At the doctor’s request, Mrs. Fanshawe then took up the thread.
“I was walking down one of the side-paths of the garden,” she said, “looking for Ephraim (Ephraim was our gardener), when I heard a great rustling of leaves. I turned round and saw a violent agitation going on in the branches of an apple-tree. Much mystified, as I could see no cause for it, I approached nearer, and as I did so I distinctly heard some heavy body drop to the earth with a thud; I then felt something brush past me. I can’t exactly describe the sensation it caused, because it is beyond words. I can only say I felt I was being touched by something immeasurably foul and antagonistic. I reeled right back, and that moment someone spoke. It was the gardener who came running towards me to ask if he could go home, as his wife had suddenly been taken ill.”
“That was all that happened, then?”
“No,” Mrs. Fanshawe replied. “That night, after we had been in bed some time, we were awakened by hearing our Newfoundland dog, Pat, bark. I went downstairs to see what was the matter with him—he slept in the house—and found him standing in the hall with his hair all erect, looking at the window by the front door.
“I called to my husband, and he came down with his revolver. We then both went to the window and looked out, but could see no one. ‘I’m sure Pat sees something,’ I observed; ‘he is beside himself with terror.’ ‘What is it, Pat?’ Dick said, and was about to stroke him, when there came a violent hammering at the door. We looked at one another in dismay. ‘Who’s there?’ Dick cried, and, there being no reply, he fired—the bullet going right through the door. We threw it open—there was no one there. We then searched the garden (nothing would persuade Pat to accompany us), but we found no one.
“For a week after this incident we were undisturbed; then all sorts of noises were heard in the house—soft footsteps, heavy breathing, the rattling of door handles, and—most alarming of all—loud crashes on the door panels. The servants were terrified. One of them roused us one night by loud shrieks, and going to her room, we found her in hysterics. All the clothes had been stripped off her bed and thrown in a promiscuous heap on the floor. When she recovered sufficiently to speak, she told us something had come into her room and tried to suffocate her—she felt just as if all the breath in her body was being forcibly sucked out of her. She had seen nothing. We told her it was a nightmare, and tried to soothe her, but our endeavours met with little success, and in the morning she was seriously ill. She died within a fortnight, and on the same day as the gardener’s wife.”
“Did the gardener’s wife live on the premises, too?” I asked.
“Practically,” Mrs. Fanshawe replied. “She and her husband occupied a cottage close to.”
“Did both women usually have good health?”
“Rather,” Dr. Fanshawe laughed; “they were as tough as horses—rosy-cheeked, strong-limbed, typical young Canadians. Heart and lungs absolutely sound. I diagnosed their cases and was much puzzled. On the top of violent shocks, which had apparently upset their whole constitution, they had developed acute anæmia. Why do you ask?”