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                           STRANGER THAN FICTION

            BEING TALES FROM THE BYWAYS OF GHOSTS AND FOLK-LORE

                             BY MARY L. LEWES

    LONDON
    WILLIAM RIDER & SON LTD.
    164 ALDERSGATE STREET, E.C.
    1911

    PRINTED BY
    BALLANTYNE & COMPANY LTD
    AT THE BALLANTYNE PRESS
    TAVISTOCK STREET COVENT GARDEN
    LONDON

       TO
    MY SISTER

PREFACE

I have to thank the Editor of the _Occult Review_ for his kindness in
allowing me to reprint here many stories which have appeared at
different times in his magazine.

And I am most grateful to the friends who have helped to swell the
contents of this little volume, by permitting me to record their
interesting experiences of the supernatural, or by furnishing me with
details concerning local beliefs and superstitions, which would
otherwise have been difficult to obtain.

M. L. LEWES

CONTENTS

I. INTRODUCTORY

II. WELSH GHOSTS

III. WELSH GHOSTS (_continued_)

IV. OTHER GHOSTS

V. CORPSE-CANDLES AND THE TOILI

VI. CORPSE-CANDLES AND THE TOILI (_continued_)

VII. WELSH FAIRIES

VIII. WISE MEN, WITCHES, AND FAMILY CURSES

IX. ODD NOTES

X. CONCLUSION

CHAPTER I

INTRODUCTORY

    "Strange, is it not? that of the myriads who
    Before us passed the door of Darkness through,
    Not one returns to tell us of the Road,
    Which to discover we must travel too."

If we may judge by the assertion contained in the above quatrain, Omar
Khayyám was no believer in ghosts. In which respect the Persian poet
must have differed from the general opinion of his times. For until a
very few centuries ago, it was only a small minority of those who
considered themselves wise above their fellows, who ventured to deny the
possibility of the spirit's return to earth. Even amongst the Romans
during the Antonine Age (A.D. 98-180), when scepticism on religious
matters had become almost universal among the learned, and the worship
of the gods had sunk to mere outward observance of ceremony, Gibbon
says, "I do not pretend to assert that in this irreligious age, the
natural terrors of superstitions, dreams, omens, apparitions, &c., had
lost their efficacy." The younger Pliny, in a letter to his friend Sura,
writes: "I am extremely desirous to know whether you believe in the
existence of ghosts, and that they have a real form, and are a sort of
divinities, or only the visionary impression of a terrified
imagination." He also relates a really exciting tale of a haunted house
at Athens, but it is too long to quote here.

The ancients believed that every one possessed three distinct ghosts;
the _manes_, of which the ultimate destination was the lower regions,
the _spiritus_, which returned to Heaven, and the _umbra_, that,
unwilling to sever finally its connection with this life, was wont to
haunt the last resting-place of the earthly body. These "shades" were
supposed to "walk" between the hours of midnight and cock-crow, causing
burial-grounds, cemeteries or tombs to be carefully avoided at night.
One reason given as to why very old yew-trees are so often found in
country churchyards is, that originally these trees were planted to
supply the peasants with wood for their bows, for in lawless times it
was soon discovered that the only place where the trees would be safe
from nightly marauders was the churchyard, where not the most hardened
thief dared venture between darkness and dawn. Particularly were the
shades of those who, perishing by crimes of violence without
absolution--

    "Unhousel'd, disappointed, unanel'd--"

supposed to be uneasy; haunting sometimes the scene of their end, or, in
other cases, the footsteps of the slayer. If a living person could
summon courage to address one of these haunting spirits (for no ghost
may speak unless spoken to) and discover the cause of its restlessness,
it was thought possible to give it peace or "lay it," by righting the
wrong it suffered from; whether by vengeance on a murderer, atonement
for a crime committed, or by the offices of a priest to give absolution
to an unshrived soul. An old writer tells us: "The mode of addressing a
Ghost is by commanding it in the name of the three Persons of the
Trinity to tell you what it is, and what its business.... During the
narration of its business a Ghost must by no means be interrupted by
questions of any kind; so doing is extremely dangerous...."

Besides believing in these ghosts of departed human beings, there was
ever present in the minds of our forefathers, the dread of a host of
"evil spirits" who were the agents and assistants of Satan, always ready
to injure innocent souls, and where possible, to cause worldly disaster
also. Magicians and sorcerers[1] were supposed by their arts to have
power in this world of demons, the forfeit being their own souls, lost
beyond redemption. In his delightful "Memoirs," Benvenuto Cellini
(1500-1571) describes with great vividness some experiments he conducted
with a necromancer at Rome, in order to discover the whereabouts of a
girl he loved. The magician was a Sicilian priest, "a man of genius and
well versed in the Latin and Greek authors," who made an appointment
with Cellini for a certain evening, desiring him to bring two
companions. "I invited Vincenzo Romoli ... he brought with him a native
of Pistoja, who cultivated the black art himself." The trio then
repaired to the Colosseum, where the priest "... began to draw circles
upon the ground with the most impressive ceremonies imaginable...."
After this sort of thing and many incantations had lasted an hour and a
half, "there appeared several legions of devils, insomuch that the
amphitheatre was quite filled with them." This terrible phenomenon
sounds dreadful enough to have frightened most people, but obtaining no
result from his inquiries on the first occasion, Cellini was intrepid
enough to arrange for a second experiment, his account of which
absolutely bristles with demons and bad spirits; the strange part being
that he writes as if their appearance at the sorcerer's bidding was the
most natural thing in the world, and quite what he had expected to see.
And this attitude of absolute, matter-of-fact faith in the powers of
darkness, and acceptance of the magician's arts, is very interesting in
the man, of whose famous autobiography John Addington Symonds wrote:
"The Genius of the Renaissance, incarnate in a single personality, leans
forth and speaks to us."

[Footnote 1: Magicians were able to command spirits to do their bidding,
while sorcerers, though they could _summon_ demons, were obliged to obey
them.]

It is only when we begin to investigate the origin of certain old
customs and superstitions that we gain any real idea of how deeply
rooted in men's minds during the Dark and Middle Ages was the fear of
the supernatural, and particularly of evil spirits. To this day in
Pembrokeshire, the cottagers, after the Saturday morning scrubbing, take
a piece of chalk and draw a rough geometrical pattern round the edge of
the threshold stone. This they do, not knowing that their ancestors
thought it a sure way of keeping the Devil from entering the house.
Another custom, often noticeable in country parishes, is the reluctance
to bury the dead on the north side of the churchyard; this is because
evil spirits were always supposed to lurk on that side of the church
precincts.

For many centuries Christianity, at all events among the mass of the
people, seemed powerless to raise the dark veil of superstition which
the old pagan beliefs had spread over the world; and indeed in many
countries--sometimes from ignorance, sometimes from motives of
expediency--heathen traditions and practices were preserved, and merely
transferred to a Christian setting. Particularly was this the case among
the Celtic nations, whose Christianity must in the early ages have
merely been grafted on the native Druid beliefs. For the material that
the great Irish and Welsh missionaries had to work with was rough
indeed; and any drastic attempt to impose a new system of religion on a
horde of Celtic tribesmen would doubtless have ended in speedy
disaster. So it is probable that St. Patrick and St. David and their
evangelist successors, instead of bluntly denouncing the most cherished
of the heathen legends, merely took and adapted them to their own
teaching; giving them first a decent Christian garb. Two instances of
evident adaptation are quoted by Mr. Elworthy, in his book "The History
of the Evil Eye," where he remarks: "Here in Britain the goddess of love
was turned into St. Brychan's daughter; and as late as the fourteenth
century lovers are said to have come from all parts to pray at her
shrine in Anglesey. Another similar example is found in the confusion of
St. Bridget and an Irish goddess, whose gifts were poetry, fire and
medicine ... almost all the incidents in her legend can be referred to
the Pagan ritual."

And though so many long centuries have passed since the days when the
Druid priests offered propitiatory sacrifices to the spirits that dwelt
in the great oak-trees, yet in the minds of the descendants of those old
Celts (in spite of all that civilisation and intermixture with other
races have done) there still lingers a trace of mystery, a readiness of
belief in things outside the realm of the five senses, which perhaps
future ages will never quite obliterate. For this quality, call it what
we will (and too often it has degenerated into mere superstition), is
yet of the "Unknown," and for all we can tell may indeed be a spark,
though dwindled, of the Divine fire. As every one knows, among the
Highlanders this curious mystic vein sometimes produces seers, and their
gift is called "second sight." According to a very interesting book
called "A Description of the Western Islands of Scotland," published in
1703, this power of foretelling the future was in those days a
recognised talent possessed by certain individuals, which apparently
excited but little surprise among the rest of the community. The writer
of the "Description" says: "It is an ordinary thing for them (the seers)
to see a Man who is to come to the house shortly after, and if he is not
of the Seer's acquaintance, yet he gives such a lively description of
his Stature, Complexion, Habit, &c., that upon his arrival he answers
the character given him in all respects. I have been seen thus myself by
Seers of both sexes at some hundred miles' distance--some that saw me in
this manner had never seen me personally." In Wales also, if we may
believe the old writers, there seems to have been a class of persons
somewhat resembling the Highland seers, and called "Awenyddion"
(inspired people). "When consulted upon any doubtful event, they roar
out violently, and become as it were possessed of an evil spirit. They
deliver the answer in sentences that are trifling, and have little
meaning, but are elegantly expressed. In the meantime, he who watches
what is said unriddles the answer from some turn of a word. They are
then roused as from a deep sleep, and by violent shaking compelled to
return to their senses, when they lose all recollection of the answers
they gave."

And though the day of the Awenyddion is long past, yet something of
their inspiration, and a faint echo of the bards' songs of valour and
enchantments seems still to linger about the mountains of Wales. It is
true that down in the valleys the railways and Council schools have
routed the "Tylwyth Teg" (fairies) from those "sweet green fields" of
which Matthew Arnold wrote; and the young generation has no time to
spare for listening in the winter evenings to the old folks' tales of
haunted "mansions," or of the "canwyll corph," or the awe-inspiring
"G[^w]rach" spectre. And there are very few people left now who will
mistake the weird cry of a string of wild geese flying high overhead in
the winter dusk, for the shrieks of tormented souls pursued by the
hounds of hell. Still, though fast disappearing, some of the old tales
and beliefs are not entirely lost in the more remote localities; and it
was with the idea of preserving a few of them from oblivion that this
book was begun. Living, as I have for many years, in a hitherto
little-known part of the Principality, where almost every old country
house has its ghost (sometimes more than one), and where the highest
hill is crowned by the grave of a mighty "ca[^w]r" (or giant)--though
archæologists will tell you that it is merely a British
burial-mound--and where the neighbouring lake is inhabited by fairy
cattle that disappear at the approach of man; it is impossible not to
feel regretful that all these old stories should be forgotten.
Especially will any one feel this who happens to have Celtic blood in
his veins; in which case, and if he inhabits a corner of "fair Cambria,"
some of the things he hears will not appear so highly improbable and
far-fetched as they might to the less imaginative Saxon. We all know
Owen Glendower's celebrated assertion:

    "I can call spirits from the vasty deep,"

and his description of the wonders that local tradition told him had
preceded his birth. And we remember Hotspur's aggravating retort to what
he doubtless considered the empty boasting of the great Welshman. But
living amongst a people absolutely steeped in occult and legendary lore,
quite ready to attribute any extraordinary characteristics in their
leaders to supernatural aid, there is little doubt that Glendower's
belief in his wizard powers was as entirely sincere as his courage and
energy were unquestioned. But one rather sympathises, too, with Hotspur,
when he describes afterwards how Glendower had kept him up

              "last night, at least nine hours,
    In reckoning up the several devils' names
    That were his lackeys."

Most people like a good "ghost story." Even the loudest of scoffers does
so really; and he is generally the person who draws his chair nearest
to that of the story-teller, and who, after asserting that the tale is
"all rubbish," will nevertheless proceed to say what he would have done
at that particular point in the narrative when "the candle burnt blue,
and a faint rattling of chains was heard," &c. &c. But, as a fact, there
are few real old-fashioned scoffers left. We have passed through the
phase of extreme incredulity regarding occult happenings which was
inevitable, and was merely the swing of the pendulum from the rank
superstition and ignorance of the Middle Ages. Few people now venture to
declare that "there are no such things as ghosts"; for the mass of
evidence collected and weighed by savants, such as Gurney, Myers,
Hodgson, T. H. Hudson, and Sir Oliver Lodge, is overwhelming as regards
the truth that things _have_ happened, and do still happen, quite
outside the limit of human explanation. But while most intelligent
persons admit this, the time is still far distant when we shall be able
to say how or why these things occur; though, guided by some of the
greatest thinkers of our day, we may at last dare to hope that our feet
are set in the path of knowledge, and that at some future time humanity
may perhaps reach the goal, and lift the dark and impenetrable curtain
that hides the Unseen. Whether the world will be any better off, when,
or if, that happens, concerns us of this generation not at all; in fact,
most of us who have this world's work to do, will find it best to leave
close investigation of supernormal phenomena to those who are able to
approach such subjects with a scientific mind, capable of recognising
and collecting truthful evidence, and of detecting and setting aside
what is false. And how very much the false outweighs the true, when it
comes to a question of evidence in psychic inquiry, only the really
conscientious searcher knows. All sorts of questions rise up in the mind
of the critical inquirer and have to be satisfied before he will admit
the impossibility of accounting by human explanation for the experiences
brought to his notice. And besides the need for this severely critical
attitude of mind, which we do not all of us possess, and in many cases
the lack of leisure necessary for such abstract study, there is another
reason why it is best for the majority of us to refrain from speculating
overmuch on the whys and hows of these glimpses of the "Unknown" that we
are occasionally granted. It is because many people have actually not
the strength of mind necessary to withstand the possible shock
occasioned by occult experiences, and for these, such studies end only
too often in mental disaster. This assertion may sound exaggerated, but
it is not so; and if it serves as a hint of warning to those over-fond
of dabbling in a sea of mystery, fathomless and wide beyond all human
imaginings, so much the better.

