In commenting on the case, Mr. Stead remarks, “That such a story as this, gravely told by a British General in the present day, helps us to understand how our ancestors came to believe in the wonderful story of Herne the Hunter.” I do not know about Herne the Hunter, but it is at all events good testimony that horses as well as men have spirits, for one of the ghosts the General saw was, undoubtedly, that of the pony murdered by B. Why it was still ridden by the phantom of its former master is another question.
The next case I narrate is also taken from Mr. Stead’s same work. It was sent him by one of the leading townsmen of Cowes, in the Isle of Wight, and runs thus:—
“On a fine evening in April, 1859, the writer was riding with a friend on a country road. Twilight was closing down on us, when, after a silence of some minutes, my friend suddenly exclaimed:
“‘No man knows me better than you do, J. Do you think I am a nervous, easily frightened sort of man?’
“‘Far from it,’ said I, ‘among all the men I know in the wild country I have lived and worked in, I know none more fearless or of more unhesitating nerve.’
“‘Well,’ said he, ‘I think I am that, too, and though I have travelled these roads all sorts of hours, summer and winter, for twenty years, I never met anything to startle me, or that I could not account for, until last Monday evening. About this time it was. Riding old Fan’ (a chestnut mare) ‘here on this cross-’ (a four-way cross) ‘road, on my near side was a man on a grey horse, coming from this left-hand road. I had to pull my off-rein to give myself room to pass ahead of him; he was coming at a right angle to me. As I passed the head of the horse I called out “Good night.” Hearing no reply, I turned in my saddle to the off-side, to see whether he appeared to be asleep as he rode, but to my surprise I saw neither man nor horse. So sure was I that I had seen such, that I wheeled old Fan round, and rode back to the middle of the cross, and on neither of the four roads could I see a man or horse, though there was light enough to see two hundred or three hundred yards, as we can now. Well, I then rode over that gate’ (a gate at one corner opening into a grass field), ‘thinking he might have gone that way; looking down by each hedge, I could see nothing of my man and horse; and then—and not until then—I felt myself thrill and start with a shuddering sense that I had seen something uncanny, and, Jove! I put the mare down this hill we are on now at her very best pace. But the strangest part of my story is to come,’ said he, continuing.
“‘After I had done my business at the farmhouse here, at foot of this hill, I told the old farmer and his wife what I had seen, as I have now told you. The old man said:
“‘“For many years I have known thee, M——, on this road, and have you never seen the like before on that cross?”
“‘“Seen what before?” I said.
“‘“Why, a man in light-coloured clothes on a grey horse,” said he.
“‘“No, never,” said I, “but I swear I have this evening.”
“‘The farmer asked, “Had I never heard of what happened to the Miller of L—— Mills about forty years ago?”
“‘“No, never a word,” I told him.
“‘“Well,” he said, “about forty years ago this miller, returning from market, was waylaid and murdered on that cross-road, pockets rifled of money and watch. The horse ran home, about a mile away. Two serving-men set out with lanterns and found their master dead. He was dressed, as millers often do in this part of the country, in light-coloured clothes, and the horse was a grey horse. The murderers were never found. These are facts,” continued the farmer. “I took this farm soon after it all happened, and, though I have known all this, and have passed over that cross several thousands of times, I never knew anything unusual there myself, but there have been a number of people who tell the same story you have told mother and me, M——, and describe the appearance as you have done to us to-night.”’”
Mr. Stead goes on to add: “Four evenings after all this occurred my friend related it to me as we were riding along the same road. He continued to pass there many times every year for ten years, but never a day saw anything of that sort.”
My next case, a reproduction of a letter in the Occult Review of September, 1906, reads thus:—
“A Phantom Horse and Rider—Mrs. Gaskin Anderston’s Story
“The following story is, I think, very remarkable, and I give it exactly as it was told to me, and written down at the time.
