August 21, 2025 • 35 mins
Dive into a captivating collection of ghostly tales where the spirits come not from the human realm, but from our beloved animal companions. Each chapter reveals spine-tingling stories of hauntings featuring dogs, cats, birds, jungle creatures, and more. Join Allyson Hester as she guides you through these eerie encounters that blend the supernatural with the animal kingdom.
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Speaker 1 (00:00):
Part three of chapter two of Animal Ghosts. This is
a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain.
For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox dot org.
This reading by Alison Hester of Athens, Georgia. Animal Ghosts
by Elliot O'Donnell, Part three of chapter two. Here followed
(00:25):
an extract from a local paper, sensational discovery in a
wood near Marytown. Whilst exploring in a wood near Marytown
the other evening, a party of the name of b
discovered three skeletons, a human being and two dogs in
the trunk of an oak. From the remnant of clothes
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still adhering to the human remains, the latter were proved
to be those of an individual known as mister Jeremiah Dance,
whose strange disappearance from the crow's nest the house he
rented in the neighborhood some two years ago was the
occasion of much comment. On closer examination extraordinary to relate.
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The remains had been proved to be those of a woman,
and from certain abrasions on the skull, there is little
doubt she met with a violent end. A second extract
taken from the same paper runs. Thus suicide at Merytown.
Late last night, Percy Baldwin, the man who was under
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arrest on suspicion of having caused the death of the
unknown woman whose skeleton was found on Monday in the
trunk of a tree, committed suicide by hanging himself with
his suspenders to the ceiling of his cell. Pinned on
his coat was a slip of paper bearing these words.
She was my wife. I loved her. She took to drink.
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I parted from her. She became a dog worshiper. I
killed her and her dogs phanfasms of living dogs. I
could quote innumerable cases of people who have either seen
or heard the spirits of dead dogs. However, as space
does not permit of this, I proceed to the oft
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raised question do animals as well as people project themselves.
My reply is yes, according to my experience, they do.
Some friends of mine have a big tabby that has
frequently been seen in two places at the same time.
For example, it has been observed by several people to
be sitting on a chair in the dining room, and
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at the same moment it has been seen by two
or more other persons extended at full length before the
kitchen fire, the latter figure proving to be its immaterial
or what some designate its astral body, which vanishes the
instant an attempt is made to touch it. The only
explanation of this phenomenon seems to me to lie in projection,
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the cat possessing the faculty of separating, in this instance
unconsciously it's spiritual from its physical body, the former traveling
anywhere regardless of space, time, and material obstacles. I have
often had experiences similar to this with a friend's dog.
I have been seated in a room, either reading or writing,
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and on looking up, had the thintly seen the dog
lying on the carpet in front of me. A few
minutes later, a scraping at the door or window, both
of which have been shut all the while, and on
my rising to see what was there, I have discovered
the dog outside. Had I not been so positive that
I had seen the dog on the ground in front
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of me, I might have thought it was a hallucination.
But hallucinations are never so vivid nor so lasting. Moreover,
other people have had similar experiences with the same dog,
and why not. Dogs on the whole are every whit
as reasoning and reflective as the bulk of human beings,
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And how much nobler compare for a moment the dogs,
you know, no matter whether mastiffs, retrievers, Dotson's Poodles, or
even pickanies, with your acquaintances, with the people you see
everywhere around you, false, greedy, spiteful, scandal loving women, money
grubbing attorneys, lying, swindling tradesmen, vulgar parvenus, finicky curates, brutal ruts, spoilt,
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cruel children, hypocrites of both sexes. Compare them carefully, and
the comparison is entirely in favor of the dog. And
if the creating power or powers has favored these holy,
selfish and degenerate human beings with spirits, and has conferred
on certain of them the faculty of projecting those spirits,
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can one imagine for one moment that similar gifts have
been denied to dogs, their superiors in every respect Shaw
out upon it. To think so would mean to think
the unthinkable, to attribute to God the qualities of partiality,
injustice and whimsicality, which would render him little, if anything,
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better than a James the Second of England or a
Lewis the fifteenth of France. Besides, from my own experience
and the experiences of those with whom I have been
brought in contact, I can safely affirm that there are
phantasms and their four spirits of both living and dead dogs,
in just the same proportion as there are phantasms and
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their four spirits of both living and dead human beings.
Psychic properties of dogs. Some, not all, dogs, like cats,
possess the psychic property of scenting the advent of death,
and they indicate their fear of it by the most
dismal howling. In my opinion, there is very little doubt
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that dogs actually see some kind of phantasm that, knowing
when death is about to take place, visits the house
of the doomed, and stands beside his or her couch.
I have had this phantasm described to me by those
who declare they have seen it as a very tall,
hooded figure clad in a dark, loose flowing costume, its
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face never discernible. It would of course, be foolish to
say that a dog howling in a house is invariably
the sign of death. There are many other and obvious
causes which produce something of a similar effect. But I
think one may be pretty well assured that when the
howling is accompanied by unmistakable signs of terror, then someone
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either in the house at the time or connected with
someone in the house, will shortly die dogs in haunted houses.
When I investigate a haunted house, I generally take a
dog with me, because experience has taught me that a
dog seldom fails to give notice in some way or another,
either by whining or growling, or crouching, shivering one's feet,
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or springing on one's lap and trying to bury its
head in one's coat of the proximity of a ghost.
I had a dog with me when ghost hunting not
so very long ago in a well known haunted house
in Gloucestershire. The dog my only companion, and I sat
on the staircase leading from the hall to the first floor.
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Just about two o'clock, the dog gave a loud growl.
I put my hands out and found it was shivering
from head to foot. Almost directly afterwards, I heard the
loud clatter of fire irons from somewhere away in the basement.
A door bangs, and then something or someone began to
ascend the stayers. Up, Up, up came the footsteps until
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I could see, first of all a bluish light, then
the top of a head, then a face, white and luminous,
staring up at me. A few more steps and the
whole thing was disclosed to view. It was the figure
of a girl about sixteen, with a shock head of
red hair on which was stuck all awry a dirty,
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little old fashioned servant's cap. She was clad in a
cotton dress, soiled and bedraggled, and had on her feet
a pair of elast excited boots that looked as if
they would fall to pieces each step she took. But
it was her face that riveted my attention most. It
was startlingly white and full of an expression of the
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most hopeless misery. The eyes, wide open and glassy, were
turned direct on mine. I was too appalled either to
stir or utter a sound. The phanfasm came right up
to where I stood, paused for a second, and then
slowly went on up, up, up, until a sudden bend
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in the staircase hid it from view. For some seconds.
