In a dark mansion on sunny Tenerife, there is a legend of a ghost haunting the grounds. Catalina, the daughter of the man of the manor supposedly threw herself down the well when she was forced to marry someone she didn’t want to. Now she wanders her afterlife like a ghost.
The Spanish mansion from the 16th century was abandoned for years before turning into a museum, and for good reason. It is haunted by a ghost that many people have seen and heard. The mansion is situated on a sunny island in Tenerife, Spain. The mansion’s walls bear stories of past battles and horrific tragedies that took place within its walls, and it’s no surprise that the ghost of a former resident still lingers within.
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Deep within the historic walls of this captivating mansion, whispers of a tragic past echo through the corridors, leaving visitors intrigued and trembling in fear. The ghostly presence of Catalina, a young woman tormented by a love affair gone wrong, is said to wander the halls, her sorrowful cries sending shivers down the spines of those who dare to listen.
The History of Casa Lercaro in Tenerife
The Canary Islands are known for their beautiful beaches, vibrant culture, and rich history. However, they are also famous for their ghost stories that have been passed down through generations. These tales of haunted houses, restless spirits, and supernatural phenomena continue to captivate locals and tourists alike. One such story that stands out is the haunting tale of the Ghost of Catalina in Casa Lercaro.
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Casa Lercaro, located in Tenerife, is a historic mansion with a dark past. The mansion was built in the 16th century and has witnessed countless events over the years. It served as a witness to battles, political intrigues, and tragic love stories. The walls of Casa Lercaro hold the secrets of the past, and it is said that the spirits of those who lived and died within its confines still roam its corridors.
The Tragic Life and Death of Catalina Lercaro
One of the most tragic stories associated with Casa Lercaro is that of Catalina Lercaro, a young woman who was forced to marry a much older man against her will. Catalina was known for her beauty and vivacious spirit, and her arranged marriage crushed her dreams of true love. She longed for freedom and happiness, but fate had other plans for her.
She was the daughter of Antonio Lercaro who thought the marriage would benefit the business. He was the lieutenant General of Tenerife that built the mansion in 1593 on Calle San Agustín 22.. She decided to take her own life rather than have people dictate how it would be. Some say she threw herself down a well at the property, some say she jumped from the high point of the mansion or off a cliff.
The ghostly presence of Catalina is now one of the most famous and well-known spirits in the Canary Islands. Her apparition has been witnessed by many, with some claiming to have heard her sorrowful cries echoing through the halls of Casa Lercaro.
The Catholic Church’s Denial: A Haunting Reflection
The tragic circumstances of Catalina’s death led to the denial of her a Christian burial by the Catholic Church. Taking one’s own life was considered a grave sin, and those who committed suicide were often denied the rites of a proper burial. Catalina’s body was instead buried in one of the rooms of Casa Lercaro, forever binding her spirit to the mansion and ensuring her restless presence would be felt for generations to come.
The well she supposedly died in was walled up and her family picked up their roots and moved away to La Orotava for a new start, and hopefully never make the same mistakes again.
But Catalina was left and witnesses claim to have heard her footsteps. They hear it most often on the top of the house, between section VI in the museum and leading to a cabinet with an image of Jesus.
The Abandoned Mansion: A Silent Witness
Casa Lercaro, once a grand mansion, was long abandoned and forgotten. The building was closed off with a wall, keeping curious visitors at bay. It had a couple of uses though over the years, everything from being used by the university and the military.
The eerie silence that surrounds the mansion only adds to its haunting atmosphere. The ghost of Catalina is said to roam the empty corridors, her presence felt by those who dare to venture near. It is a place where the past and present intertwine, leaving visitors both intrigued and trembling in fear.
Now the old mansion has been turned into a museum, and when a local newspaper ran a story about the ghost in the mansion, the staff had plenty of stories to tell. It seems like it is especially the new ones that notice the hauntings the most. Perhaps a prank from their colleagues? Perhaps Catalina seeks those that stick out?
Workers that have kept the house standing have also claimed to have noticed something odd. On more than one occasion they have seen a young woman watching from afar, but only when the museum was closed and they were supposed to be the only ones there.
The Enduring Allure of the Ghost of Catalina in Casa Lercaro
The ghost of Catalina in Casa Lercaro continues to captivate the imagination of those who hear her story. Her tragic fate and restless spirit serve as a reminder of the power of love, loss, and the enduring allure of the supernatural. Casa Lercaro stands as a testament to the past, a place where history and mystery intertwine.
The once abandoned mansion in Tenerife holds the secrets of the past, with Catalina’s spirit lingering within its walls. Her tragic life story, denial of a Christian burial, and the eerie ambiance of the mansion all contribute to the enduring allure of this ghostly legend.
A woman jumping over the Borim Bridge in Goa is said to haunt the area where the ghost is said to latch onto the closest it will encounter. But what really happened when the woman decided to jump from the bridge down to the Suari River?
Spanning the tranquil waters between Ponda in North Goa and Margao in South Goa and going across the Zuari River. The Borim Bridge stands as a testament to both the architectural prowess of the Portuguese and the chilling legends that shroud its existence.
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Built during the Portuguese Era spanning from the 1500s to after the war in 1945, the bridge exists to connect distant villages, this historic structure harbors a dark past that continues to haunt the present.
Until thirty years ago, there was a bridge connecting Panjim with Ponda. It was damaged by a barge, making it unusable. During liberation, part of the bridge was blown up with dynamite, but it was repaired and reopened to the public. A new bridge was built due to weight and width restrictions, and damage from barges. Only light vehicles could use the temporary bridge, until it collapsed after being hit by a barge. After a new bridge was built in 1986, the old bridge was neglected until it was completely abandoned in 2005, and has since had large chunks falling out. .
Borim Bridge: There is a long time since the bridge has been whole, and even though drivers are not using it anymore, it is said that the bridge is haunted by ghosts.
A Legacy of Sacrifice
Constructed by Portuguese soldiers to fortify their stronghold and keep the Indian military out, the Borim Bridge bears the scars of a turbulent past.
Legend has it that during its construction, countless children were sacrificed to appease malevolent forces, their innocent souls forever bound to its timeworn stones. These children are said to haunt the area around the bridge as well. Locals whisper of restless spirits that roam the bridge, their anguished cries echoing through the night.
The Woman of The Borim Bridge
Among the most spine-chilling tales associated with the Borim Bridge is that of the Woman of the River—a spectral apparition said to haunt its shadowy depths. Many claim to have witnessed her ghost leaping from the bridge into the murky waters below, only to vanish into the darkness.
Apparently she suddenly appears on the road, running over the bridge, looking mad and jumps from the side of it. There is no sign of splashes or anyone having jumped at all if you go and check. Not even ripples in the dark waters below.
Those who drive their cars when they see her, can suddenly catch a glimpse of her in the backseat when she suddenly appears before vanishing into thin air.
A Curse Unleashed
Terrifyingly, those who have come face to face with the ghostly woman have been plagued by sickness and misfortune in the aftermath. Such encounters serve as a chilling reminder of the malevolent forces that lurk beneath the surface of the Borim Bridge, waiting to ensnare the unwary in their web of terror.
The Most talked about story is when a group of friends was by the bridge in December in 2011. They were driving over the bridge around two thirty in the night and were all sleepy when something startled them awake.
The three friends saw a woman jumping from the bridge but found no proof of it as it was no splashes, no sound and no body to be found. This was sadly not an unusual thing as several hundreds took their life from this bridge around this time yearly.
So although the story was as per usual, they returned back home, confused about what they did or didn’t see.
They drove away but were haunted when then the man sitting in the back of their car started shouting at them about a female ghost haunting them and being in the car with them. According to him, it was the very same woman they had seen jumping from the bridge.
They asked who she was and where she came from, but he had no answers. They tended to his shivering body, his temperature low and got sick. He was sick for days, claiming that the woman they had seen jump from the bridge was haunting him, sitting next to him for all eternity.
What happened to this man is not said though in what looks like the original blog posts from 2014, so we kan assume he turned out fine. After this story got around though, the story about the bridge being haunted really became part of its story.
The Haunting of The Borim Bridge
In the heart of Goa’s lush landscape lies a bridge shrouded in mystery and dread—a bridge that bears witness to the tragedies of the past and the restless spirits that linger in its shadow.
After many tragic deaths of people that have jumped into the water, they have decided to build the fences higher, the protection stronger. Perhaps this will also work with alleged ghosts?
