August 21, 2025 • 43 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 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, Chapter three, Part three, yet another case
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of haunting by the Phanfasms of a horse comes to
me from a gentleman in Marcel's who told it me. Thus,
it was nine p m. When I left my friend
Maitland's hotel in Chateaubourn, and, facing north, set out on
my way to Lefeur, where my headquarters had been for
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the past fortnight. Lefeur is in the hills, and the
road which separated it from Chateaubourn, wild and lonely enough
in daylight, and when the weather is fair, is almost
untraversible in winter. The night in question was Christmas Eve.
The snow had fallen heavily during the day, and with
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the wind blowing in icy drops from the northeast, there
was every prospect of another downfall. Maitland pressed me to
stay in his hotel. It is sheer folly, he said,
for you to attempt to get home in weather like this,
it is pitch dark, you are not familiar with the route,
and if you don't wander off the track and tumble
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over a precipice, you will walk into a snowdrift. Be
sensible sleep here. Much However, as I should have liked
to follow his council, I did not feel justified in
doing so, as I had a lot of correspondence to
attend to, and I realized it was most necessary for
me to get back to Lafeur without any further delay.
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It was true the night was inky black, but with
the aid of a lamp, I hadn't the slightest doubt
I could find my way. Maitland bartered for a candle
lantern with his host, and armed with this, a flagon
of brandy and water, and a thick stick, I said
goodbye to Chateauborne. A couple of hundred yards saw me
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beyond the outskirts of the town, wherein I was the
sole pedestrian, and silence reigned supreme. On and on I plodded,
the feeble yellow light of my lantern, just preventing me,
but only just from wandering from the track the road
which for the first mile or so was tolerably level,
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gradually began to rise, and as it did so, I
noticed for the first time indistinct images of gigantic, naked trees, that,
becoming more and more numerous, and closer and closer together,
at length united their long and grotesquely shaped branches overhead,
and I found myself in the depths of a vast forest.
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The snow, which had up to the present held off,
now recommenced to fall, and presently the wind, which had
for some time been slowly acquiring strength, came howling through
the trees with the utmost fury, the first blast swishing
the lantern out of my hands and hurling me with
considerable force into an undergrowth of thorns and brambles, out
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of which I extricated myself with no little difficulty. I
was now in the sorriest of plights, Enveloped on all
sides in stygy and darkness. I was unable to discover
my lantern, and was thus totally at the mercy of
the rootless elements. There were only two courses before me.
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Either I must remain where I was and be frozen
to death, or making a guess at the route, I
must push on ahead and run the risk of ending
my life at the bottom of a ravine. I chose
the latter, groping about with my feet until I at
length discovered what I thought must be the right track.
I pushed ahead, and staggering and stumbling forward, managed to
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make some sort of progress, terribly slow though it was.
The blinding darkness of the snowy night, the intense silence
and utter solitude of the place, combined with the knowledge
that on all sides of me lay holes and chasms,
dampened my spirits and raised strange phantoms in my imagination.
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The wind now rose, and the dismal sighing of the
trees speedily grew into a series of the most perturbing screeches,
as the branches and trunks swayed to and fro like
reeds before the violence of the hurricane. At this juncture,
I gave myself up for lost, and, coming to a standstill,
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up to my knees in snow, was preparing to lie
down and die, when, to my great joy, a light
suddenly appeared ahead of me, and the next moment a
man mounted on a big white horse rode noiselessly up
to me. He was wrapped in a shaggy greatcoat and
a slouch hat worn low over his eyes completely hid
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his face from me. In his disengaged hand, he carried
a lantern. By jove, I exclaimed, I am glad to
see you, for i've lost the track to Laffeur. Can
you tell me, or better still, show me the way
to some house where I can put up for the
remainder of the night. The stranger made no reply, but
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bidding me follow with a wave of his hand, rode
silently in front of me, and although I tried to
keep up with him, I could not. And the odd
thing was that, without apparently increasing his pace, he always
maintained his distance. After proceeding in this manner for possibly
ten minutes, we suddenly turned to the left and I
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found myself in a big clearing in the wood, with
a long, low built house opposite me. My guide then paused, and,
indicating the front door of the house with an emphatic
gesture of his hand, seemed suddenly to melt away into
thin air. For although I peered about me on all
sides to try to find some indications of him, neither
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he nor his horse was anywhere to be seen. Thinking
this was rather queer, but quite ready to attribute it
to natural causes. I approached the building, and, making use
of my knuckles in lieu of a knocker, beat a
loud tattoo on the woodwork. There was no response. Again,
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I rapped, and the door, slowly opening revealed a pair
of gleaming dark eyes. What do you want, inquired a
harsh voice in barbarous accents. A night's lodging, I replied,
and I am willing to pay a good price for it,
for I'm more than half brozen. At this, the door
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opened wider, and I found myself confronted by a woman
with a candle. She had not the most prepossessing of expressions.
Though her hair, eyes and features were decidedly good. She
was dressed with tawdry smartness earrings, necklace and rings, and
very high heeled buckled shoes. Indeed, her costume was so
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out of keeping with the rusticity of her surroundings as
to be quite extraordinary. This fact struck me at once,
as did her fingers, which, though spatulate and ugly, had
been manicured, and of course very much over manicured for effect.
Had this not been the case, I probably should not
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have noticed them, but the unnatural gloss on them, exaggerated
by the candle light, made me look, and I was
at once impressed with the criminal formation of the fingers.
The club shaped ends denoted something very bad, something homicidal.
And as my eyes wandered from the hands to the face,
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I saw with a thrill of horror that the ears
were set low down and far back on the head,
and that the eyes gleamed with the sinister glitter of
the wolf. Still, I must take my chance, the woman
or the wood. It had to be one of the two.
If you'll step inside, monsieur, she said, I'll see what
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can be done for you. We have only recently come here,
and the house is anyhow at present. Still, if you
don't mind roughing it a little, we can let you
have a bed, and you can rely upon me that
it is clean and well aired. I followed her eagerly,
and she led me down a narrow passage into a
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big room with low ceiling, traversed with a ponderous oak
beam blackened with the smoke of endless peat fires. Before
the blazing fagots on the hearth sat a burly individual
in a blue blouse. On our arrival, he arose, and
as his huge form towered above me, I thought I
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had never seen anyone quite so hideous, nor so utterly
unlike the orthodox frenchman obeying his injunction, for I can
scarcely call it an invitation to sit down. I took
a seat by the fire, and, warming my half frozen limbs,
waited impatiently whilst the woman made up my bed and
prepared supper. The storm had now reached cyclonic dimensions, and
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under its stupendous fury, the whole house stoutly built, though
it was swayed on its foundations. The howling of the
wind in the rude, old fashioned chimney and along the passage,
and the frenzied beating of the snow against the diamond
window panes, deadened all other noises and rendered any attempt
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at conversation absolutely abortive. So I ate my meal in silence,
pretending not to notice the subtle interchange of glances that
constantly took place between the strangely assorted payer. Whether they
were a husband and wife, what the man did for
a living, were questions that continually occurred to me, and
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I found my eyes incessantly wandering to the numerous packing cases,
piles of carpets, casks, and other articles, which corroborated the
woman's statement that they had but recently moved in. Once.
I attempted to empty the coffee, which was black and
peculiarly bitter, under the table, but had to desist as
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I saw the man's devilish eyes fixed searchingly on me.
I then pushed aside the cup and on the woman,
asking if it was not to my liking, I shouted
out that I was not in the least thirsty. After
this incident, the covert looks became more numerous, and my
suspicions increased accordingly. At the first opportunity, I got up and,
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signaling my intention to go to bed, was preparing to
leave my seat when my host, walking to the cupboard,
fetched out a bottle of kognac, and, pouring out a tumbler,
handed it me with a mien that I dare not refuse.