There was a continuation of the footsteps, Then there came
a loud splash from somewhere outside and below, and then silence.
Suppucral and omnipotent. I did not wait to see if
anything further would happen. I fled and dick my dog friend,
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who was apparently even more frightened than I, fled with me.
We arrived home panic stricken. Over and over again, on
similar occasions, I have had a dog with me, and
the same thing has occurred. The dog has made some
noise indicative of great fear, remaining in a state of
stupor during the actual presence of the apparition. Psychic propensities
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of dogs compared with those of cats. Though dogs are
perhaps rather more alarmed at the unknown than cats, I
do not think they have a keener sense of its proximity. Still,
for the very reason that they show greater, more unmistakable
indications of fear, they make sure psychic barometers. The psychic
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faculty of scent in dogs would seem to be more
limited than that in cats. For whereas cats cannot only
detect the advent and presence of pleasant and unpleasant phantoms
by their smells, few dogs can do more than detect
the approach of death. Dogs make friends nearly, if not
quite as readily, with cruel and brutal people as with
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kind ones, simply because they cannot so easily as cats
distinguished by their scent the unpleasant types of spirits cruel
and brutal people attract. In all probability they are not
even aware of the presence of such spirits. It would
seem on the face of it that, since dogs are
on the whole of a gentler disposition than cats, that
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is to say, not quite so cruel and savage, the
phanfasms of dogs would be less likely to be earth
bound than those of cats. But then one must take
into consideration the other qualities of the two animals, and
when these are put in balance, one may find little
to choose morally between the cat and the dog. Anyhow,
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after making allowance for the fact that many more cats
die unnatural deaths than dogs, there would seem to be
small numerical difference in their hauntings, cases of dog ghosts
appearing to be just as common as cases of cat ghosts.
A propos of phantom dogs, my friend doctor g West
writes to me. Thus, of the older English universities, many
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stories are told of bizarre happenings of duels, raggings, suicides,
and such like in olden times, but of k Venerable
Illustrious k of Ireland. Few and far between are the
accounts of similar occurrences. This is one, however, and it
deals with the phantom of a dog. One evening towards
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the end of the eighteenth century, John Kelly, a dean
of the College extreme dremely unpopular on account of his
supposed harsh treatment of some of the undergraduates, was about
to commence his supper when he heard a low whine, and,
looking down, saw a large yellow dog cross the floor
in front of him and disappear immediately under the full
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length portrait that hung over the antique chimney piece. Something
prompting him. He glanced at the picture. The eyes that
looked into his blinked. It must be the result of
an overtaxed brain, he said to himself. Those rascally undergraduates
have got on my nerves. He shut his eyes, and,
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reopening them, stared hard at the portrait. It was not
a delusion. The eyes that gazed back at him were alive,
alive with the spirit of mockery. They smiled, laughed, jeered,
and as they did so, the knowledge of his surroundings
was brought forcibly home. To him. The room in which
he was seated was situated at the end of a long,
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cheerless stone passage in the western wing of the college,
away from all the other rooms of the building. It
was absolutely isolated, and had long borne the reputation of
being haunted by a dog, which was said to appear
only before some catastrophe. The dean had hitherto committed the
story to the category of fables. But now now, as
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he sat all alone in that big, silent room, lit
only with the reddish rays of a fast setting August sun,
and steered into the gleaming eyes before him, he was
obliged to admit the extreme probability of spookdum. Never before
had the college seemed so quiet. Not a sound, not
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even the creaking of a board or the far away
laugh of a student. Common enough noises on most nights,
fell on his ears. The hush was omnipotent, depressing, unnerving.
He could only associate it with the supernatural, though he
was too fascinated to remove his gaze from the thing
before him. He could fill the room filled with shadows
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and feel them steal through the half open windows and
uniting with those already in the corners glided noiselessly and
surreptitiously towards him. He felt, too, that he was under
the surveillance of countless invisible visages, all scanning him curiously
and delighted beyond measure at the sight of his terror.
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The moments passed in a breathless state of tension. He
stared at the eyes, and the eyes stared back at him.
Once he endeavored to rise, but a dead weight seemed
to fall on his shoulders and hold him back, And
twice when he tried to speak, to make some sound,
no matter what, to break the appalling silence. His throat closed,
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as if under the pressure of cruel, relentless fingers. But
the ultima thule of his emotion had yet to come.
There was a slight stir behind the canvas, a thud,
a hollow groan that echoed and re echoed throughout the room,
like the muffled clap of distant thunder, and the eyes
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suddenly underwent a metamorphosis. They grew glazed and glassy, like
the eyes of a dead person. A cold shudder ran
through the dean, his hair stood on end, his blood
turned to ice again. He essayed to move to summon
help again. He failed. The strain on his nerves proved
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more than he could bear. A sudden sensation of nausea
surged through him. His eyes swam, his brain reeled. There
was a loud buzzing in his ears. He knew no more.
Some moments later, one of the college servants arrived at
the door with a bundle of letters, and, on receiving
no reply to his wraps, entered, Good heavens, what's the matter?
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He cried, gave the figure of the Dean lolling head
downward on the table. Merciful prudence. The gentleman is dead. No,
he ain't. Some of the young gents will be sorry
enough for that. He's fainted. The good fellow poured out
some water in a tumbler and was proceeding to sprinkle
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the Dean's face with it, when a noise attracting his attention.
He peered round at the picture. It was bulging from
the wall. It was falling, and good god, what was
that falling with it? That huge black object A coffin, No,
not a coffin, but a corpse. The servant ran to
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the door, shrieking, and in less than a minute passage
and room were filled to overflowing with a scared crowd
of inquiring officials and undergraduates. What has happened? What's the
matter with the dean? Has he had a fit? Or what?