One summer, in my wanderings with a knapsack, I was at luncheon in the room of a wayside inn in the western country, when the door opened and there entered an old rustic, who crossed close to my end of the table and sat himself down very quietly in the seat by the bow window. We exchanged glances, or, properly speaking, nods, for at the moment I did not actually raise my eyes to his face, so concerned was I with the important business of satisfying an appetite gained by tramping twelve miles over a difficult country.
The fine warm rain of seven o’clock, which had since risen in a kind of luminous mist about the tree tops, now floated far overhead in a deep blue sky, and the day was settling down into a blaze of golden light. It was one of those days peculiar to Somerset and North Devon, when the orchards shine and the meadows seem to add a radiance of their own, so brilliantly soft are the colourings of grass and foliage.
The inn-keeper’s daughter, a little maiden with a simple country loveliness, presently entered with a foaming pewter mug, enquired after my welfare, and went out again. Apparently she had not noticed the old man sitting in the settle by the bow window, nor had he, for his part, so much as once turned his head in our direction.
Under ordinary circumstances I should probably have given no thought to this other occupant of the room; but the fact that it was supposed to be reserved for my private use, and the singular thing that he sat looking aimlessly out of the window, with no attempt to engage me in conversation, drew my eyes more than once somewhat curiously upon him, and I soon caught myself wondering why he sat there so silently, and always with averted head.
He was, I saw, a rather bent old man in rustic dress, and the skin of his face was wrinkled like that of an apple; corduroy trousers were caught up with a string below the knee, and he wore a sort of brown fustian jacket that was very much faded. His thin hand rested upon a stoutish stick. He wore no hat and carried none, and I noticed that his head, covered with silvery hair, was finely shaped and gave the impression of something noble.
Though rather piqued by his studied disregard of my presence, I came to the conclusion that he probably had something to do with the little hostel and had a perfect right to use this room with freedom, and I finished my luncheon without breaking the silence and then took the settle opposite to smoke a pipe before going on my way.
Through the open window came the scents of the blossoming fruit trees; the orchard was drenched in sunshine and the branches danced lazily in the breeze; the grass below fairly shone with white and yellow daisies, and the red roses climbing in profusion over the casement mingled their perfume with the sweetly penetrating odour of the sea.
It was a place to dawdle in, to lie and dream away a whole afternoon, watching the sleepy butterflies and listening to the chorus of birds which seemed to fill every corner of the sky. Indeed, I was already debating in my mind whether to linger and enjoy it all instead of taking the strenuous pathway over the hills, when the old rustic in the settle opposite suddenly turned his face towards me for the first time and began to speak.
His voice had a quiet dreamy note in it that was quite in harmony with the day and the scene, but it sounded far away, I thought, almost as though it came to me from outside where the shadows were weaving their eternal tissue of dreams upon the garden floor. Moreover, there was no trace in it of the rough quality one might naturally have expected, and, now that I saw the full face of the speaker for the first time, I noted with something like a start that the deep, gentle eyes seemed far more in keeping with the timbre of the voice than with the rough and very countrified appearance of the clothes and manner. His voice set pleasant waves of sound in motion towards me, and the actual words, if I remember rightly, were–
“You are a stranger in these parts?” or “Is not this part of the country strange to you?”
There was no “sir,” nor any outward and visible sign of the deference usually paid by real country folk to the town-bred visitor, but in its place a gentleness, almost a sweetness, of polite sympathy that was far more of a compliment than either.
I answered that I was wandering on foot through a part of the country that was wholly new to me, and that I was surprised not to find a place of such idyllic loveliness marked upon my map.
“I have lived here all my life,” he said, with a sigh, “and am never tired of coming back to it again.”
“Then you no longer live in the immediate neighbourhood?”
“I have moved,” he answered briefly, adding after a pause in which his eyes seemed to wander wistfully to the wealth of blossoms beyond the window; “but I am almost sorry, for nowhere else have I found the sunshine lie so warmly, the flowers smell so sweetly, or the winds and streams make such tender music. . . .”
His voice died away into a thin stream of sound that lost itself in the rustle of the rose-leaves climbing in at the window, for he turned his head away from me as he spoke and looked out into the garden. But it was impossible to conceal my surprise, and I raised my eyes in frank astonishment on hearing so poetic an utterance from such a figure of a man, though at the same time realising that it was not in the least inappropriate, and that, in fact, no other sort of expression could have properly been expected from him.
“I am sure you are right,” I answered at length, when it was clear he had ceased speaking; “or there is something of enchantment here–of real fairy-like enchantment–that makes me think of the visions of childhood days, before one knew anything of–of–“
I had been oddly drawn into his vein of speech, some inner force compelling me. But here the spell passed and I could not catch the thoughts that had a moment before opened a long vista before my inner vision.
“To tell you the truth,” I concluded lamely, “the place fascinates me and I am in two minds about going further–“
Even at this stage I remember thinking it odd that I should be talking like this with a stranger whom I met in a country inn, for it has always been one of my failings that to strangers my manner is brief to surliness. It was as though we were figures meeting in a dream, speaking without sound, obeying laws not operative in the everyday working world, and about to play with a new scale of space and time perhaps. But my astonishment passed quickly into an entirely different feeling when I became aware that the old man opposite had turned his head from the window again, and was regarding me with eyes so bright they seemed almost to shine with an inner flame. His gaze was fixed upon my face with an intense ardour, and his whole manner had suddenly become alert and concentrated. There was something about him I now felt for the first time that made little thrills of excitement run up and down my back. I met his look squarely, but with an inward tremor.
“Stay, then, a little while longer,” he said in a much lower and deeper voice than before; “stay, and I will teach you something of the purpose of my coming.”
He stopped abruptly. I was conscious of a decided shiver.
“You have a special purpose then–in coming back?” I asked, hardly knowing what I was saying.
“To call away someone,” he went on in the same thrilling voice, “someone who is not quite ready to come, but who is needed elsewhere for a worthier purpose.” There was a sadness in his manner that mystified me more than ever.
“You mean–?” I began, with an unaccountable access of trembling.
“I have come for someone who must soon move, even as I have moved.”
He looked me through and through with a dreadfully piercing gaze, but I met his eyes with a full straight stare, trembling though I was, and I was aware that something stirred within me that had never stirred before, though for the life of me I could not have put a name to it, or have analysed its nature. Something lifted and rolled away. For one single second I understood clearly that the past and the future exist actually side by side in one immense Present; that it was I who moved to and fro among shifting, protean appearances.
The old man dropped his eyes from my face, and the momentary glimpse of a mightier universe passed utterly away. Reason regained its sway over a dull, limited kingdom.
“Come to-night,” I heard the old man say, “come to me to-night into the Wood of the Dead. Come at midnight–“
Involuntarily I clutched the arm of the settle for support, for I then felt that I was speaking with someone who knew more of the real things that are and will be, than I could ever know while in the body, working through the ordinary channels of sense–and this curious half-promise of a partial lifting of the veil had its undeniable effect upon me.
The breeze from the sea had died away outside, and the blossoms were still. A yellow butterfly floated lazily past the window. The song of the birds hushed–I smelt the sea–I smelt the perfume of heated summer air rising from fields and flowers, the ineffable scents of June and of the long days of the year–and with it, from countless green meadows beyond, came the hum of myriad summer life, children’s voices, sweet pipings, and the sound of water falling.
I knew myself to be on the threshold of a new order of experience–of an ecstasy. Something drew me forth with a sense of inexpressible yearning towards the being of this strange old man in the window seat, and for a moment I knew what it was to taste a mighty and wonderful sensation, and to touch the highest pinnacle of joy I have ever known. It lasted for less than a second, and was gone; but in that brief instant of time the same terrible lucidity came to me that had already shown me how the past and future exist in the present, and I realised and understood that pleasure and pain are one and the same force, for the joy I had just experienced included also all the pain I ever had felt, or ever could feel. . . .
The sunshine grew to dazzling radiance, faded, passed away. The shadows paused in their dance upon the grass, deepened a moment, and then melted into air. The flowers of the fruit trees laughed with their little silvery laughter as the wind sighed over their radiant eyes the old, old tale of its personal love. Once or twice a voice called my name. A wonderful sensation of lightness and power began to steal over me.
Suddenly the door opened and the inn-keeper’s daughter came in. By all ordinary standards, her’s was a charming country loveliness, born of the stars and wild-flowers, of moonlight shining through autumn mists upon the river and the fields; yet, by contrast with the higher order of beauty I had just momentarily been in touch with, she seemed almost ugly. How dull her eyes, how thin her voice, how vapid her smile, and insipid her whole presentment.