The woman then led me up a flight of rickety
wooden steps into a supulchral looking chamber with no other
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furniture in it save a long, narrow iron bedstand, a
dilapidated washstand, a very unsteady common deal table, on which
was a looking glass and a collar stud and a
rush bottom chair. Setting the candlestick on the dressing table,
and assuring me again that the bed was well aired.
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My hostess withdrew, observing as she left the room that
she would get me a nice breakfast and call me
at seven. At seven, how I wished it was seven now.
As I stood in the midst of the floor, shivering,
for the room was icy cold, I suddenly saw a
dark shadow emerge from a remote corner of the room
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and slide surreptitiously toward the door, where it halted. My
eyes then fell on the lock, and I perceived that
there was no key, no key, and that evil looking
pair below. I must barricade the door somehow, Yet with
what there was nothing of any weight in the room. Nothing.
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I began to feel horribly tired and sleepy, so sleepy
that it was only with supreme effort I could prevent
my eyelids closing. Ah, I had it a wedge, I
had a knife of wood. There was plenty, a piece
off the washstand, table or chair. Anything would suffice. I
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essayed to struggle to the chair, my limbs tottered my
eyelids closed. Then the shadow from the doorway moved towards
and through me, and with the coldness of its passage,
I revived with desperate energy. I cut a couple of
chunks off the washstand, and peering them down, eventually succeeded
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and slipping them in the crack of the door and
rendering it impossible to open from the outside. That done,
I staggered to the bed, and, falling dressed as I
was on the counterpane, sank into a deep sleep. How
long I slept I cannot say. I suddenly heard the
loud neighing of a horse, which seemed to come from
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just under my window, and as in a vision, saw
by my side in the bed a something which gradually
developed into the figure of a man, the counterpart of
the mysterious being in the shaggy coat who had guided
me to the house. He was fully dressed, sound asleep,
and breathing heavily. As I was looking, a dark shadow
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fell across the sleeper's face, and on glancing up, I perceived,
to my horror a black something crawling on the floor.
Nearer and nearer it came, until it reached the side
of the bed, when I immediately recognized the evil, smirking face
of my hostess. In one hand she held a lamp
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and in the other a horn handled knife. Setting the
lamp on the floor, she coolly undid the collar of
the sleeping man, and I saw a stud, the counterpart
of the one on the dressing table, fall on the
bare boards with a sharp tap, and disappear in the
surrounding darkness. Then the woman felt the edge of the
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knife with her repulsive thumb and calmly cut the helpless
man's throat. I screamed, and the murderess and her victim
instantly vanished, and I realized I was alone in the
room and very much away. Whether all that had occurred
was a dream, I cannot say with certainty, though I
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am inclined to think not. For some minutes, my heart
pulsated painfully. And then, as the sound of its throbbing
grew fainter and fainter, I heard a curious noise outside
my room. Someone was ascending the stairs. I endeavored to rise,
but could not fear. An awful, ungovernable fear held me spellbound.
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The steps paused outside the door, the handle of which
was gently turned. Then there was a suggestive silence, then whispering,
then another turning of the handle, and then my state
of coma abruptly ended, and I stepped noiselessly out of
the bed and crept to the window. I was heard
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stop him, The woman cried out, he's trying to escape.
Use the gun. She hurled herself against the door as
she spoke, whilst the man tore downstairs. It was now
a matter of seconds the slightest accident a hesitation, and
I was lost. Swinging open the window, I scrambled on
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the ledge, and without the slightest idea of the distance, dropped.
There was a brief rushing through air, and I alighted,
safe and sound on the snow blessed snow. Had it
not been for the snow, I should have, in all probability,
hurt myself. I alighted not an instant too soon, for
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hardly had I touched the ground before my gigantic host
came tearing round the angle of the wall with a
lantern in one hand and a gun in the other.
I immediately dashed away, and thanks to the intense darkness
of the morning, for it must have been two o'clock
had no difficulty in evading my pursuer, who fired twice
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in rapid succession. On and on I went, sometimes falling
up to my armpits in the snow drift, and sometimes
stunning myself against the low hanging branch of a tree
with the first rays of sunlight. However, my troubles came
to an end. The snow had ceased falling, and I
quickly alighted on a track which brought me to a village.
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Whence I obtained a conveyance into Lafeur. I reported the
affair to the local police, and had a party of
zendarmes at once set off to arrest the miscrants. But
alas they had fled, the house was pulled down, and
on the soil being excavated. A dozen or more skeletons
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of men and women, all showing unmistakable signs of foul play,
together with the remains of a horse, were found in
various parts of the premises. The place was a veritable Golgotha.
I supposed the phantom horse and rider had appeared to
me with the sole purpose of making their fate known.
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If so, they at all events partly achieved their end,
though the mystery surrounding their identity was never solved. All
the remains, both human and animal, were removed elsewhere and
accorded a decent burial. The site of their original interment, however,
is I believe still haunted, and maybe will remain so
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till the miscreants are brought to book brief summary. After
a little consideration, I am inclined to think there are
quite as many authentic cases of hauntings by the phanfasms
of horses as by the phantasms of cats and dogs.
Innumerable horses die and natural deaths, apart from those killed
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in war, many more, particularly, it is true, in the
olden times, have been murdered in the highways along with
their masters, whilst all but the comparative few, when no
longer of use to their owners, are butchered in the
slaughter house and subsequently dispatched into the zoological gardens to
be eaten by lions and tigers. So much for Christianity
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and for man's gratitude. How much better would be the
promoters of the White Slave Traffic Act be employed if,
instead of trying to pass a bill which obviously cannot
cure the evil it aims, at but can only by
diverting the course of that evil drive from pillar to posts.
Thousands of defenseless, albeit erring women. They were to labor
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to secure a peaceful ending for our four footed toilers,
who work for us all their lives, never strike, never
think of a pension for old age, and never even
dream of a vote. Alas if only our poor horses
could vote. What a different attitude would our pharisaical politicians
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at once adopt towards them phanfasms of living horses. From
what I have experienced and have been told, I am
of the opinion that horses possessed the same faculty of
separating their immaterial from their material bodies as cats and dogs.
I knew a Virginian lady who had a piebald horse
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that frequently appeared simultaneously in two places. She lived in
an old country house near Winchfield, and one morning, when
she went out into the breakfast room, she was surprised
to see the paybald horse standing on the gravel path
outside the window, looking in at her. When she called
it by name, it immediately melted into fine air. Going
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round to the stables, she found the horse in its stall,
and on inquiry was informed that it had been there
all the time. The same thing frequently occurred, other members
of the household besides herself witnessing it, and so like
in all its details was the immaterial horse to the
material that they were often at a loss to tell
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which was which. The phenomenon, sometimes occurring when the real
horse was awake and sometimes when it was asleep, proves
that the animal possessed the faculty of projecting its spiritual ego,
astral body, or whatever you like to call it, both
consciously and unconsciously. I know of many similar instances horses
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and the psychic faculty of scent. Horses, in a rather
less degree than cats, and in much the same degree
as dogs, possessed the property of scenting the advent and
the presence of spirits. On more than one occasion, when
I have been riding after dusk, my horse has suddenly
come to an abrupt halt and shown unmistakable signs of terror.