And the picture and Andersen Andersen lying on hurt, no,
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not hurt, dead, murdered. In an instant there was silence,
and the white faced throng closed in on one another,
as if for protection. In front of them, beside the
fallen picture lay the body of the most gay and
popular student in the college, Bob Anderson. Bob Andersen, with
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a stream of blood running from a deep incision in
his back made with some sharp instrument that had been
driven home with tremendous force. He had, without a doubt
been murdered. But by whom then One of the undergraduates,
a bright, boyish, fair haired giant named o'phal, immensely popular
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both on account of his prowess and sport and an
untold number of the most audacious escapades, spoke out. I
saw Anderson about an hour ago, crossing the quadrangle. I
asked him where he was going, and he repled to
old Kelly. I intend on paying him out for gating
me last week. I inquired how, and he replied, I
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have a glorious plan. You know that portrait stuck over
his mantel shelf. Well, in poking about the room the
other day when the old man was out, I had
a great find. Directly behind the picture is the door
of a secret room, so neatly covered by the designs
on the wall that it is not discernible. It was
only by the merest fluke I discovered it. I was
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taking down the picture with the idea of touching up
the face, when my knuckles bumped against the panels of
the wall, touched a spring, and the door flew open,
revealing an apartment about six by eight feet large. I
at once explored it and found it could be entered
by the chimney. An idea then struck me. I would
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play a trick upon the Dean by hiding in this
secret chamber one evening while he was feeding, cutting out
the eyes of the portrait and pure through the cavities
at him. And this, oh Farrell continued, pointing at the
fallen picture, is evidently what he did after I left him.
You can see the eyes of the portrait have been removed,
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That is so sure. One of the other undergraduates. Mick McGuire,
six feet two in his socks and every inch exclaimed,
And what is more, I knew all about it. Anderson
told me yesterday what he was going to do, and
I wanted to join him, but he said I would
never get up the chimney. I would stick there and bedad.
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I think he was right at this remark, despite the
grimness of the moment, several of those present laughed. Come, come, gentlemen.
One of the officials cried, this is no time for levity.
Mister Anderson has been murdered, and the question is by
whom then if that's the only thing that is troubling you,
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oh Pharrell put in, I fancy the solution is right
here at hand, and he looked significantly at the Dean.
An ominous silence followed, during which all eyes were fixed
on John Kelly, some anxiously, some merely inquiringly, but not
a few angrily. For Kelly, as I have said before,
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had made himself particularly obnoxious just then by his behavior
to the rowdier students, and as has ever been the
case at k these formed no small portion of the community.
The Dean hardly seemed to realize the situation, the dignity
of office blind him to danger. What do you mean,
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he spluttered, I know nothing of what happened to mister Anderson. Really, really,
Oh Ferrell, your presumption is preposterous. There was no one
else in here but you and he, mister O'Kelly. Oh
ferrel retorted coolly, it's only natural we should think you
know something of what happened. On the arrival of the police,
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who had been sent for somewhat reluctantly for the prestige
of the college at that date, was very dear to all.
The premises were thoroughly searched, and no other culprit being found.
First of all, Dean Kelly was apprehended, and then, to
make a good job of it, his accuser, Denis o' ferrell.
All of the college was agog with excitement. No one
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could believe the Dean was a murderer, and it was
just as inconceivable to think o' ferrell had committed the deed.
And yet if neither of them had killed Andersen, who
in God's name had killed him? The knights exceeding the affair,
Whilst the Dean and o'farreal were still in jail awaiting
the inquest. A party of undergraduates were discussing the situation
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in McGuire's rooms when the door burst open and into
their midst almost breathless with excitement, came a measly bespectacled
youth named Brady Patrick. Brady, I'm awfully sorry to disturb you, Fellis,
he stammered, But there had been odd noises just outside
my room all the evening, and I've just seen a
queer kind of dog that vanished. God knows how I
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I well, will you call me an ass, of course,
but I'm afraid to stay in there alone. And that's
the long and short of it. Be Gorra McGuire exclaimed,
it can't be poor Bob's ghost already. What sort of
noises were they? Noises like laughter, Brady said, loud peals
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of horrid laughter. Someone is trying to frighten you, one
of the undergrads observed, and faith he succeeded. You were
twice as white as any sheet. It's ill timed mirth. Anyhow,
someone else put in with Anderson's dead body upstairs. I'm
for making an example of the black Guard, and I
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and I the others echoed. A general movement followed and
headed by Brady, The procession moved to the north wing
of the college. At that time, be it remembered, a
large proportion of k Undergrad's were in residence. Now it
is otherwise. On reaching Brady's rooms, the crowds halted outside
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and listened for some time. There was silence, and then
a laugh, low, monotonous, unmirthful, metallic, coming as it were,
from some adjacent chamber, and so unnatural, so abhorring, that
it held everyone's spellbound. It died away in the reverberations
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of the stone corridor, its echoes seeming to awake a
chorus of other laughs, hardly less dreadful. Again, there was silence,
no one daring to express his thoughts. Then, as if
by common consent, all turned precipitately into Brady's room and
slammed the door. That is what I heard, Brady said,
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What does it mean? Is it the meaning of it?
You're wanting to know? McGuire observed, Sure tis the devil,
for no one but him could make such a noise.
I've never heard the like of it before. Who has
the rooms on either side of you these? Brady replied,
pointing to the right no one. They were vacated at
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Easter and are being repainted and decorated. These on the
left Dobson, who is I happen to know at the
present moment in County Mayo. He won't be back till
next week. Then we can search them. A student called
Hartnell and intervened to be sure we can, Brady replied,
but I doubt you'll find any one. A search was made,
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and Brady proved to be correct. Not a vestige of
any one was discovered. Much mystified, mc guire's party was
preparing to depart when Hartnell, who had taken the keenest
interest in the proceedings, suddenly said, who has the rooms
over yours? Brady sound, as you know, plays curious tricks,
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and it's just as likely as that laugh came from above.
Oh I don't think so, Brady answered. The man overhead
is Belton, a very decent sort. He is going in
for his finals shortly and is sweating fearfully hard at
the present. We might certainly ask him if he heard
the noise. The students agreeing, Brady led the way upstairs,
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and in response to their summons, Belton hastily opened the door.
He was a typical bookworm, thin pale and rather emaciated,
with a pleasant expression in his eyes and mouth that
all felt was assuring. Holloa, he exclaimed, it isn't often
I'm fevered with a surprise. Party of this sort come in,
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And he pressed them so hard that they felt constrained
to accept his hospitality, and before long were all seated
round the fire, quaffing whiskey and puffing cigars, as if
they meant to make a night of it. At two o'clock,
someone suggested that it was high time they thought of bed,
and Belton wrote, with them, before we turn in, let's
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have another search. He said, it's strange you should hear
all that noise except me, unless, of course, it came
from below. But there's nothing under me. Brady remarked, cept
the dining hall. Then let's search that. Belton went on.
We ought to make a thorough job of it now
that we've begun. Besides, I don't relish being in this
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lonely place with that laugh knocking around any more than
you do. He went with them, and they completely overhauled
the ground floor hall, dining room, studies, passages, vegetables everywhere
that was not barred to them, and they were no
wiser at the end of their search than at the beginning.
