 Chapter 2, Part 2 of Animal Ghosts A friend of mine, Edward Morgan, had a terrier that was found one morning poisoned in a big stone kennel. Soon afterwards this friend came to me and said, I have got a new dog, a spaniel, but nothing will induce it to enter the kennel in which poor Zach was poisoned. Come and see. I did so, and what he said was true. Mack, Morgan gave all his dogs names that rhymed, Zach, Mack, Jack, and even whack and smack. When carried to the entrance of the kennel, resolutely refused to cross the threshold, barking, whining, and exhibiting unmistakable symptoms of fear. I knelt down, and peering into the kennel saw two luminous eyes and the distinct outlines of a dog's head. Morgan, I exclaimed, the mystery is easily solved. There's a dog in here. Nonsense. Morgan cried, speaking very excitedly. But there is, I retorted. See for yourself. Morgan immediately bent down and poked his head into the kennel. What rot, he said. You're having me on. There's nothing in here. What? I cried. Do you mean to say you can see no dog? No, he replied. There is none. Let me look again, I said. And kneeling down, I peeped in. Do you mean to say you can't see a dog's face and eyes looking straight at us? I asked. No, he answered. I can see nothing. And to prove to me the truth of what he said, he fetched a pole and raked about the kennel vigorously with it. We both then tried to make Mack enter, and Morgan at last called hold of him and placed him forcibly inside. Mack's terror knew no limit. He gave one loud howl and flying out of the kennel with its ears hanging back tore past into the front garden where we left him in peace. Morgan was still skeptical as to there being anything wrong with the kennel, but two days later wrote me as follows. I must apologize for doubting you the other day. I have just had what you declared you saw corroborated. A friend of my wife's was calling here this afternoon and on hearing of Mack's refusal to sleep in the kennel at once said, I know what's the matter. It's the smell. Mack sensed the poison which was used to destroy Zach. Have the kennel thoroughly fumigated and you'll have no more trouble. At my wife's request, she went into the yard to have a look at it. And the moment she bent down, she cried out like you did. Why, there's a dog inside. A terrier. My wife and I both looked and could see nothing. The lady, however, persisted and on my handing her a stick, struck at the figure she saw. To her amazement, the stick went right through it. Then, and not till then, did we tell her of your experience. Well, she exclaimed, I have never believed in ghosts, but I do so now. I am quite certain that what I see is the phantom of Zach. How glad I am because I am at last assured animals have spirits and can come back to us. In concluding the accounts of Phantasms of Dead Dogs, let me quote two cases taken from my work entitled The Haunted Houses of London, published by Mr. Evely Nash of Fall Side House, King Street, Covent Garden, London, in 1909. The cases are these. The Phantom Dotson of W. Street, London. In letter number one, my correspondent writes, Though I am by no means overindulgent to dogs, the latter generally greet me very effusively, and it would seem that there is something in my individuality that is peculiarly attractive to them. This being so, I was not greatly surprised one day when in the immediate neighborhood of X Street to find myself persistently followed by a rough-haired Dotson wearing a gaudy yellow collar. I tried to scare it away by shaking my sunshade at it, but all to no purpose. It came resolutely on, and I was beginning to despair of getting rid of it when I came to X Street, where my husband once practiced as an oculist. There it suddenly altered its tactics, and instead of keeping at my heels became my conductor, forging slowly ahead with a gliding motion that both puzzled and fascinated me. I furthermore observed that notwithstanding the temperature, it was not a wit less than 90 degrees in the shade, the legs and stomach of the Dotson were covered with mud and dripping with water. When it came to number 90, it halted, and bearing swiftly round, eyed me in the strangest manner, just as if it had some secret it was bursting to disclose. I remained in this attitude until I was within two or three feet of it, certainly not more, when to my unlimited amazement it absolutely vanished, melted away into thin air. The iron gate leading to the area was closed so that there was nowhere for it to have hidden, and besides, I was almost bending over it at the time as I wanted to read the name on its collar. There being no one near at hand, I could not obtain a second opinion, and so came away wondering whether what I had seen was actually a phantasm or a mere hallucination. Number 90, I might add, judging by the brass plate on the door, was inhabited by a doctor with an unpronounceable foreign name, etc., etc. I think one cannot help attaching a great deal of importance to what this lady says, as her language is strictly moderate throughout, and because she does not seem to have been biased by any special views on the subject of animal futurity. Correspondent number two, who, by the way, is a total stranger to the writer whose letter I have just quoted, is candidly devoted to dogs, regarding them as in every way on par with, if not actually superior to, most human beings. Still, notwithstanding this partiality and consequent profusion of terms of endearment, which will doubtless prove somewhat nauseating to many, her letter is, in my opinion, valuable because it not only refers to the phenomenon I have mentioned, but to a certain extent furnishes a reason for its occurrence. The lady writes as follows, I once had a rough-haired Dotson, Robert, whom I loved devotedly. We were living at the time near H Street, which always had a peculiar attraction for dear Robert, who, I am now obliged to confess, had rather too much liberty, more, indeed, than eventually proved good for him. The servants complained that Robert ruled the house, and I believe what they said was true for my sister and I idolized him, giving him the very best of everything, and never having the heart to refuse him anything he wanted. You will probably scarcely credit it, but I have sat up all night nursing him when he had a cold, and was otherwise indisposed. Can you therefore imagine my feelings when my darling was absent one day from dinner? Such a thing had never happened before, for, fond of mourning constitutionals as poor Robert was, he was always the soul of punctuality at mealtimes. Neither my sister nor I would hear of eating anything. Whilst he was missing, not a morsel did we touch, but slipping on our hats, and bidding the servants to do the same, we scoured the neighborhood instead. The afternoon passed without any sign of Robert, and when bedtime came, he always slept in our room, and still no signs of our pet, I thought we should both have gone mad. Of course, we advertised, selecting the most popular, and, accordingly, the most likely papers, and we resorted to other mediums too, but alas, it was hopeless. Our darling little Robert was irrevocably, irredeemably lost. For days we were utterly inconsolable, doing nothing but mope, morning, noon, and night. I cannot tell you how forlorn we felt, nor how long we should have remained in that state. But for an incident which, although revealing the terrible manner of his death, gave us every reason to feel sure we were not parted from him for all time, but would meet again in the great hereafter. It happened in this wise. I was walking along W. Street one evening, when, to my intense joy and surprise, I suddenly saw my darling standing on the pavement a few feet ahead of me, regarding me intently from out of his pathetic brown eyes. A sensation of extreme coldness now stole over me, and I noticed with something akin to shock that, in spite of the hot dry weather, Robert looked as if he had been in the rain for hours. He wore the bright yellow collar I had bought him shortly before his disappearance, so that had there been any doubt as to his identity, that would have removed it instantly. On my calling to him, he turned quickly round, and with a slight gesture of the head, as if bidding me to follow, he glided forward. My natural impulse was to run after him, pick him up, and smother him with kisses. But try as hard as I could, I could not diminish the distance between us, although he never appeared to alter his pace. I was quite out of breath by the time we reached H. Street, where, to my surprise, he stopped at number ninety, and turning round again, gazed at me in the most beseeching manner. I can't describe that look. Suffice it to say that no human eyes could have been more expressive, but, of what beyond the most profound love and sorrow, I cannot. I dare not attempt to state. I have pondered upon it through the whole of a mid-summer night, but not even the severest of my mental efforts have enabled me to solve it to my satisfaction. Could I but do that? I feel I should have fathomed the greatest of all mysteries, the mystery of life and death. I do not know for how long we stood there, looking at one another. It may have been minutes or hours or, again, but a few paltry seconds. He took the initiative from me, for, as I leaped forward to raise him in my arms, he glided through the stone steps into the area. Convinced now that what I beheld was Robert's apparition, I determined to see the strange affair through to the bitter end, and entering the gate I also went down into the area. The phantom had come to an abrupt halt by the side of a low wooden box, and as I foolishly made an abortive attempt to reach it with my hand, it vanished instantaneously. I searched the area thoroughly, and was assured that there was no outlet, saved by the steps I had just descended, and no hole, nor nook, nor cranny, where anything the size of Robert could be completely hidden from sight. What did it all mean? Ah, I knew Robert had always had a weakness for exploring areas, especially in H Street, and in the box, where his wraith disappeared, I aspired a piece of raw meat. Now