After these remarks, it will be realised that this book has nothing to
do with the scientific aspect of "ghost-hunting," but is merely an
attempt to gather together a number of stories dealing with the
supernatural, and particularly those connected with the old
superstitions and beliefs of Welsh people which have happened to come to
my knowledge. Of course some of these tales are absurd, and interesting
only from their quaintness; yet in many of them there is an element
which, as the French say, "gives to think," and should interest serious
students of the occult in search of fresh material. So, much of the
ghostly gossip in the following chapters belongs to Wales; indeed my
original purpose was to deal with Welsh ghosts and superstitions only.
But in the course of collection, I came across so many interesting
particulars and incidents concerning people and places beyond the
borders of the Principality, that I decided to include them in this
volume, on the chance that they may be new to most of my readers. All
the stories to be narrated are what are known as "true" ones, or have at
least a well-established reputation in tradition; the majority having
either been told me at first-hand, or imparted by people who believed in
their truth, and who, in many cases, had personal knowledge of the
people whose experiences they related, and of the localities they
described.

Naturally, such tales as follow, in which hear-say must figure
considerably, cannot lay claim to the evidential value possessed by the
carefully sifted records of the Psychical Research Society. But it may
be pointed out that many of the stories contained in Chapters II., III.,
and IV. concern the constant _repetition_ of certain definite phenomena,
a feature which strongly supports belief in their foundation on a basis
of truth.

For instance, it seems to happen continually that a person going to a
house which he does not know is haunted, sees a "ghost," and afterwards
finds, on relating his experience, that the apparition he describes is
exactly what other people have also seen. A good example of this occurs
in Chapter IV., where "Colonel and Mrs. West" saw the ghost of the
headless woman, being previously unaware that they were occupying a
haunted room.

This agreement in the testimony of people who at different times, and
generally quite unprepared, have seen particular apparitions is an
interesting fact in itself, and surely not to be altogether despised as
evidence of the cumulative order, though the scientific details demanded
by the professional ghost-hunter may be lacking.

The stories in my later chapters dealing with some ancient Welsh
superstitions need no comment, as, whatever may be thought of them as
supernatural incidents, their interest from the standpoint of folk-lore
is indisputable, and for that reason alone they are worth recording.

Throughout this book I shall change the real names of people for
fictitious ones or initials, for reasons that will be obvious to every
one. There are a few exceptions; and where they occur they will be
noted. In most cases I shall disguise the names of houses, and sometimes
those of villages and towns; but where the names of counties are
mentioned they are the true ones.

CHAPTER II

WELSH GHOSTS

    "A kind of old Hobgoblin Hall
    Now somewhat fallen to decay,
    With weather-stains upon the wall,
    And stairways worn, and crazy doors,
    And creaking and uneven floors,
    And chimneys huge and tiled and tall."

In one of the most remote parts of South Wales there stands on a low
cliff that is washed by the waters of a certain bay in St. George's
Channel a very curious old house which we will call Plâsgwyn. Inside one
finds walls many feet in thickness, dark panelled rooms with enormous
cupboards, and a beautiful oak staircase, its shallow, uneven steps
polished by the feet of many generations. Of course there is a ghost
story too, and one possessing an element of picturesqueness, its origin
dating far back to the days when smuggling was considered by quite
respectable people as a useful means of increasing their income in a
gentlemanly manner.

When one reflects on the lonely situation of Plâsgwyn, and
listens--especially in winter--to the boom of wind and wave advertising
with loud persistence the nearness of the sea, it is not difficult for
the imagination to conjure up those far-away times; to picture the
landing of many an interesting cargo in the little cove hard by when the
nights were dark and stormy and the Revenue men off their guard; and to
conjecture that perhaps many crimes were committed at that period by
villains using the smuggler's cloak to cover misdoing, and that possibly
some such dark deed may have happened in the old house, thus giving a
real foundation to our story.

It begins with an incident that was told me as having occurred a few
years ago at Plâsgwyn. One day two maid-servants went to do some work in
the largest bedroom, used always as a visitors' room. When they quickly
came downstairs again, with white faces and trembling knees, they had a
strange tale to tell. They declared that in the room, floating in the
air near the bed, they had seen what appeared to be a human hand and
wrist, bleeding as if just severed from an arm, the fingers of the hand
covered with splendid rings. Horribly frightened, the two maids did not
look long at the apparition but fled downstairs as fast as they could.
However, so convinced were they both of the reality of the thing they
saw that neither could ever be induced to enter the room alone as long
as they remained in the house, and one at least was in the service of
the family for some years.

Now the legend of Plâsgwyn is as follows. Long ago a strange lady of
great wealth once stayed there, and, for reasons now unknown, her hosts
went away leaving her alone one night. Feeling solitary and remembering
with alarm tales she had heard of the lawless doings of smugglers known
to frequent the coast, she went early to her room and tried to sleep.
Well-grounded indeed were her fears, for in the middle of the night she
was aroused by loud knocking at her door and rough voices demanding
admittance. Terrified, the lady tried to hold the door, but in vain. It
soon gave way beneath violent blows, and her arm, thrust forward in
feeble resistance, was seized and held. Unfortunately, she had forgotten
to remove her rings, of which she wore many of great size and
brilliance, and the sight of the jewels so excited the greedy robbers
that they immediately tried to pull them off. They fitted the fingers so
tightly, however, that they would not move; accordingly, the ruffians,
determined to have possession of them, ruthlessly chopped off the poor
woman's hand and wrist, immediately afterwards decamping with their
dreadful booty. Ever since that night, runs the tale, those who have the
"gift" may sometimes see the jewel-covered hand hovering over the bed in
the room once occupied by the ill-fated lady.

Nor is the spectral hand the only uncanny thing to be seen at Plâsgwyn,
if local rumour be correct; which declares that the spirit of "Old
Brown," a former owner of the property, and from all accounts a person
of much character (whether good or bad matters not), has been seen in a
ball of fire rolling down the staircase into the hall at midnight!

I have never met anybody who has witnessed this somewhat alarming
phenomenon, but the legend is merely related for what it is worth, and
as it was told me by a very old inhabitant of the neighbourhood. And
whether the "ball of fire" is only an absurdity, originating in some
one's too lively imagination, or really one of those "fire elementals"
of which advanced occultists tell us, must be left to the reader's
judgment to determine. But there are few people of imagination who could
visit this quaint old house without feeling that scarcely any tale of
the marvellous relating to it would sound incredible in such a setting.

Of quite a different type is another incident connected with the same
place, which, though it certainly lacks sensation, is curious as one of
that class of apparently pointless events so realistic as to seem
commonplace, and which yet leave one in a perfect "cul-de-sac" of
mystification as to why they should have happened at all.

Many years ago--perhaps thirty or forty--a meet of the hounds took place
at Plâsgwyn. Most of the houses round sent representatives, but the meet
was not a large one. Among those who drove over were a Mrs. A. and her
friend Miss B. When riders and hounds had trotted off to draw the
coverts near the house, the hostess, Mrs. C., suggested that she and
her daughter, with Mrs. A. and her friend, should walk out and watch
the find. The two elder ladies kept on the main road, just outside the
drive gate, while Miss C. and Miss B., more energetic, went through some
fields and climbed a little hill which commanded a good view of the
covert where the hounds were. Just beneath them was the field where all
the riders were grouped, and beyond that was the road, a short stretch
of which was plainly visible from the hill, though at each end of this
open piece it was hidden by the trees.

After they had been waiting some little time on the hill-side, the two
ladies heard the sound of a horse trotting quietly along the road
beneath the trees, and very soon a rider mounted on a white horse, and
wearing a red coat, emerged in the open part of the road, presently
disappearing again beneath the further trees.

Miss B. remarked: "That must be Mr. X." (the only gentleman in the
district who usually hunted on a white horse), "how late he is." And she
and Miss C. concluded that Mr. X. was making his way down the road to
where a gate beyond the trees would take him into the field where the
rest of the hunters were gathered. But the minutes passed, and he never
came to join the other riders, though Miss B. and her friend must have
seen him if he had done so. However, they supposed that he was perhaps
waiting in the road after all, hidden by the trees, and so thought no
more of the matter.

Later on when the ladies were lunching at Plâsgwyn, and were joined by
some of the returned hunters, Miss B. mentioned having seen Mr. X. go
along the road towards the covert. "You must be mistaken," said one of
the party, "he was not out to-day." The two ladies then described the
rider they had seen, and were still more puzzled when told that _no one_
had appeared with the hounds wearing a red coat and riding a white
horse! Yet Miss B. and her friend knew they had both seen such a
horseman, and that he was as absolutely real to them as the rest of the
"field" close by. The odd thing was, that a good many people were
gathered in the road beneath the trees behind the open stretch referred
to, among them being Mrs. A. and Mrs. C. Now none of these people had
seen any such rider pass them, though he was coming from their direction
when he became visible to Miss B. on the hill, and yet he must have been
a noticeable figure in his red coat on the white horse. He certainly did
not come from the opposite direction and then turn in his tracks before
reaching the foot-people, because in that case he must have been seen
arriving by Miss B. and Miss C. who had been waiting some time on the
hill-side overlooking the road. The mystery was never solved, for when
Miss B. next saw Miss C. the latter said she had made inquiries amongst
other people who were out hunting that day, and no one had seen the man
on the white horse. Neither had he been seen by the country people,
though as is usual in Wales on a hunting day, there were a good many
labourers, &c., round the coverts and in the fields, snatching an hour's
holiday for a taste of sport. When relating the experience to me after
the lapse of many years, Miss B. said she had no theory to offer on the
subject, having always regarded it as a mystery defying ordinary
explanation.

There does not seem to be any tradition connected with Plâsgwyn which
would throw light on the appearance of this phantom horseman, but a
short time ago, I thought I had really come across his track, in
conversation with a certain friend. This Mr. R. declared that once when
he and others were hunting on the hills, they suddenly saw an "unknown
horseman" riding with the hounds, who, as they approached him,
disappeared, no one knew whither, nobody at the time or since having
been able to "place" him, either as a stranger or inhabitant of the
country. But that the apparition _was_ an apparition, and no horse or
man of flesh and blood, Mr. R. seemed firmly persuaded. Roughly
speaking, the district where this mysterious rider was seen would be
about a dozen miles from Plâsgwyn.

But there are two phantom hunt legends belonging to Cardiganshire. Of
one I have only gleaned the very vaguest particulars, to the effect that
on a certain farm in the sea-board parish of Penbryn, a ghostly pack of
hounds and hunters have occasionally been seen, all circumstantial
details, or any origin for the tale being wanting.

The other tradition of a spectral chase is really picturesque, and
located in the neighbourhood of the little town of Lland----l, is
related by Mr. Alfred Rees, in his charming book "Ianto the Fisherman."
Condensed, the story runs that long ago there lived, a few miles from
Lland----l, an old gentleman-farmer, who was well known and liked as a
true sportsman throughout the county. He kept a pack of harriers, and
had hunting rights over a considerable tract of country. His end was
tragic, for one November evening, when returning late with the hounds,
he was shot in the woods above the house by a supposed poacher; though
in spite of the great hue and cry raised by such a foul deed, the
murderer managed to evade justice. But, "the villagers still declare,
that whenever November nights are moonlit and windy, the huntsman's horn
is heard above the wood, and the pack winds down the glade in full
music, till suddenly a shot echoes in the valley, after which there is
silence. They declare that Will the Saddler, a sober deacon, coming home
one night, when he had taken some mended harness to a farmer at the top
of the wood, witnessed plainly a full repetition of the tragedy. The
opening scene appeared so real, that unmindful of religious prejudices,
he actually joined in the chase, till with the flash of the gun he
remembered the story, and presently saw shadowy forms, attended by
hounds and horse, pass by him down the glade with muttered whisperings,
bearing the burden of their dead."