For a moment she stood between me and the occupant of the window seat while I counted out the small change for my meal and for her services; but when, an instant later, she moved aside, I saw that the settle was empty and that there was no longer anyone in the room but our two selves.
This discovery was no shock to me; indeed, I had almost expected it, and the man had gone just as a figure goes out of a dream, causing no surprise and leaving me as part and parcel of the same dream without breaking of continuity. But, as soon as I had paid my bill and thus resumed in very practical fashion the thread of my normal consciousness, I turned to the girl and asked her if she knew the old man who had been sitting in the window seat, and what he had meant by the Wood of the Dead.
The maiden started visibly, glancing quickly round the empty room, but answering simply that she had seen no one. I described him in great detail, and then, as the description grew clearer, she turned a little pale under her pretty sunborn and said very gravely that it must have been the ghost.
“Ghost! What ghost?”
“Oh, the village ghost,” she said quietly, coming closer to my chair with a little nervous movement of genuine alarm, and adding in a lower voice, “He comes before a death, they say!”
It was not difficult to induce the girl to talk, and the story she told me, shorn of the superstition that had obviously gathered with the years round the memory of a strangely picturesque figure, was an interesting and peculiar one.
The inn, she said, was originally a farmhouse, occupied by a yeoman farmer, evidently of a superior, if rather eccentric, character, who had been very poor until he reached old age, when a son died suddenly in the Colonies and left him an unexpected amount of money, almost a fortune.
The old man thereupon altered no whit his simple manner of living, but devoted his income entirely to the improvement of the village and to the assistance of its inhabitants; he did this quite regardless of his personal likes and dislikes, as if one and all were absolutely alike to him, objects of a genuine and impersonal benevolence. People had always been a little afraid of the man, not understanding his eccentricities, but the simple force of this love for humanity changed all that in a very short space of time; and before he died he came to be known as the Father of the Village and was held in great love and veneration by all.
A short time before his end, however, he began to act queerly. He spent his money just as usefully and wisely, but the shock of sudden wealth after a life of poverty, people said, had unsettled his mind. He claimed to see things that others did not see, to hear voices, and to have visions. Evidently, he was not of the harmless, foolish, visionary order, but a man of character and of great personal force, for the people became divided in their opinions, and the vicar, good man, regarded and treated him as a “special case.” For many, his name and atmosphere became charged almost with a spiritual influence that was not of the best. People quoted texts about him; kept when possible out of his way, and avoided his house after dark. None understood him, but though the majority loved him, an element of dread and mystery became associated with his name, chiefly owing to the ignorant gossip of the few.
A grove of pine trees behind the farm–the girl pointed them out to me on the slope of the hill–he said was the Wood of the Dead, because just before anyone died in the village he saw them walk into that wood, singing. None who went in ever came out again. He often mentioned the names to his wife, who usually published them to all the inhabitants within an hour of her husband’s confidence; and it was found that the people he had seen enter the wood–died. On warm summer nights he would sometimes take an old stick and wander out, hatless, under the pines, for he loved this wood, and used to say he met all his old friends there, and would one day walk in there never to return. His wife tried to break him gently off this habit, but he always had his own way; and once, when she followed and found him standing under a great pine in the thickest portion of the grove, talking earnestly to someone she could not see, he turned and rebuked her very gently, but in such a way that she never repeated the experiment, saying–
“You should never interrupt me, Mary, when I am talking with the others; for they teach me, remember, wonderful things, and I must learn all I can before I go to join them.”
This story went like wild-fire through the village, increasing with every repetition, until at length everyone was able to give an accurate description of the great veiled figures the woman declared she had seen moving among the trees where her husband stood. The innocent pine-grove now became positively haunted, and the title of “Wood of the Dead” clung naturally as if it had been applied to it in the ordinary course of events by the compilers of the Ordnance Survey.
On the evening of his ninetieth birthday the old man went up to his wife and kissed her. His manner was loving, and very gentle, and there was something about him besides, she declared afterwards, that made her slightly in awe of him and feel that he was almost more of a spirit than a man.
He kissed her tenderly on both cheeks, but his eyes seemed to look right through her as he spoke.
“Dearest wife,” he said, “I am saying good-bye to you, for I am now going into the Wood of the Dead, and I shall not return. Do not follow me, or send to search, but be ready soon to come upon the same journey yourself.”
The good woman burst into tears and tried to hold him, but he easily slipped from her hands, and she was afraid to follow him. Slowly she saw him cross the field in the sunshine, and then enter the cool shadows of the grove, where he disappeared from her sight.
That same night, much later, she woke to find him lying peacefully by her side in bed, with one arm stretched out towards her, dead. Her story was half believed, half doubted at the time, but in a very few years afterwards it evidently came to be accepted by all the countryside. A funeral service was held to which the people flocked in great numbers, and everyone approved of the sentiment which led the widow to add the words, “The Father of the Village,” after the usual texts which appeared upon the stone over his grave.
This, then, was the story I pieced together of the village ghost as the little inn-keeper’s daughter told it to me that afternoon in the parlour of the inn.
“But you’re not the first to say you’ve seen him,” the girl concluded; “and your description is just what we’ve always heard, and that window, they say, was just where he used to sit and think, and think, when he was alive, and sometimes, they say, to cry for hours together.”
“And would you feel afraid if you had seen him?” I asked, for the girl seemed strangely moved and interested in the whole story.
“I think so,” she answered timidly. “Surely, if he spoke to me. He did speak to you, didn’t he, sir?” she asked after a slight pause.
“He said he had come for someone.”
“Come for someone,” she repeated. “Did he say–” she went on falteringly.
“No, he did not say for whom,” I said quickly, noticing the sudden shadow on her face and the tremulous voice.
“Are you really sure, sir?”
“Oh, quite sure,” I answered cheerfully. “I did not even ask him.” The girl looked at me steadily for nearly a whole minute as though there were many things she wished to tell me or to ask. But she said nothing, and presently picked up her tray from the table and walked slowly out of the room.
Instead of keeping to my original purpose and pushing on to the next village over the hills, I ordered a room to be prepared for me at the inn, and that afternoon I spent wandering about the fields and lying under the fruit trees, watching the white clouds sailing out over the sea. The Wood of the Dead I surveyed from a distance, but in the village I visited the stone erected to the memory of the “Father of the Village”–who was thus, evidently, no mythical personage–and saw also the monuments of his fine unselfish spirit: the schoolhouse he built, the library, the home for the aged poor, and the tiny hospital.
That night, as the clock in the church tower was striking half-past eleven, I stealthily left the inn and crept through the dark orchard and over the hayfield in the direction of the hill whose southern slope was clothed with the Wood of the Dead. A genuine interest impelled me to the adventure, but I also was obliged to confess to a certain sinking in my heart as I stumbled along over the field in the darkness, for I was approaching what might prove to be the birth-place of a real country myth, and a spot already lifted by the imaginative thoughts of a considerable number of people into the region of the haunted and ill-omened.
The inn lay below me, and all round it the village clustered in a soft black shadow unrelieved by a single light. The night was moonless, yet distinctly luminous, for the stars crowded the sky. The silence of deep slumber was everywhere; so still, indeed, that every time my foot kicked against a stone I thought the sound must be heard below in the village and waken the sleepers.
I climbed the hill slowly, thinking chiefly of the strange story of the noble old man who had seized the opportunity to do good to his fellows the moment it came his way, and wondering why the causes that operate ceaselessly behind human life did not always select such admirable instruments. Once or twice a night-bird circled swiftly over my head, but the bats had long since gone to rest, and there was no other sign of life stirring.
Then, suddenly, with a singular thrill of emotion, I saw the first trees of the Wood of the Dead rise in front of me in a high black wall. Their crests stood up like giant spears against the starry sky; and though there was no perceptible movement of the air on my cheek I heard a faint, rushing sound among their branches as the night breeze passed to and fro over their countless little needles. A remote, hushed murmur rose overhead and died away again almost immediately; for in these trees the wind seems to be never absolutely at rest, and on the calmest day there is always a sort of whispering music among their branches.
For a moment I hesitated on the edge of this dark wood, and listened intently. Delicate perfumes of earth and bark stole out to meet me. Impenetrable darkness faced me. Only the consciousness that I was obeying an order, strangely given, and including a mighty privilege, enabled me to find the courage to go forward and step in boldly under the trees.
Instantly the shadows closed in upon me and “something” came forward to meet me from the centre of the darkness. It would be easy enough to meet my imagination half-way with fact, and say that a cold hand grasped my own and led me by invisible paths into the unknown depths of the grove; but at any rate, without stumbling, and always with the positive knowledge that I was going straight towards the desired object, I pressed on confidently and securely into the wood. So dark was it that, at first, not a single star-beam pierced the roof of branches overhead; and, as we moved forward side by side, the trees shifted silently past us in long lines, row upon row, squadron upon squadron, like the units of a vast, soundless army.