There was not the slightest clue as to the author
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of the laugh. On the morrow there was a fresh shock.
One of the college servants, on entering mister mc guire's
rooms to call him, found that gentleman, half dressed and
lying on the floor, terrified beyond measure. The servant bent
over him and discovered he was dead, obviously stabbed with
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the same weapon that had put an end to Bob Anderson.
The factotum at once gave the alarm. Everyone in the
college came trooping to the room, and for the second
time within three days, a general hue and cry was raised,
all again to no purpose. The murderer had left no
traces as to his identity. However, one thing at least
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was established, and that was the innocence of Dean Kelly
and Denis o'ferrell. They were both liberated. Then Hartnell, who
seems to have been a regular sherlock Holmes, got to
work in grim earnest on the floor in McGuire's room,
he picked up a diminutive silver topped pencil which had
rolled under the fender and had so escaped observation. He
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asked several of McGuire's most intimate friends if they remembered
seeing the pencil case in McGuire's possession, but they shook
their heads. He inquired in other quarters too, but with
no better result, and finally resolved to ask Brady, who
belonged to quite a different set from himself. With that
object in view, he set off to Brady's room shortly
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after supper. As there was no response to his raps,
he at length opened Brady's door. In front of the hearth,
in a big easy chair sat a figure Brady, by
all that's holy, Hartnell exclaimed, by Jupiter, the beggars asleep.
That's what comes of swatting too hard Brady. Approaching the chair,
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he called again Brady, and, getting no reply, patted the
figure gently on the back. Be jabbers, you sleep soundly,
old fella, He said, how about that, and he shook
him heartily by the shoulder. The instant he let go,
the figure collapsed. In order to get a closer view.
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Hartnell then struck a light with the tinder box. The
flickering of the candle flame fell on Brady's face. It
was white, ghastly white, and there was no animation in it.
The jaw dropped with a cry of horror. Heartnell sprang back,
and as he did so, a great yellow dog dashed
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across the hearth in front of him, whilst from somewhere
close at hand came a laugh, long, low, satirical. A
cold terror gripped Heartnell, and for a moment or so
he was on the verge of fainting. However, hearing voices
in the quadrangle, he pulled himself together, approached the window
on tiptoe, and, peering through the glass, perceived to his
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utmost joy, two of his friends directly beneath him. I
say you, fellas he called in low tones, come up
here quickly, Brady's rooms. I have seen the phantom dog.
There's been another tragedy, and the murderer is close at hand.
Come quietly and we may catch him. He then retraced
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his steps to the center of the room and listened again.
There came the laugh, subtle, protracted, hellish, and it seemed
to him as if it must originate in the room overhead.
A noise in the direction of the hearth made him
look round. Some loose plaster had fallen, and whilst he
gazed still more fell. The truth of the whole thing
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then dawned on him. The murderer was in the chimney.
Hartnell was a creature of impulse. In the excitement of
the moment, he forgot danger, and the dastardly nature of
the crimes gave him more than his usual amount of courage.
He rushed at the chimney, and, regardless of soot and darkness,
began an impromptu assent. Half way up, something struck him once, twice, thrice, sharply,
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and there was a soft, malevolent chuckle. At this juncture,
the two undergraduates arrived in Brady's room. No one was there,
nothing save a hunched up figure on a chair. Heartnell.
They whispered Hartnell. No reply. They called him again. Still
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no reply. Again and again they called, until at length,
through sheer fatigue, they desisted and seized with a sudden panic,
precipitately downstairs and out into the quadrangle. Once more, the
alarm was given, and once again the whole college, wild
with excitement, hastened to the scene of the outrage. This
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time there was a double mystery. Brady had been murdered
Hartnell had disappeared. The police were summoned and the whole
building ransacked, but no one thought of the chimney till
the search was nearly over, and half the throng, overcome
with fatigue, had retired. O' ferrell was the discoverer. Happening
to glance at the hearth, he saw something drop. For
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heaven's sake, you fellas, he shouted, look blood, you may
take it for me. There's a corpse and the chimney.
A dozen candles invaded the hearth, and a herculean policeman
undertook the ascent in breathless silence. The crowd below waited,
and after a few seconds of intense suspense, two helpless
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legs appeared on the hob bit by bit. The rest
of the body followed, until at length the whole figure
of Heartnell, black, bleeding, blood stained, was disclosed to view.
At first it was thought that he was dead, but
the surgeon, who had hurried to the scene, pronouncing him
still alive. There arose a tremendous cheer. The murderer had,
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at all events been foiled. This time. Be Gorrah cried o'farril.
Hartnell was after the murderer when he was struck, and
sure I'll be after him the same way myself, and
before any one could prevent him. O Ferril was up
the chimney, up, up, up, until he found himself going down, down, down,
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and then bedad. He stepped right out on to the
floor of Belton's room. Hulloah, the latter exclaimed, looking not
a bit disconcerted. There's a curious mode of making your
entrance into my domain. Why didn't you come to my
door because O Pharaoh replied, pointing to a patch of
(33:20):
soot near the washstand. I followed you own up, Dicky Belton.
You were the culprit you did for them all, and
Belton laughed. Yes, it was true. Over work had turned
Belton's brain, and he was subsequently sent to a criminal
lunatic asylum for the rest of his life. But there
(33:42):
were moments when he was comparatively sane, and in these
interims he confessed everything Andersen had told him that he
was going to hoax the Dean, and filled with indignation
at the idea of such a trick being played on
a college official. For he Belton was a great favorite
with the Beaks. He had accompanied Andersen on the plea
(34:02):
of helping him, intending in reality to frustrate him. It
was not till he was in the chimney, crouching behind Andersen,
that the thought of killing his fellow students had entered
his mind. The heat of his hiding place, acting on
an already overworked brain, hastened on the madness, and his
fingers closing on a clasp knife in one of his pockets,
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inspired him with a desire to kill. The work once begun,
he had argued with himself would have to be continued,
and he had then and there decided that all unruly
graduates should be exterminated with what measure of success? This
determination was carried out need not be recapitulated here, But
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with the regard to the phantom dog, a few words
may be added. Since it appeared immediately before the committal
of each of the three murders I have just recorded,
it was seen by mister Kelly before the death of
Bob Andersen, by Brady before the murder of mcwa and
by Heartnell before Brady was murdered. I think there can
(35:04):
neither be doubts as to its existence, nor as to
the purpose of its visits. Moreover, its latest appearance in
the university, reported to me quite recently, preceded a serious
outbreak of fire and of Part three, Chapter two of
Animal Ghosts
Part three of chapter two of Animal Ghosts. This is
a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain.
