August 21, 2025 • 36 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 one of chapter three 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 one, Chapter three, Horses and the Unknown.
(00:26):
As in my chapters on cats and dogs, I will
preface this chapter on horses with instances of alleged haunted localities.
I take my first case from mister W. T. Steed's
Real Ghost Stories, published in eighteen ninety one. It is
called a weird Story from the Indian Hills, and mister
Steed preludes it. Thus. The tale is told by General
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Barter C. B. Of Carey's Town, Whitegate Company Court. At
the time he witnessed the spectral cavalcade, he was living
on the hills in India, and when one evening he
was returning home, he caught sight of a rider and
attendants coming towards him. The rest of the story, given
in the general's own words, is as follows. At this
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time the two dogs came and, crouching at my side,
gave low frightened whimpers. The moon was at the full,
a tropical moon, so bright that you could see to
read a newspaper by its light, and I saw the
party before me advance as plainly as if it were noonday.
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They were above me, some eight or ten feet on
the bridle road, the earth thrown down, from which sloped
to within a pace or two of my feet on.
The party came until almost in front of me, and
now I had better describe them. The rider was in
full dinner dress, with white waistcoat and wearing a tall
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chimney pot hat, and he sat a powerful hill pony,
dark brown with mane and tail, in a listless sort
of way, the reins hanging loosely from both hands. A
face led the pony on each side, but their faces
I could not see. The one next to me having
his back to me, and the one farthest off being
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hidden by the pony's head. Each held the bridle close
by the bit, the man next to me with his
right and the other with his left hand, and the
hands were on the thighs of the rider, as if
to steady him in his seat. As they approached, I,
knowing they could not get to any place other than
my own, called out in Hindustani Kuan, Hey, who is it?
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There was no answer, and on they came, until right
in front of me when I said in English, Hello,
what the devil do you want here? Instantly the group
came to a halt. The rider, gathering the bridle reins
up in both hands, turned his face, which had hitherto
been looking away from me, towards me, and looked down
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upon me. The group was still as in a tableau
with the bright moon shining upon it, and I at
once recognized the writer as Lieutenant B, whom I had
formerly known. The face, however, was different from what it
used to be in the place of being clean shaven
as when I used to know it, It was now
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surrounded by a fringe what used to be known as
a Newgate fringe, and it was the face of a
dead man. The ghastly waxen pallor of it brought out
more distinctly in the moonlight by the dark fringe of
hair by which it wasn't circled. The body, too, was
much stouter than when I had known it in life.
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I marked this in a moment, and then resolved to
lay hold of the thing, whatever it might be. I
dashed up the bank, and the earth which had been
thrown on the side giving under my feet. I fell
forward up the bank on my hands, recovering myself instantly.
I gained the road and stood in the exact spot
where the group had been, but which was now vacant.
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There was not the trace of anything. It was impossible
for them to go on. The road stopped at a
precipice about twenty yards further on, and it was impossible
to turn and go back. In a second, all this
flashed through my mind, and I then ran along the
road for about one hundred yards along which they had come,
until I had to stop for want of breath. But
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there was no trace of anything, and not a sound
to be heard. I then returned home, where I found
my dogs, who, on all other occasions my most faithful companions,
had not come with me along the road. Next morning,
I went up to D, who belonged to the same
regiment as B, and gradually induced him to talk of him.
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I said, how very stout he had become lately, and
what possessed him to allow his beard to grow with
that horrid fringe. D replied, yes, he became very bloated
before his death. You know, he led a very fast life,
and while on the sick list, he allowed the French
to grow in spite of all that we could say
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to him, and I believe he was buried with it.
I asked him where he got the pony I had seen,
describing it minutely, why, said d how do you know
anything about all this? You hadn't seen b for two
or three years, and the pony you never saw. He
bought him at Peshawar and killed him one day, riding
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in his reckless fashion down the hill to Tretee. I
then told him what I had seen the night before. Once,
when the galloping sound was very distinct, I rushed to
the door of my house. There I found my Hindoo
bearer standing with a tatty in his hand. I asked
him what he was there for. He said that there
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came a sound of riding down the hill and passed
him like a typhoon and went round the corner of
the house, and he was determined to waylay it whatever
it was. In commenting on the case, mister Steed remarks
that such a story as this gravely told by a
British general in the present day helps us to understand
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how our ancestors came to believe in the wonderful story
of Hernie the Hunter. I do not know about Hernie
the Hunter, but it is at all events good testimony
that horses as well as men have spirits. For one
of the ghosts the General saw was undoubtedly that of
the pony murdered by bee. Why it was still ridden
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by the phantom of its former master is another question.
The next case I narrate is also taken from mister
Steed's same work. It was sent him by one of
the leading townsmen of Cows in the Isle of Wight,
and thus runs. On a fine evening in April eighteen
fifty nine, the writer was riding with a friend on
a country road. Twilight was closing down on us us, when,
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after a silence of some minutes, my friend suddenly exclaimed,
no man knows me better than you do. Jay. Do
you think I am a nervous, easily frightened sort of man?
Far from it, said I. Among all the men I
know in the wild country I have lived and worked in,
I know none more fearless or of more unhesitating nerve.
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Well said he, I think I am that too. And
though I have traveled these roads all sorts of hours,
summer and winter, for twenty years, I never met anything
to startle me or that I could not account for
until last Monday evening. About this time. It was riding
Old Fan, a chestnut mayer here on this cross, a
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four way cross road, and on my near side was
a man on a gray horse coming from this left
hand road. I had to pull my off rein to
give myself room to pass ahead of him. He was
coming at a right angle to me. As I passed
the head of the horse, I called out good night.
Hearing no reply, I turned in my saddle to the
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off side to see whether he appeared to be asleep
as he rode. But to my surprise, I saw neither
man nor horse. So sure was I that I had
seen such that I wheeled Old Fan round and rode
back to the middle of the cross, And on neither
of the four roads could I see a man or horse,
though there was light enough to see two hundred or
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three hundred yards, as we can now well. I then
rode over to that gate, a gate at one corner
opening into a grass field, thinking he might have gone
that way looking down by each hedge, I could see
nothing of my man and horse. And then, and not
until then, I felt myself thrill and start with a
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shuddering sense that I had seen something uncanny. And jove
I put the mayor down this hill. We are on
now at her very best pace. But the strangest part
of my story is to come, said he, continuing. After
I had done my business at the farm house here
at the foot of this hill, I told the old
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farmer and his wife what I had seen, as I
have now told you. The old man said, for many
years I have known thee m on this road, and
you have never seen the like before on that cross
seen what before? I said, why a man in light
colored clothes on a gray horse, said he No, never
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said I, but I swear I have this evening. The
farmer asked, had I never heard of what happened to
the miller of l Mills about forty years ago? No?
