Part 13

Going down, as a schoolgirl, to spend my first Christmas holidays there, I was astonished to find such a palatial “manse.” It was situated a mile out of the town, had a square turreted tower, an old moat (then the channel for a running stream), an encircling verandah, stabling for four horses, and a long carriage drive, at the gates of which was an old, ivy-covered, uninhabited lodge—an altogether unusual dwelling for its modest tenant!

The only room in the turreted tower was occupied by my father as his “study,” but he rarely made his sermons in it, we children observed, and when asked why, he would reply evasively that he always felt chilly and uncomfortable there.

On the night of Christmas Eve, I was restless and fidgety. A younger sister occupied another bed in the same room, but she soon dropped off to sleep. It was a moonlight night, so I drew up my blind and lay watching the fitful shadows of a tree outside as they played over my walls.

At last I had an uncanny feeling that another presence was added to the occupants of the large old bedroom. I looked towards the door and saw a dark figure gliding through it, apparently in a cloak, the hood of which encircled the small white face of a woman.

I sprang up frightened. The dark figure walked slowly towards me, then deviated to the window, and, without opening it, went through to the verandah. I ran across to my sister's bed, thinking she was playing a trick on me, but, no, she lay there fast asleep.

I had no sleep that night, you may be sure. On telling my story at the breakfast-table next morning, I was merely told that I had been reading too many Christmas ghost stories and had doubtless had a bad nightmare. Though hardly convinced, I dropped the subject.

A few weeks later my father sent me with a note to the office of a solicitor in the town, an elderly man who was deeply versed in all the topographical, historical and social knowledge of the place. He was a Celt, and the custodian of half the human secrets of the district, which may or may not bear on the rest of my story. As I was leaving, he asked in a friendly fashion: “How do you like the manse?”

Taken aback somewhat, I replied: “Oh, very much, but—er—” His spectacled, curious eyes seemed seeking some private confidence.

“‘But' what? You haven’t seen the manse ghost, I suppose? You have! I can see it in your face. Well, did it frighten you?”

Seeing that evasion was impossible, I replied: “Yes, it did—but father—”

“Oh, never mind your father. He pooh-poohed it, no doubt. Not psychic enough to see it himself, of course. Tell me about it.”

Half ashamed, I told my little story. When I had finished, he pulled up his office chair confidentially and said in a low voice: “The stewards of my church bought the manse some ten years ago very cheaply on account of its reputation for being haunted. Most of its tenants since, being religious men, like your father, have never been troubled by the story and never see anything spectral; being temperamentally unable to, probably. But you, young lady, are doubtless psychic and therefore have been privileged. I'll now tell you the story its reputation is founded on.

“Fifteen Christmases ago a young lady visitor came to stay at what you now know as the manse. A wealthy, rather profligate young bachelor in the town fell in love with her and persecuted her with his attentions. She rejected his suit. On Christmas Eve he accompanied her home from a local party. As she did not return, her friends set out in the early morning to look for her and found her lying dead in her evening cloak and hood just outside the little lodge at the gates.

“Suspicion fell on her rejected suitor. He was tried for murder and hanged in the local gaol here, the last execution, by the way, that has taken place. It is said that every Christmas Eve this poor girl's spirit comes back and haunts the place of the tragedy.”

“So you think the hooded lady I saw was the spirit of that poor young girl?” I questioned, horrified.

“Undoubtedly, and it interests me exceedingly that you have had this experience before either hearing the story or the traditional reputation of the house. Probably I ought not to have told you, but, as every Christmas comes round, I, as a believer in psychic phenomena, look expectantly for someone to corroborate this tradition. Do not be troubled; the ghost will not appear again this year. Good morning!”

I spent several more Christmases at the manse, but never again saw the ghost.

I leave it to my readers to decide how much my youth and temperament and my old friend the solicitor’s Celtic bias towards the romantic and the occult had to do with my sincere belief in the objective reality of that hooded lady whom I saw twenty years ago.

Uncle’s Story

On special occasions, a great-uncle of mine regales the family with the story of the ghost he saw.

How he awoke, one night, with the uneasy feeling that someone or something was near, and how he saw a little lady clad in brown at his bedside; how he thought it was his wife because she, too, was small, but, on second thoughts, knew her to be asleep at his side; how he saw the “little brown lady” walk—not glide—into a large cupboard at the end of the room; how he roused his wife, and how she, not he, went to the cupboard, only to find no trace of the “little lady.”

All this he recounts, and, on his word as a Christian, swears it to be true. He appeals to his wife, who nods, and tells us of the colour of his face, of the beads of perspiration on his brow, and emphasises how terrified he was, and that it was she who investigated.

If a member of the circle ventures to suggest that it was the after-effects of a good supper, my uncle has his answer ready, and recommences: How a special organist, playing in the village, stayed at his house for the night; how, next day at breakfast, on being asked how he slept, he replied, ‘Very fair, but I have had a disagreeable nightmare,’ how the organist had seen a “little lady” enter his room, walk to his bedside, and then disappear into a cupboard.

This is the final point in the narrative, and my uncle sits up straight in his chair and exclaims, “Here's his address, go to him and ask him; he is still alive!” And the doubting one does not move—my uncle’s ghost story has another believer. We of the family know that our uncle would never have told of the incident if he had not actually experienced it, and are, thus, bound to believe in ghosts. Yet this ghost signified nothing—no one died, neither misfortune nor pleasant surprise occurred, and we have no family tradition.

The Ghost Horse of the Derbyshire Moors

SOME years ago a friend of ours bought a house which was spoken of for miles around as “haunted”; one family after another had at various times lived at the place, but each of them, in turn, abruptly gave up the tenancy, declaring the house was indeed haunted. All round the house was a wide drive, and the story ran that every midnight at certain periods of the year a horse was heard to gallop round the drive, and, at times, reared itself so high as to touch the bedroom windows.

Though the horse itself was not visible, it was known to be a white one, and sometimes sent out flashing lights.

As soon as our friend was settled in the place, he invited my husband and I to go and stay with him. We readily accepted, just laughing at the ghost story, and, up to the moment of going to bed, we joked about the whole thing. We had been in bed only a short time when we heard the regular gallop, gallop, of a horse going round the drive. It was too real to make any mistake, and we both seemed to freeze with fear and, for a few minutes, were unable to speak. When my husband had gained a little self-control, he struck a light, and we saw the fingers of his watch pointed to a few minutes after midnight. The galloping had now ceased, but there was no sleep for us. As we lay awake, each resolving inwardly that, so soon as morning came, we would with all speed make for our own home, another terrifying thing happened. It was as though someone had given the shutter of our bedroom window a heavy blow. Being, by this time, quite unnerved, I gave a low moan of despair, but my husband made one big leap for the window, and through the light that was just breaking, he saw the outline of a huge bat, just flying away from the shutter. Evidently it had hit the shutter in its flight, and had caused the rattle which had so upset us. So that was one ghost accounted for! But that did not explain away the gallop of the horse, as by this time we neither of us had any doubts regarding its presence in the grounds.