CHAPTER VII

A HAUNTED WOOD AND A HAUNTED QUARRY IN CANADA

All my ghostly experiences in the United States were of indoor hauntings, consisting mostly of the visitation of phantasms of the dead, who in earthly form had either suffered or committed some deed of violence. I never met with a psychic experience out-of-doors, though I only too well realised the possibilities of such when I was sleeping by myself on the ranche in Oregon, or riding alone through the giant forests of the Cascades mountains.

I believe all the loneliest parts of America, the great, bold Rockies, the vast Californian and Oregon forests are periodically visited by ghosts—ghosts of murdered soldiers, of scalp-raising Indians, of tramp suicides—of all manner of evilly-disposed white and red people, and of neutrarians, spirits that have never inhabited earthly bodies, and which are as grotesque and awe-inspiring as the fantastically carved boulders and queerly shaped tree trunks with which those parts are so lavishly bestrewn.

America, indeed, affords one of the wildest fields in the world for the genuine ghost hunter. I use the word genuine advisedly, for I would differentiate between the ghost hunter who is genuine, and the professor of physics, who expects the Unknown to be subservient to his beck and call. I say, then, for the ghost hunter with a kindly, sympathetic nature, the ghost hunter whose thoughts are more often on the spiritual than the material plane, and who would earnestly seek the chance to succour and comfort a lost soul, the United States of America gives the greatest scope.

From what I have heard, for I have never been there, Canada also is a much haunted country. An account of a haunting there was given me by a French Canadian, Bertram Armand, whom I met with his wife one day at an hotel in New York. Though born and educated in Canada, he had served in the French Army, and had spent a considerable portion of his life in France and Algiers. He had now retired, and it was on the occasion of his quittal of the Army and return to Canada that the event I am about to narrate, and which I give as nearly as possible in his own words, occurred:—

“My home,” he began, “was in a small town called Garvois,[2] to the South-West of Winnipeg, which, at the time of my adventure, some ten or twelve years ago, was nothing like the size it is now.

[2] I am not sure of the proper spelling of the word, as the writing in my original notes has become so very illegible in places.

“I had got out of the train at Winnipeg, and dined at an hotel, and the evening was well set in before I rose from my comfortable seat before the fire and prepared for my long tramp.

“‘If you take my advice, sir,’ the landlord said, ‘you will avoid the wood of Garvois after dark.’ ‘And why, pray?’ I asked. ‘Because, sir,’ he responded, ‘because it bears an evil reputation.’

“‘An evil reputation!’ I laughed. ‘Ma foi! it must bear a very evil reputation, a positively devilish reputation, to frighten an old soldier like me. Why, man alive, I have served in the French Army in the wildest regions of Algiers for years. A wood with an evil reputation, mille tonnerres,—that’s a joke I shan’t forget in a hurry.’ Then seeing him look glum, I remarked, for I had no wish to hurt his feelings, ‘I can appreciate your intended kindness, but you see I have been away from home for ten years—ten whole years, and I am dying to see my father. He is the only relative I have—therefore you can gather that I want to go by the quickest route, and the road through the wood, if I remember rightly, is twice as short as that by the plain. Is it not so?’

“The landlord shrugged his shoulders. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘the road over the plain is longer—certainly it is longer—and if you go by it you won’t arrive at your father’s house till morning, but, monsieur, if you go by the wood you may never reach home at all.’

“‘I will risk it,’ I laughed; ‘there can only be robbers or wolves, and I am prepared for either. I have these!’ And I tapped the ends of two six-shooters. ‘At all events, if anything happens, I will haunt the wood, and you may come and see me. Au revoir!’ I waved my hand as I spoke, and putting my pack in the proper place on my back, I stepped airily on to the broad, brown track leading to Garvois.

“Within an hour of my departure, the weather, which had been abominably cloudy for the time of the year, took a sudden turn for the worse, and the rain descended in torrents. I chuckled grimly, Mr. O’Donnell, for what after all are the discomforts of sodden clothes and squishy boots compared with what a soldier has to undergo in Africa—in the Sahara, where the sun is hell and the insects—devils. Rain, Mon Dieu! What’s rain! On and on I tramped, whistling gaily and running my hand over my pack now and again to see that everything was safe. I had a present there for my father, whom I loved more than anyone else in the world. ‘You see,’ he added with a smile, ‘I hadn’t met Jacqueline then.’

