"It's the wind," said one, and they accepted that explanation, preparing to go to sleep again, but instantly their returned with greater confirmation. Another sound.
Any thoughts but of the supernatural were out of the question. This time it was footsteps—but what footsteps! Not human—not animal! They were padded sounds—something like bare feet. Nearer and nearer.
Suddenly they stopped, and the door opened. Slowly—and there was revealed to their terrified senses the most horrible monstrosity imaginable. It could not be of this earth!
One crazed sailor jumped past it and flew down the stairs, out of the house, and screamed in mortal terror into the streets.
He told his story—and the next day the body of his companion was found mangled on the ground. He had leaped out of a second story window.
Another story tells the tale of a man walking through a London park at day-break on the bank of the Thames. While passing a bridge, he spies a woman jumping into the river, and he takes off his coat preparing to save her, but a hand touches his shoulder. An officer.
"It's no use," he said, "You could not save her. She is not a living woman. Return tomorrow at this time and you will see her repeat her ghastly act."
The bewildered man did so, and the next morning was but a repetition of the one before.
"You see?" said the officer, "She does that for seven consecutive mornings each year. Today is the last one this year. She died here a long time ago."
(This article will be concluded next month.)