For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox dot org.
This reading by Alison Hester of Athens, Georgia. Animal Ghosts
by Elliot O'Donnell, Part three of chapter two. Here followed
(00:25):
an extract from a local paper, sensational discovery in a
wood near Marytown. Whilst exploring in a wood near Marytown
the other evening, a party of the name of b
discovered three skeletons, a human being and two dogs in
the trunk of an oak. From the remnant of clothes
(00:46):
still adhering to the human remains, the latter were proved
to be those of an individual known as mister Jeremiah Dance,
whose strange disappearance from the crow's nest the house he
rented in the neighborhood some two years ago was the
occasion of much comment. On closer examination extraordinary to relate.
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The remains had been proved to be those of a woman,
and from certain abrasions on the skull, there is little
doubt she met with a violent end. A second extract
taken from the same paper runs. Thus suicide at Merytown.
Late last night, Percy Baldwin, the man who was under
(01:28):
arrest on suspicion of having caused the death of the
unknown woman whose skeleton was found on Monday in the
trunk of a tree, committed suicide by hanging himself with
his suspenders to the ceiling of his cell. Pinned on
his coat was a slip of paper bearing these words.
She was my wife. I loved her. She took to drink.
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I parted from her. She became a dog worshiper. I
killed her and her dogs phanfasms of living dogs. I
could quote innumerable cases of people who have either seen
or heard the spirits of dead dogs. However, as space
does not permit of this, I proceed to the oft
(02:11):
raised question do animals as well as people project themselves.
My reply is yes, according to my experience, they do.
Some friends of mine have a big tabby that has
frequently been seen in two places at the same time.
For example, it has been observed by several people to
be sitting on a chair in the dining room, and
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at the same moment it has been seen by two
or more other persons extended at full length before the
kitchen fire, the latter figure proving to be its immaterial
or what some designate its astral body, which vanishes the
instant an attempt is made to touch it. The only
explanation of this phenomenon seems to me to lie in projection,
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the cat possessing the faculty of separating, in this instance
unconsciously it's spiritual from its physical body, the former traveling
anywhere regardless of space, time, and material obstacles. I have
often had experiences similar to this with a friend's dog.
I have been seated in a room, either reading or writing,
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and on looking up, had the thintly seen the dog
lying on the carpet in front of me. A few
minutes later, a scraping at the door or window, both
of which have been shut all the while, and on
my rising to see what was there, I have discovered
the dog outside. Had I not been so positive that
I had seen the dog on the ground in front
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of me, I might have thought it was a hallucination.
But hallucinations are never so vivid nor so lasting. Moreover,
other people have had similar experiences with the same dog,
and why not. Dogs on the whole are every whit
as reasoning and reflective as the bulk of human beings,
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And how much nobler compare for a moment the dogs,
you know, no matter whether mastiffs, retrievers, Dotson's Poodles, or
even pickanies, with your acquaintances, with the people you see
everywhere around you, false, greedy, spiteful, scandal loving women, money
grubbing attorneys, lying, swindling tradesmen, vulgar parvenus, finicky curates, brutal ruts, spoilt,
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cruel children, hypocrites of both sexes. Compare them carefully, and
the comparison is entirely in favor of the dog. And
if the creating power or powers has favored these holy,
selfish and degenerate human beings with spirits, and has conferred
on certain of them the faculty of projecting those spirits,
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can one imagine for one moment that similar gifts have
been denied to dogs, their superiors in every respect Shaw
out upon it. To think so would mean to think
the unthinkable, to attribute to God the qualities of partiality,
injustice and whimsicality, which would render him little, if anything,
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better than a James the Second of England or a
Lewis the fifteenth of France. Besides, from my own experience
and the experiences of those with whom I have been
brought in contact, I can safely affirm that there are
phantasms and their four spirits of both living and dead dogs,
in just the same proportion as there are phantasms and
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their four spirits of both living and dead human beings.
Psychic properties of dogs. Some, not all, dogs, like cats,
possess the psychic property of scenting the advent of death,
and they indicate their fear of it by the most
dismal howling. In my opinion, there is very little doubt
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that dogs actually see some kind of phantasm that, knowing
when death is about to take place, visits the house
of the doomed, and stands beside his or her couch.
I have had this phantasm described to me by those
who declare they have seen it as a very tall,
hooded figure clad in a dark, loose flowing costume, its
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face never discernible. It would of course, be foolish to
say that a dog howling in a house is invariably
the sign of death. There are many other and obvious
causes which produce something of a similar effect. But I
think one may be pretty well assured that when the
howling is accompanied by unmistakable signs of terror, then someone
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either in the house at the time or connected with
someone in the house, will shortly die dogs in haunted houses.
When I investigate a haunted house, I generally take a
dog with me, because experience has taught me that a
dog seldom fails to give notice in some way or another,
either by whining or growling, or crouching, shivering one's feet,
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or springing on one's lap and trying to bury its
head in one's coat of the proximity of a ghost.
I had a dog with me when ghost hunting not
so very long ago in a well known haunted house
in Gloucestershire. The dog my only companion, and I sat
on the staircase leading from the hall to the first floor.
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Just about two o'clock, the dog gave a loud growl.
I put my hands out and found it was shivering
from head to foot. Almost directly afterwards, I heard the
loud clatter of fire irons from somewhere away in the basement.
A door bangs, and then something or someone began to
ascend the stayers. Up, Up, up came the footsteps until
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I could see, first of all a bluish light, then
the top of a head, then a face, white and luminous,
staring up at me. A few more steps and the
whole thing was disclosed to view. It was the figure
of a girl about sixteen, with a shock head of
red hair on which was stuck all awry a dirty,
(08:09):
little old fashioned servant's cap. She was clad in a
cotton dress, soiled and bedraggled, and had on her feet
a pair of elast excited boots that looked as if
they would fall to pieces each step she took. But
it was her face that riveted my attention most. It
was startlingly white and full of an expression of the
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most hopeless misery. The eyes, wide open and glassy, were
turned direct on mine. I was too appalled either to
stir or utter a sound. The phanfasm came right up
to where I stood, paused for a second, and then
slowly went on up, up, up, until a sudden bend
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in the staircase hid it from view. For some seconds.
There was a continuation of the footsteps, Then there came
a loud splash from somewhere outside and below, and then silence.
Suppucral and omnipotent. I did not wait to see if
anything further would happen. I fled and dick my dog friend,
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who was apparently even more frightened than I, fled with me.