“Well, so long as I kept to the main track there was not much to complain about—it had recently been attended to, but the moment I turned off it, and on to the side one leading to the wood, my troubles began. Deep ruts, big holes, huge earth mounds, and sharp-edged stones made it bad enough in dry weather; it was now a quagmire—a quagmire that afforded every possibility of soon becoming dangerous.

“I had seen nothing like it since I was in Algiers, but, bah! a soldier can get used to anything. ‘It is a mere nothing,’ I said to myself. ‘I can dive, I can swim; it will take more than cold water to kill me; and if it were twenty times as bad I would face it.’ Ten years is a long time to be away from one’s home, Mr. O’Donnell. I trudged on, and was soon ankle-deep in black mud. At eight o’clock I was confronted by a long line of huge, black trees, that bent their dripping tops as if they had orders to salute me. Coming to a halt, and leaning against a slender, isolated pine, that creaked and groaned in the rough night air, I ruefully surveyed the prospect in front of me. The track through the wood was twelve miles—nothing of a walk if I had been fresh and the weather dry, but in my present condition a seemingly impossible one. For the last hour or so I had experienced nothing but a recurrence of slips and falls, I had done nothing but plunge in and out of abysses, and I had been completely battered to pieces by the wind. And the rain! I can stand any amount of heat, Mr. O’Donnell, but wet, no, it gets into every pore of my skin and completely demoralises me. I was exhausted, almost at the end of my tether, and I felt a very little more would see me on the ground, absolutely done. Now, of course, I am used to sleeping out of doors all night; but, then, Canada is not France, neither is it Africa, and the warmth and dryness of the Sahara had made me terribly susceptible to chills. A night in this wood would mean for certain either pneumonia or rheumatic fever—and I might never get home to see my father. So what alternative was there? Only to tramp back again over that dreadful track, and take the long route over the plains. I couldn’t do it; I hadn’t the strength. I would struggle on. I did so—I took the plunge. The desert, with the lights twinkling far away on its extremities, was speedily hidden from view; trees shut me in on all sides; I was at last in the forest. I had never known what it was to be nervous, but the silence I now experienced disquieted me. I had never felt anything like it. It struck me as an assumed silence—assumed purposely to cloak a deep-rooted and universal resentment. Moreover, I had an uncomfortable suspicion that it was the prelude to something hostile—to some peculiar antagonistic demonstration, the very nature of which was at present enigmatical. It was a silence savouring of a world other than ours—of a world I knew nothing about—indeed, at that period of my life I was an atheist, and neither believed in a God or a future existence. The rain pattered heavily on the foliage overhead, and the wind groaned, but the voices—the voices of the beings in this Unknown World—were still, absolutely still. In the gloom the trees assumed strange shapes; their motions, too, were strange—so strange that I did not think they could possibly have been caused by the wind. You may think I am hyper-imaginative, Mr. O’Donnell, but I do not think I am; my wife would tell me if I were, for she has never been slow in pointing out my faults, have you, Jacqueline?”

Mrs. Armand smiled. “No, Mr. O’Donnell,” she said, “he has many faults, but exaggeration is not one of them; indeed, he is so precise as to be sometimes dull.”

Mr. Armand continued: “I saw lights, too, Mr. O’Donnell,” he said; “all kinds of coloured lights, which I did not then attribute to possible spirit agency. I simply did not know what they were. I was not afraid, but I became wary, and moved furtively forward, as if I had been scouting in some enemy’s country. Every now and then I fancied I heard soft steps that I could associate with nothing human, stealing surreptitiously behind me. I paused and looked carefully over my shoulder, but there was nothing visible—only the gloom. At length the darkness became so intense that I could no longer see the track. I continued to advance, however, and after plunging through a succession of bogs and briars was finally brought to a peremptory halt by a stone wall. This wall was four feet or so in height, but what lay on the other side of it, or where indeed it began or ended, it was impossible to decide, and I was wondering what on earth I had better do next—for my energy was nearly spent—when a voice suddenly called out, ‘Keep along by the wall and I will meet you at the wicket gate!’ Overjoyed, I obeyed. The wall swerved sharply round, and a few yards beyond, with one hand on the gate and in the other a dark lantern, stood the slight, muffled-up figure of a woman. In a few words I explained the situation—how in the blinding rain and darkness of the forest I had lost my way, and was too exhausted to go any further. ‘I don’t mind sleeping anywhere,’ I pleaded, ‘so long as I can lie where it is dry and rest till morning. An attic, barn, anything will do.’