Never a word, I told him. Well, he said, about
forty years ago this miller, returning from market was waylaid
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and murdered on that cross road. Pockets rifled of money,
and watch the horse ran home. About a mile away.
Two serving men set out with lanterns and found their
master dead. He was dressed, as millers often do in
this part of the country, in light colored clothes, and
the horse was a gray horse. The murderers were never found.
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These are facts, continued the farmer. I took this farm
soon after it all happened, And though I have known
all this and have passed over that cross several thousands
of times, I never knew anything unusual there myself. But
there have been a number of people who tell the
same story you have told mother and me m and
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described the appearance as you have done to us tonight.
Mister Steed goes on to add, four evenings after all
this occurred, my friend related it to me as we
were riding along the same road. He continued to pass
there many times every year for ten years, but never
a day saw anything of that sort. My next case,
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a reproduction of a letter in the Occult Review of
September nineteen o six, reads thus a phantom horse and
rider Missus Gaskin Anderson's story. The following story is I
think very remarkable, and I give it exactly as it
was told to me and written down at the time.
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A number of members of a Gentleman's Club were talking
and discussing, amongst other subjects, the possibility of there being
a future state for animals. One of the members said,
I firmly believe there is. In my early youth I
had a practice as a medical man in one of
the Midland counties. One of my patients was a very
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wealthy man who owned large tracts of land and had
a stud composed entirely of bay horses with black points.
This was a hobby of his and he would never
have any others day, a messenger came summoning me to
mister l as he had just met with a very
bad accident and was on the point of death. I
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mounted my horse and started off without delay. As I
was riding through the front gates to the house, I
heard a shot, and to my amazement, the very man
I was going to visit rode past at a furious pace,
riding a wretched looking chestnut with one white forefoot and
a white star on its forehead. Arrived at the house.
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The butler said he has gone, sir. They had to
shoot the horse. You would hear the shot, and at
the same moment my master died. He had had this
horse sent on approval. Whilst riding it, it backed over
a precipice, injuring mister l fatally, and on being taken
to the stables, it was found necessary to shoot it alpha.
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The next case I appenned, I published it in a
weekly journal some years ago, was related to me by
a Captain beau Clerk, the White Horse of east Over.
When I came down to breakfast one morning, I found
amongst several letters awaiting me, one from Colonel Onslow, the
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commanding officer of my regiment when I first joined. He
had always been rather partial to me, and the friendship
between us continued after his retirement. I heard from him
regularly at more or less prolonged intervals, and either at
Christmas or Easter invariably received an invitation to spend a
few days with him. On this occasion he was most
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anxious that I should accept. Do come to us for Easter.
He wrote, I am sure this place will interest you.
It is haunted. The cunning fellow he knew I was
very keen on psychical research work, and would go almost
anywhere on the bare chance of seeing a ghost. At
that time I was quite open minded. I had arrived
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at no definite conclusion as to the existence or non
existence of ghosts. But to tell the truth, I doubted
very much if the Colonel's word in these circumstances could
be relied upon. I had grave suspicions that this haunting
was but an invention for the purpose of getting me
to east Over. However, as it was just possible that
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I might be mistaken that there really was a ghost,
and as I had not seen Colonel Onslow for a
long time, and indulged in feelings of the warmest regard
for both him and his wife, I resolved to go accordingly.
I set out early in the afternoon of the Good Friday.
The weather, which had been muggy in London, grew colder
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and colder the further we advanced along the line, and
by the time we reached east Over there was every
prospect of a storm. As I expected, a closed carriage
had been sent to meet me for the Colonel, carrying
conservatism with more concern ctism than since, perhaps to a
fine point, cherished the deep root aversion to innovations of
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any sort, and consequently of Horde motors. His house, Eastover Hall,
is three miles from the station and lies at the
foot of a steep spine of the Chiltern's. The grounds
of Eastover Hall were extensive, but in the ordinary sense
far from beautiful. To me. However, they were more than beautiful.
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There was a grandeur in them, a grandeur that appealed
to me far more than mere beauty, the grandeur of desolation,
the grandeur of the unknown. As we passed through the
massive iron gates of the lodge, I looked upon countless
acres of withered, undulating grass, upon a few rank sedges,
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upon a score or so of decayed trees, upon a
house huge, bare, gray and massive, upon bleak walls, upon
vacant i like windows, upon crude, scenic and hospital the
very magnitude of which overpowered me. I have said it
was cold, But there hung over the estate of Eastover
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an iciness that brought with it a quickening, a sickening
of the heart, and a dreariness that, whilst being depressing
in the extreme, was withal sublime, sublime and mysterious, mysterious
and insoluble. A thousand fancies swarm through my mind, yet
I could grapple with none, and I was loth to
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acknowledge that although there are combinations of very simple material
objects which might have had the power of affecting me. Thus,
yet any attempt to analyze that power was beyond, far
beyond my mental capability. The house, though old, and its
black oak panelings, silent staircases, dark corridors, and general air
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of gloom, were certainly suggestive of ghosts, did not affect
me in the same degree. The fear it inspired was
the ordinary fear inspired by the ordinary, supervisical. But the
fear I felt in the grounds was a fear created
by something out of the way, something far more bizarre
than a mere phantom of the dead. The Colonel asked
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me if I had experienced any unusual sensations the moment
I entered the house, and I told him yes, nearly
every one does, he replied, And yet so far as
I know, no one has ever seen anything. The noises
we hear all round the house have lately become more frequent.
I won't describe them. I want to learn your unbiased
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opinion of them first. We then had tea, and whilst
the rest there was a large house party indulged in
music and cards, the Colonel and I had a delightful
chat about old times I went to bed in the
firm resolution of keeping awake till at least two, but
I was very tired and the excess of cold had
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made me extremely sleepy. Consequently, despite my heroic efforts, I
gradually dozed off and knew no more till it was
broad daylight, and the butler entered my room with a
cup of tea. When I came down to breakfast, I
found every one in the best of spirits. The Ensloes
are great hands at original entertainments, and the announcement that
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there would be a masked ball that evening was received
with tremendous enthusiasm. To night we dance. Tomorrow we feed
on East dregs and fancy cakes. One of the guests
laughingly whispered, what a nicely ordered program. I hear too.