And, at length, we came to a comparatively open space where the trees halted upon us for a while, and, looking up, I saw the white river of the sky beginning to yield to the influence of a new light that now seemed spreading swiftly across the heavens.
“It is the dawn coming,” said the voice at my side that I certainly recognised, but which seemed almost like a whispering from the trees, “and we are now in the heart of the Wood of the Dead.”
We seated ourselves on a moss-covered boulder and waited the coming of the sun. With marvellous swiftness, it seemed to me, the light in the east passed into the radiance of early morning, and when the wind awoke and began to whisper in the tree tops, the first rays of the risen sun fell between the trunks and rested in a circle of gold at our feet.
“Now, come with me,” whispered my companion in the same deep voice, “for time has no existence here, and that which I would show you is already there!”
We trod gently and silently over the soft pine needles. Already the sun was high over our heads, and the shadows of the trees coiled closely about their feet. The wood became denser again, but occasionally we passed through little open bits where we could smell the hot sunshine and the dry, baked pine needles. Then, presently, we came to the edge of the grove, and I saw a hayfield lying in the blaze of day, and two horses basking lazily with switching tails in the shafts of a laden hay-waggon.
So complete and vivid was the sense of reality, that I remember the grateful realisation of the cool shade where we sat and looked out upon the hot world beyond.
The last pitchfork had tossed up its fragrant burden, and the great horses were already straining in the shafts after the driver, as he walked slowly in front with one hand upon their bridles. He was a stalwart fellow, with sunburned neck and hands. Then, for the first time, I noticed, perched aloft upon the trembling throne of hay, the figure of a slim young girl. I could not see her face, but her brown hair escaped in disorder from a white sun-bonnet, and her still browner hands held a well-worn hay rake. She was laughing and talking with the driver, and he, from time to time, cast up at her ardent glances of admiration–glances that won instant smiles and soft blushes in response.
The cart presently turned into the roadway that skirted the edge of the wood where we were sitting. I watched the scene with intense interest and became so much absorbed in it that I quite forgot the manifold, strange steps by which I was permitted to become a spectator.
“Come down and walk with me,” cried the young fellow, stopping a moment in front of the horses and opening wide his arms. “Jump! and I’ll catch you!”
“Oh, oh,” she laughed, and her voice sounded to me as the happiest, merriest laughter I had ever heard from a girl’s throat. “Oh, oh! that’s all very well. But remember I’m Queen of the Hay, and I must ride!”
“Then I must come and ride beside you,” he cried, and began at once to climb up by way of the driver’s seat. But, with a peal of silvery laughter, she slipped down easily over the back of the hay to escape him, and ran a little way along the road. I could see her quite clearly, and noticed the charming, natural grace of her movements, and the loving expression in her eyes as she looked over her shoulder to make sure he was following. Evidently, she did not wish to escape for long, certainly not for ever.
In two strides the big, brown swain was after her, leaving the horses to do as they pleased. Another second and his arms would have caught the slender waist and pressed the little body to his heart. But, just at that instant, the old man beside me uttered a peculiar cry. It was low and thrilling, and it went through me like a sharp sword.
HE had called her by her own name–and she had heard.
For a second she halted, glancing back with frightened eyes. Then, with a brief cry of despair, the girl swerved aside and dived in swiftly among the shadows of the trees.
But the young man saw the sudden movement and cried out to her passionately–
“Not that way, my love! Not that way! It’s the Wood of the Dead!”
She threw a laughing glance over her shoulder at him, and the wind caught her hair and drew it out in a brown cloud under the sun. But the next minute she was close beside me, lying on the breast of my companion, and I was certain I heard the words repeatedly uttered with many sighs: “Father, you called, and I have come. And I come willingly, for I am very, very tired.”
At any rate, so the words sounded to me, and mingled with them I seemed to catch the answer in that deep, thrilling whisper I already knew: “And you shall sleep, my child, sleep for a long, long time, until it is time for you to begin the journey again.”
In that brief second of time I had recognised the face and voice of the inn-keeper’s daughter, but the next minute a dreadful wail broke from the lips of the young man, and the sky grew suddenly as dark as night, the wind rose and began to toss the branches about us, and the whole scene was swallowed up in a wave of utter blackness.
Again the chill fingers seemed to seize my hand, and I was guided by the way I had come to the edge of the wood, and crossing the hayfield still slumbering in the starlight, I crept back to the inn and went to bed.
A year later I happened to be in the same part of the country, and the memory of the strange summer vision returned to me with the added softness of distance. I went to the old village and had tea under the same orchard trees at the same inn.
But the little maid of the inn did not show her face, and I took occasion to enquire of her father as to her welfare and her whereabouts.
“Married, no doubt,” I laughed, but with a strange feeling that clutched at my heart.
“No, sir,” replied the inn-keeper sadly, “not married–though she was just going to be–but dead. She got a sunstroke in the hayfields, just a few days after you were here, if I remember rightly, and she was gone from us in less than a week.”
Searching for its name, the utburd ghost from Norwegian folklore haunts the forests, waters and houses its parents left them to die. For the most part, they remained in folk tales, but sometimes, the stories about the dead children got real life consequences.
Perhaps one of the most well known figures from Irish mythology is the Banshee, the omen of death, wailing as death comes to a house. But where does she come from? And what does she want from the dead?
Before meeting a vampire in Transylvania, a short story places Jonathan Harket facing the undead outside of Munich. Could it have a connection to the village that according to legend, vanished suddenly in the middle ages.
One of the dark entities on the emerald island, there is the Death Coach who comes to collect the souls of the dead. Pulled by headless horses, the Cóiste Bodhar stops at nothing before its mission is complete, and misfortune happens upon those getting in its way.
In 1687, the ghost of a murdered child started to testify against its mother in northern Norway and people took it seriously. Today, the Utburd of Skåvoll or the Nille-case is remembered as the ghost story that condemned a woman to her death.
Have a look at some of the most haunted places in Dublin, from the mysteries of the Hellfire Club, churches where you can supposedly summon the devil and the dead lingering in the dusty libraries and colleges.
After strange knocking and poltergeist activity made the people at Erstad Farm believe it was haunted. And when they asked the ghost what it wanted, it unraveled the lives of more than one person forever.
Was there an iberian vampire before the European vampire panic in Eastern Europe? Who was really Conde Estruch, the vampire of Catalonia, and what happened to the witches of Llers Castle the count was said to use as his lair.
Join a haunted pub crawl through Dublin’s ancient streets for ghosts and a pint of Guinness. From plotting revolutionaries to somber writers, these pubs and bars are said to be a place where some of the patrons have been lingering for a long time.
In 1852, the alleged psychic Erika Larsdatter Bogen, arrived at Børholmen, a small island in western Norway. She claimed that she had found the ghost and corpse of the dead child, and she named the mother who allegedly buried it. But what was the truth?
Ghostly whispers in the old castle ruins, soldiers haunting the bloody battlefields and even the drums of pagan druids still lingering, Ireland is certainly a haunted country. This is only a small portion of the most haunted places in Ireland and the ghost stories behind them.
Down the ancient stepwell under Delhi, it is said that the water of Agrasen Ki Baoli turned black and called people to jump in to die. Visitors and locals claim to have seen and heard strange things down at the bottom and people think that it might be cursed.
The centuries-old stepwell, Agrasen Ki Baoli located in Delhi, India is a great place to hide away from the sun on hot days, but it is said it is closed during the night for a reason. Although it has been a popular tourist attraction for many years, this ancient structure is shrouded in eerie legends and tales of paranormal activity and they close it off at night.
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Visitors who dare to venture down its red stone steps are said to experience a chilling sensation as they approach the depths of the now dry well, as if they are being watched by unseen forces. Some even claim to have heard ghostly whispers and seen shadowy figures lurking in the dark corners of the baoli, sometimes referred to as the Baoli of the Unseen.
Legends Surrounding the Stepwell
Agrasen Ki Baoli is a stepwell that dates back to the 14th century on Hailey Road, near Connaught Place. Although legend claims it was built by Maharaja Agrasen, a legendary figure in Indian mythology, who is said to have been a great ruler and a protector of his people 3000 BC, nobody really knows for certain when and by whom it was built.
Under the bustling and modern Dehli in India, there is an ancient stepwell going down underground. The water has now dried up, but the well is still soaked with legends.