Another phantom horseman figures in the tradition attached to an old and
well-known Welsh house; which says, that always before a death occurs in
the family, a noise of galloping hoofs is heard coming up the drive
towards the house at dead of night. Nearer and nearer it draws, passing
at length under the windows, then ceases suddenly at the front door, as
if a horse were violently reined in there. A pause succeeds, then loud
hoof-beats again, hurry-scurry past the windows, and so down the drive,
growing ever fainter, till they are lost in distance. If sleepers are
awakened and rush to look out, nothing can be seen. But in the morning,
fresh hoof-marks will be found upon the gravel.[2]

[Footnote 2: The noise of a ghostly equipage being driven to the door is
to be heard at Ô--l T--e, a house in Ireland. A friend who lived there
for some months told me she heard it not once but several times, and not
only she, but other people in the house heard it also. The sound was
described as unmistakably that of heavy carriage wheels; yet nothing was
to be _seen_, nor could such a characteristic noise be accounted for in
any other way.]

Mention of these ghostly horses and riders reminds one that
Pembrokeshire--in common with several other districts in Great Britain
and Ireland--possesses a good phantom coach legend, localised in the
southern part of the county, at a place where four roads meet, called
Sampson Cross. In old days, the belated farmer, driving home in his gig
from market, was apt to cast a nervous glance over his shoulder as his
pony slowly climbed the last steep pitch leading up to the Cross. For he
remembered the story connected with that dark bit of road, that told how
every night a certain Lady Z. (who lived in the seventeenth century, and
whose monument is in the church close by) drives over from Tenby, ten
miles distant, in a coach drawn by headless horses, guided by a headless
coachman. She also has no head; and arriving by midnight at Sampson
Cross, the whole equipage is said to disappear in a flame of fire, with
a loud noise of explosion. A clergyman living in the immediate
neighbourhood, who told me the story, said that some people believed the
ghostly traveller had been safely "laid" many years ago, in the waters
of a lake not far distant. He added, however that might be, it was an
odd fact that his sedate and elderly cob, when driven past the Cross
after nightfall, would invariably start as if frightened there, a thing
which never happened by daylight.

It is not every one who is acquainted with the precise meaning of the
expression "laying a ghost," which Brand in his "Antiquities" advises as
the best remedy for cases of troublesome hauntings. "Sometimes," he
says, "Ghosts appear and disturb a house without deigning to give a
reason for so doing; with these the shortest way is to lay them. For
this purpose there must be two or three clergymen and the ceremony must
be performed in Latin.... A Ghost may be laid for any time less than a
hundred years and in any place or body, as a solid oak, the point of a
sword, or a barrel of beer, or a pipe of wine.... But of all places the
most common and what a ghost least likes is the Red Sea." From another
authority we learn that seven parsons are necessary to this weird
performance. They must all sit in a row, each holding a lighted candle,
and should all seven candles continue to burn steadily, it shows that
not one of the reverend gentlemen is capable of wrestling with the
uneasy spirit. But if one of the lights suddenly goes out, it is a sign
that its holder may read the prayers of exorcism, though in so doing he
must be careful that the ghost (who will mockingly repeat the words)
does not get a line ahead of him. If this happens his labour is lost,
and the ghost will defy his efforts and remain a wanderer. In some parts
of the country it was believed that only a Roman Catholic priest could
lay a ghost successfully.

But to return to Pembrokeshire. About a mile or so from Sampson Cross,
there is a certain rectory said to be haunted by a mysterious "grey
figure" which sometimes showed itself in the "best bedroom." Two
visitors, on different occasions (having previously known nothing of any
supposed ghost in the house), declared that they had seen a "grey lady"
standing by their bedside. A daughter of the house, who told me about
this apparition, added that though she herself had never _seen_
anything, yet one night when she chanced to sleep in this room, she had
been awakened by the most horrible and mysterious noises. She described
the sounds as resembling "the groans and cries of a tortured animal,"
and they came, not from beneath the window (which looked on a strip of
garden), but apparently from high up in the air above it, and could not
be accounted for in any ordinary way. Nor does there seem to be any
story connected with the house in past times which might afford a clue
to the meaning of these hauntings; or if any event of tragic or dramatic
significance ever took place there, it has been forgotten by the present
generation. Yet it is quite reasonable to suppose that some such event
may have happened at that lonely rectory. There must be few houses,
constantly inhabited for, let us say, fifty years, of which the walls
have not witnessed many varying circumstances of life--circumstances of
joy and woe, and all the shades between. And besides actual events,
think of the developments of human character, the play of different
temperaments, and the range of passions and emotions that any such house
has sheltered! And if, as some psychologists aver, human passions,
thoughts, and emotions have at their greatest height actual dynamic
force, capable of leaving impressions on their environment which may
endure for ages, and even be perceptible to certain people--then does
not this assertion supply us with a reason for many of the unexplained
"ghosts" and hauntings of which one so constantly hears?

For we can easily believe that these impressions would be most apt to
linger round those earthly scenes best known in life, and where perhaps
only the most ordinary chain of familiar events sufficed to lead up to
the crisis which evoked the elemental passions and emotional force of
some strong personality.

Certainly the lady who furnished the few particulars about the rectory
ghost must possess the sixth sense necessary for the perception of these
impressions, for she added that she had once seen an apparition in
another Pembrokeshire house, where she happened to be staying. One day
during her visit, as she was coming out of her room in search of a book
she wanted from the bookcase on the landing, she suddenly saw a woman's
figure appear in front of her. "A little thin person," she described,
"dressed in light blue, with sandy hair, much dragged up on top of her
head," presenting altogether such a curious old-fashioned appearance
that Miss L----d looked very hard at her, and wondered who she could be,
and where she had appeared from. But the next moment the figure vanished
from view through the door of another bedroom. Although her curiosity
was rather roused by the odd looks of the woman she had seen, Miss
L----d thought little of the incident, imagining she must have seen one
of the servants in rather strange attire. And it was only when she had
been several days longer in the house that she discovered it possessed
no inmate in the slightest degree resembling the queer apparition of the
landing, which she was forced to conclude was no human being, but most
probably the family ghost! Personally I know this house well, and had
always heard there was supposed to be a ghost there; but though I have
often stayed there, and even slept in the "haunted" room, I never saw
the sandy-haired lady, nor anything else of an uncanny nature.

In fact, the county of Pembroke is a happy hunting-ground for the
ghost-tracker. Nor is this to be wondered at, considering the
innumerable associations, legendary, historical and romantic connected
with a tract of country which is certainly one of the most interesting
in Great Britain. So that the student of ghost-lore and superstition
will there discover a fine field for research, the only pity being that
in Pembrokeshire as in other parts of Wales, although almost every other
old country house has its ghost, yet the stories and legends connected
with these apparitions and hauntings are very often forgotten, and only
vague details as to "noises," or doubtful reports of spectral
appearances are forthcoming. However, in the case of one house (which we
will call Hill-view), some kind of explanation is given of hauntings
which seem to have continued for a long time, and have been remarked by
various people who have rented the place. I first heard of the Hill-view
ghost many years ago, when it was said to have caused a frightful noise
one night in a room upstairs, which was apparently reserved for
visitors, and at the time that the sound was heard was unoccupied. The
noise was described as exactly like the thud and crash that a large
piece of furniture, such as a wardrobe, would make in falling heavily on
the floor; there seemed no mistaking the sound for anything else. Yet
when with fear and trembling the door was opened, those who looked in
were astonished to find nothing unusual in the empty room, or in the
dressing-room which opened off it. All was in order, darkness, and
silence, and search as they would, nothing that could possibly account
for such a noise could be found, nor was the problem ever solved. That
happened a long while ago, but quite lately, the present occupants of
the house were one day sitting in the room immediately beneath the
bedroom before referred to, when they distinctly saw the door open,
apparently of itself, and heard a sound as of some one entering the
room. On another occasion also, members of the family have heard
mysterious footsteps; but none of them seem to have heeded the ghost
very much until a certain friend came to stay with them. This friend
they put to sleep in the haunted bedroom, and one night spent there
seems to have been quite enough for her. Next morning she complained
that she could get no sleep, owing to the incessant noises--knockings,
rappings, and scrapings--which went on all night.

That something of a sinister nature may still linger about that room is
not strange, if local report be true; which says that a very long time
ago a little boy--a son of the family who owned the property--was
dreadfully ill-treated by a nurse or governess, and shut up in a
cupboard in the room now haunted, where the poor child was eventually
discovered, dead.

Not a thousand miles from Hill-view is a house (we will temporarily
christen it Shipton Rise) which possesses a rather interesting little
story connected with a picture that hangs in the dining-room
representing a ship, called the _Shipton Rise_. The original of this
picture was a vessel commanded once upon a time by one Captain Joseph
Turner, of the East India Company's service. During a long voyage on
this ship, he was one night awakened by a voice, which said, "Joseph
Turner, get up and sound the well." He thought he was dreaming, and
promptly went to sleep again. A second time the same call woke him, and
again he paid no attention, and slept. But once more came the voice,
more insistent than before, "Joseph Turner, Joseph Turner, sound the
well!" This time he was really roused, and felt so impressed that he
determined to do as he was bid. So he went, and sounded the ship's well,
and found a great leak sprung. The pumps were manned, and thanks to the
timely warning, the ship was saved.

It is extraordinary how very many stories of occult occurrences belong
to what we may call the "warning type"; yet among them we find few
resembling the foregoing instance, in which the message conveyed by
ghostly voice or visitant has been of use in averting misfortune. In
fact these supernormal intimations seem to be generally heralds of the
inevitable, rather than friendly envoys of any special Providence. The
traditional "White Swans of Closeburn"; the mysterious "Drummer-boy" of
the Airlies; the Lytteltons' "White Lady" (all figuring in tales too
well known for repetition), belong to this very large class of
supernatural incident which it seems only impending calamity can evoke.

In this connection there is a rather curious sequel added to the "family
ghost" story of Mayfield, a very old house in West Wales, dating back to
the year 1600. Among the family portraits there, one is shown the
picture of a young lady in the dress of the eighteenth century. This was
a Mrs. Jones (Jones shall replace the real name of the family) and an
ancestress of the present owner of the house. Tradition says that a
wicked butler murdered this poor lady in a large cupboard--almost a
little room--which opens out of the dining-room. He then fled with the
family plate, but finding it too heavy, he dropped part of his plunder
in a ditch near the house, where it was subsequently found, though
history is silent as regards the fate of the butler. Ever since then,
the ghost of the murdered lady walks out of the cupboard every Christmas
evening (the anniversary of the tragedy), never appearing till the
ladies have left the dinner-table. At least, so runs the tale; and now
for the sequel.

Early in the last century, Mayfield and the property were owned by a
certain Jones, who had a brother living in India. Whether Mr. Jones was
a bachelor or widower at the time of the following occurrence, one does
not know, but at all events he lived at Mayfield by himself. He used the
dining-room as a sitting-room of an evening, and after his dinner would
turn his chair round to the fire, and sit there reading till it was
bed-time. One night he had sat up later than usual, and as he shut up
his book and bethought him of bed, the clock struck midnight. In the
corner of the room, behind his chair, was the cupboard already referred
to. Now as the last stroke of twelve died away, Mr. Jones heard the
click of the door opening. He turned his head and there, walking out of
the cupboard towards him, he saw the figure of a woman dressed in an
old-fashioned costume. She advanced a few paces, stopped, and said in
loud, clear tones, "Your brother is dead." Then she turned and walked
back into the cupboard, the door of which shut with a loud clang. As
soon as he recovered from his astonishment, Mr. Jones made a thorough
search of the cupboard and room, but could find no trace of any inmate.
Convinced at length that a message from the other world had been brought
to him, he made a careful note of the date and hour of the incident. In
those days letters took a long while to travel from India to this
country, and he had therefore many weeks to wait before the mail brought
him news that his brother had died, the time of death _coinciding
exactly_ with the night and hour in which he was warned by the
apparition at Mayfield.

Another incident which seems to have fore-shadowed death (though the
warning in this case was not definitely given) recurs to my mind, and
though trivial in a way, it yet possesses a certain impressiveness,
perhaps from its very simplicity and lack of any dramatic element. Or
perhaps it is only because the locality described is so familiar to me
that the following little story seems more weird and realistic than it
really is. The reader must imagine one of the most peaceful and
beautiful spots in Wales, where there stands a large, square house
called Wernafon, backed by hanging oak woods, beneath which flows a
clear river. Higher up the vale the stream loiters through pleasant
meadows, affording the angler many a tempting pool; but as it reaches
Wernafon, it begins to sing and clatter over stone and shingle as if it
already heard the calling of the not far-distant sea, while in
flood-time, heavy water rushes down, deeply covering stepping-stones,
and swamping shallow fords. So, for the convenience of the Wernafon
workmen and labourers, and others who live on the hither side of the
river, it is spanned near the house by a narrow, wooden foot-bridge,
which saves people a considerable walk round.