We are to have a real old fashioned Easter day,
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heaving and lifting and stool ball. Hey gad, the colonel
deserves some knighthood. Soon after breakfast there was a general
stampede to Seaton and dinstable to buy gifts for. In
that respect, again, the Onsloughes stuck to old customs and
there was generally an inner change of presents on Easter morning,
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my purchases made. I joined one or two of the
house party at lunch in Seaton, cycled back along to
east Over in time for tea, and at five o'clock
commenced my first explorations of the grounds. The sky having
become clouded, my progress was somewhat slow. I did the
park first, and I had not gone very far before
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I detected the same presence I had so acutely felt
the previous afternoon, like the scent of a wild beast.
It had a certain defined track, which I followed astutely,
eventually coming to a full stop in front of a
wall of rock. I then perceived, by the aid of
a few fitful rays of suppressed light, which at intervals
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struggled successfully through a black bank of clouds, the yawning
mouth of a big cavern, from the roof of which
hung innumerable salagtites. I now suddenly realized that I was
in a wearied life only isolated spot, and became immeasurably perturbed.
The unknown something in the atmosphere which had inspired me
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with so much fear, was here conglomerated. It was no
longer the mere essence, It was the whole thing, the
whole thing. But what was that thing? A hideous fascination
made me keep my gaze riveted on the gaping hole
opposite me. At first I could make out nothing, nothing
but jagged walls and roof and empty darkness. Then there
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suddenly appeared, in the very innermost recesses of the cave,
a faint glow of crimson light, which grew and grew, until,
with startling abruptness, it resolved itself into two huge eyes,
red and menacing. The sight was so unexpected, and by
reason of its intent malignity, so appalling that I was
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simply dumbfounded. I could do nothing but stare at the
Thingized and speechless. I made a desperate effort to get
back my self possession. I strove with all my might
to reason with myself, to assure myself that this was
the supreme moment of my life, the moment I had
so long and earnestly desired. But it was in vain.
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I was terrified, helplessly, hopelessly terrified. The eyes moved, they
drew nearer and nearer to me, and as they did so,
they became more and more hostile. I opened my mouth
to shout for help. I could feel my lungs bursting
under the tension. Not a sound came, And then then
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as the eyes closed on me, I could feel the
cold clammy weight pressing me down. There rang out, loud
and clear in the keen and cutting air of the
spring evening, a whole choir of voices, the village choral society.
I am not particularly fond of music, certainly not a
villa music, however well trained it may be. But I
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can honestly affirm that at that moment no sounds could
have been more welcome to me than those old folk
songs piped by the Rustics. For the instant they commenced,
the spell that so closely held me prisoner was broken.
My faculties returned, and reeling back out of the clutches
of the hateful thing, I joyfully turned and fled. I
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related my adventure to the colonel, and he told me
that the cave was generally deemed to be the most
haunted spot in the grounds, and that no one cared
to venture there alone after dark. I have myself many
times visited the cave at night in the company of others,
he said, and we have invariably experienced sensations of the
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utmost horror and repulsion. Though we have seen nothing, it
must be a devil. I thought so too, and exclaimed
with some vehemence that the proper course for him to
pursue was to have the cave filled in or blasted.
That night, I awoke at about one o'clock with the
feeling very strong on me that something was prowling about
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under my window. For some time I fought against the
impulse to get out of bed and look, but at
last I yielded. It was bright moonlight. Every obstacle in
the grounds stood out with wonderful clearness, and directly beneath
the window, peering up at me were the eyes, red,
lurid satanical. A dog barked and they vanished. I did
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not sleep again that night, not until the daylight broke,
when I had barely shut my eyes before I was
aroused by decidedly material bangings on the doors and hyper
boisterous Easter greetings. After breakfast, a few of the party
went to church, a few into the nursery to romp
with the children, whilst the rest dispersed and directions at luncheon.
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All met again, and there was much merrymaking over the
tansy cakes. Very foolish, no doubt, but to me at least,
very delightful, and perhaps a wise practice at times, even
for the most prosaic. In the afternoon, the Colonel took
me for a drive to a charmingly picturesque village in
the Chilterns. Whence we did not set out on our
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way back till it was twilight. The Colonel was a
good whip, and the horse, though young and rather high spirited,
was he said, very dependable on the whole, and had
never caused him any trouble. We spun along at a
brisk trot. The last village separating us from the hall
was passed, and we were on a high eminence, almost
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within sight of home, when a startling change in the
atmosphere suddenly became apparent. It turned icy cold. I made
some sort of comment to the Colonel. As I did so,
the horse shied, Helloa, I exclaimed, Does she often do this? No,
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not often, only when we are on this road. About
this time was the grim rejoinder, keep your eyes open
and sit tight. We were now amid scenery of the
same desolate type that had so impressed me the day
of my arrival. Gaunt, bare and heels, wild, uncultivated levels,
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somber valleys inhabited only by grotesque, enigmatical shadows that came
from Heaven knows where, and hemmed us in on all sides.
A large query, half full of water and partly overgrown
with brambles, riveted my attention, and as I gazed fixedly
at it, I saw, or fancied, I saw the shape
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of something large and white, vividly white, rise from the bottom.
The glimpse I caught of it was, however, only momentary,
for we were moving along at a great pace, and
I had hardly seen the last of it before the
query was left behind, and we were descending a long,
gradual declivity. There was but little wind, but the cold
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was benumbing. Neither of us spoke, and the silence was
unbroken save by the monotonous patter patter of the horse's hoofs.
On the dark road we were, I should say, about
half way down the hill went away in our rear
from the direction of the querry came a loud, protracted neigh.
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I at once looked round and saw, standing on the
crest of the eminence. We had just quitted, and most
vividly outlined against the enveloping darkness, a gigantic horse, white
and luminous. At that moment our own mayor took fright.
We were abruptly swung forward, and had I, not mindful
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of the Colonel's warning, been sitting tight, I should undoubtedly
have been thrown out. We dashed downhill at a terrific rate,
are mare mad with terror, and on peering over my shoulder,
I saw, to my horror the white steed tearing along
not fifty yards behind us. I was now able to
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get a vivid impression of the monstrous beast. Although the
night was dark, a strong lurid glow which seemed to
emanate from all over it enabled me to see distinctly
its broad muscular breast, its panting, steaming flanks, its long,
graceful legs with their hairy fetlocks and shoeless, shining hoofs.