A Baoli in North India means a well with steps leading down to it. It can also be called a water temple. The water source was not only for drinking water, but to meet in the shadow away from the heat, wash clothes and bathe like a community hall. Agrasen Ki Baoli is one of the most well maintained of around 2000 ancient stepwells in India.
The stepwell is made up of 103 steps that lead down to a well, which was once used to store water during the dry season. The well is surrounded by arched niches, which were used as meeting places for local communities. The baoli also boasts intricate carvings and designs, including a series of 16th-century inscriptions that detail the history of the stepwell.
Paranormal Evil at Agrasen Ki Baoli
There is not really a particular event or history that is said to have been the start of the haunted rumors. Some will claim that it has always been haunted. But from what?
Visitors to Agrasen Ki Baoli have reported a variety of paranormal experiences, ranging from strange sounds and feelings of being watched to sightings of ghostly apparitions. Some have reported hearing ghostly whispers and voices, while others have reported seeing shadowy figures lurking in the dark corners of the baoli. There have also been reports of objects moving on their own, and of sudden drops in temperature that cannot be explained by natural means.
There have been reports of people feeling as though they are being pushed or touched by unseen hands, and of sudden feelings of dread or unease. These experiences have led many to believe that there is indeed something supernatural at work in Agrasen Ki Baoli.
There are also stories of a djinn who is said to reside in the stepwell, and who is responsible for the eerie sounds and strange occurrences that have been reported by visitors over the years.
The Curse of the Black Water
According to the legends, the well used to be filled with cursed black water that didn’t come from dirt, but rather some sort of curse or other evil. The water in the well is now dried up and there is nothing but bats and pigeons left. Or is it? It is said that the water was found in the stepwell up until the 90s, and many claim that the water was indeed black, but not by dirt. So then, by what?
Agrasen Ku Baoli: Up until the 21st century, the well was filled with water. This picture is called Diving into Ugrasen Baoili, Delhi, 1971 by photographer Raghu Rai. This show how the well looked filled with water. Did people talk about it being haunted then as well? //Source
When people came down here when it was water, they talked about some sort of force that made them want to drown in it. Something dark that was calling to them or somehow beckoning them towards the darkness.
When the water in the well found its victims, it made them walk into it and the water level rose and took them, gushing back dark blood. There have been reports of suicides in the past, the last one allegedly in 2007, well after the water in the well had dried up. But could it have been something in the well that called out to certain people?
The Haunted Agrasen Ku Baoli
Can we really trust this popular information though? According to many, the haunted stories started to be more prevalent after the water dried up in the 21st century. Although when the first rumors about the stepwell started to circulate is unknown.
Several bloggers claim that some sort of paranormal thing has happened here, and some say that many people have been paid to narrate these false ghost stories. For what cause is uncertain. But if you by any means see any type of black water rising in the well, just know, it’s not supposed to.
In a former summer house for the rich and wealthy in Maine, the Ledgelawn Summer Estate has long been thought to be haunted by the ghost of Mary Margaret, the jilted bride haunting the house wearing her wedding dress.
Built in 1904 in the seaside town of Bar Harbor on Mount Desert Island in Maine, Ledgelawn Summer Estate was one of the original grand summer estates from the Gilded Age in the harbor for the elite that used to spend their summer here by the sea.
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Ledgelawn Estate is a 21-room shingle-style cottage on Mount Desert Street, found close to the church. They used to call these estates for the cottages where the rich summered and it is said that this building is the most haunted one in Bar Harbor and a story all the locals know about.
Bar Harbor: On Mount Desert Island in Maine you will find Bar Harbor where the Ledgelawn Summer Estate is. There are many places in this picturesque said to be haunted.
The Haunted Ledgelawn Summer Estate
The red building built for the wealthy summer visitors in 1904 was built upon something older, equally a mystery as the supposed haunting. It is said to be haunted by the woman in white known as Mary Margaret. According to legend, she was jilted just about to get married.
Most of the variations of the stories tell that Mary Margaret was a dark haired beauty from that time, a member of the rich and powerful Astor family, or at least related to them.
Her soon to be husband took off right before their wedding and left her alone. Mary Margaret took this so hard and went straight up to the third floor, dressed herself in her wedding dress before hanging herself from the rafters in the attic with her wedding veil.
It is said that when her family found her, her face was so bruised, they almost didn’t recognize her. Her lips curled up to a smile. She has ever since then lingered and haunted the Ledgelawn Summer Estate through the years.
The Haunting of Mary Margaret
Although her death is said to have happened in the attic of Ledgelawn Summer Estate, she is most often seen on the third floor. Her ghost is said to be transparent and floating about, returning to the place she died again and again.
The former summer estate used to be an inn and there is a particular one story from this time that is retold. Back then, the place used to be called Ledgelawn Inn and it was said that room 326 was the place she most often appeared.
Guests checking in or staff working there would often get an ominous and gloomy feeling before claiming to see the ghost of a woman floating at the foot at their bed or even a ghostly wedding veil was coming from the ceiling and swaying in the night.
According to this guest, the ghost got into bed with him. Scared of what happened he tried to ignore her lying next to him and simply rolled over, petrified and didn’t dare to open his eyes.
The dramatic ghost of Mary Margaret is supposedly not the only ghost said to haunt the Ledgelawn Summer Estate. Apparently there is also a former maid most often called Catherine said to be haunting the former summer house and former inn.
It is said that she had an affair with the owner of the house at the time and became pregnant while working there. The story is often been told to have happened in the 1930s. She died after falling down the stairs in the back. If she fell or if she were pushed is up for debate and was hushed up at the time.
In addition to the women said to haunt the Ledgelawn Summer Estate there is also a child said to haunt the cupboard he hides in. According to the stories, he drowned somewhere in Bar Harbor.
The Truth Behind the Legends
So how true is this very specific story said to haunt the Ledgelawn Summer Estate? The historic inn was bought by a firm in 2010, ending its time as an inn.
The story behind the house is that Ledge Lawn was built by Samuel Willard Bridgham and Fanny Shermerhorn in the beginnings of the 1900s. Fanny was related to the Astors, a family filled with money and scandals. Samuel and Fanny though were known to be kind people, didn’t have any children and other mysterious deaths happening inside of their home.
So what about the ghost that people keep seeing? Could it just be a trick your mind plays you when staying in an old building, and a local story told for fun in a sleepy seaside town. Or could it be something that the history didn’t record or where the details and facts have become distorted over time?
After the Spanish Armada were set ablaze in the North Sea, some of the soldiers sought refuge at Staad Abbey in Sligo, Ireland. However, many of them met a haunting fate.
In the rugged embrace of County Sligo’s Atlantic coastline, history and the supernatural converge at the enigmatic Staad Abbey. This weathered relic from the early medieval period, now a haunting ruin, whispers tales of pilgrimage, tragedy, and apparitions that linger in the depths of time.
The name “Staad” is of Gaelic origins, meaning “stop.” In times gone by, this abbey served as a crucial waypoint for weary pilgrims en route to the nearby Inishmurray Island. Staad Abbey is an early monastic site from the late 5th or early 6th century, reputedly founded by the monk, St Molaise. You can find the ruins of the old abbey in Agharrow, County Sligo, right on the cliff above the beach there.
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Staad Abbey can also be called a shore hostel, for travelers to stay in on their journey before venturing to Inishmurray by boat.
Ghosts of Spanish Soldiers
While the abbey’s history is imbued with the essence of spiritual seekers, it is also shrouded in a more sinister narrative. Local lore tells of the restless spirits of executed Spanish soldiers who now call this ruined abbey home.
Staad Abbey: Only a few rubble stone is left from this ancient monument now.// Source: IrishPost
They came on a ship from the Spanish Armada in 1588 that was passing the Irish coast after rounding the north of Scotland.
The Spanish Armada
The Spanish Armada was a formidable naval force consisting of approximately 130 ships, over 8,000 seamen, and around 18,000 soldiers, with about 40 warships among them. The Spanish plan was for this massive fleet, known as the “Great and Most Fortunate Navy,” to sail from Lisbon. The combined forces would then cross the English Channel to launch an overland offensive against London.
In May 1588, the Spanish Armada set sail from Lisbon. The English, desperate to prevent this, devised a plan involving fireships. At midnight on August 8, they set eight empty vessels on fire and allowed them to drift toward the Spanish fleet at Calais Roads. This caused panic among the Armada, forcing them to flee to the open sea.