Many years ago, there lived on the Wernafon estate, two labourers, whom
we will call Ben and Tom; and these men were great friends. They had
worked together from boyhood, and when at last--both being old--Ben
died, Tom felt sadly lonely and forlorn. One day, soon after his
friend's funeral, he had occasion to cross the river by the little
foot-bridge, and as he trudged heavily along its narrow planks, his head
bent down in melancholy thought, he suddenly came to a full stop, for
there was a man standing in the middle of the bridge. Moreover, as he
looked hard at the man, he somehow became aware that it was Ben who
stood there, and who smiled at Tom as if glad to see him. Entirely
forgetting for the moment that he had seen Ben buried but a few days
before, Tom accosted him, and a short conversation ensued between the
two about ordinary, every-day matters. But suddenly Ben asked his friend
"if he would like to see the inside of Wernafon, for," said he, "I go
there every night, and a strange sight it is to see the people all
asleep while I pass through." He then offered to take Tom through the
house that very night, if he would meet him again on the bridge at
midnight; and without waiting for an answer, he glided along the bridge,
and disappeared. Immediately and with a feeling of horror, it dawned on
Tom that the man he had just talked to had actually been dead for
several days, and he began to think he had seen a vision or had had some
extraordinary dream. Nevertheless, being a courageous old fellow, and at
the same time curious to see if any result would follow, he determined
to keep the strange appointment. So midnight found him waiting on the
little bridge. A bright moon illumined the river and banks, and by its
soft light, the old workman was presently aware of a dark shape
hastening to join him. Greeting the living man, the apparition took his
former comrade by the hand, and led him to the front door of Wernafon,
which, as might be expected, was closely locked and barred. But at a
touch from Tom's escort, the great door opened without a sound, and the
companions passed into the hall of the house. There, the silence of
sleep and complete darkness reigned. Yet without a stumble, Tom found
himself mounting the staircase with his ghostly guide. Arrived on the
landing, the pair stopped before a closed door, which immediately
opened, allowing them to enter. Softly they crept into the room, Tom
remarking that it seemed filled with a faint bluish light, unlike
anything he had ever seen before. They gazed at the occupant of the room
wrapped in deep slumber, and creeping out again, visited all the other
rooms in turn, Tom becoming more and more bewildered by the strangeness
of his experience. At last--how he hardly knew--he found himself
standing again in the moonlight outside the front door; and turning to
speak to his friend, discovered that he was alone. He rubbed his eyes in
astonishment, for an instant before, Ben had been standing by his side.
And now, except the fact of finding himself in such an unusual place at
so late an hour, nothing remained to show that his adventure had been
real and not a dream. He went home, wondering greatly at what had
happened, and it does not appear that he saw the apparition again before
his death, which occurred suddenly, only a few days after his mysterious
experience.

At a much later period than the date of the above story, but still some
years ago, a curious instance of the "warning" kind occurred at N----e,
which is a hamlet distant a few miles from Wernafon. Though in this case
there is nothing tragic or of an important character to record, yet it
is worth recounting on the ground of coincidence alone, if coincidence
it really was.

About eight o'clock one summer evening, several neighbours happened to
be at the blacksmith's house, having a quiet smoke and gossip together.
They were sitting in a room at the back of the smithy, which faced the
main road. Suddenly the talkers in this room were startled by the sound
of a tremendous crash. Exclaiming "Some one's cart must have upset on
the road," they all rushed out through the shop, fully expecting to see
some bad accident. To every one's surprise, all was still, the road
empty, and no sign of any vehicle could be seen in either direction.
Much perplexed, they went home, but the next evening, most of them were
again at the smith's, and of course began to discuss the strange
incident of the night before. But as the clock struck eight, again came
the same terrific noise. Once more they ran out, and this time they
found a heavily laden cart upset on the road just outside the forge.

Nobody seems to have been killed or even hurt by the accident, and one
wonders why, in the case of such an--apparently--unimportant event, such
an impressive and collective warning should have been given.

Among my notes, I find mention of a little house near this same village
of N----e, which was reputed to be haunted. The note says: "Mr. Z. (an
old gentleman well versed in the antiquities and folk-lore of his
district) told me about a haunted house called Tyhir.... About twenty
years ago, the man who lived there used to see _curious, little people_,
of the size that could run under a chair, walking about the house. This
man was so nervous of what he heard and saw that he would never, if he
could help it, stay alone in the house. Mr. Z. spoke once to another
man, who had often gone to keep the other company on Sundays, when he
was afraid to sit in the house by himself. This second man told Mr. Z.
that though he himself had seen nothing, yet he had heard noises which
were quite unaccountable. The 'little people' seen were said to exactly
resemble in feature the former dwellers in the house; a little old man
called 'Tom Tyhir,' and his wife."

Cases of apparitions that have acted as protectors in danger to the
percipient are occasionally heard of, and one of the most interesting
stories of this type was recorded in a well-known Welsh newspaper, about
two years ago, and will quite bear repetition in these pages. To quote
the original words: "A story which appears strange even in these days of
telepathic experiment has appeared recently concerning the Rev. John
Jones,[3] of Holywell, in Flintshire, one of the most prominent
preachers of his day. He was once travelling alone on horseback from
Bala to Machynlleth, where the country is wild and desolate. When
emerging from a wood he met a man carrying a sickle. The man had been
seen by the minister at an inn when passing. In answer to a question,
the minister gave information as to the time by his watch, and a short
time after, noticed the man had furtively moved into the field, and was
running alongside the hedge, removing the straw from his sickle as he
ran. Then he noticed the man trying to conceal himself behind the hedge
near the gate through which Mr. Jones would have to pass. Firmly
believing that the man intended to murder him, the minister bent his
head in prayer. As he did so the horse became impatient, and started off
so suddenly that the minister had to clutch the reins, which had fallen
on the neck of the steed. Turning round to see if there was any
available help, the minister was astonished to find close to his side a
horseman in a dark dress, mounted on a white horse. No previous sound
had been given of the stranger's presence. Mr. Jones told him of the
danger he feared, but no reply was vouchsafed, the stranger simply
looking in the direction of the gate. Then the minister saw the reaper
sheathing his sickle and hurrying away. The gate was reached, the
minister hastened to open it for his mysterious companion, and waited
for him. But the guard on the white horse had disappeared as silently
and unobserved as he arrived."

[Footnote 3: This is the real name. The story is included by the kind
permission of the Editor of the _Western Mail_.]

And now this chapter will conclude with an account of a very frivolous
spirit indeed, for the story of the Riverside ghost must be told. Rarely
does one hear of a "spook" with a sense of humour, but that quality, as
expressed by a taste for practical joking, was evidently possessed by
the intelligence that used to haunt the old house to which we have given
the fictitious name of Riverside. Situated in one of the deep and
beautiful valleys of South Wales, and belonging originally to the
ancient family of Rhys, the house dates back to the time of Henry the
Seventh. The last Rhys died about forty years ago, since when the place
has changed hands several times, though its present tenants have owned
it for a long while, and have apparently been left severely alone by the
ghost.

Our story goes back fifty years or more, to a time when a certain Mrs.
X. and her infant daughter went to stay at Riverside. One evening after
dinner, Mrs. X. went upstairs to see her child (whom she had left
sleeping in her own room), but what was her astonishment and subsequent
alarm to find the cradle empty. On inquiry and search being made, no
trace of the baby could anywhere be found, and the distracted mother
rushed off to find her host, and acquaint him with her anxiety. Mr. Rhys
received the news with the astonishing remark, "Do not be alarmed; wait
patiently, and the baby will come back." He then went on to say that all
in the house were often annoyed by the tricks of the family ghost.
Frequently books, garments, umbrellas, anything in fact, if left lying
about, would disappear in the most unaccountable way. But if no notice
were taken, the articles were always returned in a short time. Mr. Rhys
added he was convinced that the ghost had taken the infant, and that she
would certainly soon be returned. All this was cold comfort to the poor
mother, who found the ghost theory a hard one to believe, and prepared
to endure a night of suspense as best she could. Left alone at length by
her friend with many exhortations to try and sleep, she could only lie
miserably awake, longing for the next day, when search could be renewed.
But towards morning, a sudden impulse seized her to get up and look once
more at the cradle, when scarcely could she believe her eyes! For there,
sleeping peacefully, lay the missing child, who, it may be added, was
never afterwards any the worse for what sounds like a rather unpleasant
adventure.

Of the above story I think that "se non è vero, è ben trovato" might
well be said! But it is here recounted for what it is worth, as an old
tale which probably had more or less foundation in facts of an occult
nature.

Another tale of Riverside dealt with a lady in a green silk dress who
could be heard rustling about the house, and had also the usual
unpleasant ghostly habit of appearing by one's bedside at midnight. But
the details--what there were of them--were too vague in character to be
worth more than a passing allusion. A pity, as I have always thought
there might be interesting possibilities connected with the history of
this daintily robed ghost, whose presence in the old house was known by
that gentle, feminine sound, the soft rustling of silken attire.

WELSH GHOSTS (_continued_)

    "Rest, rest, perturbèd spirit."

Many stories of haunted houses are told where the disturbing power has
seemed to have a distinct object in view, and this object attained, all
further manifestations have ceased. Such was the case of a very old
farm-house in one of the South Welsh counties. It had long been known
that mysterious tappings were constantly heard there, proceeding always
from a certain spot in the wall of one particular room. At last this
house fell into such bad repair that it had to be partly rebuilt. When
the masons were pulling down the wall from whence the tappings came,
they found, carefully built into this very wall, an old register-book.
It was in a fair state of preservation, and the later entries in it
dated from the time of the Commonwealth. They showed that a mason, who
could neither read nor write, was then appointed vicar of the parish,
and the former incumbent turned out. However, he seems to have remained
among his parishioners, performing the offices of the Church in secret,
and we may suppose that, taking refuge in the farm-house (which very
likely was a place of more importance in those days), the clergyman had
the register-book hidden in the wall, to preserve it from falling into
the hands of the illiterate mason. The old book has been restored, and
is much treasured by its possessor. Since its discovery, the house has
been rebuilt, and is now entirely free from the mysterious tappings.

A striking instance of what determination on the part of a ghost can do,
comes from Glamorganshire. Mr. Roberts, the owner of a very ancient
house in that county, decided for various reasons to let it for a time,
and was fortunate in finding a tenant who took it for a term of years,
seeming to be delighted with the place. But after he had lived there for
a few months, this gentleman wrote to Mr. Roberts saying he could no
longer stay in the house. When pressed for reasons, he evaded reply for
a while, but at length said "he could not stand the ghost." It appeared
that one day, soon after his arrival, he had been sitting quietly
reading in one of the rooms, when on raising his eyes from his book, he
had been astonished to see "a little old lady" with a "horrible frowning
expression" standing close by him. As he gazed at her, she vanished as
suddenly and noiselessly as she had come, but this appearance was
followed by many others; in fact, the old lady, always with her
sinister, frowning look, haunted him. Whenever he least expected her, he
was sure to look round and find her at his elbow. And at last the
apparition had become too much for his nerves, and he felt he must leave
the place. He added that he was sure the old lady was an ancestress of
Mr. Roberts, who, annoyed at the family home being occupied by a
stranger, evidently resolved to make herself unpleasant until she drove
him away, in which amiable resolution she succeeded.

As a rule, new bricks and mortar create an environment particularly
uncongenial to a self-respecting ghost. Ivied walls, gabled roots, dim
and musty passages leading to gloomy, oak-panelled rooms, supply the
kind of setting that the spook of convention demands, and nobody passing
a certain little house close to the road, just outside the seaside
village of Aber----n would ever think of its being haunted. Built some
fifteen years ago by a retired seaman named Captain Morgan, this very
ordinary dwelling (of the five-windows-and-door-in-the-middle style of
architecture, absolutely unrelieved by gable, porch or balcony) is
certainly far from suggesting any thoughts of the uncanny. Yet I
remember hearing, soon after it was built and occupied, that it was
supposed to harbour a ghost, though inquiry could elicit little beyond
the fact that Captain Morgan had remarked to a friend: "I don't know
what it is about my house, but we do hear the queerest noises that we
can't account for. We begin to think it is haunted." Then people who
heard about these "noises" remembered rather a curious thing. Soon
after the house was begun, while the workmen were engaged on the
foundations they came across the skeleton of a man, buried in the earth,
and examination revealed that the skull had a hole through the forehead.
Instead of keeping these remains together, and having them interred in
consecrated ground, the finders carelessly left the bones lying about
until they crumbled away and were hopelessly scattered. Whether this
discovery had anything to do with the disturbances of which Captain
Morgan and his family complained one can but conjecture; time has long
since closed the page on which is written the fate which overtook some
unknown individual on that spot perhaps a century or more ago, and there
is no local tradition to help one to frame a reason for any such deed of
violence. However, the inexplicable sounds are no longer heard; and it
is said that their cessation dates from the day of a terrible
thunder-storm when the house was struck by lightning (though not much
damaged), an electric disturbance which seems to have effectually laid,
or at least frightened away, the ghost.