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I have not been able to see anything to account
for its conduct, but on subsequent inquiry have learned either
that a tragedy was actually known to have taken place there,
or that the spot had a long borne reputation for
being haunted, and my experiences are the experiences of countless
other people. Before a death, a horse will often neigh
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repeatedly outside the house of the doomed person, and not
infrequently show evidences of terror in passing close to it,
from which I deduce the horse can at all events
scent the proximity of the phantom of death like the dog. However,
I think it only possesses this peculiar psychic property and
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a limited degree. It can, for example, readily detect the
whereabouts of phanfasms haunting localities, but not so easily those
haunting people. It shows little or no discrimination on sight
between cruel and brutal people and those who are kind,
giving the same amount of passing space to the one
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as it does to the other. Yet, on the other hand,
I have watched horses at night standing in the fields,
had their heads thrown back, a transfixed, far off expression
in their eyes, sniffing the atmosphere and snuffling it in
a manner that strongly suggested to me that they were
carrying on, by means of some silent secret code, a
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conversation with some superphysical presence which they either saw or
scented or very likely both. Scent I am convinced is
the medium of conversation not only between superphysical animals, but
between material animals. And if we ever wished to converse
with spirits, we must employ cats, dogs and horses to
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teach us. Phantom coaches. There are a few parts of
the British Isles few countries in Europe which have not
their phantom coaches. Perhaps the most famous are those that
haunt a road near Newport, South Wales, and an old
highway in Devon. A specter coach and horses in Pembrokeshire.
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Miss Mary l Lew's, in an article called Some More
Welsh Ghosts that appeared in the Occult Review for December
nineteen o seven, writes, thus, in common with several other
districts in Great Britain and Ireland, Pembrokeshire possesses a good
phantom coach legend, localized in the southern part of the
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county at a place where four roads meet, called Sampson Cross.
In old days, the belated farmer, driving home in his
gig from market was apt to cast a nervous glance
over his shoulder as his ponies slowly climbed the last
pitch heading up to the cross. For tradition says that
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every night a certain lady z who lived in the
seventeenth century and whose monument is in the church close by,
drives over from tenby ten miles distant in a coach
drawn by headless horses guided by a headless coachman. She
also has no head, and arriving by midnight at Sampson Cross,
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the whole equipage is said to disappear in a flame
of fire with a loud noise of explosion. Miss Mary l.
Loose goes on to add a clergyman living in the
immediate neighborhood who told the writer the story, said that
some people believed the ghostly traveler had been safely laid
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many years ago in the waters of the lake not
far off. He added, however that might be, it was
an odd fact that his sedate and elderly cob, when
driven home past the cross after nightfall, would invariably start
as if frightened there a thing which never happened by daylight.
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What these kinds of spectral horses are no one can
say at the most, Despite what theosophists and occultist may
declare to the contrary, one can only theorize, and the
speculations of one person be he who he may seem
to me to be of no more consequence than those
of another. For my own part, I am inclined to
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think that. Whereas in some cases the ghostly coach horses
are the phantoms of horses that were killed on the highways,
and others they are either vice elementals or elementals whose
particular function it is to prognosticate death, either the death
of those who see them or the death of someone
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connected with those who see them. A phantom horse and policeman.
According to one of my correspondents, mister t P, a
comparatively modern phantom rider, has been seen in Canada. Writing
to me from c where he lives, he says, it
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is stated that this town is periodically haunted by the
phantom of a tall, fear policeman mounted on a white
horse and clothed in the uniform of the forties amely tailcoat,
tight trousers and tall hat. His phantom beat extends from
a gateway at the commencement of Cod Hill, along the
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park side of Pablo Street to Sutton Street and Adam
Street down Daine Street and back through Pablo Street to
the gateway on Cod Hill. A gentleman well known in
the art world, who, in order to avoid publicity, wishes
to be designated mister Bates, gave me his experience of
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the phenomena as follows. Yes, I have seen the ghostly
policeman and his milk white horse. I was walking along
Pablo Street on the park side one gray afternoon in November,
with the express intention of meeting a friend at my
club in Royal Street. Went to my surprise, just as
I was about one hundred yards from the gateway on
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Cod Hill, I was overtaken by a tall, fear haired
man riding a white horse. He was so dressed that
I steered in astonishment. He was wearing the costume of
seventy or eighty years ago, and reminded me of the
policeman in Crookshank's illustrations of Dickens. I was not frightened
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because I thought he must be someone masquerading, and in
my curiosity to see his face, I hastened my steps
to overtake him. I failed, for although he appeared to
be riding slowly, hardly moving at all, I could not
draw an inch nearer to him. This made me think,
and I examined him more critically. Then I noticed several
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things about him that at first had escaped my notice.
They were these, One that although he was mounted, he
was wearing walking clothes, he had on long trousers and thick,
clumsy boots. Two that his ears and neck were perfectly colorless,
of an unnatural and startling white. Three that, despite the
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incongruity of his attire, no one but my seemed to
see him on. He rode neither looking to the left
nor to the right, until he came to Sutton Street, when,
without paying the slightest attention to traffic, he began to
cross over. There were crowds of vehicles passing at the time,
and one of them rushed right on him, making sure
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he would be killed. I uttered an ejaculation of horror.
Judge then of my amazement, when instead of seeing him
lying on the ground, crushed all out of shape, I
saw him still riding on as leisurely and unconcernedly as
if he had been on a country road. The vehicle
had passed right through him. Though I had hitherto scoffed
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at ghosts, I was now certain I had seen one,
and suddenly becoming conscious how very cold it was, I
tore on, not feeling at all comfortable, till I had
reached the warm, cheery, and thoroughly material quarters of my club.
To corroborate the evidence of mister Bates, I appenned a
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narrative given me verbally by Miss Hartley, who, like mister Bates, had,
up to the time of her experience, posed as a
pronounced and somewhat bitter skeptic. She was an emphatic freethinker
and then had no belief whatsoever in a future life.
Now she believes a sight more than most people. One
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afternoon in February nineteen eleven, she stated, just as twilight
was commencing, I left the park where I had been
exercising my dog, and, turning into Pablo Street, made for
Bright Street. At the corner of Wolfe Street, I saw
something so strange that I involuntarily halted. Riding slowly along
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on a big white horse. A few paces ahead of
me was an enormous policeman in the quaint attire of
the forties, top hat, tailcoat, tight trousers, just as I
had so often seen portrayed in old books. He was
riding stiffly, as if unaccustomed to the saddle, and kept
looking rigidly in front of him, thinking it was someone
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doing it either for a joke or a wager. I
was greatly tickled, and kept saying to myself, well, you
are a sport and a one sport. I tried to
catch him up to see how he made up his face,
but could not, for although the horse never seemed to
quicken its pace a mere crawl and I ran, it
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nevertheless maintained precisely the same distance in front of me.
When we had progressed in this fashion, some hundred or
so yards, I perceived a city policeman advancing towards us.
Come now, I said to myself, we shall see some fun.
The nineteen eleven copper meeting the peeler of eighteen forty.
I wonder what he will think of him. To my astonishment, however,
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neither even as much as gave the other a fleeting glance,
but passed by, unmoved, and to all appearance, wholly unconscious
of each other. A few yards further I spied a
negro looking intently in a store window, just as the
strange policeman came up to him. He gave a violent start,
turned round and stared at him, gasped, his cheeks ashy, pale,
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his eyes bulging, made some exclamation I could not catch,
and dashing past me, fled then, and not till then
did I begin to feel funny. Further on, still, we
came to a crossing. A carriage and pair with a
coronet on the panels of the door was standing waiting
directly the policeman approached. Both the horses reared so violently
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they all but threw the coachman off the box. One
of the men cried out, Heavens, Bill, what's that? But
the other and older of them, to who was clinging
to the reins with all his might, merely swore. Convinced
now that I was on the trail of something not human,
something in all probability superphysical, and impelled by a fascination
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I could not resist, I followed. At the top of
Wolfe Street, the policeman paused, then, crossing slowly over turned
into Dane Street, down which he continued to ride with
the same mechanical and automatic tread at length. When within
a few feet of a certain shop, over which is
a flat that has long borne a reputation for being haunted.