We arrived home panic stricken. Over and over again, on
similar occasions, I have had a dog with me, and
the same thing has occurred. The dog has made some
noise indicative of great fear, remaining in a state of
stupor during the actual presence of the apparition. Psychic propensities
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of dogs compared with those of cats. Though dogs are
perhaps rather more alarmed at the unknown than cats, I
do not think they have a keener sense of its proximity. Still,
for the very reason that they show greater, more unmistakable
indications of fear, they make sure psychic barometers. The psychic
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faculty of scent in dogs would seem to be more
limited than that in cats. For whereas cats cannot only
detect the advent and presence of pleasant and unpleasant phantoms
by their smells, few dogs can do more than detect
the approach of death. Dogs make friends nearly, if not
quite as readily, with cruel and brutal people as with
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kind ones, simply because they cannot so easily as cats
distinguished by their scent the unpleasant types of spirits cruel
and brutal people attract. In all probability they are not
even aware of the presence of such spirits. It would
seem on the face of it that, since dogs are
on the whole of a gentler disposition than cats, that
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is to say, not quite so cruel and savage, the
phanfasms of dogs would be less likely to be earth
bound than those of cats. But then one must take
into consideration the other qualities of the two animals, and
when these are put in balance, one may find little
to choose morally between the cat and the dog. Anyhow,
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after making allowance for the fact that many more cats
die unnatural deaths than dogs, there would seem to be
small numerical difference in their hauntings, cases of dog ghosts
appearing to be just as common as cases of cat ghosts.
A propos of phantom dogs, my friend doctor g West
writes to me. Thus, of the older English universities, many
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stories are told of bizarre happenings of duels, raggings, suicides,
and such like in olden times, but of k Venerable
Illustrious k of Ireland. Few and far between are the
accounts of similar occurrences. This is one, however, and it
deals with the phantom of a dog. One evening towards
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the end of the eighteenth century, John Kelly, a dean
of the College extreme dremely unpopular on account of his
supposed harsh treatment of some of the undergraduates, was about
to commence his supper when he heard a low whine, and,
looking down, saw a large yellow dog cross the floor
in front of him and disappear immediately under the full
(12:15):
length portrait that hung over the antique chimney piece. Something
prompting him. He glanced at the picture. The eyes that
looked into his blinked. It must be the result of
an overtaxed brain, he said to himself. Those rascally undergraduates
have got on my nerves. He shut his eyes, and,
(12:36):
reopening them, stared hard at the portrait. It was not
a delusion. The eyes that gazed back at him were alive,
alive with the spirit of mockery. They smiled, laughed, jeered,
and as they did so, the knowledge of his surroundings
was brought forcibly home. To him. The room in which
he was seated was situated at the end of a long,
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cheerless stone passage in the western wing of the college,
away from all the other rooms of the building. It
was absolutely isolated, and had long borne the reputation of
being haunted by a dog, which was said to appear
only before some catastrophe. The dean had hitherto committed the
story to the category of fables. But now now, as
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he sat all alone in that big, silent room, lit
only with the reddish rays of a fast setting August sun,
and steered into the gleaming eyes before him, he was
obliged to admit the extreme probability of spookdum. Never before
had the college seemed so quiet. Not a sound, not
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even the creaking of a board or the far away
laugh of a student. Common enough noises on most nights,
fell on his ears. The hush was omnipotent, depressing, unnerving.
He could only associate it with the supernatural, though he
was too fascinated to remove his gaze from the thing
before him. He could fill the room filled with shadows
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and feel them steal through the half open windows and
uniting with those already in the corners glided noiselessly and
surreptitiously towards him. He felt, too, that he was under
the surveillance of countless invisible visages, all scanning him curiously
and delighted beyond measure at the sight of his terror.
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The moments passed in a breathless state of tension. He
stared at the eyes, and the eyes stared back at him.
Once he endeavored to rise, but a dead weight seemed
to fall on his shoulders and hold him back, And
twice when he tried to speak, to make some sound,
no matter what, to break the appalling silence. His throat closed,
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as if under the pressure of cruel, relentless fingers. But
the ultima thule of his emotion had yet to come.
There was a slight stir behind the canvas, a thud,
a hollow groan that echoed and re echoed throughout the room,
like the muffled clap of distant thunder, and the eyes
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suddenly underwent a metamorphosis. They grew glazed and glassy, like
the eyes of a dead person. A cold shudder ran
through the dean, his hair stood on end, his blood
turned to ice again. He essayed to move to summon
help again. He failed. The strain on his nerves proved
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more than he could bear. A sudden sensation of nausea
surged through him. His eyes swam, his brain reeled. There
was a loud buzzing in his ears. He knew no more.
Some moments later, one of the college servants arrived at
the door with a bundle of letters, and, on receiving
no reply to his wraps, entered, Good heavens, what's the matter?
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He cried, gave the figure of the Dean lolling head
downward on the table. Merciful prudence. The gentleman is dead. No,
he ain't. Some of the young gents will be sorry
enough for that. He's fainted. The good fellow poured out
some water in a tumbler and was proceeding to sprinkle
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the Dean's face with it, when a noise attracting his attention.
He peered round at the picture. It was bulging from
the wall. It was falling, and good god, what was
that falling with it? That huge black object A coffin, No,
not a coffin, but a corpse. The servant ran to
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the door, shrieking, and in less than a minute passage
and room were filled to overflowing with a scared crowd
of inquiring officials and undergraduates. What has happened? What's the
matter with the dean? Has he had a fit? Or what?
And the picture and Andersen Andersen lying on hurt, no,
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not hurt, dead, murdered. In an instant there was silence,
and the white faced throng closed in on one another,
as if for protection. In front of them, beside the
fallen picture lay the body of the most gay and
popular student in the college, Bob Anderson. Bob Andersen, with
(17:24):
a stream of blood running from a deep incision in
his back made with some sharp instrument that had been
driven home with tremendous force. He had, without a doubt
been murdered. But by whom then One of the undergraduates,
a bright, boyish, fair haired giant named o'phal, immensely popular
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both on account of his prowess and sport and an
untold number of the most audacious escapades, spoke out. I
saw Anderson about an hour ago, crossing the quadrangle. I
asked him where he was going, and he repled to
old Kelly. I intend on paying him out for gating
me last week. I inquired how, and he replied, I
(18:08):
have a glorious plan. You know that portrait stuck over
his mantel shelf. Well, in poking about the room the
other day when the old man was out, I had
a great find. Directly behind the picture is the door
of a secret room, so neatly covered by the designs
on the wall that it is not discernible. It was
only by the merest fluke I discovered it. I was
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taking down the picture with the idea of touching up
the face, when my knuckles bumped against the panels of
the wall, touched a spring, and the door flew open,
revealing an apartment about six by eight feet large. I
at once explored it and found it could be entered
by the chimney. An idea then struck me. I would
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play a trick upon the Dean by hiding in this
secret chamber one evening while he was feeding, cutting out
the eyes of the portrait and pure through the cavities
at him. And this, oh Farrell continued, pointing at the
fallen picture, is evidently what he did after I left him.