Carmarthenshire abounds in tales of ghosts and ghostly happenings. I
know one house of great antiquity and historic interest in that county
which possesses a spectre of most approved pattern in the person of a
headless lady, who, report says, may be met walking along a certain path
in the garden by an old yew-tree, at the uncomfortable hour of one in
the morning. She is also supposed to account for mysterious footsteps
sometimes heard in an upstairs passage. Two people of my acquaintance
have heard these footfalls, and declare they are produced by no human
agency. A family tradition says that dancing must never take place in
the drawing-room; if it does, the ghost will surely appear among the
company.

But far more interesting than the vague rumours concerning the "headless
lady" (after all, a most conventional type of ghost) is the story
connected with a maple-tree growing by the roadside, about a mile and a
half from the house just described. "Once upon a time" there was a poor
tramp, who, walking along this road (which is the highway to
Carmarthen), sat down to rest at the very place where the tree now
stands. He carried a staff made of maple-wood, which he plunged into the
ground beside him, and soon, being very tired, he went to sleep. He
never woke again, for while he slept he was foully murdered. His body,
of course, was found and removed, but nobody noticed the maple staff,
stuck in the ground beside him; and left there, it took root, flourished
and became the tree one sees there now. And local belief declares the
spot is haunted. Nothing, say the country people, is ever _seen_; but
after nightfall, no animal, and especially horses, will willingly pass
the tree, which still marks the scene of an otherwise long-forgotten
tragedy.

If we continued our way along the road for a few miles beyond the
maple-tree, we should come to a house said to possess a ghost story, for
which, in repeating here, I feel I must apologise, owing to its very
apocryphal character. But I cannot resist the temptation to relate it;
as the tale--even if it is untrue, and perhaps it is not--is such an
excellent example of the kind that sends one to bed with the "creepy
feeling" that all really enjoyable ghost "yarns" should produce. Well,
many years ago, a young widow who was related to her hosts, went to pay
a visit at this house, and was given a room containing a large,
four-post bedstead. The dressing-table was against the wall opposite the
bed. One night, as the widow sat before the glass, combing her plentiful
locks, and murmuring sadly (we may presume in affectionate remembrance
of the departed), "Poor John, poor John," she suddenly saw, reflected in
her mirror, a horrid sight. There was the quaint old "four-poster," and,
hanging from the top rail, was the body of an old man. History is silent
as to the feelings of "poor John's relict" on beholding this terrible
reflection, but as she lived in Early Victorian times, it is safe to
conclude that she immediately "swooned" and probably had hysterics
afterwards. But she subsequently learned that an old miser had once
inhabited that room, and had been strangled in that very bed one night
for the sake of his money.

It is usually supposed that bodily ills are left behind on our exit from
this mortal world, but the tale of a well-known ghost that used to haunt
another Carmarthenshire house (now rebuilt) rather contradicts this
theory. Owing to the official position of its tenant, a great many
people used formerly to be entertained there, and one day a certain
guest asked his host which of the servants it was who had such a bad
cough. He said that since he arrived, he had constantly heard some one
coughing terribly in the passages and on the staircase, but could never
see the person, although sometimes the sound seemed quite near him.

The host listened gravely, and then remarked that he was sorry his
friend had been disturbed by the cough, which was no earthly sound, but
was caused by the "ghost," and had been heard by other people at
different times.

The "coughing" ghost had another idiosyncrasy. At this same house a
certain bedroom and dressing-room, communicating by a door, were once
occupied by a friend of mine and her husband during a couple of days'
visit. Now this door between the rooms was carefully shut and latched
the last thing at night. In the morning, greatly to my friend's
surprise, the door was thrown wide open, although she felt absolutely
certain, and so did her husband, that it was firmly shut the night
before. It was only a slight incident, but the strangeness of it rather
dwelt in Mrs. L----'s mind, until one day after her return home, when
she happened to mention it to a neighbour, who remarked: "You must have
had the haunted room. It has always been known that the dressing-room
door can never be kept shut; no matter how tightly closed the night
before, it is always found open in the morning."

For many years local legend has used Brynsawdde, the home of a very
ancient Carmarthenshire family, as a setting for various weird
happenings. Of these, perhaps the most interesting, and certainly the
most inexplicable, is a story that I well remember was current at the
time of the late owner's death, who was a well-known character in the
country.

It was said that on the day he died a small black dog appeared--from
whence no one knew--leapt on the bed, and lay across the dead man's
face. Chased away, it disappeared, but was again found sitting on the
coffin after the lid had been screwed down. And after the funeral, a
whisper went round that "the dog" had jumped into the hearse as the
coffin was put in; and that later it had appeared slinking, like some
evil thing, through the knot of mourners at the graveside and was never
seen again.[4]

[Footnote 4: See remarks in Chapter VI. referring to "Corpse Dogs."]

Another story tells how, not many years ago, some people were returning
from a dinner-party in the neighbourhood, and as they passed Brynsawdde,
which they knew to be entirely uninhabited, they were astonished to see
every window of the house brilliantly illuminated, as if for some great
festivity. Nor, on making inquiries, was the slightest explanation of
the lights ever forthcoming.

Near the Carmarthenshire border lies the little town of St. Govan's,
which, a very few years ago, was much agitated by the pranks of a most
inconsequent and noisy ghost. Selecting the abode of one of the quietest
and most respected families in the place for the scene of its exploits,
it proceeded with demonstrations that not only aroused excitement in the
neighbourhood, but for a few days attracted considerable attention from
the daily press. But in spite of close investigation no real solution of
the mystery was ever arrived at, though the sceptical (and larger)
section of the community at length dismissed the matter as a case of
trickery in some shape or other, an explanation which, in the light of
many reliable witnesses' evidence, was quite inadmissible to thoughtful
minds, compelled eventually to relegate the strange happenings to that
domain which M. Camille Flammarion has so happily called "L'Inconnu."
The first brief report of the occurrences in a local paper ran (slightly
altered) as follows: "Great excitement has been caused at St. Govan's
during the past week, owing to the alleged appearance in the principal
street of a ghost. It has taken up its abode (so the story goes) in the
house of Mr. Moore ... from which in the early hours of Sunday morning
loud metallic clanks were to be heard. Mr. A. B. Rose and others at once
proceeded to investigate, and it was found that a bed in one of the
rooms was rocking violently, and in doing so, came in contact with the
wall, causing the sounds which had been heard. Further investigation
failed to reveal the cause of the rocking. The bed was in contact with
nothing but the floor, and nothing could be found to indicate in any way
that the rocking was caused by anything natural. It is curious that the
phenomenon always takes place at about seven in the morning and at the
same hour in the evening.... This is not the first occasion on which
mysterious occurrences have taken place, and many are inclined to
attribute them to the supernatural....

"Since Sunday several attempts have been made to solve the mystery, but
up to now nothing has been deduced from the observations made.... The
street opposite the house has been thronged all day, and the aid of the
police has had to be called to remove the crowd of sightseers."

The "metallic clanking" referred to above was so loud that it could be
heard many yards away from the house, down the street. But though noises
and disturbance continued each morning for several days afterwards they
were never again as loud and insistent as on that Sunday. Various
persons, bent on investigation of a more or less "scientific" order,
soon discovered that by establishing a code of rappings they could
communicate with the disturbing agent, and accordingly each morning,
visitors arriving at the unconventional hour of 6.30 proceeded to the
room containing the mysterious bedstead, and by means of taps held long
conversations with the "ghost." These taps always came from the same
place on one of the walls. Some curious statements were thus obtained,
and in one case when a lady (whom I know personally) was the
interviewer, some assertions made to her were quite extraordinary in
correctness, containing as they did information known to no one else in
the town or district. On the other hand, it does not seem as if anything
new or interesting was imparted to anybody; the answers to questions in
most cases seemed evidently framed to suit preconceived ideas in the
listeners' minds, and however impressive at the moment, the statements
when repeated certainly sounded most vague and unconvincing, _except_ in
the one instance referred to. But that the knocks and rappings were in
themselves absolutely genuine, and produced by some supernormal means,
cannot be doubted. Any one who has ever had any experience of
"table-turning" will realise that this genuineness of manifestation is
quite compatible with the extreme futility of the "information" usually
conveyed in such ways, and will recognise that the noises and rappings
in the house at St. Govan's evidently belonged to the same class of
phenomena. Manifestations of such a vehement and insistent order must
surely have had their origin in some unknown psychic disturbance, some
mysterious jarring sufficient to set quivering the veil between things
seen and unseen. And in this and similar cases it has always seemed to
me that trying, however vainly, to find a reason for these disturbances
is very much more interesting than heeding or dwelling long on the
"messages" which reward the efforts of the investigator. For if indeed
"spirits" are responsible for the replies to our questions they seem
only too often to belong to that "lying" class, with whom it is
certainly best to avoid dealings.

In regard to the haunted house of St. Govan's its history and
associations may have had something to do with the manifestations, for,
as remarked in the previous chapter, there must be few old houses which
have not known strange happenings within their walls.

This particular habitation, of most unobtrusive and unghostlike aspect,
is of some antiquity as houses go in St. Govan's. For many years it was
used as a bank, and long before that, it was an inn. And surely a
"ghost" was ever a necessary appurtenance to every respectable inn of
the olden days! But no authentic tale or legend remains to connect those
times with the present, or to furnish a romantic background for the
strange and inexplicable behaviour of the "St. Govan's Ghost."

And as its noisy demonstrations daily became less, and at length ceased
entirely, so public interest gradually waned; and no definite result
having been obtained by any investigator, the subject--after forming for
several weeks a sort of conversational bone of contention between
sceptics and believers--shared at last the fate of all such abnormal
topics, and died a natural death.

High up in one of the wildest and loveliest valleys that pierce the
Ellineth mountains, is a house which we will call Nantyrefel. One would
like to linger in description of a place possessing a unique charm,
which must appeal to all who appreciate the enchantment of beautiful
scenery surrounding a house rich in literary and romantic associations.
Such a place without a ghost would be incomplete, and accordingly it has
the reputation of being most respectably haunted, and by more than one
"spook." For reasons of discretion, we cannot here relate the most
interesting of the occult incidents connected with Nantyrefel; but to
pass its gates without mention of any one of its "revenants" would be
impossible, and so the following short tale shall be told.

Rather more than two years ago, a certain lady went to stay at this
mountain abode, taking her maid "Brown" with her, a person, one is
assured, of average intelligence, and not over-burdened with
imagination.

One evening, during the visit, about nine o'clock, Brown had occasion to
go up the front staircase, in order to fetch something required by her
mistress. Half-way up the stairs she paused, for, descending towards
her, came an elderly man, with a long grey beard. Standing respectfully
on one side, Brown allowed him to pass, wondering meanwhile who he could
be, as she did not remember having seen such a noticeable figure about
the house before. Continuing his way down, the old gentleman reached the
foot of the staircase, and disappeared round a corner into the hall. He
walked very slowly, and the maid, looking round after he passed her,
saw, to her great surprise, that his clothes were of the most
extraordinary and antiquated cut. Her errand despatched, Brown found her
way back to the housekeeper's room, where she remarked to the butler
that she had just seen such an odd-looking old gentleman coming
downstairs; adding that she supposed he must have arrived by some late
train, and was going down to get some dinner. The butler promptly
replied that no new visitors at all had arrived at Nantyrefel that day;
and when Brown described the long beard and quaint garments of the man
she had seen, she was assured that there was no one in the least
resembling her description in the house. Yet the maid knew she had not
been dreaming, and that she actually had seen the old gentleman, and
that moreover he had brushed past her as she waited at the angle of the
stairs while he went slowly by.

So it would appear that what Brown really saw was an apparition, one of
those household ghosts with which many an old mansion is peopled, could
we but see them; ghosts harmless and timid, with no mission to terrify,
or grievances to air, but just indulging a little earthly hankering for
an occasional visit to the scenes they loved in life.

Do many people, I wonder, know the strange, uncanny feeling it gives
one, to return to a sitting-room at night, after the lights have been
out, and the house quiet for an hour or so? One descends to fetch a
forgotten book, and pushing open the door, one wishes the candle gave a
better light that would reach those far dark corners. For surely the
room, so short a time deserted, is nevertheless peopled--and by what? At
least, that is the impression I have had, and very odd it is, and one
cannot help wondering whether, at the

    "very witching time of night,"

the "gentle ghosts" that Shelley writes of, really do creep out of the
Invisible, and return for a little space to that human atmosphere, which
perhaps some of them may have left many a year ago with regret and
sorrow.

And now, from the rather tame incident just repeated, we will turn to a
real "thriller" in the way of ghostly experience, namely, the story of
Glanwern, in South Wales. Several mysterious tales are told about this
house, but the most interesting one (and undoubtedly authentic as far as
her own experience goes) was related to me by a Miss Travers, who was
asked to stay there a few years ago.