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The horse came to a dead halt, and horse and rider,
veering slowly round, looked at me. What I saw I
shall never forget. I saw the faces of the dead,
the long since dead. For some moments, they confronted me,
and then vanished, vanished where they stood. I saw them
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again under precisely the same conditions two days later, and
I have seen them once since. I am not an
imaginative or highly strung person, but am, on the contrary,
exceedingly practical and matter of fact. No better proof of
which I can give than this fact. I am engaged
to be married to a Quebec solicitor, an Irish haunting.
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Mister Reginald b. Span in a most interesting article called
some Glimpses of the Unseen that appeared in the Occult
Review for February nineteen o six, writes as follows. Another
strange incident, which also occurred in Ireland, was told me
by a coachman in my cousin's employee at Kilpeacun near Limerick.
(34:42):
This man had previously been a park keeper to Lord
Donna Rail in County Cork. One bright moonlight night, he
was coming across Lord Donnereil's Park, having been round to
see that the gates were shut, when his attention was
drawn to the distant baying of hounds, and he stopped
to listen, as the sounds seemed to proceed from within
(35:03):
the park walls, and he knew there were no hounds
kept on the estate. His young son was with him
and also heard the noise, which was getting louder and clearer,
and was evidently moving rapidly in their direction. His first
idea was that a pack of hounds which were kept
in the hunting kennels a few miles away, had escaped
(35:23):
and had somehow gotten into the park, although he had
seen that the gates were closed and there was really
no way by which they could have entered. The baying
of hounds, as if in full cry, sounded closer and closer,
and suddenly, out of the shadow of some trees, a
number of fox hounds, running at full speed appeared in
(35:44):
the clear light of the moon. They raced past the
amazed spectators, a whole pack of them, followed closely by
an elderly man on a large horse. Although they came
very near, no sound could be heard, but the baying
of one or two of the hands. The galloping of
the horse was not hurt at all. They swung across
(36:05):
the grass at a tremendous pace and were lost to
view round the end of a plantation. The park keeper
knew that all the gates were shut and that it
would be impossible for a pack of hounds to pass out,
and he thought the mystery might be solved the next day. However,
it was never explained by any natural calls. No hounds
(36:27):
or horsemen had been in the park. The mansion was closed,
Lord Donnareil being away, and no one had the right
of entering the grounds within the park walls. He heard
later that there was a story in the neighborhood about
the ghost of a former Lord Donnereil haunting the park,
and possibly the spectral horseman was he. I questioned the
(36:49):
man and his son closely about it, and am convinced
that they were not deceived by hallucination, and that their
account is perfectly true. To this account, mister Span adds
this note, the apparition of the hounds and huntsman was
witnessed on an estate belonging to Lord Donerel in the
south of Ireland, Donnerel Park. The man who told me
(37:13):
the incident was coachman in the service of my cousin
near Limerick. His young son confirmed his father's account, as
he also saw it. Yours faithfully, Reginald B. Span. To
throw additional light on the matter, mister Ralph Shirley, editor
of the Occult Review, published the following letter written to
him by Lord Donerel. Dear Shirley, it is a rather
(37:36):
curious thing that neither Lady Castletown nor Lady Donnarel has
ever heard of the story of the moonlight vision of
Lord Donarel and the pack of hounds. However, there is
a man at Donarel called Jones, a chemist who is
a most enthusiastic antiquarian and a dabbler in the occult sciences,
(37:57):
and he takes the greatest interest in all that concerned
earns the Saint Legers. Lady Castletown wrote to him, and
the reply comes from his brother. I suppose he is away,
and that I send you. Lady Donnarel says it must
refer to the third Lord Donnerel of the first creation,
who was killed in a duel. Afterwards, and there appear
(38:19):
to be a lot of stories which Jones has ferreted
out or been told. Of course, I don't know how
far you could say Jones was authentic. All I can
say is that he believes the things himself. Yours, Sincerely, Donnerel,
December twenty seventh, nineteen o five. I should explain, adds
(38:40):
mister Shirley, that Lady Castletown is daughter to the late
Lord Donerel and present owner of Donnerel House. Here follows
the enclosure I e. The extract made by Walter A.
Jones Donnerel from his notes on the Legends of Peasantry
in connection with Donarel branch of the Saint Leger family,
(39:02):
dated December twenty first, nineteen o five. Wild Darrel Little Cote,
as everyone knows, is haunted by the spirits of the
notorious wild Will Darrel and the horse he invariably rode
and which eventually broke his neck. But there are many
wild darrels. All Europe is being overrun by them. They
(39:24):
nightly tear on their phantom horses over the German and
Norwegian forests and moorlands that echo and re echo with
their horse shouts and the mournful baying of their grizzly hounds.
Many travelers in Russia and Germany, journeying through the forests
at night, have caught the sound of wales of moans that,
(39:45):
starting from the far distance, have gradually come nearer and nearer.
Then they have heard the winding of a horn, the
shouting and cursing of the huntsmen, and in a biting
cold wind, have seen the whole cavalcade sweep by. According
to various authorities on the subject, this spectral chase goes
by different names. In Thuringia and elsewhere, it is Halkemberg
(40:11):
or halchenberand the story being that Hackeenburg, a German knight
who had devoted his whole life to the chase, on
his deathbed, had told the officiating priest that he cared
not a jot for heaven, but only for hunting, the
priest losing patients and exclaiming then hunt till doomsday. So
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in all weathers and snow and ice, Hackelmburg, his horse
and hounds are seen careering after imaginary game. There are
similar stories current in the Netherlands, Denmark, Russia, and practically
all over Europe. And not only Europe, but in many
of the states and departments of the New World. This
(40:52):
being so, I think there must be a substantial substratum
of truth underlying the beliefs, fantastic as they may appear,
and yet are no more fantastic than many of the
stories we are asked to give absolute credence to in
the Bible. In Old Castile, the spirit of a Moorish
leader who won many victories over the Spaniards and was
(41:15):
drowned by reason of his heavy armor and a swamp
of the River Duero, still haunts his burial place, a
piece of marshy ground near Burgles. There, weird noises such
as the winding of a huntsman's horn and the neighing
of a horse are heard, and the Phanfasm of the
dead Moor is seen mounted on a white horse, followed
(41:37):
by twelve huge black hounds. In Sweden, many of the
peasants say when a noise like that of a coach
and horses is heard rumbling past and the dead of night,
it is the white rider, whilst in Norway they say,
of the same sounds it is the hunt of the devil,
and as four horses. In Saxony, the rider is believed
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to be Barbarossa, the celebrated hero of olden days. Near
Fountain Blow, Hugh Capet is stated to ride a gigantic
sable horse to the palace where he hunted before the
assassination of Henry the Fourth, and in the Lands the
rider is thought to be Judas Iscariot. In other parts
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of France, the wild huntsman is known as the Harlequin,
and in some parts of Brittany he is Herod in
pursuit of the Holy Innocence. Alas that no such herod
visits London, how welcome would he be were he only
to flout a few of the brawling brats, who allowed
to go anywhere they please, make an inferno of every
(42:44):
road they choose to play in. Here my notes on
horses end, And although the evidence I have offered may
have failed to convince many, I myself am fully satisfied
that these noble and indispensable animals do not terminate their
existence in this world, but pass on to another. And
let us all sincerely hope far happier plain end of
(43:09):
Part three, Chapter three of Animal Ghosts
Part three 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, Chapter three, Part three, yet another case
(00:24):
of haunting by the Phanfasms of a horse comes to
me from a gentleman in Marcel's who told it me. Thus,
it was nine p m. When I left my friend
Maitland's hotel in Chateaubourn, and, facing north, set out on
my way to Lefeur, where my headquarters had been for
(00:46):
the past fortnight. Lefeur is in the hills, and the
road which separated it from Chateaubourn, wild and lonely enough
in daylight, and when the weather is fair, is almost
untraversible in winter. The night in question was Christmas Eve.