“A number of members of a gentleman’s club were talking and discussing, amongst other subjects, the possibility of there being a future state for animals. One of the members said:
“‘I firmly believe there is. In my early youth I had a practice as a medical man in one of the Midland Counties. One of my patients was a very wealthy man, who owned large tracts of land and had a stud composed entirely of bay horses with black points—this was a hobby of his, and he would never have any others. One day a messenger came summoning me to Mr. L——, as he had just met with a very bad accident, and was on the point of death. I mounted my horse and started off without delay. As I was riding through the front gates to the house, I heard a shot, and to my amazement the very man I was going to visit rode past at a furious pace, riding a wretched-looking chestnut with one white forefoot and a white star on its forehead. Arrived at the house the butler said:
“‘“He has gone, sir; they had to shoot the horse—you would hear the shot—and at the same moment my master died.”
“‘He had had this horse sent on approval; whilst riding it, it backed over a precipice, injuring Mr. L—— fatally, and on being taken to the stables it was found necessary to shoot it.’—Alpha.”
The next case I append (I published it in a weekly journal some years ago) was related to me by a Captain Beauclerk.
The White Horse of Eastover
When I came down to breakfast one morning I found amongst several letters awaiting me one from Colonel Onslow, the Commanding Officer of my regiment when I first joined. He had always been rather partial to me, and the friendship between us continued after his retirement. I heard from him regularly at more or less prolonged intervals, and either at Christmas or Easter invariably received an invitation to spend a few days with him. On this occasion he was most anxious that I should accept.
“Do come to us for Easter,” he wrote. “I am sure this place will interest you—it is haunted.”
The cunning fellow! He knew I was very keen on Psychical Research work, and would go almost anywhere on the bare chance of seeing a ghost.
At that time I was quite open-minded, I had arrived at no definite conclusion as to the existence or non-existence of ghosts. But to tell the truth, I doubted very much if the Colonel’s word, in these circumstances, could be relied upon. I had grave suspicions that this “haunting” was but an invention for the purpose of getting me to Eastover. However, as it was just possible that I might be mistaken—that there really was a ghost, and as I had not seen Colonel Onslow for a long time, and indulged in feelings of the warmest regard both for him and his wife, I resolved to go.
Accordingly I set out early in the afternoon of the Good Friday. The weather, which had been muggy in London, grew colder and colder the further we advanced along the line, and by the time we reached Eastover there was every prospect of a storm.
As I expected, a closed carriage had been sent to meet me; for the Colonel, carrying conservatism—with more conservatism than sense, perhaps—to a fine point, cherished a deep-rooted aversion to innovations of any sort, and consequently abhorred motors. His house, Eastover Hall, is three miles from the station, and lies at the foot of a steep spine of the Chilterns.
The grounds of Eastover Hall were extensive; but, in the ordinary sense, far from beautiful. To me, however, they were more than beautiful; there was a grandeur in them—a grandeur that appealed to me far more than mere beauty—the grand
eur of desolation, the grandeur of the Unknown. As we passed through the massive iron gates of the lodge, I looked upon countless acres of withered, undulating grass; upon a few rank sedges; upon a score or so of decayed trees; upon a house—huge, bare, grey and massive; upon bleak walls; upon vacant, eye-like windows; upon crude, scenic inhospitality, the very magnitude of which overpowered me. I have said it was cold; but there hung over the estate of Eastover an iciness that brought with it a quickening, a sickening of the heart, and a dreariness that, whilst being depressing in the extreme, was, withal, sublime. Sublime and mysterious; mysterious and insoluble. A thousand fancies swarmed through my mind; yet I could grapple with none; and I was loth to acknowledge that, although there are combinations of very simple material objects which might have had the power of affecting me thus, yet any attempt to analyse that power was beyond—far beyond—my mental capability.
The house, though old—and its black oak panellings, silent staircases, dark corridors, and general air of gloom were certainly suggestive of ghosts—did not affect me in the same degree. The fear it inspired was the ordinary fear inspired by the ordinary superphysical, but the fear I felt in the grounds was a fear created by something out of the way—something far more bizarre than a mere phantom of the dead.