Although there was nothing remarkable about the appearance of the room
that was given her, it struck her at once with an odd feeling of
nervousness, a feeling that increased so much when she was left alone
for the night, that having no night-light, she determined to keep both
her candles burning. The hours dragged by, Miss Travers finding sleep
out of the question. Suddenly, towards one o'clock, a sound broke the
heavy stillness of the night, exactly as if some one had violently
pushed open her door and rushed into the room. Imagine her alarm! And
the greater, as nothing was to be seen, although the first was followed
by a succession of noises resembling the shuffling of feet about the
floor, and struggles as of people fighting. After a time the sounds
ceased, but poor Miss Travers, too terrified to move, lay quaking, and
how she got through the night she never knew, for in an hour or so the
same thing occurred again: the door was burst open, and the shufflings
and strugglings went on as before. This invisible performance happened
_four times_ during the night, but on the fourth occasion the struggle
seemed to cease very abruptly, and the next sound Miss Travers heard was
distinctly that of a heavy body being dragged across the floor towards
the door. And as this occurred, she felt a horrible and indescribable
sensation of intense cold pass over her like a wave.

Resolved not to spend another night alone, and under the plea of feeling
nervous, she asked one of the daughters of the house to sleep in her
room for the rest of her stay, but fearing incredulity, said nothing of
her experience to her hosts, especially as after the first lonely night
there was no repetition of the sounds. But when at a neighbouring house
she mentioned where she was staying, her friend remarked, "I wonder if
the ghost ever 'walks' there now." Judicious inquiry from Miss Travers
elicited the story that "once upon a time" two brothers lived at
Glanwern. One night they quarrelled and fought, one killing the other,
and burying the body in a wood near the house. Ever since then the
murderer is said to haunt the room where the tragedy occurred.

The following tale, which was related as being absolutely true, I have
slightly altered in two or three minor details, to prevent any possible
localisation, as it is connected with a very well-known house and family
in West Wales. Oaklands will be a good name for the house, and in the
sixties and seventies of the last century a certain Colonel Vernon, a
widower, lived there as head of the family.

At the time of the story he had invited a young man, named Carter, the
son of an old friend, to stay at Oaklands, and besides Carter there was
another guest, a Captain Seaton, who was a frequent visitor there, and
a contemporary and valued friend of Colonel Vernon.

One night Mr. Carter stayed up reading long after his host and Captain
Seaton had gone to bed, and the lights in the house been put out.
Indeed, it was nearly one o'clock when he lit his bedroom candle, made
his way across the hall, and upstairs on the way to his room. Half-way
up the stair made a turn, and it was when he reached this turn and could
look back into the hall, which of course was quite dark, that Carter was
astonished to see a light coming towards him down a passage which ended
near the foot of the staircase. Wondering who could be about so late,
and thinking it might be one of the servants, he paused on the stairs,
and was somewhat surprised to see the tall figure of a woman emerge from
the passage, and begin swiftly mounting the stairs. She wore a kind of
loose, flowing garment, and as she passed Carter, who had involuntarily
drawn back against the wall, he saw that her face was extraordinarily
beautiful. He also noticed the candlestick she carried: it was of
brilliantly polished silver, and most curiously shaped in the form of a
swan. As the lady (for Carter instantly divined that she was no servant)
glided by without taking the slightest notice of him, his astonishment
became curiosity, and determining to see what became of her, he followed
her up the stairs. Never turning her head, or showing by the slightest
sign that she was aware of Carter's presence, she reached the landing,
where she stopped a moment, then turned down the corridor where the
principal bedrooms were situated. Carter, watching, saw her stop at the
third door and enter the room, the door closing softly behind her.
Rousing himself from his surprise, Carter proceeded to his own room, but
the extraordinary appearance of the lady he had seen, joined to her
apparent unconsciousness of his presence, the unusual hour, and the fact
that he knew of no woman inmate of the house, other than the servants,
produced such bewilderment of mind that he found it impossible to sleep.
Early next morning he was astir, and happening to meet Captain Seaton in
the garden, he could not forbear relating his nocturnal experience to
his fellow-guest.

When Captain Seaton heard the story he looked very grave and asked, "At
which door in the corridor did the lady stop?" Carter replying that it
was the third door, Captain Seaton would say no more, remarking that
they would discuss the subject again later on, only begging him to say
nothing of what he had seen to their host.

Soon after breakfast, Captain Seaton asked Carter to come with him to
the pantry, where they found the butler, who had been many years in the
Vernons' service. Chatting with the old servant, Captain Seaton
presently led the conversation round to the subject of the family plate,
remarking how fine it was, and finally asking the butler to show Mr.
Carter some of the most ancient and interesting pieces in the
collection. Much of the old silver was taken out of its wrappings and
displayed, and at length Seaton said, "But where are those queer
candlesticks? You know the ones I mean--made in the shape of a swan."
The butler answered rather reluctantly that the candlesticks mentioned
had been put away for many years, and he feared they must be very
tarnished. However, on being pressed, he fetched down from a high shelf
in the plate cupboard, a baize-covered parcel, and from it drew a silver
candlestick, very old and tarnished, but the shape of which, Carter was
startled to see, exactly resembled the one carried by the lady of his
adventure. Seaton said to the butler: "You are certain you have not had
these candlesticks out lately?" "Oh no, sir," answered the old man, but
noticing Seaton's serious expression, his tone changed to one of alarm,
and he exclaimed, "But what is the matter, sir? _Has anything been
seen?_"

Seaton then asked Carter to relate again what he had seen the night
before, and when he heard that the lady had entered the third room in
the corridor, the butler broke into a cry of, "Oh, my poor master! Some
grief is coming to him."

Captain Seaton then explained that the figure Carter had seen was no
human being, but an apparition, and that her appearance, carrying the
swan-shaped candlestick--always brightly polished--invariably betokened
trouble or misfortune for the Oaklands family.

"It was Colonel Vernon's door you saw her open," added Seaton; "let us
hope on this occasion her coming has not been for evil," a hope that was
unfulfilled, as before the day was over, Colonel Vernon received news
that his brother had died the night before.

Most people will agree that there is something particularly unpleasant
in the idea of a ghostly animal, though why it should be so is hard to
explain. But there is no doubt that the majority of us would prefer
encountering a human rather than a four-footed "revenant." The Welsh
have a superstition about "hell-hounds," or _c[^w]n ann[^w]n_, as they
are called in the Principality. These fearsome creatures are said to
hunt the souls of the departed, and generally only their mournful cry
can be heard--a sound to make one shudder and tremble. But occasionally
a stray hound is seen by some unlucky individual, to whom the sight is
sure to bring disaster or death--an old Celtic belief, and most
certainly superstition, but it recurs to one's mind in connection with
the following story.[5]

[Footnote 5: In his "Welsh Folk-lore" the Rev. Elias Owen says: "The
Fairy Dogs howled more at cross-roads and like public places than
elsewhere. And woe betide any one who stood in their way, for they bit
them and were likely to even drag a man away with them, and their bite
was often fatal. They collected together in huge numbers in the
churchyard when a person whose death they announced was to be buried,
and howling round the place that was to be his grave disappeared on that
very spot; sinking there with the earth and afterwards they were not to
be seen."]

A few years ago, a certain Mrs. Hudson went to live near the small town
of W----in South Wales. One day, not long after her arrival, she and a
friend went for a walk along the high road near the town. On their way
they had to pass a quarry, which was reached by a gate and path leading
off the road. Just after the two ladies had passed this gate Mrs. Hudson
heard a sound of loud panting behind her. She stopped, and looking back,
saw a large black dog come running out of the quarry down the path
towards the gate. Whereupon she said, "I wonder whose dog that is, and
why it was in the quarry." "What dog?" asked the friend, looking in the
same direction, "I don't see any dog." "But there is a dog," said Mrs.
Hudson impatiently; "can't you see it standing there looking at us?"

However, the friend could see nothing, so Mrs. Hudson somewhat
impatiently turned and walked on, feeling convinced the dog was there,
and marvelling that her friend neither saw it nor heard its panting
breaths.

Soon after this, happening to meet her brother-in-law, who was an old
resident in the neighbourhood, she asked him who was the owner of a
particularly large black dog, describing where she had seen it. The
brother-in-law, listening with a rather queer expression, answered, "So
you have seen that dog! Then, according to tradition, either you or your
friend will die before six months are past. That was a ghost-dog you
saw; it has appeared to several other people before now, and always
forebodes death."

Mrs. Hudson did not pay much attention to what she considered a very
superstitious explanation of a trivial occurrence, feeling perfectly
certain that what she had seen was a real animal. But it was an
explanation she recalled with a feeling of horror, when within six
months of the date of that walk, her friend most unexpectedly died. The
curious point in this experience is, of course, that the phantom dog was
visible to only one of the two friends, and that not the one for whom
the warning was intended.

As I have before remarked, there still lingers in some parts of Wales a
breath of that atmosphere of fairyland and romance which, to anybody
possessing imagination, gives a peculiar value to ideas and beliefs that
in less inspiring surroundings would be classed as unmixed superstition
by people of common sense. So that the explanation given to a certain
Mr. Blair--who was partly of Highland extraction, and therefore
possessed something of the Celtic temperament--of a singular little
adventure that befell him in Wales, did not seem to him at all
far-fetched at the time, but rather the one most appropriate, and quite
characteristic of the country. Business obliged Mr. Blair to live some
years in this particular Welsh valley, and often, after dinner in the
summer, he would cross the river, and walk up the opposite hill to a
house called Wernddhu where some friends lived, and spend the evening
with them. From Wernddhu a narrow, steep road led down to the bottom of
the hill, where it ended; and from this point, a grass lane led up in
the direction of a farm.

In the twilight of a certain beautiful evening Mr. Blair left Wernddhu,
and started to walk home. He had his dog, a spaniel, with him, and as he
descended the hill and reached the place from which the grass lane
diverged, he noticed his dog, who was running in front, suddenly lie
down and begin to whine. And then he saw that there was another dog, a
big Scotch collie, gambolling and playing round the spaniel, though
where it had come from he could not imagine, as he was sure that no
strange dog had followed him from Wernddhu. But as he walked up to the
two animals, his own still whining and shivering, the other suddenly
darted away and disappeared up the lane that led to the farm, much to
the apparent relief of the spaniel, who immediately seemed to forget his
fright, and became quite lively again. Blair continued his homeward way,
wondering to whom the collie belonged, as he did not remember having
seen it anywhere about before. But the incident, slight though it was,
somehow made a decided impression on his mind, so much so, that he could
not forbear mentioning it next day to his old landlady, remarking that
he supposed they must have got a new dog at Nantgwyn--the farm to which
the grass lane referred to eventually led. Mrs. Morgan asked him what
the dog was like, and when told, she exclaimed, "Why, indeed, Mr. Blair,
you must have seen the Nantgwyn Dog!" She said it was no creature of
flesh and blood, but an apparition which had appeared to other people at
different times. The story went that many years ago, a tramp had been
found lying dead on the very spot where Blair had seen the collie, and
it was always thought that the dog, when living, must have belonged to
him, and with the devotion characteristic of its kind, had continued
faithful, even after death.

Writing of these wraiths of dogs recalls a story told by a Welsh lady
whom I will name Miss Johnson, and who was staying during the winter of
1874 with some relations at a house in the West of England. One Sunday
evening about six o'clock, when Miss Johnson and the family were sitting
quietly in the drawing-room, a great noise was suddenly heard exactly
like hounds in full cry. It seemed as if the pack swept past the
drawing-room windows, turned the corner of the house, and entered the
yard behind. The kennels of the local hunt were only four miles away,
and on hunting days the hounds often met or ran in the direction of the
house. But to be disturbed by the cry of hounds on a Sunday evening was
such an unheard-of thing that Miss Johnson and her friends were, for the
moment, petrified with amazement. Almost immediately the butler came
running to the room, exclaiming, "The hounds must have got loose! I hear
them all in the back yard."

"But how could they get in?" asked some one; "the gates cannot be open
at this hour on Sunday." The butler went off looking rather
disconcerted, and not a little scared; and Miss Johnson went into the
hall, where she found her collie-dog--usually a very quiet, gentle
animal--barking and rushing about in a state of frenzy. She opened the
front door, and the collie ran out, barking and growling savagely, made
a great jump in the air as if springing at somebody or something, then
suddenly sank down cowering to the ground, and crept back whimpering to
his mistress's side. An exhaustive search revealed not a sign of a hound
or stray dog about the place, and Miss Johnson and her relations went to
bed that night feeling much puzzled by the strange incident. Next day
came the news that a near relative of Miss Johnson had died suddenly the
evening before at six o'clock!