The snow had fallen heavily during the day, and with
(01:06):
the wind blowing in icy drops from the northeast, there
was every prospect of another downfall. Maitland pressed me to
stay in his hotel. It is sheer folly, he said,
for you to attempt to get home in weather like this,
it is pitch dark, you are not familiar with the route,
and if you don't wander off the track and tumble
(01:29):
over a precipice, you will walk into a snowdrift. Be
sensible sleep here. Much However, as I should have liked
to follow his council, I did not feel justified in
doing so, as I had a lot of correspondence to
attend to, and I realized it was most necessary for
me to get back to Lafeur without any further delay.
(01:52):
It was true the night was inky black, but with
the aid of a lamp, I hadn't the slightest doubt
I could find my way. Maitland bartered for a candle
lantern with his host, and armed with this, a flagon
of brandy and water, and a thick stick, I said
goodbye to Chateauborne. A couple of hundred yards saw me
(02:14):
beyond the outskirts of the town, wherein I was the
sole pedestrian, and silence reigned supreme. On and on I plodded,
the feeble yellow light of my lantern, just preventing me,
but only just from wandering from the track the road
which for the first mile or so was tolerably level,
(02:35):
gradually began to rise, and as it did so, I
noticed for the first time indistinct images of gigantic, naked trees, that,
becoming more and more numerous, and closer and closer together,
at length united their long and grotesquely shaped branches overhead,
and I found myself in the depths of a vast forest.
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The snow, which had up to the present held off,
now recommenced to fall, and presently the wind, which had
for some time been slowly acquiring strength, came howling through
the trees with the utmost fury, the first blast swishing
the lantern out of my hands and hurling me with
considerable force into an undergrowth of thorns and brambles, out
(03:23):
of which I extricated myself with no little difficulty. I
was now in the sorriest of plights, Enveloped on all
sides in stygy and darkness. I was unable to discover
my lantern, and was thus totally at the mercy of
the rootless elements. There were only two courses before me.
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Either I must remain where I was and be frozen
to death, or making a guess at the route, I
must push on ahead and run the risk of ending
my life at the bottom of a ravine. I chose
the latter, groping about with my feet until I at
length discovered what I thought must be the right track.
I pushed ahead, and staggering and stumbling forward, managed to
(04:07):
make some sort of progress, terribly slow though it was.
The blinding darkness of the snowy night, the intense silence
and utter solitude of the place, combined with the knowledge
that on all sides of me lay holes and chasms,
dampened my spirits and raised strange phantoms in my imagination.
(04:29):
The wind now rose, and the dismal sighing of the
trees speedily grew into a series of the most perturbing screeches,
as the branches and trunks swayed to and fro like
reeds before the violence of the hurricane. At this juncture,
I gave myself up for lost, and, coming to a standstill,
(04:50):
up to my knees in snow, was preparing to lie
down and die, when, to my great joy, a light
suddenly appeared ahead of me, and the next moment a
man mounted on a big white horse rode noiselessly up
to me. He was wrapped in a shaggy greatcoat and
a slouch hat worn low over his eyes completely hid
(05:12):
his face from me. In his disengaged hand, he carried
a lantern. By jove, I exclaimed, I am glad to
see you, for i've lost the track to Laffeur. Can
you tell me, or better still, show me the way
to some house where I can put up for the
remainder of the night. The stranger made no reply, but
(05:35):
bidding me follow with a wave of his hand, rode
silently in front of me, and although I tried to
keep up with him, I could not. And the odd
thing was that, without apparently increasing his pace, he always
maintained his distance. After proceeding in this manner for possibly
ten minutes, we suddenly turned to the left and I
(05:57):
found myself in a big clearing in the wood, with
a long, low built house opposite me. My guide then paused, and,
indicating the front door of the house with an emphatic
gesture of his hand, seemed suddenly to melt away into
thin air. For although I peered about me on all
sides to try to find some indications of him, neither
(06:19):
he nor his horse was anywhere to be seen. Thinking
this was rather queer, but quite ready to attribute it
to natural causes. I approached the building, and, making use
of my knuckles in lieu of a knocker, beat a
loud tattoo on the woodwork. There was no response. Again,
(06:39):
I rapped, and the door, slowly opening revealed a pair
of gleaming dark eyes. What do you want, inquired a
harsh voice in barbarous accents. A night's lodging, I replied,
and I am willing to pay a good price for it,
for I'm more than half brozen. At this, the door
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opened wider, and I found myself confronted by a woman
with a candle. She had not the most prepossessing of expressions.
Though her hair, eyes and features were decidedly good. She
was dressed with tawdry smartness earrings, necklace and rings, and
very high heeled buckled shoes. Indeed, her costume was so
(07:24):
out of keeping with the rusticity of her surroundings as
to be quite extraordinary. This fact struck me at once,
as did her fingers, which, though spatulate and ugly, had
been manicured, and of course very much over manicured for effect.
Had this not been the case, I probably should not
(07:44):
have noticed them, but the unnatural gloss on them, exaggerated
by the candle light, made me look, and I was
at once impressed with the criminal formation of the fingers.
The club shaped ends denoted something very bad, something homicidal.
And as my eyes wandered from the hands to the face,
(08:06):
I saw with a thrill of horror that the ears
were set low down and far back on the head,
and that the eyes gleamed with the sinister glitter of
the wolf. Still, I must take my chance, the woman
or the wood. It had to be one of the two.
If you'll step inside, monsieur, she said, I'll see what
(08:30):
can be done for you. We have only recently come here,
and the house is anyhow at present. Still, if you
don't mind roughing it a little, we can let you
have a bed, and you can rely upon me that
it is clean and well aired. I followed her eagerly,
and she led me down a narrow passage into a
(08:50):
big room with low ceiling, traversed with a ponderous oak
beam blackened with the smoke of endless peat fires. Before
the blazing fagots on the hearth sat a burly individual
in a blue blouse. On our arrival, he arose, and
as his huge form towered above me, I thought I
(09:11):
had never seen anyone quite so hideous, nor so utterly
unlike the orthodox frenchman obeying his injunction, for I can
scarcely call it an invitation to sit down. I took
a seat by the fire, and, warming my half frozen limbs,
waited impatiently whilst the woman made up my bed and
prepared supper. The storm had now reached cyclonic dimensions, and
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under its stupendous fury, the whole house stoutly built, though
it was swayed on its foundations. The howling of the
wind in the rude, old fashioned chimney and along the passage,
and the frenzied beating of the snow against the diamond
window panes, deadened all other noises and rendered any attempt
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at conversation absolutely abortive. So I ate my meal in silence,
pretending not to notice the subtle interchange of glances that
constantly took place between the strangely assorted payer. Whether they
were a husband and wife, what the man did for
a living, were questions that continually occurred to me, and
(10:19):
I found my eyes incessantly wandering to the numerous packing cases,
piles of carpets, casks, and other articles, which corroborated the
woman's statement that they had but recently moved in. Once.
I attempted to empty the coffee, which was black and
peculiarly bitter, under the table, but had to desist as
(10:41):
I saw the man's devilish eyes fixed searchingly on me.
I then pushed aside the cup and on the woman,
asking if it was not to my liking, I shouted
out that I was not in the least thirsty. After
this incident, the covert looks became more numerous, and my
suspicions increased accordingly. At the first opportunity, I got up and,
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signaling my intention to go to bed, was preparing to
leave my seat when my host, walking to the cupboard,
fetched out a bottle of kognac, and, pouring out a tumbler,
handed it me with a mien that I dare not refuse.
The woman then led me up a flight of rickety
wooden steps into a supulchral looking chamber with no other
(11:27):
furniture in it save a long, narrow iron bedstand, a
dilapidated washstand, a very unsteady common deal table, on which
was a looking glass and a collar stud and a
rush bottom chair. Setting the candlestick on the dressing table,
and assuring me again that the bed was well aired.