The Colonel asked me if I had experienced any unusual sensations the moment I entered the house, and I told him, “Yes.”
“Nearly everyone does,” he replied, “and yet, so far as I know, no one has ever seen anything. The noises we hear all round the house have lately been more frequent. I won’t describe them; I want to learn your unbiassed opinion of them first.”
We then had tea, and whilst the rest—there was a large house-party—indulged in music and cards, the Colonel and I had a delightful chat about old times. I went to bed in the firm resolution of keeping awake till at least two; but I was very tired, and the excessive cold had made me extremely sleepy; consequently, despite my heroic efforts, I gradually dozed off, and knew no more till it was broad daylight and the butler entered my room with a cup of tea. When I came down to breakfast I found everyone in the best of spirits. The Onslows are “great hands” at original entertainments, and the announcement that there would be a masked ball that evening was received with tremendous enthusiasm.
“To-night we dance, to-morrow we feed on Easter eggs and fancy cakes,” one of the guests laughingly whispered. “What a nicely ordered programme! I hear, too, we are to have a real old-fashioned Easter Day—heaving and lifting, and stool-ball. Egad! The Colonel deserves knighthood!”
Soon after breakfast there was a general stampede to Seeton and Dinstable to buy gifts; for in that respect again the Onslows stuck to old customs, and there was a general interchange of presents on Easter morning. My purchases made, I joined one or two of the house-party at lunch in Seeton, cycled back alone to Eastover in time for tea; and, at five o’clock, commenced my first explorations of the grounds. The sky having become clouded my progress was somewhat slow. I did the Park first, and I had not gone very far before I detected the same presence I had so acutely felt the previous afternoon. Like the scent of a wild beast, it had a certain defined track which I followed astutely, eventually coming to a full stop in front of a wall of rock. I then perceived by the aid of a few fitful rays of suppressed light, which at intervals struggled successfully through a black bank of clouds, the yawning mouth of a big cavern, from the roof of which hung innumerable stalactites. I now suddenly realized that I was in a very lonely, isolated spot, and became immeasurably perturbed. The Unknown Something in the atmosphere which had inspired me with so much fear was here conglomerated—it was no longer the mere essence—it was the whole Thing. The whole Thing, but what was that Thing? A hideous fascination made me keep my gaze riveted on the gaping hole opposite me. At first I could make out nothing—nothing but jagged walls and roof, and empty darkness; then there suddenly appeared in the very innermost recesses of the cave a faint glow of crimson light which grew and grew, until with startling abruptness it resolved itself into two huge eyes, red and menacing. The sight was so unexpected, and, by reason of its intense malignity, so appalling, that I was simply dumbfounded. I could do nothing but stare at the Thing—paralysed and speechless. I made a desperate effort to get back my self-possession; I strove with all my might to reason with myself, to assure myself that this was the supreme moment of my life, the moment I had so long and earnestly desired. But it was in vain; I was terrified—helplessly, hopelessly terrified. The eyes moved, they drew nearer and nearer to me, and as they did so they became more and more hostile. I opened my mouth to shout for help, I could feel my lungs bursting under the tension; not a sound came; and then—then, as the eyes closed on me, and I could feel the cold, clammy weight pressing me down, there rang out, loud and clear, in the keen and cutting air of the spring evening, a whole choir of voices—the village choral society.
I am not particularly fond of music—certainly not of village music, however well trained it may be; but I can honestly affirm that, at that moment, no sounds could have been more welcome to me than those old folk-songs piped by the rustics, for the instant they commenced the spell that so closely held me prisoner was broken, my faculties returned, and reeling back out of the clutches of the hateful Thing, I joyfully turned and fled.
I related my adventure to the Colonel, and he told me that the cave was generally deemed to be the most haunted spot in the grounds, that no one cared to venture there alone after dark.