there are ways in which a piece of raw meat may lie without a rousing suspicion, but the position of this morsel strangely suggested that it had been placed there carefully, and for assuredly no other purpose than to entice stray animals. Resolving to interrogate the owner of the house on the subject, I wrapped at the front door, but was informed by the man's servant, obviously a German, that his master never saw anyone without an appointment. I then did a very unwise thing. I explained the purpose of my visit to this man, who not only denied any knowledge of my dog, but declared the meat must have been thrown into the area by some passerby. No one in this house throw away good meat like that, he explained. We eat all we can eat here. We have nothing for the animals. Please go away at once, or the master will be very angry. He stands no nonsense from anyone. And as I had no alternative for, after all, who would regard a ghost in the light of evidence, I had to obey. I found out, however, from a medical friend, that number 90 was teneted by Mr. K., an Anglo-German who was deemed a very clever fellow at a certain London hospital, where he was often occupied in vivisection. I daresay, my friend went on to remark, K. does a little vivisecting in his private surgery by way of practice. And, well, you see, these foreign chaps are not so squeamish in some respects as we are. But can't he be stopped? I asked. It is horrible monstrous that he should be allowed to murder our pets. You don't know for certain that he has, was the reply. You only supposed so from what you saw. And evidence of that immaterial nature is no evidence at all. No, you can do nothing except be extra careful in the future, and if you have another dog, make him steer clear of number 90 H Street. I was sensible enough to see that he was right, and the matter was dropped. I soon noticed one thing, however, namely that there were no more pieces of meat temptingly displayed in the box, so it is just possible K. got wind of my inquiries and thought it policy to desist from his nefarious practices. Poor Robert, to think of him suffering such a cruel and ignominious death and my being powerless to avenge it. Surely, if vivisection is really necessary and the welfare of mankind cannot be advanced by any less barbarous system, why not operate on creatures less deserving of our love and pity than dogs? On creatures which, whilst being nearer ally to man in physiology and anatomy, are at the same time far below the level of brute creation and character and disposition. For example, why not experiment on wife-beaters and cowardly street ruffians, and, one might reasonably add, on all those pseudo-humanitarians who, by their constant petitions to parliament for the abolition of the lash, encourage every form of black guardism and bestiality. This concludes the letter of Correspondent Number Two, and with the sentiment in the closing paragraphs, I must say I heartily agree, only I should like to add a few more people to the list. One other case of haunting of this type is taken from my same work. One all Halloween, wrote a Mrs. Cebiam, I was staying with some friends in Hampstead, and we amused ourselves by working spells to commemorate the night. There is one spell in which one walks alone down a path sowing hemp seed and repeating some fantastic words, when one is supposed to see those that are destined to come into one's life in the near future. Eager to put this spell to the test, I went into the garden by myself, and walking boldly along a path bordered on each side by evergreens sprinkled hemp seed lavishly. Nothing happening, I was about to desist when suddenly I heard a pattering on the gravel, and turning round, I beheld an ugly little black and tan mongrel running towards me, wagging its stumpy tail. Not at all prepossessed with the creature, for my own dogs are purebred, and thinking it must have strayed into the grounds, I was about to drive it out, and had put down my hand to prevent it jumping on my dress, when to my astonishment, it had vanished. It literally melted away into fine air beneath my very eyes. Not knowing what to make of the incident, but feeling inclined to attribute it to a trick of the imagination, I rejoined my friends. I did not tell them what had happened, although I made a memorandum of it in one of my innumerable notebooks. Within six months of this incident, I was greatly astonished to find a dog, corresponding with the one I have just described, running about on the lawn of my house in bath. How the animal got there was a complete mystery, and what is stranger still? It seemed to recognize me, for it rushed towards me, frantically wagging its diminutive tail. I had not the heart to turn it away, as it seemed quite homeless, and so the forlorn little mongrel was permitted to make its home in my house, and a very happy home it proved to be. For three years all went well, and then the end came, swiftly and unexpectedly. I was in blackheath at the time, and the mongrel was in bath. It was all Halloween, but there was no hemp seed for sowing, for no one in the house, but myself took the slightest interest in anything appertaining to the super physical or mystic. Eleven o'clock came, and I retired to rest, my bed being one of those antique four posters hung with curtains that shined crimson in the ruddy glow of a cheerful fire. All my preparations complete, I had pulled back the hangings, and was about to slip between the sheets, when, to my unbounded amazement, what should I see sitting on the counterpane, but the black and tan mongrel. It was he right enough, there could not be another such ugly dog, though, unlike his usual self, he evinced no demonstrations of joy. On the contrary, he appeared downright miserable. His ears hung, his mouth dropped, and his bleared little eyes were watery and sad. Grately perplexed, if not alarmed, at so extraordinary a phenomenon, I nevertheless spelt constrained to put out my hand to comfort him, when, as I had half anticipated, he immediately vanished. Two days later I received a letter from Bath, and in a post-grip I read that the mongrel, we never called it by any other name, had been run over and killed by a motor, the accident occurring on all Halloween, about eleven o'clock. Of course, my sister wrote, you won't mind very much, it was so extremely ugly, and, well, we were only too glad it was none of the other dogs. But my sister was wrong, for notwithstanding its unsightly appearance and hopeless lack of breed, I had grown to like that little black and tan more than any of my rare and choice pets. The following account, which concludes my notes on haunting by dog fantasms, was sent to me many years ago by a gentleman then living in Virginia, USA. It runs thus, the strange disappearance of Mr. Jeremiah Dance. Twenty pounds a year for a twelve-roomed house with a large front lawn, good stabling, and big kitchen gardens. That sounds right, I commented, but why so cheap? Well, the advertiser, Mr. Baldwin by name, a short stout gentleman with keen glittering eyes, replied, well, you see, it's a bit of a distance from the town, and, er, most people prefer being nearer, like neighbors and all that sort of thing. Like neighbors, I exclaimed. I don't. I've seen just about enough of them. Drain's all right? Oh yes, perfect. Water? Excellent. Everything in good condition? First rate. Loneliness is the only thing people object to? That is so. Then I'll oblige you to send someone to show me over the house, for I think it is just the sort of place we want. You see, after being bottled up in a theater all the afternoon and evening, one likes to get away somewhere where it is quiet, somewhere where one can lie in bed in the morning, inhaling pure air and undisturbed by street traffic. I understand, Mr. Baldwin responded, but, er, it is rather late now. Wouldn't you prefer to see it over in the morning? Everything looks at its worst. It's very worse than the twilight. Oh, I'll make allowances for the dusk, I said. You haven't got any ghosts stowed away there, have you? And he went off into a roar of laughter. No, the house is not haunted, Mr. Baldwin replied. Not that it would much matter to you, if it were, for I can see you don't believe in spooks. Believe in spooks, I cried. Not much. I would as soon believe in patent hair restores. Let me see over it at once. Very well, sir. I'll take you there myself, Mr. Baldwin replied, somewhat reluctantly. Here, Tim, fetch the keys at the crow's nest and tell Higgins to bring the trap round. The boy he addressed blew, and in a few minutes the sound of wheels and the jingling of harnesses announced the vehicle was at the door. Ten minutes later, and I and my escort were bowling merrily over the ground in the direction of the crow's nest. It was early autumn and the cool evening air, fragrant with the mellowness of the luscious Virginian pippin, was tinged also with the sadness inseparable from the demise of a long and glorious summer. Evidences of decay and death were everywhere, in the brown fallen leaves of the oaks and elms, in the bare and denuded ditches. Here, a giant mill wheel, half immersed in a dark steel pool, stood idle and silent. Bare a hovel, but recently inhabited by hot pickers, was now tenantless. Its glassless windows boarded over, and a wealth of dead and rotting vegetable matter, and thick profusion over the tiny path and the single-stone doorstep. Is it always as quiet and deserted as this? I asked of my companion, who continually cracked his whip, as if he liked to hear the reverberations of its echoes. Always, was the reply, and sometimes more so. You ain't used to the country? Not very. I want to try it by way of a change. Are you well versed in the cry of birds? What was that? We were fast approaching, an exceedingly gloomy bit of road, where there were plantations on each side, and the trees united their fantastically forked branches overhead. I thought I had never seen so dismal-looking a spot, and a sudden lowering of the temperature made me draw my overcoat tighter around me. That? Oh, a night bird of some sort, Mr. Baldwin replied. An ugly sound wasn't it? Beastly