You can see the eyes of the portrait have been removed,
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That is so sure. One of the other undergraduates. Mick McGuire,
six feet two in his socks and every inch exclaimed,
And what is more, I knew all about it. Anderson
told me yesterday what he was going to do, and
I wanted to join him, but he said I would
never get up the chimney. I would stick there and bedad.
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I think he was right at this remark, despite the
grimness of the moment, several of those present laughed. Come, come, gentlemen.
One of the officials cried, this is no time for levity.
Mister Anderson has been murdered, and the question is by
whom then if that's the only thing that is troubling you,
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oh Pharrell put in, I fancy the solution is right
here at hand, and he looked significantly at the Dean.
An ominous silence followed, during which all eyes were fixed
on John Kelly, some anxiously, some merely inquiringly, but not
a few angrily. For Kelly, as I have said before,
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had made himself particularly obnoxious just then by his behavior
to the rowdier students, and as has ever been the
case at k these formed no small portion of the community.
The Dean hardly seemed to realize the situation, the dignity
of office blind him to danger. What do you mean,
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he spluttered, I know nothing of what happened to mister Anderson. Really, really,
Oh Ferrell, your presumption is preposterous. There was no one
else in here but you and he, mister O'Kelly. Oh
ferrel retorted coolly, it's only natural we should think you
know something of what happened. On the arrival of the police,
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who had been sent for somewhat reluctantly for the prestige
of the college at that date, was very dear to all.
The premises were thoroughly searched, and no other culprit being found.
First of all, Dean Kelly was apprehended, and then, to
make a good job of it, his accuser, Denis o' ferrell.
All of the college was agog with excitement. No one
(21:20):
could believe the Dean was a murderer, and it was
just as inconceivable to think o' ferrell had committed the deed.
And yet if neither of them had killed Andersen, who
in God's name had killed him? The knights exceeding the affair,
Whilst the Dean and o'farreal were still in jail awaiting
the inquest. A party of undergraduates were discussing the situation
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in McGuire's rooms when the door burst open and into
their midst almost breathless with excitement, came a measly bespectacled
youth named Brady Patrick. Brady, I'm awfully sorry to disturb you, Fellis,
he stammered, But there had been odd noises just outside
my room all the evening, and I've just seen a
queer kind of dog that vanished. God knows how I
(22:07):
I well, will you call me an ass, of course,
but I'm afraid to stay in there alone. And that's
the long and short of it. Be Gorra McGuire exclaimed,
it can't be poor Bob's ghost already. What sort of
noises were they? Noises like laughter, Brady said, loud peals
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of horrid laughter. Someone is trying to frighten you, one
of the undergrads observed, and faith he succeeded. You were
twice as white as any sheet. It's ill timed mirth. Anyhow,
someone else put in with Anderson's dead body upstairs. I'm
for making an example of the black Guard, and I
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and I the others echoed. A general movement followed and
headed by Brady, The procession moved to the north wing
of the college. At that time, be it remembered, a
large proportion of k Undergrad's were in residence. Now it
is otherwise. On reaching Brady's rooms, the crowds halted outside
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and listened for some time. There was silence, and then
a laugh, low, monotonous, unmirthful, metallic, coming as it were,
from some adjacent chamber, and so unnatural, so abhorring, that
it held everyone's spellbound. It died away in the reverberations
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of the stone corridor, its echoes seeming to awake a
chorus of other laughs, hardly less dreadful. Again, there was silence,
no one daring to express his thoughts. Then, as if
by common consent, all turned precipitately into Brady's room and
slammed the door. That is what I heard, Brady said,
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What does it mean? Is it the meaning of it?
You're wanting to know? McGuire observed, Sure tis the devil,
for no one but him could make such a noise.
I've never heard the like of it before. Who has
the rooms on either side of you these? Brady replied,
pointing to the right no one. They were vacated at
(24:14):
Easter and are being repainted and decorated. These on the
left Dobson, who is I happen to know at the
present moment in County Mayo. He won't be back till
next week. Then we can search them. A student called
Hartnell and intervened to be sure we can, Brady replied,
but I doubt you'll find any one. A search was made,
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and Brady proved to be correct. Not a vestige of
any one was discovered. Much mystified, mc guire's party was
preparing to depart when Hartnell, who had taken the keenest
interest in the proceedings, suddenly said, who has the rooms
over yours? Brady sound, as you know, plays curious tricks,
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and it's just as likely as that laugh came from above.
Oh I don't think so, Brady answered. The man overhead
is Belton, a very decent sort. He is going in
for his finals shortly and is sweating fearfully hard at
the present. We might certainly ask him if he heard
the noise. The students agreeing, Brady led the way upstairs,
(25:21):
and in response to their summons, Belton hastily opened the door.
He was a typical bookworm, thin pale and rather emaciated,
with a pleasant expression in his eyes and mouth that
all felt was assuring. Holloa, he exclaimed, it isn't often
I'm fevered with a surprise. Party of this sort come in,
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And he pressed them so hard that they felt constrained
to accept his hospitality, and before long were all seated
round the fire, quaffing whiskey and puffing cigars, as if
they meant to make a night of it. At two o'clock,
someone suggested that it was high time they thought of bed,
and Belton wrote, with them, before we turn in, let's
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have another search. He said, it's strange you should hear
all that noise except me, unless, of course, it came
from below. But there's nothing under me. Brady remarked, cept
the dining hall. Then let's search that. Belton went on.
We ought to make a thorough job of it now
that we've begun. Besides, I don't relish being in this
(26:24):
lonely place with that laugh knocking around any more than
you do. He went with them, and they completely overhauled
the ground floor hall, dining room, studies, passages, vegetables everywhere
that was not barred to them, and they were no
wiser at the end of their search than at the beginning.
There was not the slightest clue as to the author
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of the laugh. On the morrow there was a fresh shock.
One of the college servants, on entering mister mc guire's
rooms to call him, found that gentleman, half dressed and
lying on the floor, terrified beyond measure. The servant bent
over him and discovered he was dead, obviously stabbed with
(27:07):
the same weapon that had put an end to Bob Anderson.
