Part 14

As the house was walled in on all sides it was obvious no stray animal could have entered, and we felt, as morning drew near, we should have no option but to join in the general belief that there really was something uncanny about the place.

As we sat down to breakfast the following morning our host greeted us with—“Well, did you see or hear the ghost?” He laughed merrily as we replied, “We did, and have had no sleep, and there are two people here who are clearing out as soon as possible—without breakfast for preference.”

He then said, “Well it may interest you to know I have laid the ghost horse, but thought I’d let you have one night before I explained.” He said, “The first night my wife and I slept here we heard the gallop, gallop, quite clearly, just at the time we had been told we should hear it. My wife became angry as well as frightened and laid the blame on me, saying, ‘Why did you buy such a place—you might have known all the people who have tried to live here could not have been mistaken. I shall not stay in the house another day, and if your money is lost, it's lost.’

“She left the house the next morning. I determined I would fathom the matter, for, truth to tell, my own confidence had been somewhat shaken. So, the next night, instead of going to bed, I decided I would walk out into the country, returning at the time the phantom horse was supposed to appear. I walked about half a mile and came to the turnpike road where I saw and spoke to a policeman. Whilst I was talking to him a high dog cart passed us, carrying two brightly burning lamps. I made some remark to the policeman about the driver’s lonely drive, when he said, ‘Yes, Lord ——— is in residence at ——— Hall, and he sends his groom to town every night with his letters, in time to catch the midnight mail; he always returns about this time. I know exactly when he is returning, even if I am by that house on the hill there (my house), nearly a mile away.’ ‘Why, how is that?’ I queried. ‘Well,’ he replied, ‘the echo of his horse galloping is so clear in the still of the night, and, as he passes certain gaps in the hedges, his lights shine more clearly than any other lights that pass this way.’ I then told him why I was out at that time of night and asked him if ever he had heard the story connected with my house, to which he answered, ‘No; I have been in this part of the country only a few months, and it is only within the past month that I have noticed the echo.’

Well, the next night we tested his explanation together, and that was how we laid the ‘ghost horse of the Derbyshire Moors.’”

A Ghost Story from Wales

THE following is an authentic story which I obtained first hand from a fellow traveller whilst waiting for a train on the small station of Ferryside, Carmarthenshire (Wales).

He had, it appears, unfortunately missed the earlier train of the day and, to pass away an idle hour or two, had visited the old castle in the district. He had some difficulty in obtaining the key, and, so, on reaching the castle, was not surprised to find that the door was not to be opened easily, as it was obvious that the castle is seldom visited these days. At length, when the door did open, imagine his surprise at finding an apparently well set up woman staring at him. Thinking it must be some sort of caretaker, he essayed to speak to her, but, to his great consternation, she disappeared. This so startled my companion that he returned at once to the station, where I met him very much shaken by his experience.

We, later, got into conversation with a resident, who informed us that the castle had the reputation for being haunted, and this was the generally accepted story:—

Many years ago, when knights, maids and dragons ruled the romantic world, there lived a maid within the castle who was betrothed to a young knight of a neighbouring domain. The day of the wedding was fixed and all would have ended happily were it not for a great tragedy which overcame the proceedings. One day, just after paying his court to the young lady, the knight was set upon by robbers, killed, and his body flung into the moat. His fiancée could see all this, but was unable to help, but she was so overcome that she threw herself over the parapet into the moat after him. The body of the knight was found some time later washed up on the sea-shore, but that of the maid was never discovered, and the belief is that she still haunts the castle awaiting the arrival of her beloved.

A Daylight Ghost Story

SOME years ago, some friends took a house for three months at the seaside. In August, I went to stay with them arriving about three on a sunny afternoon. Coming downstairs from the bedroom, I had to pass the open door of a room immediately at the foot of the stairs. Standing just inside, with her back towards me, was a woman dressed in drab, and with her hair arranged in an old-fashioned way; she was looking out of a window, and I paused a moment wondering who it was. I continued my way down and, when within three yards of her, the figure vanished. I went into the room, looked all round—no one there. Then I realised it was a ghost.

Next day I saw a coloured photo of a woman with dress and hair just like the apparition’s. It was not until some weeks later that we were told the portrait was of the owner's first wife. The house had been left her by a relative, and she had planned to have the window, at which I had seen her standing, changed into a bow. Sudden illness seized her and she died, trying to say something about the window.

Some other friends who had the house lent them before this time, saw the figure of a woman going before them up the stairs, but there was no one. Another friend was sitting on the lawn facing that window when the house was empty, and saw the figure of a woman pass across it. She went into the house—no one there—all doors locked.