things. I can't imagine why they were created. Whoa, steady there, steady. The horse reared as he spoke, and taking a violent plunge forward, set off at a wild gallop. A moment later, and I uttered an exclamation of astonishment. Keeping pace with us, although apparently not moving at more than an ordinary walking pace, was a man of medium height, dressed in a Panama hat and Albert coat. He had a thin, aquiline nose, a rather pronounced chin, was clean-shaven, and had a startlingly white complexion. By the sight of him, trotted two poodles, whose close, cropped skins showed out with remarkable perspicuity. Who the deuce is he? I asked, raising my voice, to shout on account of the loud clatter made by the horse's hooves and the wheels. Who? What? Mr. Baldwin shouted in return. Why the man walking along with us? Man, I see no man, Mr. Baldwin growled. I looked at him curiously. It may, of course, have been due to the terrific speed we were going, to the difficulty of holding in the horse, but his cheeks were ashy pale, and his teeth shattered. Do you mean to say, I cried, that you can see no figure walking on my side of the horse, and actually keeping pace with it? Of course I can't. Mr. Baldwin snapped. No more can you. It's an hallucination, caused by the moonlight through the branches overhead. I've experienced it more than once. Then why don't you have it now? I queried. Don't ask so many questions. Please, Mr. Baldwin shouted. Don't you see it as much as I can do to hold the brute in? Heaven preserve us. We were nearly over that time. The trap rose high in the air as he spoke, and then dropped with such a jolt that I was nearly thrown off, and only saved myself by the skin of my teeth. A few yards more, the spinning ceased, and we were away out in the open country, plunging and galloping as if our very souls depended on it. From all sides, queer and fantastic shadows of objects, which certainly had no material counterparts, and the moon kissed swat of the rich, ripe meadows, rose to greet us, and filled the lane with their black and white, wavering, ethereal forms. The evening was one of wonders for which I had no name, wonders associated with an iciness that was far from agreeable. I was not at all sure which I liked best. The black, stygian, treeline part of the road we had just left, or the wide ocean of brilliant moonbeams and streaked suggestions, the figures of the man and the dogs were equally vivid in each. Though I could no longer doubt that they were nothing mortal, they were altogether unlike what I had imagined ghosts. Like the generality of people who were psychic and who had never had an experience of the super-physical, my conception of a phantasm was a thing in white that made ridiculous groanings and still more ridiculous clankings of chains. But here was something different, something that looked, save, perhaps for the excessive pallor of its cheeks, just like an ordinary man. I knew it was not a man, partly on account of its extraordinary performance. No man, even if running at full speed, could keep up with us like that. Partly on account of the unusual nature of the atmosphere, which was altogether indefinable, it brought with it. And also, because of my own sensations, my intense horror, which could not, I felt certain, have been generated by anything physical. I cogitated all this in my mind as I gazed at the figure, and in order to make sure it was no hallucination, I shut first one eye and then the other, covering them alternately with the palm of my hand. The figure, however, was still there, still pacing along at our side with the regular swing-swing of the Bourne Walker. We kept on in this fashion till we arrived at a rusty iron gate leading, by means of a weed-covered path, to a low, two-storied white house. Here the figures left us, and, as it seemed to me, vanished at the foot of the garden wall. This is the house, Mr. Baldwin panted, pulling up with the greatest difficulty, the horse-evincing obvious antipathy to the iron gate. And these are the keys. I'm afraid you must go in alone, as I dare not leave the animal, even for a minute. Oh, all right, I said. I don't mind, now that the ghost, or whatever you like to call it, has gone. I'm myself again. I jumped down and threading my way along the bramble entangled path, reached the front door. On opening it, I hesitated. The big old-fashioned hall, with the great frowning staircase leading to the gallery overhead, the many open doors showing not but bare, deserted boards within, the grim passages, all moonlight and peopleed only with queer flickering shadows, suggested much that was terrifying. I fancied I heard noises, noises like stealthy footsteps moving from room to room, and tiptoeing along the passages and down the staircase. Once, my heart almost stopped beating. As I saw what, at first, I took to be a white face peering at me from a far recess, but which I eventually discovered was only a doll of whitewash. And, once again, my hair all but rose on end when one of the doors at which I was looking swung open and something came forth. Oh, the horror of that moment! As long as I live, I shall never forget it. The something was a cat, just a rather lean but otherwise material black tom. Yet, in the state my nerves were then, it created almost as much horror as if it had been a ghost. Of course, it was the figure of the walking man that was the cause of all this nervousness. Had it not appeared to me, I should doubtless have entered the house with the utmost sang Freud, my mind set on nothing but the condition of the walls, drains, etc. As it was, I held back, and it was only after a severe mental struggle I summoned up the courage to leave the doorway and explore. Cautiously, very cautiously, with my heart in my mouth, I moved from room to room, halting every now and then in dreadful suspense as the wind, sowing through across the open land behind the house, blew down the chimneys and set the window frames jarring. At the commencement of one of the passages, I was immeasurably startled to see a dark shape poke forward and then spring hurriedly back, and was so frightened that I dared not advance to see what it was. Moment after moment sped by, and I still stood there, the cold sweat oozing out all over me, and my eyes fixed in hideous expectation on the blank wall. What was it? What was hiding there? Would it spring out on me if I went to see? At last, urged on by a fascination I found impossible to resist, I crept down the passage, my heart throbbing painfully, and my whole being overcome with the most sickly anticipations. As I drew nearer to the spot, it was as much as I could do to breathe, and my respiration came in quick jerks and gasps. Six, five, four, two feet, and I was at the dreaded angle, another step taken after the most prodigious battle, and nothing sprang out on me. I was only confronted with a large piece of paper that had come loose from the wall and flapped backwards and forwards each time the breeze from without rustled past it. The reaction after such an agony of suspense was so great that I leaned against the wall and laughed till I cried. A noise, from somewhere away in the basement, calling me to myself, I went downstairs and investigated, again a shock, this time more sudden, more acute. Pressed against the windowpane of one of the front reception rooms was the face of a man, with corpse-like cheeks and pale, malevolent eyes. I was petrified. Every drop of my blood was congealed. My tongue glued to my mouth. My arms hung helpless. I stood in the doorway and steered at it. This went on for what seemed to me an eternity. Then came a revelation. The face was not that of a ghost, but of Mr. Baldwin, who, getting alarmed at my long absence, had come to look for me. We left the premises together. All the way back to town I thought, should I or should I not take the house? Seeing as I had seen it, it was a ghoulish-looking place, as weird as a Paris catacomb. But then daylight makes all the difference. Viewed in the sunshine, it would be just like any other house, plain bricks and mortar. I liked the situation. It was just far enough away from my town to enable me to escape all the smoke and traffic, and near enough to make shopping easy. The only obstacles were the shadows, the strange enigmatic shadows I had seen in the hall, and the passages, and the figure of the walker. Dear, I take a house that I knew had such visitors. At first I said no, and then yes. Something I could not tell what urged me to say yes. I felt that a very grave issue was at stake, that a great wrong connected in some manner with the mysterious figure awaited riding, and that the hand of fate pointed at me as the one and only person who could do it. Are you sure the house isn't haunted? I demanded as we slowly rolled away from the iron gate, and I leaned back in my seat to light my pipe. Haunted, Mr. Baldwin scoffed. Why, I thought you didn't believe in ghosts. Laugh at them. No more I do believe in them, I retorted. But I have children, and we know how imaginative children are. I can't undertake to stop their imaginations. No, but you can tell me whether anyone else has imagined anything there. Imagination is sometimes very infectious. As far as I know, then, no. Least ways, I have not heard of it. Who was the last tenant? Mr. Jeremiah Dance. Why did he leave? How do I know? Got tired of being there, I suppose. How long was he there? Nearly three years. Where is he now? That's more than I can say. Why do you wish to know? Why, I repeated, because it is more satisfactory for me to hear about the house from someone who has lived in it. Has he left no address? Not that I know of, and it's been more than two years since he was here. What? That house has been empty all that time? Two years is not very long. Houses, even townhouses, are frequently unoccupied for longer than that. I think you'll like it. I did not speak again until the drive was over, and we drew up outside the landlord's house. I then said, let me have an agreement. I've made up my mind to take it. Three years and the option to stay on. That was just like me. Whatever I did, I did on the spur of the