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It's powerful but arched back, its lofty colossal head with
waving forelock and broad, massive forehead, its snorting nostrils, its
distended foaming jaws, its huge glistening teeth, and its lips
read than a savage grin. On and on it raced
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its strides prodigious, its mighty man, rising and falling and
blowing all around it in unrestrained confusion. A slip, a
single slip, and we should be entirely at its mercy.
Our own horse was now out of control. A series
of violent plunges which nearly succeeded in unseating me, had
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enabled her to get the check of the bit between
her teeth so as to render it utterly useless, and
she had then started off at a speed I can
only liken to flying. Fortunately, we were now on a
more or less level ground, and the road, every inch
of which our horse knew, was smooth and broad. I
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glanced at the Colonel, convulsively clutching the reins. He was
clinging to his seat for dear life, his hat gone.
I wanted to speak, but I knew it was useless.
The shrieking of the air as it roared past us
deadened all sounds. Once or twice I glanced over the
side of the trap. The rapidity with which we were
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moving caused a hideous delusion. The ground appeared to be
gliding from beneath us, and I experienced the sensation of
resting on nothing. Despite our danger. However, from natural causes,
a danger which I knew could not have been more acute.
My fears were wholly of the superphysical. It was not
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the horror of being dashed to pieces I dreaded. It
was the horror of the phantom horse, of its sinister,
hostile appearance, of its unknown powers. What would it do
if it overtook us? With each successive breath I drew.
I felt sure the fateful event, the long anticipated crisis,
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had come. At last. My expectations were realized. The teeth
of the gigantic steed closed down on me. It's not
nostrils hissed resistance out of me. I swerved, tottered, fell,
and as I sink on the ground, my senses left
me on coming too. I found myself in a propped
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up position on the floor of a tiny room, with
someone pouring brandy down my throat. Happily beyond a severe shock,
I had sustained no injury, a sufficiently miraculous circumstance, as
the trap had come to grief in failing to clear
the lodge gates, the horse had skinned its knees, and
the colonel had fractured his shoulder. Of the phantom horse,
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not a glimpse had been seen. Even the Colonel Strange
to relate, though he had managed to peepe Brown had
not seen it. He had heard and felt a presence,
that was all. And after listening to my experience, he
owned he was truly thankful. He was only clear audience.
A gift like yours, he said, with more candor than kindness,
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is a curse, not a blessing. And now I have
your corroboration. I might as well tell you that we
have long suspected the ghosts to be a horse, and
have attributed its hauntings to the fact that some time ago,
when exploring in the cave, several prehistoric remains of horses
were found, one of which we kept whilst we presented
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the others to a neighboring museum. I dare say there
are heaps more. Undoubtedly there are, I said, but take
my advice and leave them alone. Re enter the remains
you have already unearthed, and thus put a stop to
the hauntings. If you go on excavating and keep the
bones you find, the disturbance's will and all probability increase,
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and the hauntings will become not only many, but multiform.
Needless to say, the Colonel carried out my injunctions to
the letter. Far from continuing his work of excavation, he
lost no time in restoring the bones he had kept
to their originals place, after which, as I predicted, the
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hauntings ceased. This case, to me is very satisfactory, as
it testifies to what was unquestionably an actual phantasm of
the dead of a dead horse. Albeit that horse was prehistoric,
and such horses are all the more likely to be
earth bound on account of their wild, untamed natures. Here
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is another account of a phantom horse, taken from mister
Steed's Real Ghost Stories. It is written by an Africander, who,
in a letter to mister Steed, says, I am not
a believer in ghosts, nor never was, but seeing you
wanted a census of them, I can't help giving you
a remarkable experience of mine. It was some three summers back,
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and I was out with a party of bower hunters.
We had crossed the northern boundary of the trans Vail
and were camped on the ridges of the Simbambo. I
had been out from sunrise and was returning about duck
usk with the skin of a fine black Ostrich thrown
across the saddle in front of me in the best
spirits at my good luck. Making straight for camp, I
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had hardly entered a thick bush when I thought that
I heard somebody behind me. Looking behind, I saw a
man mounted on a white horse. You can imagine my surprise,
for my horse was the only one in camp, and
we were the only party in the country. Without considering,
I quickened my pace into a canter, and on doing so,
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my follower appeared to do the same. At this I
lost all confidence and made a run for it, with
my follower in hot pursuit, as it appeared to my imagination,
and I did race for it. The skin went flying
in about two minutes, and my rifle would have done
the same had it not been strapped over my shoulders.
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This I kept up until I rode into camp, right
among the pals cooking the evening meal. The bowers about
the camp were quick in their in as to my
distressed condition, and regaining confidence, I was putting them off
as best I could, when the old boss, an old
bower of some sixty eight or seventy years, looking up
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from the fire, said the white horse the Englishman had
seen the white horse. This I denied, but to no purpose.
And that night round the camp fire, I took the
trouble to make the inquiries as to the antecedents of
the white horse and the old bower. After he had
commanded silence began, he said, the English are not brave
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but foolish. We beat them at Majuba some twenty five
seasons back there was an Englishman here like you. He
had brought a horse with him, against our advice, to
be killed with the fly, the same as yours will
be in a day or two. And he, like you,
would go where he was told not to go. And
one day he went into a bush, that very bush
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you rode through tonight, and he shot seven elephants. And
the next day he went in to fetch the ivory.
And about night his horse came into camp riderless, and
was dead from the fly before the sun went down.
The englishman is in that bush now. Anyway, he never
came back. And now anybody who ventures into that bush
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is chased by the white horse. I wouldn't go into
that bush for all the ivory in the land. The
English are not brave but foolish. We beat them at Majuba.
Here he ran into a torrent of abuse of all
Englishmen in general and in particular, and I took the
opportunity of rolling myself up in my blankets for the night, sleeping,
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all the better for my adventure. Now, mister Steed, I
don't believe in ghosts, but I was firmly convinced during
that run of mine, and can vouch for the accuracy
of it, not having heard a word of the Englishman
or his white horse before my headlong returned to camp
that night. I shortly hope to be near that bush again,
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but like the old bower, I can say I wouldn't
go into that bush again for all the ivory in
the land. P s. A few days after, we dropped
across a troop of elephants without entering the fatal bush,
and managed to bag seven photographs, of which I took
and shall be pleased to send for your inspection if desired.
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There can be very little doubt that the phantom the
Africander saw was the actual spirit of a dead horse,
and of part one of Chapter three
Part one of chapter three 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 one, Chapter three, Horses and the Unknown.