The Spanish Armada: Defeat of the Spanish Armada, history painting by Philippe-Jacques de Loutherbourg (1796)
The Armada, now facing bad weather, was carried into the North Sea, preventing the rendezvous with Parma’s army. With supplies running low and disease spreading, the Duke of Medina-Sidonia decided to return to Spain via Scotland and Ireland. During the journey home, the Armada was ravaged by sea storms, leading to the loss of around 60 of its 130 ships and approximately 15,000 lives.
The treacherous Atlantic Ocean has claimed many a ship, but one of the most infamous tragedies unfolded in 1588 when the Spanish Armada met its demise off the shores of Streedagh Beach, near Staad Abbey. Over 1,000 souls perished in the relentless tempests, and among the survivors, despair mingled with hope.
The Spanish Soldier at Staad Abbey
Unfortunately, the survivors of the Armada’s ill-fated expedition did not find refuge but instead faced a grim fate. In the backdrop of the British occupation of Ireland, these Spanish soldiers, considered enemies of the realm, were captured and subjected to a ruthless judgment.
One of the survivors was Francisco de Cuellar. A few months after surviving the sinking of the Spanish Armada ship La Lavia on Streedagh Beach, Francisco de Cuellar sought refuge in Staad Abbey in 1588. Upon his arrival, he discovered that the church was partially burned, and he saw twelve Spaniards hanged from the rafters. He had encountered hundreds dead soldiers on the nearby beaches as well.
De Cuellar stayed at Staad Abbey for a few weeks before fleeing again. There is some debate about whether it was actually Staad Abbey he visited or another medieval church in the vicinity, possibly Ahamlish Church, located just north of Streedagh, where the ships from the Spanish Armada sank.
The Sinking Haunted Ruins
It is said that the desolation of Staad Abbey is not confined to its crumbling stones and windswept arches. Visitors have reported an eerie, bone-chilling coldness that hangs in the air.
Shadows dance along the walls, seemingly floating across the ancient stones, evoking the memory of those ill-fated Spanish soldiers who met their end at this lonely ruin.
As you stand amidst the solemn ruins of Staad Abbey which are slowly being eroded away, the whispers of the past beckon, inviting you to contemplate the pilgrims’ journey, the tragic shipwrecks, and the ghosts that may still linger among the timeless stones. Soon it can be too late as the abbey itself is close to collapsing as it edges closer to the cliffs for every storm.
I have a friend, Olof Ehrensvärd, a Swede by birth, who yet, by reason of a strange and melancholy mischance of his early boyhood, has thrown his lot with that of the New World. It is a curious story of a headstrong boy and a proud and relentless family: the details do not matter here, but they are sufficient to weave a web of romance around the tall yellow-bearded man with the sad eyes and the voice that gives itself perfectly to plain tive little Swedish songs remembered out of childhood. In the winter evenings we play chess together, he and I, and after some close, fierce battle has been fought to a finish—usually with my own defeat—we fill our pipes again, and Ehrensvärd tells me stories of the far, half-remembered daysin the fatherland, before he went to sea: stories that grow very strange and incredible as the night deepens and the fire falls together, but stories that, nevertheless, I fully believe.
One of them made a strong impression on me,so I set it down here, only regretting that I cannot reproduce the curiously per fect English and the delicate accent which to me increased the fascination of the tale. Yet, as best I can remember it, here it is.
“I never told you how Nils and I went over the hills to Hallsberg, and how we found the Dead Valley, did I? Well, this is the way it happened. I must have been about twelve years old, and Nils Sjöberg, whose father’s estate joined ours, was a few months younger. We were inseparable just at that time, and whatever we did, we did together.
“Once a week it was market day in Engelholm, and Nils and I went always there to see the strange sights that the market gathered from all the surrounding country. One day we quite lost our hearts, for an old man from across the Elfborg had brought a little dog to sell, that seemed to us the most beautiful dog in all the world. He was a round, woolly puppy, so funny that Nils and I sat down on the ground and laughed at him, until he came and played with us in so jolly a way that we felt that there was only one really desirable thing in life, and that was the little dog of the old man from across the hills. But alas! we had not half money enough wherewith to buy him, so we were forced to beg the old man not to sell him before the next market day, promising that we would bring the money for him then. He gave us his word, and we ran home very fast and implored our mothers to give us money for the little dog.
“We got the money, but we could not wait for the next market day. Suppose the puppy should be sold! The thought frightened us so that we begged and implored that we might be allowed to go over the hills to Hallsberg where the old man lived, and get the little dog ourselves, and at last they told us we might go. By starting early in the morning we should reach Hallsberg by three o’clock, and it was arranged that we should stay there that night with Nils’s aunt, and, leaving by noon the next day, be home again by sunset.
“Soon after sunrise we were on our way, after having received minute instructions as to just what we should do in all possible and impossible circumstances, and finally a repeated injunction that we should start for home at the same hour the next day, so that we might get safely back before nightfall.
“For us, it was magnificent sport, and we started off with our rifles, full of the sense of our very great importance: yet the journey was simple enough, along a good road, across the big hills we knew so well, for Nils and I had shot over half the territory this side of the dividing ridge of the Elfborg. Back of Engelholm lay a long valley, from which rose the low mountains, and we had to cross this, and then follow the road along the side of the hills for three or four miles, before a narrow path branched off to the left, leading up through the pass.
“Nothing occurred of interest on the way over, and we reached Hallsberg in due season, found to our inexpressible joy that the little dog was not sold, secured him, and so went to the house of Nils’s aunt to spend the night.
“Why we did not leave early on the following day, I can’t quite remember; at all events, I know we stopped at a shooting range just outside of the town, where most attractive paste board pigs were sliding slowly through painted foliage, serving so as beautiful marks. The result was that we did not get fairly started for home until afternoon, and as we found ourselves at last pushing up the side of the mountain with the sun dangerously near their summits, I think we were a little scared at the prospect of the examination and possible punishment that awaited us when we got home at midnight.
“Therefore we hurried as fast as possible up the mountain side, while the blue dusk closed in about us, and the light died in the purple sky. At first we had talked hilariously, and the little dog had leaped ahead of us with the utmost joy. Latterly, however, a curious oppression came on us; we did not speak or even whistle, while the dog fell behind, following us with hesitation in every muscle.
“We had passed through the foothills and the low spurs of the mountains, and were almost at the top of the main range, when life seemed to go out of everything, leaving the world dead, so suddenly silent the forest became, so stagnant the air. Instinctively we halted to listen.
“Perfect silence,—the crushing silence of deep forests at night; and more, for always, even in the most impenetrable fastnesses of the wooded mountains, is the multitudinous mur mur of little lives, awakened by the darkness, exaggerated and intensified by the stillness of the air and the great dark: but here and now the silence seemed unbroken even by the turn of a leaf, the movement of a twig, the note of night bird or insect. I could hear the blood beat through my veins; and the crushing of the grass under our feet as we advanced with hesitating steps sounded like the falling of trees.
“And the air was stagnant,—dead. The atmosphere seemed to lie upon the body like the weight of sea on a diver who has ventured too far into its awful depths. What we usually call silence seems so only in relation to the din of ordinary experience. This was silence in the absolute, and it crushed the mind while it intensified the senses, bringing down the awful weight of inextinguishable fear.
“I know that Nils and I stared towards each other in abject terror, listening to our quick, heavy breathing, that sounded to our acute senses like the fitful rush of waters. And the poor little dog we were leading justified our terror. The black oppression seemed to crush him even as it did us. He lay close on the ground, moaning feebly, and dragging himself painfully and slowly closer to Nils’s feet. I think this exhibition of utter animal fear was the last touch, and must inevitably have blasted our reason—mine anyway; but just then, as we stood quaking on the bounds of madness, came a sound, so awful, so ghastly, so horrible, that it seemed to rouse us from the dead spell that was on us.
“In the depth of the silence came a cry, beginning as a low, sorrowful moan, rising to a tremulous shriek, culminating in a yell that seemed to tear the night in sunder and rend the world as by a cataclysm. So fearful was it that I could not believe it had actual existence: it passed previous experience, the powers of belief, and for a moment I thought it the result of my own animal terror, an hallucination born of tottering reason.
“A glance at Nils dispelled this thought in a flash. In the pale light of the high stars he was the embodiment of all possible human fear, quaking with an ague, his jaw fallen, his tongue out, his eyes protruding like those of a hanged man. Without a word we fled, the panic of fear giving us strength, and together, the little dog caught close in Nils’s arms, we sped down the side of the cursed mountains,—anywhere, goal was of no account: we had but one impulse—to get away from that place.
“So under the black trees and the far white stars that flashed through the still leaves overhead, we leaped down the mountain side, regardless of path or landmark, straight through the tangled underbrush, across mountain streams, through fens and copses, anywhere, so only that our course was downward.