moment a mode of procedure that often led me into difficulties. A month later, my wife, children, and servants and I were all ensconced in the crow's nest. That was in the beginning of October. Well, the month passed by, and November was barely in before anything remarkable happened. It then came about in this fashion. Jenny, my eldest child, a self-willed and rather bad-tempered girl of about twelve, evading the vigilance of her mother, who had forbidden her to go out as she had a cold, ran to the gate one evening to see if I was anywhere in sight. Though barely five o'clock, the moon was high in the sky, and the shadows of the big trees had already commenced their gambles along the roadside. Jenny clambered up the gate as children do, and peering over, suddenly a spy'd what she took to be me, striding towards the house at a swinging pace, and followed by two poodles. Papa, she cried, how cute of you, only to think of bringing home two doggies. Oh, Papa, naughty Papa, what will mom say? And climbing over into the lane at imminent danger to life and limb, she tore frantically towards the figure. To her dismay, however, it was not me, but a stranger with a horribly white face and big glassy eyes, which he turned down at her and stared. She was so frightened that she fainted, and some ten minutes later I found her lying out there on the road. From the description she gave me of the man and the dogs, I felt quite certain they were the figures I had seen, though I pretended the man was a tramp, and assured her she would never see him again. A week passed, and I was beginning to hope nothing would happen when one of the servants gave her notice to leave. At first she would not say why she did not like the house, but when pressed, made the following statement. Hits haunted Mrs. B. I can put up with mice and beetles, but not with ghosts. I've had a queer sensation, as if water was falling down my spine ever since I've been here, but never saw anything till last night. I was then in the kitchen, getting ready to go to bed. Jane and Emma had already gone up, and I was preparing to follow them, when, all of a sudden, I heard footsteps, quick and heavy, cross the gravel and approach the window. The boss, says I to myself, maybe he's forgot the key and can't get in the front door. Well, I went to the window and was about to throw it open when I got an awful shock. Pressed against the glass, looking in at me, was a face, not the boss's face, not the face of anyone living, but a horrid white thing with a drooping mouth and wide open glassy eyes, that had no more expression in them than a pig. As sure as I'm standing here, Ms. B., it was the face of a corpse, the face of a man that had died no natural death, and by its side, standing on their hind legs and staring in at me, too, were two dogs, both poodles, also no living things, but dead, horribly dead. Well, they stared at me, all three of them, for perhaps a minute, certainly not less, and then vanished. That's why I'm leaving, Ms. B. My heart was never over-strong. I always suffered with palpitations, and if I saw those heads again, it would kill me. After this, my wife spoke to me seriously. Jack, she said, are you sure there's nothing in it? I don't think Mary would leave us without a good cause, and the description of what she saw tallies exactly with the figure that frightened Jenny. Jenny assures me she never said a word about it to the servants. They can't both have imagined it. I did not know what to say. My conscience pricked me. Without a doubt, I ought to have told my wife of my own experience in the lane, and have consulted her before taking the house. Supposing she, or any of the children, should die a fright, it would be my fault. I should never forgive myself. You've something on your mind. What is it? My wife demanded. I hesitated a moment or two, and then told her. The next quarter of an hour was one I do not care to recollect, but when it was over, and she had had her say, it was decided I should make inquiries to see if there was any possible way of getting rid of the ghosts. With this end in view, I drove to the town, and after several fruitless efforts was at length introduced to a Mr. Mardsden, clerk of one of the banks, who, in reply to my questions, said, Well, Mr. B., it's just this way. I do know of something, only in a small place like this. One has to be so extra careful what one says. Some years ago, a Mr. Jeremiah dance occupied the crow's nest. He came here, apparently a total stranger, and though, often in the town, was only seen in the company of one person, his landlord, Mr. Baldwin, with whom, if local gossip is to be relied on, he appeared to be on terms of the greatest familiarity. Indeed, they were seldom apart. Walked about the lanes, arm in arm, visited each other's houses on alternate evenings, called each other teddy and Leslie. This state of things continued for nearly three years, and then the people suddenly began to comment on the fact that Mr. Dance had gone, or at least was no longer visible. An errand boy, returning back to town late one evening, swore to being passed on the way by a trap containing Mr. Baldwin and Mr. Dance, who were speaking in very loud voices, just as if they were having a violent altercation. On reaching that part of the road where the trees are the thickest overhead, the lad overtook them, or rather Mr. Baldwin, preparing to mount into the trap. Mr. Dance was nowhere to be seen, and from that day to this, nothing has ever been heard of him. As none of his friends or relations came forward to raise inquiries, and all his bills were paid, several of them by Mr. Baldwin, no one took the matter up. Mr. Baldwin poo-pooed the errand boy's story, and declared that on the night in question he had been alone in an altogether different part of the country, and knew nothing whatever of Mr. Dance's movements, further than that he had recently announced his intention of leaving the crow's nest before the expiration of the three-year lease. He had not the remotest idea where he was. He claimed the furniture and payment of the rent due to him. Did the matter end there? I asked. In one sense of the word, yes, in another, no. Within a few weeks of Dance's disappearance, rumors got afloat that his ghost had been seen on the road, just where, you may say, you saw it. As a matter of fact, I have seen it myself, and so have crowds of other people. Has anyone ever spoken to it? Yes, and it has vanished at once. I went there one night with the purpose of laying it, but, on its appearing suddenly, I confess I was so startled that I not only forgot what I had rehearsed to say, but ran home without uttering as much as a word. And what are your deductions of the case? Same as everyone else's, Mr. Marston whispered, only like everyone else, I dare not say. Had Mr. Dance any dogs? Yes, two poodles, of which, much to Mr. Baldwin's annoyance, everyone noticed this. He used to make the most ridiculous fuss. Huh, I observed. That settles it. Ghosts. And to think I never believed in them before. Well, I am going to try. Try what, Mr. Marston said, a note of alarm in his voice. Try laying it. I have an idea. I may succeed. I wish luck then. May I come with you? Thanks. No, I rejoined. I would rather go there alone. I said this in a well-lighted room, with the hum of a crowded throat fear in my ears. Twenty minutes later, when I had left all that behind and was fast approaching the darkest part of an exceptionally dark road, I wished I had not. At the very spot where I had previously seen the figures, I saw them now. They suddenly appeared by my side, and though I was going at a great rate, for the horse took fright, they kept easy pace with me. Twice I assayed to speak to them, but could not ejaculate a syllable through sheer horror, and it was only by nerving myself to the utmost and forcing my eyes away from them that I was able to stick to my feet and hold on to the reins. On and on we dashed, until trees, road, sky, universe, were obliterated in one binding whirlwind that got up my nostrils, choked my ears, and deadened me to everything, save the all-terrorizing instinctive knowledge that the figures by my side were still there, stalking along as quietly and leisurely as if the horse had been going at a snail's pace. At last, to my intense relief, for never had the ride seemed longer, I reached the crow's nest, and as I hurriedly dismounted from the trap, the figures shot past me and vanished. Once inside the house, and in the bosom of my family, where all was light and laughter, courage returned, and I upgraded myself bitterly for this cowardice. I confessed to my wife, and she insisted on accompanying me the following afternoon at Twilight to the spot where the ghost appeared to originate. To our intense dismay, we had not been there more than three or four minutes before Dora, our youngest girl, a pretty sweet-tempered child of eight, came running up to us with a telegram, which one of the servants had asked her to give us. My wife, snatching it from her and reading it, was about to scold her severely when she suddenly paused, and clutching hold of the child with one hand, pointed hysterically at something on one side of her with the other. I looked, and Dora looked, and we both saw standing erect and staring at us, the spare figure of a man with a ghastly white face and dull, lifeless eyes, clad in a Panama hat, albert coat, and small, patent leather boots. Beside him were two glossy, abnormally glossy, poodles. I tried to speak, but as before was too frightened to articulate a sound, and my wife was in the same plight. With Dora, however, it was otherwise, and she electrified us by going up to the figure and exclaiming, Who are you? You must feel very ill to look so white. Tell me your name. The figure made no reply, but gliding slowly forward, moved up to a large, isolated oak, and pointing with the index finger of its left hand at the trunk of the tree, seemingly sank into the earth and vanished from view. For some seconds, everyone was silent, and then my wife exclaimed, Jack, I shouldn't wonder if Dora hasn't been the means of solving the mystery, examine the tree closely. I did so. The tree was hollow, and inside it were three skeletons. And of Part Two of Chapter Two of Animal Ghosts. Part Three of Chapter Two of Animal Ghosts. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This reading by Allison Hester of Athens, Georgia. Animal Ghosts by Elliot O'Donnell. Part Three of Chapter Two. Here followed an extract from a local paper. Sensational discovery in a wood near Marietown. Whilst exploring in a wood near Marietown the other evening, a party of the name of Bee discovered three skeletons, a human being and two dogs, in the trunk of an oak. From the remnant of clothes still adhering to the human remains, the latter were proved to be those of an individual known as Mr. Jeremiah Dance, whose strange disappearance from the crow's nest, the house he rented in the neighborhood some two years ago, was the occasion of much comment. On closer examination, extraordinary to relate, the remains have been proved to be those of a woman, and from certain abrasions on the skull there is little doubt she met with a violent end. A second extract taken from the same paper runs thus. Suicide at Marietown. Late last night, Percy Baldwin, the man who was under arrest on suspicion of having caused the death of the unknown woman whose skeleton was found on Monday in the trunk of a tree, committed suicide by hanging himself with his suspenders to the ceiling of his cell. Pinned on his coat was a slip of paper bearing these words. She was my wife. I loved her. She took to drink. I parted from her. She became a dog worshiper. I killed her and her dogs. Phantasms of living dogs. I could quote innumerable cases of people who have either seen or heard the spirits of dead dogs. However, as space does not permit of this, I proceed to the oft raised question, do animals as well as people project themselves? My reply is yes, according to my experience they do. Some friends of mine have a big tabby that has frequently been seen in two places at the same time. For example, it has been observed by several people to be sitting on a chair in the dining room. And at the same moment, it has been seen by two or more other persons extended at full length before the kitchen fire. The latter figure proving to be its immaterial, or what some designate its astral body, which vanishes the instant an attempt is made to touch it. The only explanation of this phenomenon seems to me to lie in projection. The cat possessing the faculty of separating, in this instance unconsciously, its spiritual from its physical body. The former traveling anywhere, regardless of space, time, and material obstacles. I have often had experiences similar to this with a friend's dog. I have been seated in a room, either reading or writing, and on looking up, had distinctly seen the dog lying on the carpet in front of me. A few minutes later, a scraping at the door or window, both of which have been shut all the while. And on my rising to see what was there, I have discovered the dog outside. Had I not been so positive that I had seen the dog on the ground in front of me, I might have thought it was a hallucination. But hallucinations are never so vivid, nor so lasting. Moreover, other people have had similar experiences with the same dog. And why not? Dogs on the whole are every whit as reasoning and reflective as the bulk of human beings. And how much nobler? Compare for a moment the dogs you know, no matter whether mastiffs, retrievers, dotsons, poodles, or even piconies with your acquaintances. With the people you see everywhere around you, false, greedy, spiteful, scandal-loving women, money-grubbing attorneys, lying, swindling tradesmen, vulgar, parvenous, finicky curates, brutal ruffs, spoiled, cruel children, hypocrites of both sexes. Compare them carefully, and the comparison is entirely in favor of the dog. And if the creating power, or powers, has favored these wholly selfish and degenerate human beings with spirits, and has conferred on certain of them the faculty of projecting those spirits can one imagine for one moment that similar gifts have been denied to dogs, their superiors in every respect? Shaw out upon it. To think so would mean to think the unthinkable, to attribute to God the qualities of partiality, injustice, and whimsicality, which would render him little, if anything, better than a James II of England, or a Louis XV of France. Besides, from my own experience, and the experiences of those with whom I have been brought in contact, I can safely affirm that there are phantasms, and therefore spirits, of both living and dead dogs, in just the same proportion as there are phantasms, and therefore spirits, of both living and dead human beings. Psychic properties of dogs. Some, not all dogs, like cats, possess the psychic property of senting the advent of death, and they indicate their fear of it by the most dismal howling. In my opinion, there is very little doubt that dogs actually see some kind of phantasm, that, knowing when death is about to take place, visits the house of the doomed in stands beside his or her couch. I have had this phantasm described to me by those who declare they have seen it as a very tall, hooded figure, clad in a dark, loose, flowing costume, its face never discernable. It would, of course, be foolish to say that a dog howling in a house is invariably the sign of death. There are many other and obvious causes which produce something of a similar effect, but I think one may be pretty well assured that, when the howling is accompanied by unmistakable signs of terror, then someone, either in the house at the time or connected with someone in the house, will shortly die. Dogs and Haunted Houses When I investigate a haunted house, I generally take a dog with me, because experience has taught me that a dog seldom fails to give notice, in some way or another, either by whining or growling or crouching shivering at one's feet or springing on one's lap and trying to bury its head in one's coat of the proximity of a ghost. I had a dog with me when ghost hunting not so very long ago in a well-known haunted house in Gloucestershire. The dog, my only companion, and I sat on the staircase leading from the hall to the first floor. Just about two o'clock the dog gave a loud growl. I put my hands out and found it was shivering from head to foot. Almost directly afterwards I heard the loud clatter of fire irons from somewhere away in the basement. A door bangs, and then something, or someone, began to ascend the stairs. Up, up, up came the footsteps, until I could see, first of all, a bluish light, then the top of a head, then a face, white and luminous, staring up at me. A few more steps, and the whole thing was disclosed to view. It was the figure of a girl about sixteen, with a shock head of red hair, on which was stuck, all awry, a dirty little old-fashioned servant's cap. She was clad in a cotton dress, soiled and bedraggled, and had on her feet a pair of elastic-sided boots that looked as if they would fall to pieces each step she took. But it was her face that riveted my attention most. It was startlingly white and full of an expression of the most hopeless misery. The eyes, wide open and glassy, were turned direct on mine. I was too appalled either to stir or utter a sound. The phantasm came right up to where I stood, paused for a second, and then slowly went on, up, up, up, until a sudden bend in the staircase hit it from view. For some seconds there was a continuation of the footsteps. Then there came a loud splash from somewhere outside and below, and then silence, supple, cruel and omnipotent. I did not wait to see if anything further would happen. I fled, and Dick, my dog friend, who was apparently even more frightened than I, fled with me. We arrived home panic-stricken. Over and over again on similar occasions I have had a dog with me, and the same thing has occurred. The dog has made some noise indicative of great fear, remaining in a state of stupor during the actual presence of the apparition. Psychic propensities of dogs compared with those of cats. Though dogs are, perhaps, rather more alarmed at the unknown than cats, I do not think they have a keener sense of its proximity. Still, for the very reason that they show greater, more unmistakable indications of fear, they make sure psychic barometers. The psychic faculty of scent in dogs would seem to be more limited than that in cats, for whereas cats can not only detect the advent and presence of pleasant and unpleasant phantoms by their smells, few dogs can do more than detect the approach of death. Dogs make friends nearly, if not quite, as readily with cruel and brutal people, as with kind ones, simply because they cannot, so easily as cats, distinguish by their scent the unpleasant types of spirits, cruel and brutal people, attract. In all probability, they are not even aware of the presence of such spirits. It would seem, on the face of it, that since dogs are, on the whole, of a gentler disposition than cats, that is to say, not quite so cruel and savage, the phantasms of dogs would be less likely to be earthbound than those of cats. But, then, one must take into consideration the other qualities of the two animals, and when these are put in balance, one may find little to choose, morally, between the cat and the dog. Anyhow, after making allowance for the fact that many more cats die unnatural deaths than dogs, they would seem to be small numerical difference in their hauntings, cases of dog ghosts appearing to be just as common as cases of cat ghosts. A propos of phantom dogs, my friend Dr. G West writes to me thus. Of the older English universities, many stories are told of bizarre happenings, of duels, raggings, suicides, and such like in olden times, but of k venerable, illustrious k of Ireland, few and far between are the accounts of similar occurrences. This is one, however, and it deals with the phantom of a dog. One evening, towards the end of the eighteenth century, John Kelly, a dean of the college, extremely unpopular on account of his supposed harsh treatment of some of the undergraduates, was about to commence his supper when he heard