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As in my chapters on cats and dogs, I will
preface this chapter on horses with instances of alleged haunted localities.
I take my first case from mister W. T. Steed's
Real Ghost Stories, published in eighteen ninety one. It is
called a weird Story from the Indian Hills, and mister
Steed preludes it. Thus. The tale is told by General
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Barter C. B. Of Carey's Town, Whitegate Company Court. At
the time he witnessed the spectral cavalcade, he was living
on the hills in India, and when one evening he
was returning home, he caught sight of a rider and
attendants coming towards him. The rest of the story, given
in the general's own words, is as follows. At this
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time the two dogs came and, crouching at my side,
gave low frightened whimpers. The moon was at the full,
a tropical moon, so bright that you could see to
read a newspaper by its light, and I saw the
party before me advance as plainly as if it were noonday.
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They were above me, some eight or ten feet on
the bridle road, the earth thrown down, from which sloped
to within a pace or two of my feet on.
The party came until almost in front of me, and
now I had better describe them. The rider was in
full dinner dress, with white waistcoat and wearing a tall
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chimney pot hat, and he sat a powerful hill pony,
dark brown with mane and tail, in a listless sort
of way, the reins hanging loosely from both hands. A
face led the pony on each side, but their faces
I could not see. The one next to me having
his back to me, and the one farthest off being
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hidden by the pony's head. Each held the bridle close
by the bit, the man next to me with his
right and the other with his left hand, and the
hands were on the thighs of the rider, as if
to steady him in his seat. As they approached, I,
knowing they could not get to any place other than
my own, called out in Hindustani Kuan, Hey, who is it?
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There was no answer, and on they came, until right
in front of me when I said in English, Hello,
what the devil do you want here? Instantly the group
came to a halt. The rider, gathering the bridle reins
up in both hands, turned his face, which had hitherto
been looking away from me, towards me, and looked down
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upon me. The group was still as in a tableau
with the bright moon shining upon it, and I at
once recognized the writer as Lieutenant B, whom I had
formerly known. The face, however, was different from what it
used to be in the place of being clean shaven
as when I used to know it, It was now
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surrounded by a fringe what used to be known as
a Newgate fringe, and it was the face of a
dead man. The ghastly waxen pallor of it brought out
more distinctly in the moonlight by the dark fringe of
hair by which it wasn't circled. The body, too, was
much stouter than when I had known it in life.
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I marked this in a moment, and then resolved to
lay hold of the thing, whatever it might be. I
dashed up the bank, and the earth which had been
thrown on the side giving under my feet. I fell
forward up the bank on my hands, recovering myself instantly.
I gained the road and stood in the exact spot
where the group had been, but which was now vacant.
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There was not the trace of anything. It was impossible
for them to go on. The road stopped at a
precipice about twenty yards further on, and it was impossible
to turn and go back. In a second, all this
flashed through my mind, and I then ran along the
road for about one hundred yards along which they had come,
until I had to stop for want of breath. But
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there was no trace of anything, and not a sound
to be heard. I then returned home, where I found
my dogs, who, on all other occasions my most faithful companions,
had not come with me along the road. Next morning,
I went up to D, who belonged to the same
regiment as B, and gradually induced him to talk of him.
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I said, how very stout he had become lately, and
what possessed him to allow his beard to grow with
that horrid fringe. D replied, yes, he became very bloated
before his death. You know, he led a very fast life,
and while on the sick list, he allowed the French
to grow in spite of all that we could say
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to him, and I believe he was buried with it.
I asked him where he got the pony I had seen,
describing it minutely, why, said d how do you know
anything about all this? You hadn't seen b for two
or three years, and the pony you never saw. He
bought him at Peshawar and killed him one day, riding
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in his reckless fashion down the hill to Tretee. I
then told him what I had seen the night before. Once,
when the galloping sound was very distinct, I rushed to
the door of my house. There I found my Hindoo
bearer standing with a tatty in his hand. I asked
him what he was there for. He said that there
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came a sound of riding down the hill and passed
him like a typhoon and went round the corner of
the house, and he was determined to waylay it whatever
it was. In commenting on the case, mister Steed remarks
that such a story as this gravely told by a
British general in the present day helps us to understand
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how our ancestors came to believe in the wonderful story
of Hernie the Hunter. I do not know about Hernie
the Hunter, but it is at all events good testimony
that horses as well as men have spirits. For one
of the ghosts the General saw was undoubtedly that of
the pony murdered by bee. Why it was still ridden
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by the phantom of its former master is another question.
The next case I narrate is also taken from mister
Steed's same work. It was sent him by one of
the leading townsmen of Cows in the Isle of Wight,
and thus runs. On a fine evening in April eighteen
fifty nine, the writer was riding with a friend on
a country road. Twilight was closing down on us us, when,
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after a silence of some minutes, my friend suddenly exclaimed,
no man knows me better than you do. Jay. Do
you think I am a nervous, easily frightened sort of man?
Far from it, said I. Among all the men I
know in the wild country I have lived and worked in,
I know none more fearless or of more unhesitating nerve.
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Well said he, I think I am that too. And
though I have traveled these roads all sorts of hours,
summer and winter, for twenty years, I never met anything
to startle me or that I could not account for
until last Monday evening. About this time. It was riding
Old Fan, a chestnut mayer here on this cross, a
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four way cross road, and on my near side was
a man on a gray horse coming from this left
hand road. I had to pull my off rein to
give myself room to pass ahead of him. He was
coming at a right angle to me. As I passed
the head of the horse, I called out good night.
Hearing no reply, I turned in my saddle to the
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off side to see whether he appeared to be asleep
as he rode. But to my surprise, I saw neither
man nor horse. So sure was I that I had
seen such that I wheeled Old Fan round and rode
back to the middle of the cross, And on neither
of the four roads could I see a man or horse,
though there was light enough to see two hundred or
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three hundred yards, as we can now well. I then
rode over to that gate, a gate at one corner
opening into a grass field, thinking he might have gone
that way looking down by each hedge, I could see
nothing of my man and horse. And then, and not
until then, I felt myself thrill and start with a
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shuddering sense that I had seen something uncanny. And jove
I put the mayor down this hill. We are on
now at her very best pace. But the strangest part
of my story is to come, said he, continuing. After
I had done my business at the farm house here
at the foot of this hill, I told the old
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farmer and his wife what I had seen, as I
have now told you. The old man said, for many
years I have known thee m on this road, and
you have never seen the like before on that cross
seen what before? I said, why a man in light
colored clothes on a gray horse, said he No, never
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said I, but I swear I have this evening. The
farmer asked, had I never heard of what happened to
the miller of l Mills about forty years ago? No?