“‘I think I can offer you something better than that,’ the woman responded, as she led me through the gate and along a narrow winding path to a large, low, rakish-looking house, whose black walls, rising suddenly out of the ground before me, seemed startlingly familiar. My guide halted—a key turned, a door flew open—there was a rush of strange, musty air, and almost before I had time to realise it, I was inside the building. ‘I must apologise for the absence of light,’ the woman said, ‘but under the circumstances the omission is unavoidable. If we had been expecting you, it would, of course, have been different. If you will follow me, I will take you to your room.’ I tried to see her face, to make out what she was like, but I was frustrated in my desire by the way in which she held the lantern. Nor was I any more fortunate in the discernment of my surroundings; I could see the ground at my feet, but no more; all—everything—was shrouded in an impenetrable, sable mantle. The curious feeling that I had been there before, that I knew the house well, again came over me, although prior to now I had never seen any habitation in the wood, nor even known that one existed. I argued it was probably a scent—some peculiar odour in the atmosphere that had conjured back memories of some other and quite distinct place; but I had not much time for speculation, as the woman’s movements were very quick, and I had barely scraped the thickest of the mud from off my feet before she had begun to ascend a luxuriously-carpetted staircase. We crossed what I took to be a landing, and stepped some score or so paces down a corridor, finally halting before a half-open doorway.

“‘There is your room,’ she said. ‘You need have no fear—the linen is well aired, and of course,’ she added, slightly sniffing, ‘you may, if you like, open the windows. We have been obliged to keep them closed, owing to the damp. Good-night!’

“She turned to go, and just for the fraction of a second I saw her face. It was exquisite. My wife will pardon me for saying my wildest dreams of woman’s beauty were not merely rivalled, they were surpassed. I doubt even if so great a painter of feminine charms as Richter could have done her credit. Who was she? I kept asking myself that question long after she had left me, and the echoes of her high-heeled shoes along the passage and down the stairs had ceased. Who was she? Ma foi! The vision of such loveliness would never leave me. I would enjoy them over and over again in my sleep. Indeed, I was so obsessed with her face that I paid little or no heed to the novelty of the situation. At other times I might have queried the desirability of being in a strange bedroom in a strange house—in the dark. But the knowledge she was near at hand was quite enough for me. I was already in love with her—and the queerest, the most perplexing of predicaments were as nothing to me. I soared above—God alone knew how high above—dilemmas. Still, when I came to argue it out with myself, it was a bit of a nuisance my matches were sodden and I could not use them. I would have preferred seeing the bed upon which I was to lie, and a spot where I could lay my clothes. I was so afraid of soiling the upholstery that I undressed where I stood, and then, making a guess at the direction of the bed, walked cautiously forward. By a piece of luck, which struck me as somewhat extraordinary, I collided with the bedstead—a large brass one—almost immediately.

“It was the work of a second to throw back the sheets and scramble in between them, and then, with my mind full to overflowing with visions of my newly-found goddess, I entrusted both her and my father to the safe keeping of the Virgin and the Saints—this though I had no faith in a future for myself—and sank into a deep refreshing sleep.

“How long I remained in that condition I never knew. I woke with a start to find the room no longer dark, but partially illuminated with a fitful red glow which proceeded from the stove, now full of lurid logs. Thinking I must be dreaming, I rubbed my eyes. But no; the fire was still there, and even as I gazed at it I caught the sound of approaching footsteps—the sharp rat-tat of high-heeled shoes. Nearer and nearer they came, right up to the entrance of my room, when, to my astonishment and no little embarrassment, the door gently opened, and in tip-toed the object of my admiration. In one hand she carried a long-handled iron spoon, and in the other a candle. I was entranced. Now that she had taken off her hood and cloak, beauties hitherto concealed stood out in dazzling fulness and bewitched me. Never had I seen such a wealth of rich golden hair, such a perfect nose and chin, such tiny ears, carmine lips, white teeth, black-lashed, china-blue eyes, white tapering fingers, rosy, almond-shaped nails, and such a heavenly figure. My wife, Mr. O’Donnell, bears me no animosity. You don’t, do you, Jacqueline?”