a low whine and, looking down, saw a large yellow dog cross the floor in front of him and disappear immediately under the full-length portrait that hung over the antique chimneypiece. Something prompting him, he glanced at the picture, the eyes that looked into his, blinked. It must be the result of an overtaxed brain, he said to himself. Those rascally undergraduates have got on my nerves. He shut his eyes and, reopening them, steered hard at the portrait. It was not a delusion. The eyes that gazed back at him were alive, alive with the spirit of mockery. They smiled, laughed, jeered, and as they did so, the knowledge of his surroundings was brought forcibly home to him. The room in which he was seated was situated at the end of a long, cheerless stone passage in the western wing of the college. Away from all the other rooms of the building, it was absolutely isolated and had long borne the reputation of being haunted by a dog, which was said to appear only before some catastrophe. The dean had hitherto committed the story to the category of fables, but now, now as he sat all alone in that big silent room, lit only with the reddish rays of a fast-setting August sun and steered into the gleaming eyes before him, he was obliged to admit the extreme probability of spookdom. Never before had the college seemed so quiet. Not a sound, not even the creaking of a board or the faraway laugh of a student, common enough noises on most nights, fell on his ears. The hush was omnipotent, depressing, unnerving. He could only associate it with the supernatural, though he was too fascinated to remove his gaze from the thing before him. He could feel the room filled with shadows and feel them steel through the half-open windows, and uniting with those already in the corners, glide noiselessly and surreptitiously towards him. He felt, too, that he was under the surveillance of countless invisible visages, all scanning him curiously and delighted beyond measure at the sight of his terror. The moments passed in a breathless state of tension. He stared at the eyes, and the eyes stared back at him. Once he endeavored to rise, but a dead weight seemed to fall on his shoulders and hold him back, and twice, when he tried to speak, to make some sound, no matter what, to break the appalling silence, his throat closed as if under the pressure of cruel, relentless fingers. But the ultimatul of his emotions had yet to come. There was a slight stir behind the canvas, a thud, a hollow groan that echoed and re-echoed throughout the room, like the muffled clap of distant thunder, and the eyes suddenly underwent a metamorphosis. They grew glazed and glassy, like the eyes of a dead person. A cold shudder ran through the dean, his hair stood on end, his blood turned to ice. Again he assayed to move, to summon help. Again he failed. The strain on his nerves proved more than he could bear. A sudden sensation of nausea surged through him. His eyes swam, his brain reeled, there was a loud buzzing in his ears. He knew no more. Some moments later one of the college servants arrived at the door with a bundle of letters, and on receiving no reply to his raps, entered. Good heavens, what's the matter? He cried, gazing at the figure of the dean, lowling head downward on the table. Merciful prudence, the gentleman is dead. No, he ain't. Some of the young gents will be sorry enough for that. He's fainted. The good fellow poured out some water in a tumbler and was proceeding to sprinkle the dean's face with it. When a noise, attracting his attention, he peered round at the picture. It was bulging from the wall. It was falling. And, good god, what was that falling with it? That huge black object. A coffin? No, not a coffin, but a corpse. The servant re-entered the door, shrieking, and in less than a minute, passage and room were filled to overflowing with a scared crowd of inquiring officials and undergraduates. What has happened? What's the matter with the dean? Has he had a fit or what? And the picture? And Anderson? Anderson lying on the floor. Hurt? No, not hurt. Dead. Murdered. In an instant there was silence, and the white-faced throng closed in on one another, as if for protection. In front of them, beside the fallen picture, lay the body of the most gay and popular student in the college, Bob Anderson. Bob Anderson with a stream of blood running from a deep incision in his back, made with some sharp instrument that had been driven home with tremendous force. He had, without a doubt, been murdered. But by whom? Then one of the undergraduates, a bright, boyish, fair-haired giant named O'Farrell, immensely popular, both on account of his prowess in sport, and an untold number of the most audacious escapades spoke out. I saw Anderson about an hour ago, crossing the quadrangle. I asked him where he was going, and he replied, to old Kelly. I intend on paying him out for gating me last week. I inquired how, and he replied, Hiva Gloria's plan. You know that portrait stuck over his mantle shelf? Well, in poking about the room the other day, when the old man was out, I had a great find. Directly behind the picture is the door of a secret room, so neatly covered by the designs on the wall that it is not discernible. It was only by the merest fluke I discovered it. I was taking down the picture with the idea of touching up the face, when my knuckles bumped against the panels of the wall, touched a spring, and the door flew open, revealing an apartment, about six by eight feet large. I at once explored it and found it could be entered by the chimney. An idea then struck me. I would play a trick upon the dean by hiding in this secret chamber one evening while he was feeding, cutting out the eyes of the portrait and peering through the cavities at him. And this, O'Farrell continued, pointing at the fallen picture, is evidently what he did after I left him. You can see the eyes of the portrait have been removed. That is so sure, one of the other undergraduates, Mick Maguire, six feet two in his socks and every inch exclaimed. And what is more, I knew all about it. Anderson told me yesterday what he was going to do. And I wanted to join him. But he said I would never get up the chimney. I would stick there and be dad. I think he was right. At this remark, despite the grimness of the moment, several of those present laughed. Come, come, gentlemen, one of the officials cried. This is no time for levity. Mr. Anderson has been murdered. And the question is by whom? Then if that's the only thing that is troubling you, O'Farrell put in, high fancy the solution is right here at hand. And he looked significantly at the dean. An ominous silence followed, during which all eyes were fixed on John Kelly, some anxiously, some merely inquiringly, but not a few angrily. For Kelly, as I have said before, had made himself particularly obnoxious just then by his behavior to the rowdy or students. And, as has ever been the case at Kay, these formed no small portion of the community. The dean hardly seemed to realize the situation. The dignity of office blinded him to danger. What do you mean? He spluttered. I know nothing of what happened to Mr. Anderson. Really, really, O'Farrell, your presumption is preposterous. There was no one else in here but you and he, Mr. O'Kelly. O'Farrell retorted coolly. It's only natural we should think you know something of what happened. On the arrival of the police, who had been sent for, somewhat reluctantly, for the prestige of the college at that date, was very dear to all. The premises were thoroughly searched, and no other culprit being found. First of all, Dean Kelly was apprehended. And then, to make a good job of it, his accuser, Dennis O'Farrell. All of the college was agog with excitement. No one could believe the dean was a murderer, and it was just as inconceivable to think O'Farrell had committed the deed. And yet, if neither of them had killed Anderson, who in God's name had killed him? The night succeeding the affair, whilst the dean and O'Farrell were still in jail awaiting the inquest, a party of undergraduates were discussing the situation in McGuire's rooms when the door burst open and into their midst, almost breathless with excitement, came a measly, bespectacled youth named Brady, Patrick Brady. I'm awfully sorry to disturb you, fellas. He stammered. But there have been odd noises just outside my room all the evening and I've just seen a queer kind of dog that vanished. God knows how. I—I—well, you call me an ass, of course, but I'm afraid to stay in there alone, and that's the long and short of it. Figuera, McGuire exclaimed. It can't be poor Bob's ghost already. What sort of noises were they? Noises like laughter, Brady said. Loud pills of horrid laughter. Someone is trying to frighten you, one of the undergrads observed, and faith, he succeeded, you are twice as white as any sheet. It's ill-timed mirth anyhow, someone else put in, with Anderson's dead body upstairs. I'm for making an example of the Black Guard. And I—and I, the others echoed. A general movement followed, and headed by Brady, the procession moved to the north wing of the college. At that time, be it remembered, a large proportion of K undergrads were in residence. Now it is otherwise. On reaching Brady's rooms, the crowds halted outside and listened. For some time there was silence, and then a laugh. Low, monotonous, unmerthful, metallic, coming as it were from some adjacent chamber, and so unnatural, so abhorring, that it held everyone's spellbound. It died away in the reverberations of the stone corridor, its echoes seeming to awake a chorus of other laughs, hardly less dreadful. Again there was silence, no one daring to express his thoughts. Then, as if by common consent, all turned precipitately into Brady's room and slammed the door. That is what I heard, Brady said. What does it mean? Is it the meaning of it you're wanting to know? McGuire observed. Sure, it is the devil, for no one but him could make such a noise. I've never heard the like of it before. Who has the rooms on either side of you? These, Brady replied, pointing to the right. No one. They were vacated at Easter and are being