Never a word, I told him. Well, he said, about
forty years ago this miller, returning from market was waylaid
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and murdered on that cross road. Pockets rifled of money,
and watch the horse ran home. About a mile away.
Two serving men set out with lanterns and found their
master dead. He was dressed, as millers often do in
this part of the country, in light colored clothes, and
the horse was a gray horse. The murderers were never found.
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These are facts, continued the farmer. I took this farm
soon after it all happened, And though I have known
all this and have passed over that cross several thousands
of times, I never knew anything unusual there myself. But
there have been a number of people who tell the
same story you have told mother and me m and
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described the appearance as you have done to us tonight.
Mister Steed goes on to add, four evenings after all
this occurred, my friend related it to me as we
were riding along the same road. He continued to pass
there many times every year for ten years, but never
a day saw anything of that sort. My next case,
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a reproduction of a letter in the Occult Review of
September nineteen o six, reads thus a phantom horse and
rider Missus Gaskin Anderson's story. The following story is I
think very remarkable, and I give it exactly as it
was told to me and written down at the time.
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A number of members of a Gentleman's Club were talking
and discussing, amongst other subjects, the possibility of there being
a future state for animals. One of the members said,
I firmly believe there is. In my early youth I
had a practice as a medical man in one of
the Midland counties. One of my patients was a very
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wealthy man who owned large tracts of land and had
a stud composed entirely of bay horses with black points.
This was a hobby of his and he would never
have any others day, a messenger came summoning me to
mister l as he had just met with a very
bad accident and was on the point of death. I
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mounted my horse and started off without delay. As I
was riding through the front gates to the house, I
heard a shot, and to my amazement, the very man
I was going to visit rode past at a furious pace,
riding a wretched looking chestnut with one white forefoot and
a white star on its forehead. Arrived at the house.
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The butler said he has gone, sir. They had to
shoot the horse. You would hear the shot, and at
the same moment my master died. He had had this
horse sent on approval. Whilst riding it, it backed over
a precipice, injuring mister l fatally, and on being taken
to the stables, it was found necessary to shoot it alpha.
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The next case I appenned, I published it in a
weekly journal some years ago, was related to me by
a Captain beau Clerk, the White Horse of east Over.
When I came down to breakfast one morning, I found
amongst several letters awaiting me, one from Colonel Onslow, the
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commanding officer of my regiment when I first joined. He
had always been rather partial to me, and the friendship
between us continued after his retirement. I heard from him
regularly at more or less prolonged intervals, and either at
Christmas or Easter invariably received an invitation to spend a
few days with him. On this occasion he was most
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anxious that I should accept. Do come to us for Easter.
He wrote, I am sure this place will interest you.
It is haunted. The cunning fellow he knew I was
very keen on psychical research work, and would go almost
anywhere on the bare chance of seeing a ghost. At
that time I was quite open minded. I had arrived
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at no definite conclusion as to the existence or non
existence of ghosts. But to tell the truth, I doubted
very much if the Colonel's word in these circumstances could
be relied upon. I had grave suspicions that this haunting
was but an invention for the purpose of getting me
to east Over. However, as it was just possible that
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I might be mistaken that there really was a ghost,
and as I had not seen Colonel Onslow for a
long time, and indulged in feelings of the warmest regard
for both him and his wife, I resolved to go accordingly.
I set out early in the afternoon of the Good Friday.
The weather, which had been muggy in London, grew colder
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and colder the further we advanced along the line, and
by the time we reached east Over there was every
prospect of a storm. As I expected, a closed carriage
had been sent to meet me for the Colonel, carrying
conservatism with more concern ctism than since, perhaps to a
fine point, cherished the deep root aversion to innovations of
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any sort, and consequently of Horde motors. His house, Eastover Hall,
is three miles from the station and lies at the
foot of a steep spine of the Chiltern's. The grounds
of Eastover Hall were extensive, but in the ordinary sense
far from beautiful. To me. However, they were more than beautiful.
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There was a grandeur in them, a grandeur that appealed
to me far more than mere beauty, the grandeur of desolation,
the grandeur of the unknown. As we passed through the
massive iron gates of the lodge, I looked upon countless
acres of withered, undulating grass, upon a few rank sedges,
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upon a score or so of decayed trees, upon a
house huge, bare, gray and massive, upon bleak walls, upon
vacant i like windows, upon crude, scenic and hospital the
very magnitude of which overpowered me. I have said it
was cold, But there hung over the estate of Eastover
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an iciness that brought with it a quickening, a sickening
of the heart, and a dreariness that, whilst being depressing
in the extreme, was withal sublime, sublime and mysterious, mysterious
and insoluble. A thousand fancies swarm through my mind, yet
I could grapple with none, and I was loth to
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acknowledge that although there are combinations of very simple material
objects which might have had the power of affecting me. Thus,
yet any attempt to analyze that power was beyond, far
beyond my mental capability. The house, though old, and its
black oak panelings, silent staircases, dark corridors, and general air
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of gloom, were certainly suggestive of ghosts, did not affect
me in the same degree. The fear it inspired was
the ordinary fear inspired by the ordinary, supervisical. But the
fear I felt in the grounds was a fear created
by something out of the way, something far more bizarre
than a mere phantom of the dead. The Colonel asked
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me if I had experienced any unusual sensations the moment
I entered the house, and I told him yes, nearly
every one does, he replied, And yet so far as
I know, no one has ever seen anything. The noises
we hear all round the house have lately become more frequent.
I won't describe them. I want to learn your unbiased
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opinion of them first. We then had tea, and whilst
the rest there was a large house party indulged in
music and cards, the Colonel and I had a delightful
chat about old times I went to bed in the
firm resolution of keeping awake till at least two, but
I was very tired and the excess of cold had
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made me extremely sleepy. Consequently, despite my heroic efforts, I
gradually dozed off and knew no more till it was
broad daylight, and the butler entered my room with a
cup of tea. When I came down to breakfast, I
found every one in the best of spirits. The Ensloes
are great hands at original entertainments, and the announcement that
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there would be a masked ball that evening was received
with tremendous enthusiasm. To night we dance. Tomorrow we feed
on East dregs and fancy cakes. One of the guests
laughingly whispered, what a nicely ordered program. I hear too.