Twenty-five years later, Miss Johnson had a similar experience previous
to the death of another relation, on which occasion the hour of the
death, and the time at which she heard the hounds cry, again tallied
exactly. And while meditating on the strangeness of such a coincidence
occurring twice over, Miss Johnson remembered the tales that the country
people about her old home in Wales used to tell concerning the "C[^w]n
Teulu" (family hounds) said to haunt the woods round the house, to see
or hear one of which was a sure sign of death.

Some people have a vague superstition about the ill-luck of a bird
coming into a house, and consider it a sure sign of approaching death
should a bird chance to dash itself against a window-pane, as sometimes
happens in a gale of wind, or through the attraction of a bright light
within the room.

A curious instance regarding this feeling, which occurred quite
recently, shows what tremendous power such a superstition may have on
certain minds, and how the mind, reacting on the body, may indeed bring
fulfilment of what was regarded as a prophecy. The person concerned was
a Pembrokeshire farmer, well known to the friend who gave me the story,
and whose words I now quote:

"Mr. A. B. Jones, of S----, who was one of the churchwardens of the
parish for forty years or thereabouts, died unexpectedly and somewhat
suddenly, about three weeks ago. I went the day before yesterday to see
Mrs. Jones, who told me all about it, and mentioned the following
circumstances. On a cold Sunday evening last winter, just as Mr. R----,
the Rector, was going to the pulpit for the sermon, a starling perched
on Mr. Jones's head, and remained there: presently he put out his hand,
gently grasped the bird, and putting it into his coat pocket, took it
home. He turned it loose in the stable, for he felt sorry for it, and
wished to give it a chance of living. Mrs. Jones said she was, as I
know, not superstitious, but was it not odd?

"It seems that Mr. Jones had had for some months a presentiment that he
was not long for this world; his widow showed me an entry in his diary
to this effect, and told me that he had been giving his son, a lad of
eighteen, all sorts of instructions not long before his death. Whether
he was influenced by the starling incident or not, I cannot say."

(This account was written in September 1907, some months after Mr.
Jones's death occurred.)

In a very interesting old work, entitled "Cambrian Superstitions"
(published in 1831), the author, William Howells, refers to the Welsh
belief in death-warnings brought by birds; quoting an instance which he
mentions as being well known in his day.

"The following remarkable occurrence I cannot refrain from narrating, as
the family in which it occurred, who now reside at Carmarthen, were far
from being superstitious; their seeing this will recall it to memory. As
they were seated in the parlour with an invalid lying very ill on the
sofa, they were much surprised at the appearance of a bird, similar in
size and colour to a blackbird, which hopped into the room, went up to
the female who was unwell, and after pecking on the sofa, strutted out
immediately; what appears very strange, a day or two after this, the
sick person died."

Having previously been told that the invalid was "very ill," her demise
does not appear in the cold light of print as "strange" as it did to Mr.
Howells, in whose ears the story doubtless sounded more impressive than
it does when read eighty years afterwards. After relating another story
of the same kind, Mr. Howells goes on to say, "I have learnt of several
similar instances occurring in England, and many more are related in
Wales; but this bird has now, I believe, become a 'rara avis in
terris.'"

CHAPTER IV

OTHER GHOSTS

    "What beckoning ghost along the moonlight shade,
    Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade?"

Let us now stray across the Cambrian border, and pursue some of the
"pale ghosts" that one suspects are probably just as numerous in
England, Scotland, and Ireland, as in "superstitious" Wales. And looking
through my notes, the first story I come across seems quite worthy of
repetition, though the incident described was not rounded off by
anything sensational in the way of sequel or discovery.

A few summers ago, a certain Mrs. Hunt, who is a relation of some
friends of mine, took a house at Blanksea on the south coast for the
summer holidays. The house turned out all that was comfortable and
convenient, and nothing particular happened while the Hunt family were
there. But after they all returned home, Mrs. Hunt noticed that her two
boys were continually talking between themselves of somebody called
"Bobo." At last one day she asked the children who they meant by "Bobo."
They replied, "Oh, she was the little girl who was always about the
house at Blanksea, and used to play with us. She didn't seem to have any
name, so we called her 'Bobo.'"

Mrs. Hunt was extremely puzzled by this piece of information, as she had
never seen any strange child in the house, and at length she concluded
that it was only some nonsense imagined by the two boys. However, she
still could not help thinking a little about the mysterious "Bobo," and
eventually determined to make some inquiries about the house; as to who
had lived there, &c. &c.; and great was her astonishment to learn
through these inquiries that the house was always supposed to be haunted
"by the ghost of a little girl."

This story reminded me of a very old house near Arundel, in Sussex, said
to be haunted by the ghost of a nun; and it is alleged that the
apparition has been seen by children living there. Inexplicable noises
are also frequently heard, and a window visible from outside is said to
belong to "the nun's room," though the room it really lights is walled
up and cannot be entered.

The apparition of a child figures in another very curious tale. I was
once told of a certain rectory in one of the English counties, where,
during a summer not very long ago, a Mr. Shadwell, by profession an
artist, went to stay as a paying guest. He was given a sitting-room of
his own, and did not join the family of an evening unless he felt
inclined. One evening after dinner he was sitting reading in this room
by himself, when the door was quietly opened, and in walked a little
girl. The clergyman had several children, with whom Shadwell had already
made friends, but this child he had not seen before, so concluded she
must have been away from home and had probably only just returned. So he
remarked, "Good evening, my dear, I don't think I have seen you before."

However, the child made no reply, and did not even look at him, but
walking slowly along the side of the room, she paused, laid her hand on
a certain part of the wall, and then turned, and as slowly and
deliberately walked out again. Trifling as the action was, there was
something so curiously impassive about the demeanour of the little girl,
and her absolute indifference to his presence, that it struck Shadwell
as extremely odd, and the more he thought of it the more uncomfortable
he felt, though for the life of him he could not imagine why. Next
morning, when he saw the Rector, he said to him: "I did not know you had
another daughter, the little girl who came into my room last evening.
Why haven't I heard about her before?" He spoke lightly enough, for a
night's sleep had convinced him that life in the country had made him
fanciful, and that the impression made upon him by the silent child was
due to morbid imagination. So what was his astonishment to see the
clergyman appear greatly agitated by his question, and apparently
unable to reply at once. Presently he said to Shadwell: "That was no
living child that entered your room, but an apparition which has been
seen before; and I beg of you not to mention the matter to my wife, for
she always reproaches herself with being partly to blame for the death
of that little girl, who was our eldest-born." He then told the artist
that a few years previously they had had workmen in the house, doing
some plastering and papering. One day, while the work was going on, the
Rector's wife had wished to pay somebody some money, and remembering
that she had just left half a crown on her dressing-table, she told her
eldest girl to run upstairs and bring down this coin. But after rather a
long interval, the child returned saying the money was not there.
Whereupon the mother became annoyed, knowing she had really left the
half-crown on the table, and told the child she must have either stolen
the coin or else be playing a trick for mischief. The little girl
obstinately denied all knowledge of the money, so she was sent to bed in
disgrace, where she presently fell into such a terrible fit of sobbing
and crying that an attack of convulsions came on, and finally she became
unconscious and died. To the parents' grief was added remorse, caused by
the torturing doubt that the poor child might have been after all
unjustly blamed for a fault committed perhaps by one of the strange
workmen, for the missing half-crown was never found.

Shadwell listened thoughtfully to this sad story, and later, after
thinking over the incident of the evening before, in connection with the
tragic circumstances of the child's death, an idea struck him. He at
once sought the Rector, and asked him whether he had ever thought of
having the wall examined at the spot to which the apparition had
pointed. On hearing that this had not been done, he asked permission to
investigate, and, with the clergyman's help, he opened the wall. And
there, embedded an inch or two in the plaster, exactly where the child's
hand had been placed the night before, was a half-crown!

Now was this merely a wonderful coincidence? Or may we believe that the
little girl, having hidden the coin in the tempting surface of the wet
plaster--whether for mischief or her own gain one cannot tell--was
afraid to confess her fault? And Death overtaking her, could not give
the spirit rest, till its efforts to reveal the truth had been
recognised and understood.

But it is certain that since the discovery of the coin in the wall the
apparition of the child has never again been seen.

Another rectory that possessed the reputation of being haunted is that
of Clifton, in Kent. This is a very old house, dating from the
fourteenth century, and, according to my informant, who knew the house
well (a relation of his having held the living from 1869 to 1880),
mysterious noises had often been heard there by different individuals.
One lady who was paying a visit reported having a "dreadful night,"
"with people walking up and down the passage, and muffled voices," but
no one had left their rooms all night. And a youth of sixteen or
seventeen, employed as an outside servant, declared that once when an
errand brought him into the house, he saw "an old gentleman in a grey
dressing-gown walk down the stairs before him, and suddenly disappear."
Whatever it was he saw, the boy was so thoroughly frightened that he
would never enter the house again. My friend's letter continued: "Mrs.
Lowther (whose husband, the late Dr. Lowther, succeeded my relative as
Rector) when 'moving in' elected to stay the night in the rectory by
herself, instead of returning to ... London. The workpeople left, and a
village woman, having prepared Mrs. Lowther's evening meal and made up
fires for her in sitting-room and bedroom, went home. _Something_ is
said to have occurred during the night, and Mrs. Lowther acknowledged
(so the writer has been told) as much, but would never say what it was
that had alarmed her; but it is believed that she _did_ say that nothing
would induce her again to be alone in the house at night."

I once went to tea with the wife of Canon C----, in the cathedral city
of E----. In the course of conversation the subject of "ghosts" came
up, apropos of which Mrs. C---- remarked: "As you know, these houses are
exceedingly old, being actually part of the ancient Norman monastery
adapted to modern use. Very odd and unaccountable noises were for a long
while heard in the house next door to ours, which of course is all part
of the same old building; and these noises were vaguely ascribed to 'the
ghost,' though nothing was ever seen. But, at last, some structural
alteration of the house became necessary, and in the course of this work
the discovery was made of a human skeleton, which had evidently lain
hidden for centuries, and presumably was that of a Benedictine monk. The
bones were carefully buried, and from that time no more noises have been
heard."

This story rather resembles the tale of a much more interesting ghost
which inhabited an old manor-house in Somersetshire, and which succeeded
for many years in keeping human beings out of the place. Time after time
the house would be let, people always making light of its haunted
reputation, or else determining to brave its terrors. But they never
stayed more than a few weeks, when they invariably went away, declaring
that one or more members of the household had seen an apparition on the
main staircase. The description--and rather horrible it was--was always
the same. The figure of a woman would come gliding downstairs, carrying
her head under her arm, and on arriving at the foot of the stairs she
invariably vanished.

At last there came a tenant bolder than his predecessors, and gifted
with an inquiring turn of mind. He said he liked the place and meant to
stay there, and if possible evict the ghost. And he at once began to
investigate. Beginning at the attics he tapped and sounded every wall
and suspicious-looking board in the house, with no result in the way of
discovery till he reached the principal staircase. This, being the
ghost's favourite haunt, received special attention, and working his way
patiently down step by step, he found at length under the old flooring
at the foot of the stairs, a hollow place of considerable size. And in
this hole reposed, _headless_, a human skeleton (which subsequent
examination proved to be that of a woman) with _the severed skull lying
by its side_. Then the enterprising tenant hied him to the Vicar of the
parish and told him of the grisly find, and after due consultation it
was decided to collect the poor remains and bury them decently in the
churchyard, a ceremony which seems to have effectually "laid" the ghost,
as report says it has never since been seen.

But to return for a while to the city of E----. The best ghost story I
heard there concerns the Bishop's Palace, a beautiful Tudor house, said
to be built on the site of the great monastery for which E---- was
famous in Saxon times, and the predecessor of the Norman building, of
which parts still survive in the modern canons' residences.

I was told that at some time during the sixties or seventies of the past
century, a certain friend of the reigning Bishop was invited to stay a
night at the Palace. He had never been at E---- before, and therefore
knew but little of its history or traditions. There was nothing at all
extraordinary in the appearance of the room assigned to him, and he
slept well enough for the first few hours after going to bed. But
towards morning he woke, and though he knew himself to be wide awake and
not dreaming, yet he had a terrible vision. He was first roused by
sounds which appeared like people scuffling and struggling, and almost
immediately he seemed to be aware in some way of a dreadful scene being
enacted in his room. Although all was dark, yet he saw, as if by some
extra sense, that a man dressed in what looked like very ancient armour
was lying on the floor, while another figure in a monk's habit, knelt
on, and was apparently trying to kill him. The vision--or whatever it
was--lasted but a few moments, then the whole picture faded, and all
became still again. The rest of the night passed undisturbed, though
further sleep was impossible for the visitor, so great was the sense of
horror and absolute reality left in his mind by the scene he had
witnessed, and the sinister sounds he had heard. In the morning he
sought the Bishop, to whom he described his experience, and who
listened gravely; answering that his friend's story was very remarkable
in the light of an old tradition connected with the house, and with the
Saxon monastery which it was believed anciently occupied the site of the
Palace. At the time of the Norman invasion, the community numbered only
forty monks; who, feeling themselves a small and undefended company, and
probably fearing local disturbances and possible pillage, when the
Conqueror's coming should be known, hastened to apply to William for
protection. In reply the grim Norman sent forty of his knights to be
billeted on the monastery, saying that each monk should have a knight to
defend him. Such a claim on their hospitality was probably rather more
than the holy men had bargained for, but the arrangement seems to have
worked well enough, until at last a sad tragedy occurred. One of the
monks having quarrelled (we are not told why) with his foreign guardian,
and quite oblivious of the danger he was thereby bringing on his
companions, rose up in the night and murdered the warrior, taken
unawares in the darkness. What followed history does not relate, but no
doubt William was careful to exact suitable vengeance for his slain
follower.