repainted and decorated. These on the left, Dobson, who is, I happen to know, at the present moment, in County Mayo. He won't be back till next week. Then we can search them, a student called Hartnell intervened. To be sure we can, Brady replied, but I doubt you'll find anyone. A search was made, and Brady proved to be correct. Not a vestige of anyone was discovered. Much mystified, McGuire's party was preparing to depart, when Hartnell, who had taken the keenest interest in the proceedings, suddenly said, Who has the rooms over yours, Brady? Sound, as you know, plays curious tricks, and it's just as likely as not that laugh came from above. Oh, I don't think so, Brady answered. The man overhead is Belton, a very decent sort. He is going in for his final shortly, and is sweating fearfully hard at the present. We might certainly ask him if he heard the noise. The students agreeing, Brady led the way upstairs, and in response to their summons, Belton hastily opened the door. He was a typical bookworm, thin, pale, and rather emaciated, with a pleasant expression in his eyes and mouth, that all felt was assuring. Hello, he exclaimed. It isn't often I'm favored with a surprise party of this sort. Come in. And he pressed them so hard that they felt constrained to accept his hospitality. And before long, we're all seated round the fire, quaffing whiskey and puffing cigars, as if they meant to make a night of it. At two o'clock, someone suggested that it was high time they thought of bed, and Belton rose with them. Before we turn in, let's have another search, he said. It's strange you should hear all that noise except me. Unless, of course, it came from below. But there's nothing under me, Brady remarked. Set the dining hall. Then let's search that, Belton went on. We ought to make a thorough job of it, now that we've begun. Besides, I don't relish being in this lonely place with that laugh knocking around any more than you do. He went with them, and they completely overhauled the ground floor. Hall, dining room, studies, passages, festivals, everywhere that was not barred to them, and they were no wiser at the end of their search than at the beginning. There was not the slightest clue as to the author of the laugh. On the morrow, there was a fresh shock. One of the college servants, on entering Mr. McGuire's rooms to call him, found that gentleman half-dressed and lying on the floor. Terrified beyond measure, the servant bent over him and discovered he was dead, obviously stabbed with the same weapon that had put an end to Bob Anderson. The factotum at once gave the alarm. Everyone in the college came trooping to the room, and for the second time within three days, a general hue and cry was raised. All again, to no purpose, the murderer had left no traces as to his identity. However, one thing at least was established, and that was the innocence of Dean Kelly and Dennis O'Farrell. They were both liberated. Then Hartnell, who seems to have been a regular Sherlock Holmes, got to work in Grimm-Ernest. On the floor in McGuire's room, he picked up a diminutive silver-topped pencil, which had rolled under the fender and had so escaped observation. He asked several of McGuire's most intimate friends if they remembered seeing the pencil case in McGuire's possession, but they shook their heads. He inquired in other quarters, too, but with no better result, and finally resolved to ask Brady, who belonged to quite a different set from himself. With that object in view, he set off to Brady's room shortly after supper. As there was no response to his raps, he at length opened Brady's door, in front of the hearth and a big, easy chair sat a figure. Brady, by all that's holy, Hartnell exclaimed, by Jupiter, the beggar's asleep. That's what comes of swatting too hard, Brady. Approaching the chair, he called again. Brady, and getting no reply, patted the figure gently on the back. Be jammers, you sleep-soundly old fella, he said. How about that? And he shook him heartily by the shoulder. The instant he let go, the figure collapsed. In order to get a closer view, Hartnell then struck a light with the tinderbox. The flickering of the candle flame fell on Brady's face. It was white, ghastly white, and there was no animation in it. The jaw dropped. With a cry of horror, Hartnell sprang back, and as he did so, a great yellow dog dashed across the hearth in front of him, whilst from somewhere close at hand came a laugh, long, low, satirical. A cold terror gripped Hartnell, and for a moment or so he was on the verge of fainting. However, hearing voices in the quadrangle, he pulled himself together, approached the window on tiptoe, and, peering through the glass, perceived to his utmost joy, two of his friends directly beneath him. I say, you fellas, he called in low tones. Come up here quickly, Brady's rooms. I have seen the phantom dog. There's been another tragedy, and the murderer is close at hand. Come quietly, and we may catch him. He then retraced his steps to the center of the room and listened. Again there came the laugh, subtle, protracted, hellish, and it seemed to him as if it must originate in the room overhead. A noise in the direction of the hearth made him look round. Some loose plaster had fallen, and whilst he gazed, still more fell. The truth of the whole thing then dawned on him. The murderer was in the chimney. Hartnell was a creature of impulse. In the excitement of the moment, he forgot danger, and the dastardly nature of the crimes gave him more than his usual amount of courage. He rushed at the chimney, and regardless of soot and darkness, began an impromptu ascent. Halfway up, something struck him. Once, twice, thrice, sharply, and there was a soft, malevolent chuckle. At this juncture, the two undergraduates arrived in Brady's room. No one was there. Nothing saved a hunched-up figure on a chair. Hartnell, they whispered. Hartnell! No reply. They called him again. Still, no reply. Again and again they called, until at length, through sheer fatigue, they desisted and seized with a sudden panic, precipitately downstairs and out into the quadrangle. Once more the alarm was given, and once again the whole college, wowed with excitement, hastened to the scene of the outrage. This time there was a double mystery. Brady had been murdered, Hartnell had disappeared, the police were summoned, and the whole building ransacked. But no one thought of the chimney till the search was nearly over, and half the throng, overcome with fatigue, had retired. O'Farrell was the discoverer. Happening to glance at the hearth, he saw something drop. For heaven's sake, you fellas, he shouted, Look, blood! You may take it for me, there's a corpse in the chimney. A dozen candles invaded the hearth, and a Herculean policeman undertook the ascent. In breathless silence the crowd below waited, and, after a few seconds of intense suspense, two helpless legs appeared on the hob. Bit by bit the rest of the body followed, until at length the whole figure of Hartnell, black, bleeding, bloodstained, was disclosed to view. At first it was thought that he was dead, but the surgeon who had hurried to the scene, pronouncing him still alive, there arose a tremendous cheer. The murderer had at all events been foiled this time. Begorah, cried O'Farrell. Hartnell was after the murderer when he was struck, and sure I'll be after him the same way myself. And before anyone could prevent him, O'Farrell was up the chimney, up, up, up, until he found himself going down, down, down. And then, be dad, he stepped right out onto the floor of Belton's room. Hello, why? the lighter exclaimed, looking not a bit disconcerted. There's a curious mode of making your entrance into my domain. Why didn't you come to my door? Because, O'Farrell replied, pointing to a patch of soot near the wash stand, I followed you. Own up, Dickie Belton. You were the culprit. You did for them all. And Belton laughed. Yes, it was true. Overwork had turned Belton's brain, and he was subsequently sent to a criminal lunatic asylum for the rest of his life. But there were moments when he was comparatively sane, and in these interims he confessed everything. Anderson had told him that he was going to hoax the dean, and filled with indignation at the idea of such a trick being played on a college official, for he, Belton, was a great favorite with the Beaks. He had accompanied Anderson on the plea of helping him, intending, in reality, to frustrate him. It was not till he was in the chimney, crouching behind Anderson, that the thought of killing his fellow students had entered his mind. The heat of his hiding place, acting on an already overworked brain, hastened on the madness, and his fingers, closing on a clasp knife in one of his pockets, inspired him with a desire to kill. The work, once begun, he had argued with himself, would have to be continued, and he had then and there decided that all unruly graduates should be exterminated. With what measure of success this determination was carried out, need not be recapitulated here, but with regard to the phantom dog, a few words may be added. Since it appeared immediately before the committal of each of the three murders I have just recorded, it was seen by Mr. Kelly, before the death of Bob Anderson, by Brady before the murder of McGuire, and by Hartnell before Brady was murdered, I think there can neither be doubts as to its existence nor as to the purpose of its visits. Moreover, its latest appearance in the university, reported to me quite recently, preceded a serious outbreak of fire, and of Part 3, Chapter 2 of Animal Ghosts. Part 4 of Chapter 2 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.org. This reading by Allison Hester of Athens, Georgia. Animal Ghosts by Elliot O'Donald. Part 4 of Chapter 2. National Ghosts in the Form of Dogs. One of the most notorious dog ghosts is the Guilegi in Wales. This apparition, which is of a particularly terrifying appearance, chiefly haunts the lane leading from Moisead to Liswarny Crossways. Belief in a spectral dog, however, is common all over the British Isles. The apparition does not belong to any one breed, but appears equally