothes and bicycle were splashed with mud and dripping with water. Curious to see his face, I tried my hardest to overtake him, but fast as I went, the distance between us never seemed to decrease, although he apparently did not alter his pace. At last we came to a steep hill marked Dangerous, and I saw lumbering slowly up it a heavy drayman's cart. Without slacking speed the grey cyclist rode recklessly down, and, to my intense horror, dashed straight into the cart. Jumping off my machine, I placed it against the hedge, and ran to the cart, fully expecting to see the mangled remains of the foolhardy rider. To my astonishment, however, there were no signs of him anywhere, and the driver of the vehicle was politely incredulous when I told him what I had seen. I subsequently learned, though not, I admit, on very reliable authority, that a cyclist had been killed on that hill two or three years previously, but whether the accident took place on a wet day, or whether the cyclist was clad in a grey suit, I could not ascertain.

An incident which I have omitted to mention in the proper order, namely, among phantasms of the Living, happened to me in a village near Yarmouth. I was on tour at the time, and had gone for a long walk on Sunday afternoon in the country. On my way back I arrived at the village of E., and as I was passing a very pretty thatched-roof cottage, saw, to my astonishment, an actress I had known on tour (and whose professional name was Ethel Raynor) standing on the path. She was holding both hands outstretched towards me, and in each of them was a large bunch of snowdrops. I saw her very distinctly, as she seemed to give out a light of her own, a bright white glow which emanated from every part of her body. Her features—she was a singularly handsome girl—were perfectly life-like, though the total absence of colour made her appear unnatural. Her eyes, which were dark and beautiful, were fixed on me with an expression of the utmost intensity, and from the slight movement of her lips I felt sure she wanted to say something. I stepped forward with the intention of addressing her, and the instant I did so, she vanished. On arriving at my rooms, I made a note of the occurrence in my diary, and was very surprised to hear that, instead of dying, Miss Raynor had married—her marriage taking place on the day I had seen her phantasm. Within a year, however, her husband deserted her, and she committed suicide!

With reference to dreams, there is a vast field for speculation. In a subsequent chapter I shall state a few of my theories regarding them. It will suffice here merely to enumerate a few instances from my own experience.

I once recollect having a very vivid dream in which I saw a man, with whom I was slightly acquainted, thrown from his horse and terribly mutilated. The horse looked so evil, and acted with such an extraordinary amount of diabolical cunning, that I have always felt suspicious of horses since. The dream was literally fulfilled.

I have often been warned against certain people in dreams, and found that these warnings were fully justified. For example, when I was the solitary guest of a man (who, by the way, was the nephew of a celebrated peer) abroad, I dreamed that my host came into my room and drew the picture of a crown on my mirror with a piece of red chalk. He then retraced his steps in silent glee, and as he closed the door behind him, the glass in the mirror gave a loud crack, and fell on the floor with a crash. I was so impressed with the dream that I became prejudiced in no slight degree against my host, and when the latter, a few days later, tried to persuade me to invest money in a mining enterprise in Cornwall, I refused; and it was very fortunate I did so, for the mine which had been opened with so much show and flourish failed, and nearly all the shareholders were ruined.

Many years ago I visited the State of B——, and shortly after my arrival at a farm, situated some distance from any settlement, I made the acquaintance of a neighbouring farmer and his wife, of the name of Coney. The Coneys, perceiving that I did not like my present surroundings, suggested that they should take me to the next Province in their waggon. I was to pay them one and a half dollars a day, in return for which I was to receive such sleeping accommodation as the waggon could afford and full board. The route, they took very good care to assure me, was both beautiful and interesting. Crossing the C—— Mountains, and passing within sight of a famous crater lake and Lake D——, they would go through mile after mile of forest, teeming with big game and lovely scenery. As I was young (I was comparatively fresh from a Public School) and very fond of adventure, the prospect of seeing so much new country and of doing a little shooting appealed to me very strongly. Consequently, though I was by no means favourably impressed with the looks either of the farmer (a squat, beetle-browed man) or of his wife (a dark, saturnine woman with sly brown eyes and a cruel mouth), I was on the whole inclined to accept their offer. For the rest of the day after their visit I deliberated what I should do, and that night I had a very vivid dream. I saw myself lying asleep in a waggon which was standing close to the edge of a tremendous abyss. The horses, which had been taken from the shafts, were tethered to the trunks of two lofty fir trees, and close to them, engaged in earnest confabulation, were the farmer and his wife. The moonbeams, falling direct on their faces, rendered both features and expressions clearly visible, and as I gazed into their eyes and recognised the intensity of their evil natures, my soul sickened—they were plotting to murder me. Gliding over the red-brown soil with noiseless feet, they crept up to the waggon, and seizing the individual I identified as myself by the head and feet, they hurled him into the chasm. There was the sound of a splash in the far distance—and—I awoke. My mind was now made up. I would remain where I was for the present, at least. And very thankful I am for the warning, since I afterwards learned that the Coneys bore a very sinister reputation, and that had I gone with them there is but little doubt they would have robbed and murdered me.

A friend of mine, who is an officer in the —— Regiment, dreamed three times that he was descending a road, at the bottom of which was a bridge overhead. When he came to the bridge, a man who was in hiding there rushed out and shot him. The scene was so real and the details so graphic that my friend was greatly impressed. One day, when he was walking in the South of Spain, he came to a dip in the road, and there, before him, lay the scene he had seen so often in his dreams. He was now in some doubt as to whether he should go on, as he felt sure the person he had dreamed of would dash out on him. After some hesitation, however, he proceeded, and eventually arrived at the bridge. There was no one there, nor did he suffer any molestation whatsoever on his way home. It is impossible to explain why the dream should only have been verified in part.

I have many times dreamed I have been fishing in a wood by a waterfall, and so vividly has the scenery been portrayed that I have got to know every stick and stone in the place. So far, however, I have never come across the objective counterpart of that cascade. In other instances I have found myself visiting the actual spots I have seen in my visions. For instance, I constantly dreamed of a curious-looking red and white ship with two funnels, side by side, three masts and a hull, very high out of the water. Something always told me the vessel was for some peculiar use, but I could never discover what, neither could I make out the name which was written on her bows. I could read the first three letters, but no more. On arriving at a seaside town in the West of England shortly after one of these vivid nocturnal visions, I saw a steamer in the bay which I instantly identified as that of my dreams, whilst to make me still more certain, the letters on her bows corresponded with those I had seen in my sleep. She had been specially designed as an Atlantic Cable boat!

Before going to America I distinctly recollect dreaming that I was standing by myself in the corridor of an enormous hotel. I saw no other visitors, only one or two porters in very faded uniforms, and instinctively felt that I was the only guest in the place. This feeling filled me with awe, and I was dreading the idea of spending a night on one of the deserted landings, when I awoke. On arriving in San Francisco some months later, I was conducted by a passenger agent to an hotel, which I at once recognised as the hotel of my dreams. There was the same tier upon tier of empty galleries, the same almost interminable succession of gloomy, deserted corridors and row upon row of gaping doors leading into silent, tenantless rooms, whilst to complete the likeness the hall porters wore exactly similar uniforms. From a variety of causes I was, so the clerk at the booking-office informed me, the only visitor in the building.