“How long we ran thus, I have no idea, but by and by the forest fell behind, and we found ourselves among the foothills, and fell exhausted on the dry short grass, panting like tired dogs.
“It was lighter here in the open, and presently we looked around to see where we were, and how we were to strike out in order to find the path that would lead us home. We looked in vain for a familiar sign. Behind us rose the great wall of black forest on the flank of the mountain: before us lay the undulating mounds of low foothills, unbroken by trees or rocks, and beyond, only the fall of black sky bright with multitudinous stars that turned its velvet depth to a luminous gray.
“As I remember, we did not speak to each other once: the terror was too heavy on us for that, but by and by we rose simultaneously and started out across the hills.
“Still the same silence, the same dead, motionless air—air that was at once sultry and chilling: a heavy heat struck through with an icy chill that felt almost like the burning of frozen steel. Still carrying the helpless dog, Nils pressed on through the hills, and I followed close behind. At last, in front of us, rose a slope of moor touching the white stars. We climbed it wearily, reached the top, and found ourselves gazing down into a great, smooth valley, filled half way to the brim with— what?
“As far as the eye could see stretched a level plain of ashy white, faintly phosphorescent, a sea of velvet fog that lay like motionless water, or rather like a floor of alabaster, so dense did it appear, so seemingly capable of sustaining weight. If it were possible, I think that sea of dead white mist struck even greater terror into my soul than the heavy silence or the deadly cry—so ominous was it, so utterly unreal, so phantasmal, so impossible, as it lay there like a dead ocean under the steady stars. Yet through that mist we must go! there seemed no other way home, and, shattered with abject fear, mad with the one desire to get back, we started down the slope to where the sea of milky mist ceased, sharp and distinct around the stems of the rough grass.
“I put one foot into the ghostly fog. A chill as of death struck through me, stopping my heart, and I threw myself backward on the slope. At that instant came again the shriek, close, close, right in our ears, in ourselves, and far out across that damnable sea I saw the cold fog lift like a water-spout and toss itself high in writhing convolutions towards the sky. The stars began to grow dim as thick vapor swept across them, and in the growing dark I saw a great, watery moon lift itself slowly above the pal pitating sea, vast and vague in the gathering mist.
“This was enough: we turned and fled along the margin of the white sea that throbbed now with fitful motion below us, rising, rising, slowly and steadily, driving us higher and higher up the side of the foothills.
“It was a race for life; that we knew. How we kept it up I cannot understand, but we did, and at last we saw the white sea fall behind us as we staggered up the end of the valley, and then down into a region that we knew, and so into the old path. The last thing I remember was hearing a strange voice, that of
Nils, but horribly changed, stammer brokenly, ‘The dog is dead!’ and then the whole world turned around twice, slowly and resistlessly, and consciousness went out with a crash.
“It was some three weeks later, as I remember, that I awoke in my own room, and found my mother sitting beside the bed. I could not think very well at first, but as I slowly grew strong again, vague flashes of recollection began to come to me, and little by little the whole sequence of events of that awful night in the Dead Valley came back. All that I could gain from what was told me was that three weeks before I had been found in my own bed, raging sick, and that my illness grew fast into brain fever. I tried to speak of the dread things that had happened to me, but I saw at once that no one looked on them save as the hauntings of a dying frenzy, and so I closed my mouth and kept my own counsel.
“I must see Nils, however, and so I asked for him. My mother told me that he also had been ill with a strange fever, but that he was now quite well again. Presently they brought him in, and when we were alone I began to speak to him of the night on the mountain. I shall never forget the shock that struck me down on my pillow when the boy denied every thing: denied having gone with me, ever having heard the cry, having seen the valley, or feeling the deadly chill of the ghostly fog. Nothing would shake his determined ignorance, and in spite of myself I was forced to admit that his denials came from no policy of concealment, but from blank oblivion.
“My weakened brain was in a turmoil. Was it all but the floating phantasm of delirium? Or had the horror of the real thing blotted Nils’s mind into blankness so far as the events of the night in the Dead Valley were concerned? The latter explanation seemed the only one, else how explain the sudden illness which in a night had struck us both down? I said nothing more, either to Nils or to my own people, but waited, with a growing determination that, once well again, I would find that valley if it really existed.
“It was some weeks before I was really well enough to go, but finally, late in September, I chose a bright, warm, still day, the last smile of the dying summer, and started early in the morning along the path that led to Hallsberg. I was sure I knew where the trail struck off to the right, down which we had come from the valley of dead water, for a great tree grew by the Hallsberg path at the point where, with a sense of salvation, we had found the home road. Presently I saw itto the right, a little distance ahead.
“I think the bright sunlight and the clear air had worked as a tonic to me, for by the time I came to the foot of the great pine, I had quite lost faith in the verity of the vision that haunted me, believing at last that it was indeed but the night mare of madness. Nevertheless, I turned sharply to the right, at the base of the tree, into a narrow path that led through a dense thicket. As I did so I tripped over something. A swarm of flies sung into the air around me, and looking down I saw the matted fleece, with the poor little bones thrusting through, of the dog we had bought in Hallsberg.
“Then my courage went out with a puff, and I knew that it all was true, and that now I was frightened. Pride and the desire for adventure urged me on, however, and I pressed into the close thicket that barred my way. The path was hardly visible: merely the worn road of some small beasts, for, though it showed in the crisp grass, the bushes above grew thick and hardly penetrable. The land rose slowly, and rising grew clearer, until at last I came out on a great slope of hill, unbroken by trees or shrubs, very like my memory of that rise of land we had topped in order that we might find the dead valley and the icy fog. I looked at the sun; it was bright and clear, and all around insects were humming in the autumn air, and birds were darting to and fro. Surely there was no danger, not until nightfall at least;so I began to whistle, and with a rush mounted the last crest of brown hill.
“There lay the Dead Valley! A great oval basin, almost as smooth and regular as though made by man. On all sides the grass crept over the brink of the encircling hills, dusty green on the crests, then fading into ashy brown, and so to a deadly white, this last color forming a thin ring, running in a long line around the slope. And then? Nothing. Bare, brown, hard earth, glittering with grains of alkali, but otherwise dead and barren. Not a tuft of grass, not a stick of brushwood, not even a stone, but only the vast expanse of beaten clay.
“In the midst of the basin, perhaps a mile and a half away, the level expanse was broken by a great dead tree, rising leafless and gaunt into the air. Without a moment’s hesitation I started
down into the valley and made for this goal. Every particle of fear seemed to have left me, and even the valley itself did not look so very terrifying. At all events, I was driven by an over whelming curiosity, and there seemed to be but one thing in the world to do,—to get to that Tree! As I trudged along over the hard earth, I noticed that the multitudinous voices of birds and insects had died away. No bee or butterfly hovered through the air, no insects leaped or crept over the dull earth. The very air itself was stagnant.
“As I drew near the skeleton tree, I noticed the glint of sun light on a kind of white mound around its roots, and I wondered curiously. It was not until I had come close that I saw its nature.
“All around the roots and barkless trunk was heaped a wilderness of little bones. Tiny skulls of rodents and of birds, thousands of them, rising about the dead tree and streaming off for several yards in all directions, until the dreadful pile ended in isolated skulls and scattered skeletons. Here and there a larger bone appeared,—the thigh of a sheep, the hoofs of a horse, and to one side, grinning slowly, a human skull.
“I stood quite still, staring with all my eyes, when suddenly the dense silence was broken by a faint, forlorn cry high over my head. I looked up and saw a great falcon turning and sailing downward just over the tree. In a moment more she fell motionless on the bleaching bones.
“Horror struck me, and I rushed for home, my brain whirling, a strange numbness growing in me. I ran steadily, on and on. At last I glanced up. Where was the rise of hill? I looked around wildly. Close before me was the dead tree with its pile of bones. I had circled it round and round, and the valley wall was still a mile and a half away.
“I stood dazed and frozen. The sun was sinking, red and dull, towards the line of hills. In the east the dark was growing fast. Was there still time? Time! It was not that I wanted, it was will! My feet seemed clogged as in a nightmare. I could hardly drag them over the barren earth. And then I felt the slow chill creeping through me. I looked down. Out of the earth a thin mist was rising, collecting in little pools that grew ever larger until they joined here and there, their currents swirling slowly like thin blue smoke. The western hills halved the copper sun.
When it was dark I should hear that shriek again, and then I should die. I knew that, and with every remaining atom of will I staggered towards the red west through the writhing mist that crept clammily around my ankles, retarding my steps.