The factotum at once gave the alarm. Everyone in the
college came trooping to the room, and for the second
time within three days, a general hue and cry was raised,
all again to no purpose. The murderer had left no
traces as to his identity. However, one thing at least
(27:30):
was established, and that was the innocence of Dean Kelly
and Denis o'ferrell. They were both liberated. Then Hartnell, who
seems to have been a regular sherlock Holmes, got to
work in grim earnest on the floor in McGuire's room,
he picked up a diminutive silver topped pencil which had
rolled under the fender and had so escaped observation. He
(27:52):
asked several of McGuire's most intimate friends if they remembered
seeing the pencil case in McGuire's possession, but they shook
their heads. He inquired in other quarters too, but with
no better result, and finally resolved to ask Brady, who
belonged to quite a different set from himself. With that
object in view, he set off to Brady's room shortly
(28:14):
after supper. As there was no response to his raps,
he at length opened Brady's door. In front of the hearth,
in a big easy chair sat a figure Brady, by
all that's holy, Hartnell exclaimed, by Jupiter, the beggars asleep.
That's what comes of swatting too hard Brady. Approaching the chair,
(28:35):
he called again Brady, and, getting no reply, patted the
figure gently on the back. Be jabbers, you sleep soundly,
old fella, He said, how about that, and he shook
him heartily by the shoulder. The instant he let go,
the figure collapsed. In order to get a closer view.
(28:56):
Hartnell then struck a light with the tinder box. The
flickering of the candle flame fell on Brady's face. It
was white, ghastly white, and there was no animation in it.
The jaw dropped with a cry of horror. Heartnell sprang back,
and as he did so, a great yellow dog dashed
(29:17):
across the hearth in front of him, whilst from somewhere
close at hand came a laugh, long, low, satirical. A
cold terror gripped Heartnell, and for a moment or so
he was on the verge of fainting. However, hearing voices
in the quadrangle, he pulled himself together, approached the window
on tiptoe, and, peering through the glass, perceived to his
(29:41):
utmost joy, two of his friends directly beneath him. I
say you, fellas he called in low tones, come up
here quickly, Brady's rooms. I have seen the phantom dog.
There's been another tragedy, and the murderer is close at hand.
Come quietly and we may catch him. He then retraced
(30:01):
his steps to the center of the room and listened again.
There came the laugh, subtle, protracted, hellish, and it seemed
to him as if it must originate in the room overhead.
A noise in the direction of the hearth made him
look round. Some loose plaster had fallen, and whilst he
gazed still more fell. The truth of the whole thing
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then dawned on him. The murderer was in the chimney.
Hartnell was a creature of impulse. In the excitement of
the moment, he forgot danger, and the dastardly nature of
the crimes gave him more than his usual amount of courage.
He rushed at the chimney, and, regardless of soot and darkness,
began an impromptu assent. Half way up, something struck him once, twice, thrice, sharply,
(30:49):
and there was a soft, malevolent chuckle. At this juncture,
the two undergraduates arrived in Brady's room. No one was there,
nothing save a hunched up figure on a chair. Heartnell.
They whispered Hartnell. No reply. They called him again. Still
(31:10):
no reply. Again and again they called, until at length,
through sheer fatigue, they desisted and seized with a sudden panic,
precipitately downstairs and out into the quadrangle. Once more, the
alarm was given, and once again the whole college, wild
with excitement, hastened to the scene of the outrage. This
(31:31):
time there was a double mystery. Brady had been murdered
Hartnell had disappeared. The police were summoned and the whole
building ransacked, but no one thought of the chimney till
the search was nearly over, and half the throng, overcome
with fatigue, had retired. O' ferrell was the discoverer. Happening
to glance at the hearth, he saw something drop. For
(31:54):
heaven's sake, you fellas, he shouted, look blood, you may
take it for me. There's a corpse and the chimney.
A dozen candles invaded the hearth, and a herculean policeman
undertook the ascent in breathless silence. The crowd below waited,
and after a few seconds of intense suspense, two helpless
(32:15):
legs appeared on the hob bit by bit. The rest
of the body followed, until at length the whole figure
of Heartnell, black, bleeding, blood stained, was disclosed to view.
At first it was thought that he was dead, but
the surgeon, who had hurried to the scene, pronouncing him
still alive. There arose a tremendous cheer. The murderer had,
(32:38):
at all events been foiled. This time. Be Gorrah cried o'farril.
Hartnell was after the murderer when he was struck, and
sure I'll be after him the same way myself, and
before any one could prevent him. O Ferril was up
the chimney, up, up, up, until he found himself going down, down, down,
(33:00):
and then bedad. He stepped right out on to the
floor of Belton's room. Hulloah, the latter exclaimed, looking not
a bit disconcerted. There's a curious mode of making your
entrance into my domain. Why didn't you come to my
door because O Pharaoh replied, pointing to a patch of
(33:20):
soot near the washstand. I followed you own up, Dicky Belton.
You were the culprit you did for them all, and
Belton laughed. Yes, it was true. Over work had turned
Belton's brain, and he was subsequently sent to a criminal
lunatic asylum for the rest of his life. But there
(33:42):
were moments when he was comparatively sane, and in these
interims he confessed everything Andersen had told him that he
was going to hoax the Dean, and filled with indignation
at the idea of such a trick being played on
a college official. For he Belton was a great favorite
with the Beaks. He had accompanied Andersen on the plea
(34:02):
of helping him, intending in reality to frustrate him. It
was not till he was in the chimney, crouching behind Andersen,
that the thought of killing his fellow students had entered
his mind. The heat of his hiding place, acting on
an already overworked brain, hastened on the madness, and his
fingers closing on a clasp knife in one of his pockets,
(34:24):
inspired him with a desire to kill. The work once begun,
he had argued with himself would have to be continued,
and he had then and there decided that all unruly
graduates should be exterminated with what measure of success? This
determination was carried out need not be recapitulated here, But
(34:44):
with the regard to the phantom dog, a few words
may be added. Since it appeared immediately before the committal
of each of the three murders I have just recorded,
it was seen by mister Kelly before the death of
Bob Andersen, by Brady before the murder of mcwa and
by Heartnell before Brady was murdered. I think there can
(35:04):
neither be doubts as to its existence, nor as to
the purpose of its visits. Moreover, its latest appearance in
the university, reported to me quite recently, preceded a serious
outbreak of fire and of Part three, Chapter two of
Animal Ghosts
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