“No, no,” Mrs. Armand laughed. “I understand you. All men are the same. Go on and tell Mr. O’Donnell more about your goddess.”

“You are right,” Bertram Armand exclaimed. “She was a goddess—at least my idea of one, then. What did she want? I sat up in bed, and was about to speak to her, when she laid a finger on her lips and smilingly bade me be silent. She then glided to the grate, and taking from her pocket a small lump of lead, carefully put it into the spoon, which she balanced with the utmost care on the brightest of the faggots. That done, she again smiled meaningly at me, and walking to the dainty dressing-table, strewn profusely with rings and bracelets, looked long and critically at herself in the mirror. It was while she was thus occupied that I suddenly became conscious of something or someone close to me. In a moment my heart ceased to beat; in deadly fear I glanced round, and perceived, lying by my side, an old man with long, grizzled hair and beard, whose features were somehow vaguely familiar to me. He was sound asleep—a fact betrayed by his breathing, which was loud and stertorious. A slight movement from the other part of the room attracting my attention, I looked up, just in time to see the girl flash me a look of subtle warning.

“‘Don’t wake him, whatever you do,’ her eyes said; ‘he _must_ sleep on.’

“‘Don’t wake him,’ I repeated to myself; ‘why, of course I won’t. I wouldn’t do anything—no matter what—if you told me not to; I would obey you even at the risk of life and soul!’ Dieu en ciel! How lovely!

“Cautiously—first one daintily clad foot and then the other—the girl approached the stove. She lifted the spoon carefully from the fire, bore it steadily before her to the bed, and gaily motioning to me to keep quiet, she gently turned the sleeper’s head over on the pillow, and with a dexterous movement of her clever, supple fingers, poured the seething, hissing lead into his ear. There was an agonising scream—the eyes of the old man opened convulsively, and in the brief glimpse I caught of them, I recognised my father.

“Almost simultaneously came a loud crash, blinding darkness, and I was once again in the forest—God knows how—pursuing my way laboriously along the mud-laden track.

“At early dawn I arrived within sight of Garvois—Garvois bathed in a cold grey mist, and a little later I dragged myself with difficulty towards the wicket gate leading to my father’s house. To my intense surprise it was padlocked, but the mystery explained itself at once—standing upright in the garden was a notice-board, bearing the inscription, ‘To be Let or Sold.’ I swayed on my feet as I looked at it, and with a bursting heart reeled away to the nearest house—the house of my old friend, Henry Crozier.

“Henry had just awakened—he invariably got up at five—and shuffling downstairs, he opened the door.

“‘Le diable!’ he exclaimed, ‘if it isn’t Bertram! Ma foi! I was dreaming of you last night. So you’ve come back!’

“‘Come back to find the place empty!’ I murmured. ‘But, tell me, my friend, where’s my father?’

“Henry’s eyes grew round with astonishment. ‘What!’ he said. ‘What! you don’t know?’ Then, seeing my look of utter stupefaction, he added: ‘My poor Bertram! Your father is dead! He died a fortnight ago, the very day after his marriage with Mademoiselle Marie Dernille, the niece of his last housekeeper. What killed him? Apoplexy. It does not do to dispute the doctor.’

“‘But the woman—the woman? What was she like?’ I stuttered.

“‘Why,’ Harry enunciated slowly, ‘she was what some people would call beautiful, though, as God is my judge, I did not admire her. Fair, very fair, a mass of washed-out yellow hair, painted lips—oh, yes, anyone could see they were painted—and big, very big eyes—china-blue and smiling—name of a name—eternally smiling.’”

* * * * *

This was Bertram Armand’s account of his experience. In answer to my questions he told me that he had searched the wood thoroughly, but there was no house of any sort in it, and afterwards, having had his father’s body secretly exhumed, and finding lead in the ear, he had obtained an order for the arrest of his step-mother. She was, however, nowhere to be found, and he supposed that, having got wind of the affair, she had escaped out of the country.

Armand told his story with every appearance of sincerity, and as I could see that his wife believed it, I have no doubt at all that it was true.