There is a curious mediæval painting still to be seen in the Palace,
representing the forty Saxon monks and their knightly protectors.

Still one more story of a haunted rectory must be told, a story which
when I heard it made a considerable impression on my mind, from the fact
that it was related by a person who, I feel sure, would stoutly deny
that she "believed in ghosts." And so her incredulity regarding matters
pertaining to the world beyond our five senses made her recital all the
more convincing.

Several years ago this lady, Miss Robinson, chanced to spend a summer
with the rest of her family at a certain country rectory, which her
father had rented for a few months. It should be stated that the
neighbourhood was new to the Robinsons; none of them had ever been in
the county before, and when they first went to the rectory they did not
know any of the residents around.

It happened one evening when the days were very long, and there was
still plenty of light left, that Miss Robinson was going upstairs about
nine o'clock followed by her little dog, which half-way up passed her
and ran on to the stair-head. There it suddenly stopped short, looking
down a passage which led off the landing, and exhibiting every symptom
of fear, shivering and whining, and its hair bristling. Miss Robinson
thought this behaviour on the animal's part rather odd, but as she
gained the landing and looked down the passage, wondering what had
frightened her dog, she distinctly saw a man cross the end of it and
apparently disappear into the wall. As there was no door at the spot
where the figure vanished, Miss Robinson thought this still more
curious, but as she saw nothing further, and the dog also seemed
immediately reassured, she began to think they had both been victims of
a hallucination, and resolved to keep the matter entirely to herself.

A short time afterwards she went to tea with some neighbours who had
called on them; and after the usual conventional inquiries as to how
they liked the place, and so forth, Miss Robinson and her sister were
asked, "if anything had been seen by them of the rectory ghost?"
Instantly Miss Robinson's thoughts flew back to that evening on the
staircase, and her dog's terror. However, in reply, she only asked what
form the "ghost" was supposed to take. The answer was that a former
inhabitant of the house had murdered his wife, and that ever since, the
murderer's ghost was said to _haunt the end of the passage_ which led
off the landing. As she listened to these words, Miss Robinson could not
repress a little shudder at the remembrance of the mysterious figure
seen by herself and her dog at the very spot described. But no
repetition of her experience ever occurred, nor was the apparition seen
by any one else in the house during the time the family stayed there.[6]

[Footnote 6: Mr. Leadbeater would probably class this "ghost" as a
"thought-form." "Apparitions at the spot where some crime was committed
are usually thought-forms projected by the criminal, who, whether living
or dead, but most especially when dead, is perpetually thinking over and
over again the circumstances of his action. Since these thoughts are
naturally specially vivid in his mind on the anniversary of the original
crime, it is often only on that occasion that the artificial elementals
which he creates are strong enough to materialise themselves to ordinary
sight."--"The Astral Plane."]

There is a curious story told of a country house of some antiquity in
North Devon. This house was once let to a Mr. Barlow, who took up his
abode there, and presently asked a friend to stay with him. This
friend's name was Sharpe, and he was put into a room containing an old
and handsome four-post bed. Next morning, Barlow asked Sharpe what sort
of a night he had had. "Very bad," was the unexpected reply. "I could
not sleep for the talking and whispering going on--I suppose--in the
next room. I hope you will ask the servants not to make so much noise
to-night." Barlow accordingly spoke to the servants, who promptly denied
having been anywhere near the guest's bedroom, or having sat up late at
all. But the following day Sharpe had again the same complaint to make;
he could get no sleep on account of the tiresome "whispering" going on
round him all night. Much mystified Barlow suggested a change of
apartment to his visitor, who refused, saying he would rather wait
another night and try to find out the cause of the disturbance. Barlow
then said he would sit up with Sharpe; and accordingly the two retired
to the room at bed-time, and putting out the light, awaited
developments. Presently, sure enough, a whisper was heard, and very soon
the room seemed full of whispering people. After listening amazed for
some time, Barlow struck a match, when immediately the sounds ceased,
nor, although both men carefully examined walls, chimneys, windows, and
every nook and corner anywhere near the room, could they find a sign of
a human being, or any possible reason for the extraordinary
manifestation. But both noticed with astonishment that, whereas the
curtains had been pulled back off the bed, ready for occupation, they
were now pulled _forward_, and the ends neatly folded up on the pillows
as a bed is left in the day-time.

After this Sharpe changed his room for the rest of his stay, but Barlow
made diligent inquiries until he found out all that he could about the
previous history of the house, and particularly of the room containing
the four-poster. He learnt eventually that the big bed had been for many
generations in the house, and had always been used when there was a
death in the family for the lying-in-state of the corpse.

Another Devonshire house, D----n Hall, the ancestral home of an old and
well-known family, is haunted by a lady who sometimes surprises visitors
unaccustomed to her little ways.

On one occasion a husband and wife, who happened to be staying at
D----n, were both dressing for dinner on the first evening of their
visit. Suddenly, without any warning, the door of the wife's room was
opened, and in walked a beautifully dressed woman, with grey or powdered
hair turned off her forehead and worn very high. Without appearing to
take the slightest notice of Mrs. Blank the intruder passed through the
room, opened the dressing-room door, went in and shut the door behind
her. Petrified with astonishment, Mrs. Blank stood for a moment staring
after the apparition, then dashing into the dressing-room she exclaimed,
"Where did that lady go?" (There was no other door except the one
communicating with the bedroom.) The husband, who was calmly dressing,
was naturally somewhat surprised at the question; explanations followed;
he had seen nothing and thought his wife must have been dreaming. But
over-flowing with wonder, Mrs. Blank went downstairs, and seeking her
hostess confided to her the singular incident, adding that she supposed
the "lady" was a fellow-guest who had in some way mistaken her room; but
where had she disappeared to when she entered the dressing-room? "Hush,"
was the reply. "It was no living person you saw, but the _ghost_; only
don't breathe a word to any one else here. There is no harm in her; and
she has often been seen before by people staying in the house." And with
this casual explanation Mrs. Blank was fain to be content.

A story very similar to the above is told by Mr. Henderson in
"Folk-lore of the Northern Counties" about a house in Perthshire, where
the figure of a very beautiful woman was one evening seen on the
staircase by a visitor staying in the house. In this case the hostess
informed her friend that the apparition had frequently been seen before,
but always by strangers, never by any member of the family.

The following incident is said to have happened quite lately in another
Scotch country house. Two sisters, one quite a young girl, went to stay
at this place, and were given rooms close to one another. One night the
younger sister suddenly woke up. The room was dimly lighted by a bright
moon, and there, close by the bed, the girl saw, apparently rising out
of the floor, a human hand. Thinking she had nightmare she closed her
eyes and vainly tried to sleep, but feeling impelled, in spite of fear,
to look again, there was the hand--nothing else--close by her bedside
still. This time she felt horribly frightened, and hurling herself out
of bed, she rushed to her sister's room, which she insisted on sharing
for the rest of the night. In the morning she told the elder girl what
she had seen, declaring she could not pass another night in that room.
Her sister scolded her a little for what she considered foolish
imagination, and begged her to say nothing of the "bad dream" to their
friends, as people did not like it to be thought that there was anything
ghostly about their houses.

Later in the day the son of the family was taking the elder sister over
the house, which was old and interesting. Presently he remarked, "We
have a ghost here, too, you know." The visitor pricked up her ears, and
asked what form the ghost was supposed to take. "It is a hand," was the
reply, "nothing else." "Then my sister saw it last night," exclaimed the
girl, whereupon she was much surprised to see her companion turn pale
and seem agitated. But in reply to her questions he would say nothing
further, leaving his listener wondering uncomfortably if the appearance
of the spectral hand was a bad omen; and if so, whether it boded ill to
the owners of the house or to the individual who had had the
disagreeable experience of seeing it.

Before leaving Scotland we must mention an Aberdeenshire house,
described to us by a friend as inhabited by the ghost of an old lady,
who regularly appears in a certain room once a year. Evidently her
unrest is caused by an uneasy conscience, if tradition be correct; which
says that she was a wicked old person who flourished in the early
seventeenth century. Having a deadly feud with a neighbouring family,
she decoyed them with false promises and an invitation to a feast into
the tower of the house. Then she had the doors locked, and setting fire
to the tower, she got rid of her enemies in one horrible holocaust.

From Scotland to Northumberland is not a far cry, and on our way South
you must listen to an odd little story connected with a house called
Wickstead Priory in that county. The friend who told me was staying at
Wickstead when the incident happened. I will call her X.; and her room
happened to be on the opposite side of the corridor to a large bedroom
occupied by a married sister of the hostess. One evening, while X. was
dressing for dinner she heard some noise and commotion going on in this
other room, and later in the evening, she asked its occupant what had
been the matter. "Oh," was the reply, "I had such a fright! I am sure
you won't believe me, but as I sat doing my hair before the
looking-glass, a _horrid-looking little monk_ came and peered over my
shoulder. I saw him plainly in the glass, but when I turned round, no
one was there!"

I have before remarked on the disagreeable habit so common amongst
ghosts of appearing by one's bedside at dead of night. In fact, a large
percentage of the ghost stories one hears contain the words, "He (or
she) looked round, and there was a figure standing by the bed," &c. &c.
And a tale which I heard on excellent authority of a Staffordshire house
concerns a "bedside" spook of the most conventional pattern, which
succeeded in thoroughly astonishing, if not alarming, a Colonel and Mrs.
West, who were paying a visit to Morton Hall. The owner of the house was
a cousin of Colonel West's, whom he had not seen for a long time, and
of whom he knew little, having been soldiering abroad for many years. On
the first night of their visit, towards the small hours, Mrs. West woke
up quite suddenly, and although the room was dark, yet she could somehow
perceive distinctly a figure advancing towards the end of the bed,
seeming to emerge from the opposite wall. Very startled, Mrs. West woke
her husband, who also saw the figure--by this time stationary at the
foot of the bed--and called out to it, "Who are you, and what do you
want?" But at the sound of the voice the figure retreated, and seemed to
fade away. The rest of the night passed undisturbed.

Next morning Colonel West said to one of the children of the house, "A
nice trick you played us last night." For after much discussion, he and
his wife had come to the conclusion that the only reasonable explanation
of what they had seen was that they had been the victims of a clever
practical joke. The child addressed looked puzzled, and when questioned
said that nobody had played any tricks at all. Later on, their hostess
came to Mrs. West, and said she was extremely sorry to hear from her
little girl that they had been disturbed the night before, adding that
owing to the house being full the Wests had been given the _haunted
room_. For knowing they were complete strangers to Morton, and probably
knew little of its traditions, it was thought very unlikely they would
be troubled by anything uncanny. They were then asked what they had
seen, and Mrs. West described the mysterious "figure," saying that it
resembled a woman wrapped in flowing garments, and carrying a bundle
under her arm. "That was the ghost," replied the cousin's wife. "Years
ago a woman was murdered in that room, and ever since then she has
occasionally appeared to people, dressed as you describe and carrying
her head under her arm."

Wherein lies the decided element of creepiness contained in my next
story? Perhaps it may be that it deals with a haunting of a most unusual
and remote character, having its origin in some unknown disturbance of
the very elements themselves. It relates to a very well-known English
house called Ainsley Abbey, where not so very long ago there was a large
party staying for the local hunt ball; among the guests a certain Mrs.
Devereux. Knowing that she would be very late returning from the ball,
this lady told her maid not to wait up for her, but to go to bed at her
usual time. So what was Mrs. Devereux's surprise when she came back in
the early hours of next morning, to find that the maid had disobeyed her
injunctions, and was waiting in her room. When asked why she had not
gone to bed, she told her mistress that she had done so but had been so
disturbed by the "terrible storm"--thunder and great gale--that she
could not rest and grew too frightened to stay in her room. She sought
the house-servants, but to her surprise they had noticed no storm, and
laughed at her when she said there was a high wind raging round the
house. Finally she resolved to wait in her mistress's room, adding that
she was thankful the party had got back safely, as she had felt
concerned at Mrs. Devereux being out in such awful weather. As the night
had been perfectly calm and fine, Mrs. Devereux was much astonished at
this tale, but at last concluded (though she did not say so) that her