We are to have a real old fashioned Easter day,
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heaving and lifting and stool ball. Hey gad, the colonel
deserves some knighthood. Soon after breakfast there was a general
stampede to Seaton and dinstable to buy gifts for. In
that respect, again, the Onsloughes stuck to old customs and
there was generally an inner change of presents on Easter morning,
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my purchases made. I joined one or two of the
house party at lunch in Seaton, cycled back along to
east Over in time for tea, and at five o'clock
commenced my first explorations of the grounds. The sky having
become clouded, my progress was somewhat slow. I did the
park first, and I had not gone very far before
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I detected the same presence I had so acutely felt
the previous afternoon, like the scent of a wild beast.
It had a certain defined track, which I followed astutely,
eventually coming to a full stop in front of a
wall of rock. I then perceived, by the aid of
a few fitful rays of suppressed light, which at intervals
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struggled successfully through a black bank of clouds, the yawning
mouth of a big cavern, from the roof of which
hung innumerable salagtites. I now suddenly realized that I was
in a wearied life only isolated spot, and became immeasurably perturbed.
The unknown something in the atmosphere which had inspired me
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with so much fear, was here conglomerated. It was no
longer the mere essence, It was the whole thing, the
whole thing. But what was that thing? A hideous fascination
made me keep my gaze riveted on the gaping hole
opposite me. At first I could make out nothing, nothing
but jagged walls and roof and empty darkness. Then there
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suddenly appeared, in the very innermost recesses of the cave,
a faint glow of crimson light, which grew and grew, until,
with startling abruptness, it resolved itself into two huge eyes,
red and menacing. The sight was so unexpected, and by
reason of its intent malignity, so appalling that I was
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simply dumbfounded. I could do nothing but stare at the
Thingized and speechless. I made a desperate effort to get
back my self possession. I strove with all my might
to reason with myself, to assure myself that this was
the supreme moment of my life, the moment I had
so long and earnestly desired. But it was in vain.
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I was terrified, helplessly, hopelessly terrified. The eyes moved, they
drew nearer and nearer to me, and as they did so,
they became more and more hostile. I opened my mouth
to shout for help. I could feel my lungs bursting
under the tension. Not a sound came, And then then
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as the eyes closed on me, I could feel the
cold clammy weight pressing me down. There rang out, loud
and clear in the keen and cutting air of the
spring evening, a whole choir of voices, the village choral society.
I am not particularly fond of music, certainly not a
villa music, however well trained it may be. But I
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can honestly affirm that at that moment no sounds could
have been more welcome to me than those old folk
songs piped by the Rustics. For the instant they commenced,
the spell that so closely held me prisoner was broken.
My faculties returned, and reeling back out of the clutches
of the hateful thing, I joyfully turned and fled. I
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related my adventure to the colonel, and he told me
that the cave was generally deemed to be the most
haunted spot in the grounds, and that no one cared
to venture there alone after dark. I have myself many
times visited the cave at night in the company of others,
he said, and we have invariably experienced sensations of the
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utmost horror and repulsion. Though we have seen nothing, it
must be a devil. I thought so too, and exclaimed
with some vehemence that the proper course for him to
pursue was to have the cave filled in or blasted.
That night, I awoke at about one o'clock with the
feeling very strong on me that something was prowling about
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under my window. For some time I fought against the
impulse to get out of bed and look, but at
last I yielded. It was bright moonlight. Every obstacle in
the grounds stood out with wonderful clearness, and directly beneath
the window, peering up at me were the eyes, red,
lurid satanical. A dog barked and they vanished. I did
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not sleep again that night, not until the daylight broke,
when I had barely shut my eyes before I was
aroused by decidedly material bangings on the doors and hyper
boisterous Easter greetings. After breakfast, a few of the party
went to church, a few into the nursery to romp
with the children, whilst the rest dispersed and directions at luncheon.
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All met again, and there was much merrymaking over the
tansy cakes. Very foolish, no doubt, but to me at least,
very delightful, and perhaps a wise practice at times, even
for the most prosaic. In the afternoon, the Colonel took
me for a drive to a charmingly picturesque village in
the Chilterns. Whence we did not set out on our
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way back till it was twilight. The Colonel was a
good whip, and the horse, though young and rather high spirited,
was he said, very dependable on the whole, and had
never caused him any trouble. We spun along at a
brisk trot. The last village separating us from the hall
was passed, and we were on a high eminence, almost
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within sight of home, when a startling change in the
atmosphere suddenly became apparent. It turned icy cold. I made
some sort of comment to the Colonel. As I did so,
the horse shied, Helloa, I exclaimed, Does she often do this? No,
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not often, only when we are on this road. About
this time was the grim rejoinder, keep your eyes open
and sit tight. We were now amid scenery of the
same desolate type that had so impressed me the day
of my arrival. Gaunt, bare and heels, wild, uncultivated levels,
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somber valleys inhabited only by grotesque, enigmatical shadows that came
from Heaven knows where, and hemmed us in on all sides.
A large query, half full of water and partly overgrown
with brambles, riveted my attention, and as I gazed fixedly
at it, I saw, or fancied, I saw the shape
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of something large and white, vividly white, rise from the bottom.
The glimpse I caught of it was, however, only momentary,
for we were moving along at a great pace, and
I had hardly seen the last of it before the
query was left behind, and we were descending a long,
gradual declivity. There was but little wind, but the cold
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was benumbing. Neither of us spoke, and the silence was
unbroken save by the monotonous patter patter of the horse's hoofs.
On the dark road we were, I should say, about
half way down the hill went away in our rear
from the direction of the querry came a loud, protracted neigh.
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I at once looked round and saw, standing on the
crest of the eminence. We had just quitted, and most
vividly outlined against the enveloping darkness, a gigantic horse, white
and luminous. At that moment our own mayor took fright.
We were abruptly swung forward, and had I, not mindful
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of the Colonel's warning, been sitting tight, I should undoubtedly
have been thrown out. We dashed downhill at a terrific rate,
are mare mad with terror, and on peering over my shoulder,
I saw, to my horror the white steed tearing along
not fifty yards behind us. I was now able to
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get a vivid impression of the monstrous beast. Although the
night was dark, a strong lurid glow which seemed to
emanate from all over it enabled me to see distinctly
its broad muscular breast, its panting, steaming flanks, its long,
graceful legs with their hairy fetlocks and shoeless, shining hoofs.
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It's powerful but arched back, its lofty colossal head with
waving forelock and broad, massive forehead, its snorting nostrils, its
distended foaming jaws, its huge glistening teeth, and its lips
read than a savage grin. On and on it raced
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its strides prodigious, its mighty man, rising and falling and
blowing all around it in unrestrained confusion. A slip, a
single slip, and we should be entirely at its mercy.