* * * * *

The case of another haunting in Canada was told me on my way out to the States, on board one of the White Star Liners.

My place at table was next to a Doctor and Mrs. Fanshawe, both Canadians, who, hearing that I was interested in everything connected with the superphysical, told me that they had had several rather curious experiences. The doctor took from his breast-pocket a small leather purse, and, opening it, showed me a dull, blue stone.

“Are you a geologist?” he asked.

“No,” I replied. “I know nothing whatever about stones. What is it?”

“No one has ever been able to tell me,” he said. “I have shown it to several Professors at the English Universities and they have each classified it differently. Not one of them, I believe, had ever seen or even heard of a stone like it. And for a very simple reason. In Canada there is much soil that has never been disturbed, and many tracts of land no white man has ever trod.

“But let me explain how the stone came into my possession. Five years ago we took a house situated about four or five miles from Montreal. It was a long, low, two storey house, standing a little back from the road, and connected with it by a semi-circular sweep of gravel road. Opposite the house was a large pit, where quarrying had recently been begun, but had been discontinued, owing to the calcinous nature of the rock, which rendered it of little use for building purposes. Incessant rains had formed a deep pool in the bottom of the pit, and the water possessed this idiosyncrasy—the weather made no difference to its temperature—it was icy cold in summer and winter alike.

“Viewed in the day-time, the quarry struck one as ordinary enough. It was at dusk, when the shadows from the trees and bushes swept across the road and dimmed the mouth of the great pit, that it impressed one as unsavoury. I remember marvelling at this metamorphosis the first day of our arrival. It was July, and the landscape was vividly aglow with brilliant, scintillating sunbeams. A more radiant scene you could not imagine. ‘One might make a capital swimming bath of this,’ I remarked to my wife, as we wandered to the edge of the pit and peered down into the silent, sparkling water.

“‘Yes,’ she laughed. ‘Supposing we start right away. I never appreciate a bath more than after a journey.’

“That was in the morning. In the evening the place produced a very different impression. We had dinner—the sort of scratch meal one must expect when one is ‘moving in,’ and I had strolled out alone. I first of all explored the premises. There was a big garden with an orchard alongside, and a small field beyond; and I pictured to myself how nice it would all look when the grass was properly cut and the flower-beds planted by my wife, who, by the way, thoroughly understands landscape gardening. You do, don’t you, Mabel?”

Mrs. Fanshawe nodded, and her husband resumed his story.

“I lit another cigar and walked out into the road to have a look at the quarry. I hardly recognised it. It seemed, since the morning, to have undergone a complete change. The banks appeared higher and more precipitous, the water blacker and infinitely deeper, and there was a cold dreariness about the place that made me shiver. I thought I had never viewed anything so utterly forlorn and murderous. On the opposite bank were a few rank sedges and several white trunks of decayed trees. I had not noticed them before, but now, as I gazed down at the pool, I saw their re-modelled and inverted images outlined with a clearness that more than rivalled that of their material counterparts.

“I was pondering over this phenomenon, when I suddenly felt I was being watched, and, raising my eyes, I perceived on the bank facing me, just out of reach of the water, a boulder of ebony-black and grotesquely-wrought rock. I could not see anything behind it, but I was convinced that something was there, something that was crouching on its haunches and glaring savagely at me. I also felt convinced that this thing, which I could not actually see—though I knew for certain it was there—was some strange hybrid of a man and animal; a thing with limbs like ours, but the face of some fantastic, mocking, malevolent beast.

“Filled with a great uneasiness and all manner of vague fears, I hurried back to the house, where all was bright and cheerful, but I could not rid my mind of the impression it had taken from the pool, and that night my dreams were troubled and alarming.

“I said nothing about it to my wife, but two days later, when I was mending my fishing-rod in the study, she came to me in a great state of agitation. ‘Why, what’s the matter, Mabel?’ I asked anxiously; ‘you look very white! Are you ill?’ ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’ve only had a shock.’”

At the doctor’s request, Mrs. Fanshawe then took up the thread.