(11:48):
My hostess withdrew, observing as she left the room that
she would get me a nice breakfast and call me
at seven. At seven, how I wished it was seven now.
As I stood in the midst of the floor, shivering,
for the room was icy cold, I suddenly saw a
dark shadow emerge from a remote corner of the room
(12:10):
and slide surreptitiously toward the door, where it halted. My
eyes then fell on the lock, and I perceived that
there was no key, no key, and that evil looking
pair below. I must barricade the door somehow, Yet with
what there was nothing of any weight in the room. Nothing.
(12:33):
I began to feel horribly tired and sleepy, so sleepy
that it was only with supreme effort I could prevent
my eyelids closing. Ah, I had it a wedge, I
had a knife of wood. There was plenty, a piece
off the washstand, table or chair. Anything would suffice. I
(12:54):
essayed to struggle to the chair, my limbs tottered my
eyelids closed. Then the shadow from the doorway moved towards
and through me, and with the coldness of its passage,
I revived with desperate energy. I cut a couple of
chunks off the washstand, and peering them down, eventually succeeded
(13:16):
and slipping them in the crack of the door and
rendering it impossible to open from the outside. That done,
I staggered to the bed, and, falling dressed as I
was on the counterpane, sank into a deep sleep. How
long I slept I cannot say. I suddenly heard the
loud neighing of a horse, which seemed to come from
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just under my window, and as in a vision, saw
by my side in the bed a something which gradually
developed into the figure of a man, the counterpart of
the mysterious being in the shaggy coat who had guided
me to the house. He was fully dressed, sound asleep,
and breathing heavily. As I was looking, a dark shadow
(14:02):
fell across the sleeper's face, and on glancing up, I perceived,
to my horror a black something crawling on the floor.
Nearer and nearer it came, until it reached the side
of the bed, when I immediately recognized the evil, smirking face
of my hostess. In one hand she held a lamp
(14:24):
and in the other a horn handled knife. Setting the
lamp on the floor, she coolly undid the collar of
the sleeping man, and I saw a stud, the counterpart
of the one on the dressing table, fall on the
bare boards with a sharp tap, and disappear in the
surrounding darkness. Then the woman felt the edge of the
(14:45):
knife with her repulsive thumb and calmly cut the helpless
man's throat. I screamed, and the murderess and her victim
instantly vanished, and I realized I was alone in the
room and very much away. Whether all that had occurred
was a dream, I cannot say with certainty, though I
(15:05):
am inclined to think not. For some minutes, my heart
pulsated painfully. And then, as the sound of its throbbing
grew fainter and fainter, I heard a curious noise outside
my room. Someone was ascending the stairs. I endeavored to rise,
but could not fear. An awful, ungovernable fear held me spellbound.
(15:30):
The steps paused outside the door, the handle of which
was gently turned. Then there was a suggestive silence, then whispering,
then another turning of the handle, and then my state
of coma abruptly ended, and I stepped noiselessly out of
the bed and crept to the window. I was heard
(15:51):
stop him, The woman cried out, he's trying to escape.
Use the gun. She hurled herself against the door as
she spoke, whilst the man tore downstairs. It was now
a matter of seconds the slightest accident a hesitation, and
I was lost. Swinging open the window, I scrambled on
(16:13):
the ledge, and without the slightest idea of the distance, dropped.
There was a brief rushing through air, and I alighted,
safe and sound on the snow blessed snow. Had it
not been for the snow, I should have, in all probability,
hurt myself. I alighted not an instant too soon, for
(16:34):
hardly had I touched the ground before my gigantic host
came tearing round the angle of the wall with a
lantern in one hand and a gun in the other.
I immediately dashed away, and thanks to the intense darkness
of the morning, for it must have been two o'clock
had no difficulty in evading my pursuer, who fired twice
(16:56):
in rapid succession. On and on I went, sometimes falling
up to my armpits in the snow drift, and sometimes
stunning myself against the low hanging branch of a tree
with the first rays of sunlight. However, my troubles came
to an end. The snow had ceased falling, and I
quickly alighted on a track which brought me to a village.
(17:18):
Whence I obtained a conveyance into Lafeur. I reported the
affair to the local police, and had a party of
zendarmes at once set off to arrest the miscrants. But
alas they had fled, the house was pulled down, and
on the soil being excavated. A dozen or more skeletons
(17:39):
of men and women, all showing unmistakable signs of foul play,
together with the remains of a horse, were found in
various parts of the premises. The place was a veritable Golgotha.
I supposed the phantom horse and rider had appeared to
me with the sole purpose of making their fate known.
(18:00):
If so, they at all events partly achieved their end,
though the mystery surrounding their identity was never solved. All
the remains, both human and animal, were removed elsewhere and
accorded a decent burial. The site of their original interment, however,
is I believe still haunted, and maybe will remain so
(18:23):
till the miscreants are brought to book brief summary. After
a little consideration, I am inclined to think there are
quite as many authentic cases of hauntings by the phanfasms
of horses as by the phantasms of cats and dogs.
Innumerable horses die and natural deaths, apart from those killed
(18:45):
in war, many more, particularly, it is true, in the
olden times, have been murdered in the highways along with
their masters, whilst all but the comparative few, when no
longer of use to their owners, are butchered in the
slaughter house and subsequently dispatched into the zoological gardens to
be eaten by lions and tigers. So much for Christianity
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and for man's gratitude. How much better would be the
promoters of the White Slave Traffic Act be employed if,
instead of trying to pass a bill which obviously cannot
cure the evil it aims, at but can only by
diverting the course of that evil drive from pillar to posts.
Thousands of defenseless, albeit erring women. They were to labor
(19:32):
to secure a peaceful ending for our four footed toilers,
who work for us all their lives, never strike, never
think of a pension for old age, and never even
dream of a vote. Alas if only our poor horses
could vote. What a different attitude would our pharisaical politicians
(19:53):
at once adopt towards them phanfasms of living horses. From
what I have experienced and have been told, I am
of the opinion that horses possessed the same faculty of
separating their immaterial from their material bodies as cats and dogs.
I knew a Virginian lady who had a piebald horse
(20:15):
that frequently appeared simultaneously in two places. She lived in
an old country house near Winchfield, and one morning, when
she went out into the breakfast room, she was surprised
to see the paybald horse standing on the gravel path
outside the window, looking in at her. When she called
it by name, it immediately melted into fine air. Going
(20:39):
round to the stables, she found the horse in its stall,
and on inquiry was informed that it had been there
all the time. The same thing frequently occurred, other members
of the household besides herself witnessing it, and so like
in all its details was the immaterial horse to the
material that they were often at a loss to tell
(21:02):
which was which. The phenomenon, sometimes occurring when the real
horse was awake and sometimes when it was asleep, proves
that the animal possessed the faculty of projecting its spiritual ego,
astral body, or whatever you like to call it, both
consciously and unconsciously. I know of many similar instances horses
(21:24):
and the psychic faculty of scent. Horses, in a rather
less degree than cats, and in much the same degree
as dogs, possessed the property of scenting the advent and
the presence of spirits. On more than one occasion, when
I have been riding after dusk, my horse has suddenly
come to an abrupt halt and shown unmistakable signs of terror.