Our own horse was now out of control. A series
of violent plunges which nearly succeeded in unseating me, had
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enabled her to get the check of the bit between
her teeth so as to render it utterly useless, and
she had then started off at a speed I can
only liken to flying. Fortunately, we were now on a
more or less level ground, and the road, every inch
of which our horse knew, was smooth and broad. I
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glanced at the Colonel, convulsively clutching the reins. He was
clinging to his seat for dear life, his hat gone.
I wanted to speak, but I knew it was useless.
The shrieking of the air as it roared past us
deadened all sounds. Once or twice I glanced over the
side of the trap. The rapidity with which we were
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moving caused a hideous delusion. The ground appeared to be
gliding from beneath us, and I experienced the sensation of
resting on nothing. Despite our danger. However, from natural causes,
a danger which I knew could not have been more acute.
My fears were wholly of the superphysical. It was not
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the horror of being dashed to pieces I dreaded. It
was the horror of the phantom horse, of its sinister,
hostile appearance, of its unknown powers. What would it do
if it overtook us? With each successive breath I drew.
I felt sure the fateful event, the long anticipated crisis,
(29:49):
had come. At last. My expectations were realized. The teeth
of the gigantic steed closed down on me. It's not
nostrils hissed resistance out of me. I swerved, tottered, fell,
and as I sink on the ground, my senses left
me on coming too. I found myself in a propped
(30:12):
up position on the floor of a tiny room, with
someone pouring brandy down my throat. Happily beyond a severe shock,
I had sustained no injury, a sufficiently miraculous circumstance, as
the trap had come to grief in failing to clear
the lodge gates, the horse had skinned its knees, and
the colonel had fractured his shoulder. Of the phantom horse,
(30:35):
not a glimpse had been seen. Even the Colonel Strange
to relate, though he had managed to peepe Brown had
not seen it. He had heard and felt a presence,
that was all. And after listening to my experience, he
owned he was truly thankful. He was only clear audience.
A gift like yours, he said, with more candor than kindness,
(30:58):
is a curse, not a blessing. And now I have
your corroboration. I might as well tell you that we
have long suspected the ghosts to be a horse, and
have attributed its hauntings to the fact that some time ago,
when exploring in the cave, several prehistoric remains of horses
were found, one of which we kept whilst we presented
(31:19):
the others to a neighboring museum. I dare say there
are heaps more. Undoubtedly there are, I said, but take
my advice and leave them alone. Re enter the remains
you have already unearthed, and thus put a stop to
the hauntings. If you go on excavating and keep the
bones you find, the disturbance's will and all probability increase,
(31:42):
and the hauntings will become not only many, but multiform.
Needless to say, the Colonel carried out my injunctions to
the letter. Far from continuing his work of excavation, he
lost no time in restoring the bones he had kept
to their originals place, after which, as I predicted, the
(32:03):
hauntings ceased. This case, to me is very satisfactory, as
it testifies to what was unquestionably an actual phantasm of
the dead of a dead horse. Albeit that horse was prehistoric,
and such horses are all the more likely to be
earth bound on account of their wild, untamed natures. Here
(32:25):
is another account of a phantom horse, taken from mister
Steed's Real Ghost Stories. It is written by an Africander, who,
in a letter to mister Steed, says, I am not
a believer in ghosts, nor never was, but seeing you
wanted a census of them, I can't help giving you
a remarkable experience of mine. It was some three summers back,
(32:47):
and I was out with a party of bower hunters.
We had crossed the northern boundary of the trans Vail
and were camped on the ridges of the Simbambo. I
had been out from sunrise and was returning about duck
usk with the skin of a fine black Ostrich thrown
across the saddle in front of me in the best
spirits at my good luck. Making straight for camp, I
(33:09):
had hardly entered a thick bush when I thought that
I heard somebody behind me. Looking behind, I saw a
man mounted on a white horse. You can imagine my surprise,
for my horse was the only one in camp, and
we were the only party in the country. Without considering,
I quickened my pace into a canter, and on doing so,
(33:30):
my follower appeared to do the same. At this I
lost all confidence and made a run for it, with
my follower in hot pursuit, as it appeared to my imagination,
and I did race for it. The skin went flying
in about two minutes, and my rifle would have done
the same had it not been strapped over my shoulders.
(33:51):
This I kept up until I rode into camp, right
among the pals cooking the evening meal. The bowers about
the camp were quick in their in as to my
distressed condition, and regaining confidence, I was putting them off
as best I could, when the old boss, an old
bower of some sixty eight or seventy years, looking up
(34:11):
from the fire, said the white horse the Englishman had
seen the white horse. This I denied, but to no purpose.
And that night round the camp fire, I took the
trouble to make the inquiries as to the antecedents of
the white horse and the old bower. After he had
commanded silence began, he said, the English are not brave
(34:35):
but foolish. We beat them at Majuba some twenty five
seasons back there was an Englishman here like you. He
had brought a horse with him, against our advice, to
be killed with the fly, the same as yours will
be in a day or two. And he, like you,
would go where he was told not to go. And
one day he went into a bush, that very bush
(34:56):
you rode through tonight, and he shot seven elephants. And
the next day he went in to fetch the ivory.
And about night his horse came into camp riderless, and
was dead from the fly before the sun went down.
The englishman is in that bush now. Anyway, he never
came back. And now anybody who ventures into that bush
(35:18):
is chased by the white horse. I wouldn't go into
that bush for all the ivory in the land. The
English are not brave but foolish. We beat them at Majuba.
Here he ran into a torrent of abuse of all
Englishmen in general and in particular, and I took the
opportunity of rolling myself up in my blankets for the night, sleeping,
(35:40):
all the better for my adventure. Now, mister Steed, I
don't believe in ghosts, but I was firmly convinced during
that run of mine, and can vouch for the accuracy
of it, not having heard a word of the Englishman
or his white horse before my headlong returned to camp
that night. I shortly hope to be near that bush again,
(36:00):
but like the old bower, I can say I wouldn't
go into that bush again for all the ivory in
the land. P s. A few days after, we dropped
across a troop of elephants without entering the fatal bush,
and managed to bag seven photographs, of which I took
and shall be pleased to send for your inspection if desired.
(36:22):
There can be very little doubt that the phantom the
Africander saw was the actual spirit of a dead horse,
and of part one of Chapter three
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