“I was walking down one of the side-paths of the garden,” she said, “looking for Ephraim (Ephraim was our gardener), when I heard a great rustling of leaves. I turned round and saw a violent agitation going on in the branches of an apple-tree. Much mystified, as I could see no cause for it, I approached nearer, and as I did so I distinctly heard some heavy body drop to the earth with a thud; I then felt something brush past me. I can’t exactly describe the sensation it caused, because it is beyond words. I can only say I felt I was being touched by something immeasurably foul and antagonistic. I reeled right back, and that moment someone spoke. It was the gardener who came running towards me to ask if he could go home, as his wife had suddenly been taken ill.”

“That was all that happened, then?”

“No,” Mrs. Fanshawe replied. “That night, after we had been in bed some time, we were awakened by hearing our Newfoundland dog, Pat, bark. I went downstairs to see what was the matter with him—he slept in the house—and found him standing in the hall with his hair all erect, looking at the window by the front door.

“I called to my husband, and he came down with his revolver. We then both went to the window and looked out, but could see no one. ‘I’m sure Pat sees something,’ I observed; ‘he is beside himself with terror.’ ‘What is it, Pat?’ Dick said, and was about to stroke him, when there came a violent hammering at the door. We looked at one another in dismay. ‘Who’s there?’ Dick cried, and, there being no reply, he fired—the bullet going right through the door. We threw it open—there was no one there. We then searched the garden (nothing would persuade Pat to accompany us), but we found no one.

“For a week after this incident we were undisturbed; then all sorts of noises were heard in the house—soft footsteps, heavy breathing, the rattling of door handles, and—most alarming of all—loud crashes on the door panels. The servants were terrified. One of them roused us one night by loud shrieks, and going to her room, we found her in hysterics. All the clothes had been stripped off her bed and thrown in a promiscuous heap on the floor. When she recovered sufficiently to speak, she told us something had come into her room and tried to suffocate her—she felt just as if all the breath in her body was being forcibly sucked out of her. She had seen nothing. We told her it was a nightmare, and tried to soothe her, but our endeavours met with little success, and in the morning she was seriously ill. She died within a fortnight, and on the same day as the gardener’s wife.”

“Did the gardener’s wife live on the premises, too?” I asked.

“Practically,” Mrs. Fanshawe replied. “She and her husband occupied a cottage close to.”

“Did both women usually have good health?”

“Rather,” Dr. Fanshawe laughed; “they were as tough as horses—rosy-cheeked, strong-limbed, typical young Canadians. Heart and lungs absolutely sound. I diagnosed their cases and was much puzzled. On the top of violent shocks, which had apparently upset their whole constitution, they had developed acute anæmia. Why do you ask?”

“Merely because of an idea,” I replied; “but pray let Mrs. Fanshawe finish her story, and then, if you like, I will tell you what my idea is.”

“Well,” Mrs. Fanshawe continued, “I haven’t much more to relate. On the night after our maid’s funeral, we were again disturbed by Pat barking. I got up and went to the bedroom window. The weather was very unsettled. Clouds scurried across the moon, that hung like a great silver ball over the St. Lawrence River, which I could see winding its mighty course in the distance; spots of heavy rain were falling, and the wind whistled dolefully through the leaves of the maples.

“Suddenly I heard the sound of heavy footsteps crunching their way along the gravel drive. ‘It will be nothing visible,’ I said to myself, and then I got a pretty acute shock. Coming towards the house with short, quick steps was a tall figure, with its head bowed low. Its arms and legs were very long and bony, the feet and hands enormous. It was quite nude, and from all over its body, which was of an exaggerated whiteness, there emanated a strange, phosphorescent glow. I called to Dick, and he at once joined me. The Thing came right up to the window, and then raised its face. If I live to be a thousand years old I shall never forget what I saw. The proportion of the face was not human, and it was partially covered with hair, but the eyes were the same shape as ours, only very much bigger. They were pale, almost white, I thought, and their expression——”

“Don’t talk of it,” Dr. Fanshawe interrupted. “One can only say it was too damnable, too utterly vicious and loathsome for words.”

“We were so overcome,” his wife went on, “that for some seconds neither of us could articulate a syllable. We both stared at it in hideous fascination. At last it made some slight movement, and Dick, released from the spell that held him, fired at it. The bullet must have gone right through it, for we saw the gravel on the path immediately behind it spurt up and scatter. However, the figure was unharmed, and it moved on towards the front door. Dick fired again, but with no better result. A fearful horror now seized us, lest it should get into the house. I am not a religious woman, but I prayed, and as I did so I saw Dick throw something. What he threw seemed to strike the thing full in the face, and it vanished. As we got back into bed, I said to Dick, ‘That was very odd! What did you throw?’”

