 Throughout the British Isles, air raid shelters are a common sight, but in the town of Sheraton, there stands one older than the rest which was never used. Those who knew of the terrors that lurked within it preferred to take their chances with Nazi bombs. Cornelius Jacques was Sheraton's justice of peace. On a certain day in the summer of 1918, when the First World War was approaching its end, Mr. Jacques summoned to his house one James Wyatt. My dear fellow, I want you to dig me an air raid shelter. Last month there were 13 planes over London. 34 people were killed and 89 injured. If they can come to London, they can come to Sheraton. And so James Wyatt dug. And then, a few mornings later, the workman appeared unexpectedly at his honor's door. What do you want, my dear fellow? I want me money. The money was common to me for two days' work. But you're not finished yet. I'll pay you when you're through. You're mistaken, your honor. I am through. There wasn't a soul in that dugout but me, but somebody threw sand in me eye. And James Wyatt was not to be reasoned with. They refused to return to the half-completed air raid shelter. And so the justice had no choice but to go out alone and investigate. I should have dug the thing myself. Hello in there. Anybody inside? The justice opened the makeshift door and stepped into the gloom of the dugout. It was not a sound, nothing stirred. And then suddenly... Well, Wyatt must have got his courage back. Come in, my good man, come in. But there was no response to his call. And so his honor turned and opened the door. That's strange. What a soul in view. Some prankster I'd wager. Come in, lad, wherever you are. Come in, come in. And this time the justice did not call in vain. He received an answer. Good heavens, what was that? Where are you? Who's hiding in here? I demand that you help. And the justice had good reason to cry out in pain. For just at that moment a large stone came hurtling through the air from the opposite wall and struck him squarely in his rather impressive midsection. Come on, Raffian, whoever you are, I dare you to show your face. Ouch, ouch, stop throwing things at me, will you? The stones were coming from all directions now. They were stones no longer but good-sized rocks. And then, just as his honor was ready to beat a hasty and somewhat undignified retreat, they stopped as abruptly as they had begun. The justice turned back, and a sight which greeted his eyes was even more astounding than anything that had happened so far. Good Lord, it's pulling the stones out of the wall and piling them upon the floor. When Justice Jacques returned to the house, he paid James Wyatt quietly and let him go. And for some reason, he neither looked for a worker to replace Wyatt, nor did he carry out his vow to complete the dugout himself. He did, however, invite several of his neighbors to inspect it, and their experiences were not unlike his own. The electrician of Charrison wore bandages around his head for several days afterward, and a Canadian soldier who visited the place at night came out screaming with terror. In all, there has been recorded the testimony of seven reliable witnesses, and all have sworn to the presence in the justice's air raid shelter of a mysterious and supernormal force. A force incredible but true.