It was not until months later that we told each other what we had seen.

Are not these apparitions what Mrs. Besant calls “thought-forms?” This woman knew nothing of me; her thoughts came back to the familiar spot and the familiar dress. When I came too near this “form” apparently so solid, but as evanescent as a soap bubble, it broke and vanished.

“The Very Same Ghost”

AS a young medical student on holiday I used often to stay with a doctor uncle, and even now, looking back after all these years, I feel grateful for all I learnt while accompanying him on his rounds.

Uncle Will was a bachelor, too matter-of-fact and prosaic ever to fall in love, I thought. The more surprised, therefore, was I one day to hear him recount his treatment of a patient, a young lady suffering only from what to me seemed an acute attack of hysteria, nothing more. This patient was one of those highly-strung young ladies who easily develop hysteria, and the story she narrated to Uncle Will of what had brought her to the pitiful state she was in seemed to me a tissue of rubbish. She vividly described her meeting with a real ghost on her way home late from a party, alone, through some accidental misunderstanding. Her way lay past a lonely mansion infrequently occupied, rich in historical associations, but so far unclaimed by any ghost. Miss S———, however, succeeded in describing the one she saw in great detail, from his cavalier hat to his buckled shoes. He was leaning against a gate through which she had to pass, and he moved aside courteously to make way for her. She thanked him, and to her horror, he vanished into thin air. The clear moonlight and the snow combined to make any rational explanation impossible.

That was her tale. “A silly fanciful girl, over-excited by the evening's pleasure,” was my comment.

“Yet this girl came a distance of three miles through the worst thunderstorm we've had for years, in the dead of night, to fetch me to her sick mother a short while ago,” answered Uncle Will, and then added: “Good thing I’m her medical man and not a raw fellow like you, laddie; I can understand her, because (I have told no one else) I myself have seen at the very same place the very same ghost.”

The Phantom Carriage

SOME years ago, whilst staying at a little town in Somerset, I became acquainted with the chauffeur of a family who resided in a stately old mansion, standing in a large and well-kept park.

One evening, as the family were away, I was invited to pay my friend a visit. The walk of two miles brought me to the drive gates, and from there to the house was about three-quarters of a mile across the park, which was divided in several places by iron railings, having white gates across the drive. These were always kept closed when the family were away.

After a chat and smoke with my friend, I started my homeward journey about 9:30, it being a beautiful moonlight night. I had got about one-third of the way down the drive when a pair of carriage lamps loomed out ahead, and knowing the people were away, I was surprised to meet a conveyance coming to the house so late at night. The lights came nearer and I could distinctly hear the horses’ hoofs on the drive. I had just reached one of the gates and decided to stay and hold it open for the vehicle to pass. On came the two-horse carriage which was now quite visible, and I shouted to the driver that I would hold the gate open for him, but I got no reply. The carriage was now within about ten yards, when, suddenly, the whole lot disappeared.

One can quite imagine my feelings as I clung to the gate, not knowing whether to go forward or back to the house. I learned afterwards that this conveyance had been seen several years before by some of the old servants.

London

CRYPTS have always held a strange fascination for me. Although a staunch sceptic, I am deeply interested in psychical research, and I have systematically sought out crypts on the supposition that if there are such things as ghosts they would surely prefer to manifest themselves in those creepy vaults. But only once has a ghost appeared to me, and that was in the crypt of a hoary old church in Lincolnshire. I was quite alone; the verger was away from home, and I had to borrow the keys from the rector. It was late on a September afternoon and the light, even with the aid of my bicycle lamp, was very dim. I wandered around, examining dates on tombs until, passing behind a pillar, I was scared to see a man dressed in black leaning against the recumbent effigy of some medieval worthy. “That must be the verger, after all,” I thought; “but how strange! He must have duplicate keys.” So I approached him—cautiously, I admit—and, as I did so, he rose slowly, raised a deprecating hand, as though to stop my advance, and then gradually vanished into space! The dark eeriness of the place rather got on my nerves, and I slipped out quickly to tell the rector of my experience. “Ah!” said he, “you've evidently seen Black Robert the Monk. There's a legend here that in the fifteenth century the poor fellow was locked in the crypt for some offence; but they forgot all about him for a time and when they went to release him, he was stark dead. His ghost appears occasionally, and the visitation, strange to say, is said to bring the church good luck. One would have expected him to cherish a grudge. Anyhow, last time, a wealthy patron gave £100 to our fund. This time—er—” “It will be only half a crown,” I responded.