“‘A stone I picked up near the quarry this morning,’ he replied. ‘I don’t know why I threw it, but directly you started praying, a feeling came over me that I must.’

“We were not disturbed again that night, but slept better than we had done for some time, and in the morning Dick found and showed me the stone—the stone you are looking at now. We had it fixed to the front door, and after that we were not troubled again.”

“There was no history attached to the place,” Dr. Fanshawe added, “and no one we spoke to had ever heard of its being haunted. Now, what do you make of it?”

“A fairly satisfactory case,” I replied, “because I think this stone affords a clue to part of the mystery at least. When I was out in the West, I was told by some Indians of the Rogue River tribe, whom I was delighted to fall in with, that when a place of theirs was haunted, they kept the ghost quiet by burying a piece of blue rock, which is to be found in the lava beds of that district, but is very rare. Now in all probability this custom is not confined to the Indians of one tribe, but is more or less universal; therefore we need not be surprised to find a piece of this blue rock buried elsewhere.”

“But there are no Indians in this neighbourhood,” Mrs. Fanshawe remarked.

“Not now,” I said, “but undoubtedly there were once. My supposition is that this place has a history. It was once badly haunted by spirits of the most dangerous type, which, for want of a better name, I will style neutrarians.

“These neutrarians are spirits that have never inhabited material bodies, and are only to be found in very remote and isolated districts, where the soil has rarely if ever been disturbed. They are invariably antagonistic to all forms of animal life, probably, because, if they were created first, which is quite feasible, they regard man as an interloper, and, probably, also because they covet man’s body and are jealous of him. Many of the Indians believe that man is descended from the gods, and neutrarians from devils, and that the latter feel the distinction and hate man accordingly. Neutrarians vary considerably both in appearance, habits and constitution. Whilst some can apparently reveal themselves at will, others can only do so by stealing vitality from human beings or animals. Let us now see how all of this applies to the present case. When you came to your house you did not get the impression it was haunted; it was only when you looked at the quarry—it was there you received your first impressions—and they were, in all probability, correct. I believe a great deal in first impressions, particularly with regard to the superphysical. This theory, too, namely, that the hauntings originated in the quarry, finds support in the fact that you found the blue stone close to the quarry, and that the figure you both saw coming along the carriage drive was coming from that direction. The blue stone, I believe, had been buried there and was dug up when the quarry was made; thus the stopper, so to speak, which kept the ghost in check being removed, the hauntings of course recommenced. Belonging to the species that cannot manifest itself without drawing vitality from some form or other of animal life, this neutrarian first attacked the gardener’s wife, and then the maid, selecting these two on account of their unusual robustness. Had you not thrown the blue stone at it, and afterwards fixed the stone to your door, it is more than likely that you would both have succumbed.”

“Then many diseases that have defied diagnosis, and there are countless such,” Dr. Fanshawe exclaimed, “may very probably be due to neutrarians.”

“I think it is very likely,” I said. “I have noticed, for example, houses, where several people have been medically stated to have died of cancer, have been haunted by disturbances of a parallel nature to those you experienced.”

“But are such hauntings to go on for ever?” Mrs. Fanshawe asked. “Is there no means of putting an end to them, saving by blue stones? How about exorcism?”

“I am not sure on that point,” I said. “I certainly do not think that neutrarians or the spirits of imbeciles can be exorcised satisfactorily, as I have known several cases of hauntings by these spirits in which exorcism has been practised, and in no instance has it had any effect whatsoever. I should say hauntings by neutrarians might last indefinitely; I see no reason why they should not. Have you made any enquiries lately about the house?”

“No,” Mrs. Fanshawe replied, “not for some time. When we get back to Montreal, we will do so, and let you know.” The conversation ended here.

A year later I received a letter from her husband. “I have been to the house,” he wrote, “and the present occupants are leaving almost immediately. There have been three deaths there during their tenancy, and they complain of exactly the same disturbances that alarmed us. I have lent them the blue stone.”