(21:46):
I have not been able to see anything to account
for its conduct, but on subsequent inquiry have learned either
that a tragedy was actually known to have taken place there,
or that the spot had a long borne reputation for
being haunted, and my experiences are the experiences of countless
other people. Before a death, a horse will often neigh
(22:09):
repeatedly outside the house of the doomed person, and not
infrequently show evidences of terror in passing close to it,
from which I deduce the horse can at all events
scent the proximity of the phantom of death like the dog. However,
I think it only possesses this peculiar psychic property and
(22:30):
a limited degree. It can, for example, readily detect the
whereabouts of phanfasms haunting localities, but not so easily those
haunting people. It shows little or no discrimination on sight
between cruel and brutal people and those who are kind,
giving the same amount of passing space to the one
(22:52):
as it does to the other. Yet, on the other hand,
I have watched horses at night standing in the fields,
had their heads thrown back, a transfixed, far off expression
in their eyes, sniffing the atmosphere and snuffling it in
a manner that strongly suggested to me that they were
carrying on, by means of some silent secret code, a
(23:14):
conversation with some superphysical presence which they either saw or
scented or very likely both. Scent I am convinced is
the medium of conversation not only between superphysical animals, but
between material animals. And if we ever wished to converse
with spirits, we must employ cats, dogs and horses to
(23:36):
teach us. Phantom coaches. There are a few parts of
the British Isles few countries in Europe which have not
their phantom coaches. Perhaps the most famous are those that
haunt a road near Newport, South Wales, and an old
highway in Devon. A specter coach and horses in Pembrokeshire.
(24:00):
Miss Mary l Lew's, in an article called Some More
Welsh Ghosts that appeared in the Occult Review for December
nineteen o seven, writes, thus, in common with several other
districts in Great Britain and Ireland, Pembrokeshire possesses a good
phantom coach legend, localized in the southern part of the
(24:20):
county at a place where four roads meet, called Sampson Cross.
In old days, the belated farmer, driving home in his
gig from market was apt to cast a nervous glance
over his shoulder as his ponies slowly climbed the last
pitch heading up to the cross. For tradition says that
(24:41):
every night a certain lady z who lived in the
seventeenth century and whose monument is in the church close by,
drives over from tenby ten miles distant in a coach
drawn by headless horses guided by a headless coachman. She
also has no head, and arriving by midnight at Sampson Cross,
(25:03):
the whole equipage is said to disappear in a flame
of fire with a loud noise of explosion. Miss Mary l.
Loose goes on to add a clergyman living in the
immediate neighborhood who told the writer the story, said that
some people believed the ghostly traveler had been safely laid
(25:23):
many years ago in the waters of the lake not
far off. He added, however that might be, it was
an odd fact that his sedate and elderly cob, when
driven home past the cross after nightfall, would invariably start
as if frightened there a thing which never happened by daylight.
(25:44):
What these kinds of spectral horses are no one can
say at the most, Despite what theosophists and occultist may
declare to the contrary, one can only theorize, and the
speculations of one person be he who he may seem
to me to be of no more consequence than those
of another. For my own part, I am inclined to
(26:07):
think that. Whereas in some cases the ghostly coach horses
are the phantoms of horses that were killed on the highways,
and others they are either vice elementals or elementals whose
particular function it is to prognosticate death, either the death
of those who see them or the death of someone
(26:28):
connected with those who see them. A phantom horse and policeman.
According to one of my correspondents, mister t P, a
comparatively modern phantom rider, has been seen in Canada. Writing
to me from c where he lives, he says, it
(26:48):
is stated that this town is periodically haunted by the
phantom of a tall, fear policeman mounted on a white
horse and clothed in the uniform of the forties amely tailcoat,
tight trousers and tall hat. His phantom beat extends from
a gateway at the commencement of Cod Hill, along the
(27:09):
park side of Pablo Street to Sutton Street and Adam
Street down Daine Street and back through Pablo Street to
the gateway on Cod Hill. A gentleman well known in
the art world, who, in order to avoid publicity, wishes
to be designated mister Bates, gave me his experience of
(27:29):
the phenomena as follows. Yes, I have seen the ghostly
policeman and his milk white horse. I was walking along
Pablo Street on the park side one gray afternoon in November,
with the express intention of meeting a friend at my
club in Royal Street. Went to my surprise, just as
I was about one hundred yards from the gateway on
(27:51):
Cod Hill, I was overtaken by a tall, fear haired
man riding a white horse. He was so dressed that
I steered in astonishment. He was wearing the costume of
seventy or eighty years ago, and reminded me of the
policeman in Crookshank's illustrations of Dickens. I was not frightened
(28:12):
because I thought he must be someone masquerading, and in
my curiosity to see his face, I hastened my steps
to overtake him. I failed, for although he appeared to
be riding slowly, hardly moving at all, I could not
draw an inch nearer to him. This made me think,
and I examined him more critically. Then I noticed several
(28:34):
things about him that at first had escaped my notice.
They were these, One that although he was mounted, he
was wearing walking clothes, he had on long trousers and thick,
clumsy boots. Two that his ears and neck were perfectly colorless,
of an unnatural and startling white. Three that, despite the
(28:57):
incongruity of his attire, no one but my seemed to
see him on. He rode neither looking to the left
nor to the right, until he came to Sutton Street, when,
without paying the slightest attention to traffic, he began to
cross over. There were crowds of vehicles passing at the time,
and one of them rushed right on him, making sure
(29:20):
he would be killed. I uttered an ejaculation of horror.
Judge then of my amazement, when instead of seeing him
lying on the ground, crushed all out of shape, I
saw him still riding on as leisurely and unconcernedly as
if he had been on a country road. The vehicle
had passed right through him. Though I had hitherto scoffed
(29:44):
at ghosts, I was now certain I had seen one,
and suddenly becoming conscious how very cold it was, I
tore on, not feeling at all comfortable, till I had
reached the warm, cheery, and thoroughly material quarters of my club.
To corroborate the evidence of mister Bates, I appenned a
(30:05):
narrative given me verbally by Miss Hartley, who, like mister Bates, had,
up to the time of her experience, posed as a
pronounced and somewhat bitter skeptic. She was an emphatic freethinker
and then had no belief whatsoever in a future life.
Now she believes a sight more than most people. One
(30:28):
afternoon in February nineteen eleven, she stated, just as twilight
was commencing, I left the park where I had been
exercising my dog, and, turning into Pablo Street, made for
Bright Street. At the corner of Wolfe Street, I saw
something so strange that I involuntarily halted. Riding slowly along
(30:50):
on a big white horse. A few paces ahead of
me was an enormous policeman in the quaint attire of
the forties, top hat, tailcoat, tight trousers, just as I
had so often seen portrayed in old books. He was
riding stiffly, as if unaccustomed to the saddle, and kept
looking rigidly in front of him, thinking it was someone
(31:14):
doing it either for a joke or a wager. I
was greatly tickled, and kept saying to myself, well, you
are a sport and a one sport. I tried to
catch him up to see how he made up his face,
but could not, for although the horse never seemed to
quicken its pace a mere crawl and I ran, it
(31:36):
nevertheless maintained precisely the same distance in front of me.
When we had progressed in this fashion, some hundred or
so yards, I perceived a city policeman advancing towards us.
Come now, I said to myself, we shall see some fun.
The nineteen eleven copper meeting the peeler of eighteen forty.
I wonder what he will think of him. To my astonishment, however,
(32:02):
neither even as much as gave the other a fleeting glance,
but passed by, unmoved, and to all appearance, wholly unconscious
of each other. A few yards further I spied a
negro looking intently in a store window, just as the
strange policeman came up to him. He gave a violent start,
turned round and stared at him, gasped, his cheeks ashy, pale,
(32:26):
his eyes bulging, made some exclamation I could not catch,
and dashing past me, fled then, and not till then
did I begin to feel funny. Further on, still, we
came to a crossing. A carriage and pair with a
coronet on the panels of the door was standing waiting
directly the policeman approached. Both the horses reared so violently
(32:51):
they all but threw the coachman off the box. One
of the men cried out, Heavens, Bill, what's that? But
the other and older of them, to who was clinging
to the reins with all his might, merely swore. Convinced
now that I was on the trail of something not human,
something in all probability superphysical, and impelled by a fascination
(33:12):
I could not resist, I followed. At the top of
Wolfe Street, the policeman paused, then, crossing slowly over turned
into Dane Street, down which he continued to ride with
the same mechanical and automatic tread at length. When within
a few feet of a certain shop, over which is
a flat that has long borne a reputation for being haunted.