“I have myself many times visited the cave at night—in the company of others,” he said, “and we have invariably experienced sensations of the utmost horror and repulsion, though we have seen nothing. It must be a devil.”
I thought so, too, and exclaimed with some vehemence that the proper course for him to pursue was to have the cave filled in or blasted. That night I awoke at about one o’clock with the feeling very strong on me that something was prowling about under my window. For some time I fought against the impulse to get out of bed and look, but at last I yielded. It was bright moonlight—every obstacle in the grounds stood out with wonderful clearness—and directly beneath the window, peering up at me, were the eyes—red, lurid, satanical. A dog barked, and they vanished. I did not sleep again that night, not until the daylight broke, when I had barely shut my eyes before I was aroused by decidedly material bangings on the doors and hyper-boisterous Easter greetings.
After breakfast a few of the party went to church, a few into the nursery to romp with the children, whilst the rest dispersed in different directions. At luncheon all met again, and there was much merry-making over the tansy cakes—very foolish, no doubt, but to me at least very delightful, and perhaps a wise practice, at times, even for the most prosaic. In the afternoon the Colonel took me for a drive to a charmingly picturesque village in the Chilterns, whence we did not set out on our way back till it was twilight.
The Colonel was a good whip, and the horse, though young and rather high-spirited, was, he said, very dependable on the whole, and had never caused him any trouble. We spun along at a brisk trot—the last village separating us from the Hall was past, and we were on a high eminence, almost within sight of home, when a startling change in the atmosphere suddenly became apparent—it turned icy cold. I made some sort of comment to the Colonel, and as I did so the horse shied.
“Hulloa!” I exclaimed. “Does she often do this?”
“No, not often, only when we are on this road about this time,” was the grim rejoinder. “Keep your eyes open and sit tight.”
We were now amid scenery of the same desolate type that had so impressed me the day of my arrival. Gaunt, barren hills, wild, uncultivated levels, sombre valleys, inhabited only by grotesque enigmatical shadows that came from Heaven knows where, and hemmed us in on all sides.
A large quarry, half full of water and partly overgrown with brambles, riveted my attention, and as I gazed fixedly at it I saw,
or fancied I saw, the shape of something large and white—vividly white—rise from the bottom.
The glimpse I caught of it was, however, only momentary, for we were moving along at a great pace, and I had hardly seen the last of it before the quarry was left behind and we were descending a long and gradual declivity. There was but little wind, but the cold was benumbing; neither of us spoke, and the silence was unbroken save by the monotonous patter, patter of the horse’s hoofs on the hard road.
We were, I should say, about half-way down the hill, when away in our rear, from the direction of the quarry, came a loud protracted neigh. I at once looked round, and saw standing on the crest of the eminence we had just quitted, and most vividly outlined against the enveloping darkness, a gigantic horse, white and luminous.
At that moment our own mare took fright; we were abruptly swung forward, and, had I not—mindful of the Colonel’s warning—been “sitting tight,” I should undoubtedly have been thrown out. We dashed downhill at a terrific rate, our mare mad with terror, and on peering over my shoulder I saw, to my horror, the white steed tearing along not fifty yards behind us. I was now able to get a vivid impression of the monstrous beast. Although the night was dark, a strong, lurid glow, which seemed to emanate from all over it, enabled me to see distinctly its broad, muscular breast; its panting, steaming flanks; its long, graceful legs with their hairy fetlocks and shoeless, shining hoofs; its powerful but arched back; its lofty, colossal head with waving forelock and broad, massive forehead; its snorting nostrils; its distended, foaming jaws; its huge, glistening teeth; and its lips, wreathed in a savage grin. On and on it raced, its strides prodigious, its mighty mane rising and falling, and blowing all around it in unrestrained confusion.
A slip—a single slip, and we should be entirely at its mercy.
The Elliott O’Donnell Supernatural Megapack Page 12