often as a hound, setter, terrier, shepherd dog, Newfoundland, and retriever. In Lancanshire, it is called the Trash or Striker. Trash, because the sound of its tread is thought to resemble a person walking along a myery, sloppy road with heavy shoes. Striker, because it is said to utter a curious screech, which may be taken as a warning of the approaching death of some relative or friend. When followed, the phantom retreats, glaring at its pursuer, and either sinks into the ground with a harrowing shriek or disappears in some equally mysterious manner. In Norfolk and Cambridgeshire, this specter is named Shuck, the local name for Shag, and is reported to haunt church yards and other dreary spots. In the parish of Overstrand, there used to be a lane called Shuck's Lane, named after this phantasm. Round about Leeds, the specter dog is called Padfoot, and is about the size of a donkey, with shaggy hair and large eyes like saucers. My friend, Mr. Barker, tells me there was, at one time, a ghost in the Hebrides called the Lamper, which was like a very big white dog with no tail. It ran sometimes straight ahead, but usually in circles, and to see it was a prognostication of death. Mr. Barker, going home by the sea coast, saw a lamper in the hedge. He struck at it, and his stick passed right through it. The lamper rushed away, whining and howling alternately, and disappeared. Mr. Barker was so scared that he ran all the way home. On the morrow, he learned of his father's death. In Northumberland, Durham, and various parts of Yorkshire, the ghost dog, which is firmly believed in, is styled Barghest, Bargeist, or Boghest. Whilst in Lancenshire, it is termed Bogart. Its most common form in these countries is a large black dog with flaming eyes, and its appearance is a certain prognostication of death. According to tradition, there was once a Barghest in a glen between Darlington and Halton, near Throselnest. Another haunted a piece of wasteland above a spring called Oxwells, between Reghorn and Headingley Hill near Leeds. On the death of any person of local importance in the neighborhood, the creature would come forth, followed by all other dogs, barking and howling. Another form of this animal specter is the Cappalthwight, which, according to Common Report, had the power of appearing in the form of any quadruped, but usually chose that of a large black dog, the Malth Dug. One of the most famous Canaan apparitions is that of the Malth Dug, once said, and I believe still said, to Haunt Peel Castle, Isle of Man. Its favorite place, so I am told, was the Guard Chamber, where it used to crouch by the fireside. The sentry, so the story runs, got so accustomed to seeing it that they ceased to be afraid, but as they believed it to be of an evil origin waiting for an opportunity to seize them, they were very particular what they said or did and refrained from swearing in its presence. The Malth Dug used to come out and return by passage through the church, by which the sentry on duty had to go deliver the keys every night to the captain. These men, however, were far too nervous to go alone, and were invariably accompanied by one of the retainers. On one occasion, however, one of the sentinels, and a fit of drunken bravado, swore he was afraid of nothing and insisted on going alone. His comrades tried to dissuade him, upon which he became abusive, cursed the Malth Dug, and said he would well strike it. An hour later, he returned absolutely mad with horror and speechless. Nor could he even make signs whereby his friends could understand what had happened to him. He died soon after, his features distorted, in violent agony. After this, the apparition was never seen again. As to what class of spirits this Spectre Dog belongs, that is impossible to say. At the most, we can only surmise, and I should think, the chances of its being the actual phantasm of some dead dog or an elemental are about equal. It is probably sometimes the one and sometimes the other, and its origin is very possibly, like that of the Banshee. Spectral Hounds As with the Spectre Dog, so with Packs of Hounds, stories of them come from all parts of the country. Gravesie of Tilbury states that as long ago as the thirteenth century, a pack of Spectral Hounds was frequently witnessed, on nights when the moon was full, scampering across forests and downs. In the twelfth century, the pack was known as the Hurl-a-thing and haunted, chiefly, the banks of the Y. Roby in his Traditions of Lankenshire Hardwick in his Traditions, Superstitions, and Folklore Hormerton in his Isles of Locke, All Wirt Sykes in his British Goblins Sir Walter Scott and others all refer to them. In the north of England, they are known as Gabriel's Hounds and Devon as the Whisk, Yesk, Yesh, or Heathhounds. In Wales as the Quinn-Awen or Sign-E-Weiber. In Cornwall as the Devil and his Dandy Dogs and in the Neighborhood of Leeds as the Gabel Wretches. They are common all over the continent. In appearance, they are usually described as monstrous, human-headed dogs, black with fiery eyes and teeth and sprinkled all over with blood. They make a great howling noise which is very shrill and mournful and appear to be in hot pursuit of some unseen query. When they approach a house, it may be taken as a certain sign that someone in the house will die very shortly. According to Mr. Roby, a specter huntsman known by the name of Gabriel Ratchets accompanied by a pack of phantom hounds is said to hunt a milk-white doe round the eagle's crag and the veil of Todd Morden every all-hollows eve. These hounds were also seen in Norfolk. A famous ecclesiast went on his way to the coast was forced to spend the night in the King's Linn Inn owing to a violent snowstorm. Retiring to bed shortly after supper, he tried to forget his disappointment in reading a volume of sermons he had brought at a second handshop in Berry St. Edmunds. I think I can use this one, he said to himself, it will do nicely for the people of Eilisham. They are so steeped in hypocrisy that nothing short of violent denunciation will bring it home to them. This, I think, however, will pierce even their skins. A sudden noise made him spring up. Hounds, he exclaimed, and at this time of night good heavens. He fled to the window and there, careering through the yard, baying as they ran, at least fifty luminous white hounds. Instead of leaping the stone wall, they passed right through it, and the bishop then realized that they were Gabriel hounds. The following evening he received tidings of his sons, his only son's death. I have heard that the Yeath hounds were seen not so long ago in a parish in Yorkshire by an old poacher called Barnes. Barnes was walking in the fields one night when he suddenly heard the baying of the hounds and the hoarse shouts of the huntsmen. The next moment, the whole pack hove in view and tore past him so close that he received a cut from the whip on his leg. To his surprise, however, it did not hurt him. It only felt icy cold. He then knew that he had seen the Yeath hounds. A spectral pack of hounds in Russia a gentleman of the name of Rappaport, whom I once met in Southampton, told me of an experience he had once with a spectral pack of hounds on the slope of Urals. It was about half past eleven one winter's night, he said, and I was driving through a thick forest when my coachman suddenly leaned back in his seat and called out, Do you hear that? I listened and from afar came a plaintive whining sound. It's not bulky, is it? I asked. I'm afraid so, master, the coachman replied. They're coming on after us. But they are some way off still, I said. That is so, he responded, but wolves have run quick and our horses are tired. If we can reach the lake first, we shall be all right, but should they overtake us before we get there? And he shrugged his shoulders suggestively. I cried. Drive, drive as if for the devil himself. I have my rifle ready and will shoot the first wolf that shows itself. Very good, master, he answered, I will do everything that can be done to save your skin and mine. He cracked his whip and away flew the horses at right next speed. But fast as they went, they could not outstrip the sound of the howling which gradually drew nearer and nearer until around the curve we had just passed, shot into view a huge gaunt wolf. I raised my rifle and fired. The beast fell, but another one instantly took its place. And then another and another till the whole pack came into sight. And close behind us was an ocean of white, tossing foam-flect jaws and red gleaming eyes. I emptied my rifle into them as fast as I could pull the trigger, but it only checked them momentarily. A few snaps, and of their wounded brethren there was nothing left but a pile of glistening bones. Then, high away, and they were once again in red-hot pursuit. At last, our pace slackened and still I could see no signs of the lake. A great gray shape, followed by others, then rushed by us and tried to reach the horses' flanks with their sharp, gleaming teeth. A few more seconds, and I could be both fighting back to back, the last great fight for existence. Indeed, I had ceased firing and was already beginning to strike out furiously with the butt end of my rifle when a new sound arrested my attention. The baying of dogs. Dogs, I screamed. Dogs, Ivan! That was the coachman's name. Dogs! And in my mad joy I brained two wolves in as many blows. The next moment, a large pack of enormous white hounds came racing down on us. The wolves did not wait to dispute the field. They all turned tail and, with loud howls of terror, rushed off in the direction they had come. On came the hounds, more beautiful dogs I had never seen. As they swept by, more than one brushed my knees. Though I could feel nothing, save and tense cold. And they were about twenty yards ahead of us. They slowed down and maintained that distance in front of us till we arrived on the shores of the lake. There they halted and, throwing back their heads, bade as if in farewell and suddenly vanished. We knew then that they were no earthly hounds, but spirit ones sent by a merciful providence to save us from a cruel death. End of Chapter Two