(33:35):
The horse came to a dead halt, and horse and rider,
veering slowly round, looked at me. What I saw I
shall never forget. I saw the faces of the dead,
the long since dead. For some moments, they confronted me,
and then vanished, vanished where they stood. I saw them
(33:58):
again under precisely the same conditions two days later, and
I have seen them once since. I am not an
imaginative or highly strung person, but am, on the contrary,
exceedingly practical and matter of fact. No better proof of
which I can give than this fact. I am engaged
to be married to a Quebec solicitor, an Irish haunting.
(34:22):
Mister Reginald b. Span in a most interesting article called
some Glimpses of the Unseen that appeared in the Occult
Review for February nineteen o six, writes as follows. Another
strange incident, which also occurred in Ireland, was told me
by a coachman in my cousin's employee at Kilpeacun near Limerick.
(34:42):
This man had previously been a park keeper to Lord
Donna Rail in County Cork. One bright moonlight night, he
was coming across Lord Donnereil's Park, having been round to
see that the gates were shut, when his attention was
drawn to the distant baying of hounds, and he stopped
to listen, as the sounds seemed to proceed from within
(35:03):
the park walls, and he knew there were no hounds
kept on the estate. His young son was with him
and also heard the noise, which was getting louder and clearer,
and was evidently moving rapidly in their direction. His first
idea was that a pack of hounds which were kept
in the hunting kennels a few miles away, had escaped
(35:23):
and had somehow gotten into the park, although he had
seen that the gates were closed and there was really
no way by which they could have entered. The baying
of hounds, as if in full cry, sounded closer and closer,
and suddenly, out of the shadow of some trees, a
number of fox hounds, running at full speed appeared in
(35:44):
the clear light of the moon. They raced past the
amazed spectators, a whole pack of them, followed closely by
an elderly man on a large horse. Although they came
very near, no sound could be heard, but the baying
of one or two of the hands. The galloping of
the horse was not hurt at all. They swung across
(36:05):
the grass at a tremendous pace and were lost to
view round the end of a plantation. The park keeper
knew that all the gates were shut and that it
would be impossible for a pack of hounds to pass out,
and he thought the mystery might be solved the next day. However,
it was never explained by any natural calls. No hounds
(36:27):
or horsemen had been in the park. The mansion was closed,
Lord Donnareil being away, and no one had the right
of entering the grounds within the park walls. He heard
later that there was a story in the neighborhood about
the ghost of a former Lord Donnereil haunting the park,
and possibly the spectral horseman was he. I questioned the
(36:49):
man and his son closely about it, and am convinced
that they were not deceived by hallucination, and that their
account is perfectly true. To this account, mister Span adds
this note, the apparition of the hounds and huntsman was
witnessed on an estate belonging to Lord Donerel in the
south of Ireland, Donnerel Park. The man who told me
(37:13):
the incident was coachman in the service of my cousin
near Limerick. His young son confirmed his father's account, as
he also saw it. Yours faithfully, Reginald B. Span. To
throw additional light on the matter, mister Ralph Shirley, editor
of the Occult Review, published the following letter written to
him by Lord Donerel. Dear Shirley, it is a rather
(37:36):
curious thing that neither Lady Castletown nor Lady Donnarel has
ever heard of the story of the moonlight vision of
Lord Donarel and the pack of hounds. However, there is
a man at Donarel called Jones, a chemist who is
a most enthusiastic antiquarian and a dabbler in the occult sciences,
(37:57):
and he takes the greatest interest in all that concerned
earns the Saint Legers. Lady Castletown wrote to him, and
the reply comes from his brother. I suppose he is away,
and that I send you. Lady Donnarel says it must
refer to the third Lord Donnerel of the first creation,
who was killed in a duel. Afterwards, and there appear
(38:19):
to be a lot of stories which Jones has ferreted
out or been told. Of course, I don't know how
far you could say Jones was authentic. All I can
say is that he believes the things himself. Yours, Sincerely, Donnerel,
December twenty seventh, nineteen o five. I should explain, adds
(38:40):
mister Shirley, that Lady Castletown is daughter to the late
Lord Donerel and present owner of Donnerel House. Here follows
the enclosure I e. The extract made by Walter A.
Jones Donnerel from his notes on the Legends of Peasantry
in connection with Donarel branch of the Saint Leger family,
(39:02):
dated December twenty first, nineteen o five. Wild Darrel Little Cote,
as everyone knows, is haunted by the spirits of the
notorious wild Will Darrel and the horse he invariably rode
and which eventually broke his neck. But there are many
wild darrels. All Europe is being overrun by them. They
(39:24):
nightly tear on their phantom horses over the German and
Norwegian forests and moorlands that echo and re echo with
their horse shouts and the mournful baying of their grizzly hounds.
Many travelers in Russia and Germany, journeying through the forests
at night, have caught the sound of wales of moans that,
(39:45):
starting from the far distance, have gradually come nearer and nearer.
Then they have heard the winding of a horn, the
shouting and cursing of the huntsmen, and in a biting
cold wind, have seen the whole cavalcade sweep by. According
to various authorities on the subject, this spectral chase goes
by different names. In Thuringia and elsewhere, it is Halkemberg
(40:11):
or halchenberand the story being that Hackeenburg, a German knight
who had devoted his whole life to the chase, on
his deathbed, had told the officiating priest that he cared
not a jot for heaven, but only for hunting, the
priest losing patients and exclaiming then hunt till doomsday. So
(40:31):
in all weathers and snow and ice, Hackelmburg, his horse
and hounds are seen careering after imaginary game. There are
similar stories current in the Netherlands, Denmark, Russia, and practically
all over Europe. And not only Europe, but in many
of the states and departments of the New World. This
(40:52):
being so, I think there must be a substantial substratum
of truth underlying the beliefs, fantastic as they may appear,
and yet are no more fantastic than many of the
stories we are asked to give absolute credence to in
the Bible. In Old Castile, the spirit of a Moorish
leader who won many victories over the Spaniards and was
(41:15):
drowned by reason of his heavy armor and a swamp
of the River Duero, still haunts his burial place, a
piece of marshy ground near Burgles. There, weird noises such
as the winding of a huntsman's horn and the neighing
of a horse are heard, and the Phanfasm of the
dead Moor is seen mounted on a white horse, followed
(41:37):
by twelve huge black hounds. In Sweden, many of the
peasants say when a noise like that of a coach
and horses is heard rumbling past and the dead of night,
it is the white rider, whilst in Norway they say,
of the same sounds it is the hunt of the devil,
and as four horses. In Saxony, the rider is believed
(41:59):
to be Barbarossa, the celebrated hero of olden days. Near
Fountain Blow, Hugh Capet is stated to ride a gigantic
sable horse to the palace where he hunted before the
assassination of Henry the Fourth, and in the Lands the
rider is thought to be Judas Iscariot. In other parts
(42:23):
of France, the wild huntsman is known as the Harlequin,
and in some parts of Brittany he is Herod in
pursuit of the Holy Innocence. Alas that no such herod
visits London, how welcome would he be were he only
to flout a few of the brawling brats, who allowed
to go anywhere they please, make an inferno of every
(42:44):
road they choose to play in. Here my notes on
horses end, And although the evidence I have offered may
have failed to convince many, I myself am fully satisfied
that these noble and indispensable animals do not terminate their
existence in this world, but pass on to another. And
let us all sincerely hope far happier plain end of
(43:09):
Part three, Chapter three of Animal Ghosts
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