“And as I fought my way off from the Tree, the horror grew, until at last I thought I was going to die. The silence pursued me like dumb ghosts, the still air held my breath, the hellish fog caught at my feet like cold hands.
“But I won! though not a moment too soon. As I crawled on my hands and knees up the brown slope, I heard, far away and high in the air, the cry that already had almost bereft me of reason. It was faint and vague, but unmistakable in its horrible intensity. I glanced behind. The fog was dense and pallid, heaving undulously up the brown slope. The sky was gold under the setting sun, but below was the ashy gray of death. I stood for a moment on the brink of this sea of hell, and then leaped down the slope. The sunset opened before me, the night closed behind, and as I crawled home weak and tired, darkness shut down on the Dead Valley.”
Searching for its name, the utburd ghost from Norwegian folklore haunts the forests, waters and houses its parents left them to die. For the most part, they remained in folk tales, but sometimes, the stories about the dead children got real life consequences.
Perhaps one of the most well known figures from Irish mythology is the Banshee, the omen of death, wailing as death comes to a house. But where does she come from? And what does she want from the dead?
Before meeting a vampire in Transylvania, a short story places Jonathan Harket facing the undead outside of Munich. Could it have a connection to the village that according to legend, vanished suddenly in the middle ages.
One of the dark entities on the emerald island, there is the Death Coach who comes to collect the souls of the dead. Pulled by headless horses, the Cóiste Bodhar stops at nothing before its mission is complete, and misfortune happens upon those getting in its way.
In 1687, the ghost of a murdered child started to testify against its mother in northern Norway and people took it seriously. Today, the Utburd of Skåvoll or the Nille-case is remembered as the ghost story that condemned a woman to her death.
Have a look at some of the most haunted places in Dublin, from the mysteries of the Hellfire Club, churches where you can supposedly summon the devil and the dead lingering in the dusty libraries and colleges.
After strange knocking and poltergeist activity made the people at Erstad Farm believe it was haunted. And when they asked the ghost what it wanted, it unraveled the lives of more than one person forever.
Was there an iberian vampire before the European vampire panic in Eastern Europe? Who was really Conde Estruch, the vampire of Catalonia, and what happened to the witches of Llers Castle the count was said to use as his lair.
Join a haunted pub crawl through Dublin’s ancient streets for ghosts and a pint of Guinness. From plotting revolutionaries to somber writers, these pubs and bars are said to be a place where some of the patrons have been lingering for a long time.
In 1852, the alleged psychic Erika Larsdatter Bogen, arrived at Børholmen, a small island in western Norway. She claimed that she had found the ghost and corpse of the dead child, and she named the mother who allegedly buried it. But what was the truth?
Ghostly whispers in the old castle ruins, soldiers haunting the bloody battlefields and even the drums of pagan druids still lingering, Ireland is certainly a haunted country. This is only a small portion of the most haunted places in Ireland and the ghost stories behind them.
On a white beach in Alicante, Santa Barbara Castle sits atop a rocky hill as it has done for centuries. There are legends of princesses and her forbidden love as well as ghosts haunting its ancient halls.
Spain is a country rich in history and culture. Its stunning castles are a testament to its rich heritage and architectural brilliance. However, it’s not just the beauty of these castles that fascinates people, but also the stories behind them.
Spain’s haunted castles are shrouded in mystery and intrigue, with tales of ghosts, spirits, and unexplained phenomena that continue to captivate visitors. In this blog post, we’ll take you on a journey through some of Spain’s most haunted castles and explore the eerie tales of the ghosts that inhabit them.
Postiguet Beach: Today, beachgoers can see the supposed haunted castle from the sea, and the face that are etched into the stone according to the legend.
With its rich history dating back over a millennium, this imposing structure has stood the test of time, serving as a silent witness to countless tales of triumph, tragedy, and intrigue.
Historical background of Santa Barbara Castle
Santa Barbara Castle has a rich and storied past that dates back to the 9th century when it was built by the Moors. Over the centuries, it has witnessed numerous battles, conquests, and changes of ownership. In the 13th century, the castle fell into Christian hands during the Reconquista, marking the end of Moorish rule in the region.
Throughout its history, the castle has served as a strategic stronghold for various rulers, including the Kingdom of Aragon and the Crown of Castile. Its commanding position atop Mount Benacantil offered unparalleled views of the surrounding landscape, making it an ideal defensive fortress.
Read more: Check out all of our ghost stories from Spain
During the 18th century, the castle underwent significant renovations, transforming it into a military barracks and fortification. The castle’s defensive walls were reinforced, and additional structures, such as the Governor’s House and the Chapel of Santa Barbara, were added.
Situated just a stone’s throw away from Santa Barbara Castle lies the stunning Postiguet Beach. This picturesque stretch of golden sand is a popular destination for locals and tourists alike, offering a tranquil escape from the bustling city.
With its crystal-clear waters and breathtaking views of the castle perched on the hilltop, Postiguet Beach provides the perfect backdrop for relaxation and unwinding. The image of the mountain from the beach resembles a face, which is why it is called “the face of the Moor” and is an icon of the city of Alicante.
Santa Barbara Castle boasts a unique architectural blend of Moorish, Roman, and Gothic influences. Its strategic location on a hilltop allowed for excellent visibility and defense against potential invaders. The castle’s design takes full advantage of the natural landscape, with its walls seamlessly integrated into the rocky outcrop.
The Princess with her Two Suitors
Santa Barbara Castle’s history is shrouded in legends and folklore. One such story revolves around an Arab princess who resided within the castle during the times of Moorish rule. The princess, beautiful and sought after by many suitors, found herself torn between two men from rival families. The castle became the arena for a fierce competition as the suitors battled for her affection and the right to win her hand in marriage.
The princess Cantara had two men fighting for her hand in marriage. One of them was Ali, a simple man that was favored by the princess, but didn’t really have anything to offer but his heart. The other was Almanzor who was a famous warrior from a wealthy family in Cordoba that she didn’t really know.
Cantaras father, the caliph , disagreed with the princess’ choice and wouldn’t let her marry Ali before he proved himself. He decided that she would marry the one who emerged victorious in a daring challenge that tested their bravery and loyalty. He sent Almanzor to India with the mission to return with spices and treasures for the kingdom. To Ali, the caliph gave the order to build a ditch that could bring fresh water from the mountains to the city of Alicante. The one that completed the task first would be the winner and get to marry the caliphs daughter.
Almanzor set sail to India to complete his mission and was away for a long time. Ali started digging, but would spend the nights with the princess, slowly winning her over by reciting poems and singing her love songs. They fell in love and for the princess, there was only one winner.
Months went by and Almanzor returned with his ships loaded with spices, gold, ivory and silk, just as he had been ordered to. And he was also the first one to have completed his mission and the caliph saw him as the winner.
He ordered his daughter to marry Almanzor, but her heart was already given away. Ali didn’t want to make her choice any harder and chose to jump from the top of the castle. It is said that the face you can see in the mountain is from the impact from his fall, his turban and all. Princess Cantara couldn’t go on without her lover and wouldn’t marry the suitor. She chose to jump after her lover to join him at the feet of the mountain.
The king was sorry and his grief for his daughter turned him into a just ruler to never make the same mistake again. The story about the two lovers spread and to honor their love, they joined their name together and named the city for Alcantara. Time went by and soon the name turned into Alicante and is still the name of the city.
Visitors have reported hearing disembodied voices arguing in the dead of night, and some claim to have seen a ghostly figure lurking in the shadows that they connect to this legend of the two lovers. But it is not the only ghosts said to roam the halls of the castle.
More Haunted Ghost stories
Another ghost story told about this ancient castle is about Nicolas Peris who was the governor of Santa Barbara and protector of the castle when he was alive. In 1256 there was a huge battle about the fortress, and Peris was fighting for his life to not let the castle fall into the hands of Jaime II.
Although he gave his all, he was soon defeated and died in the battle, legend says he fell with the keys to the castle clenched tightly in his hands. The only way they could get the keys out from his cold hands was to cut it off.
It is said that on some nights you can still hear the former governor wailing throughout the halls as he is still grieving losing the battle and his beloved castle.
The Legends of Santa Barbara Castle
As you walk through the ancient halls of Santa Barbara Castle, surrounded by centuries of history and legends, you can’t help but feel a sense of awe and intrigue. The castle’s ghostly secrets are an integral part of its allure, drawing visitors from far and wide who seek a glimpse into the supernatural.
From the Arab princess and her two suitors to the restless spirits that haunt the castle’s corridors, Santa Barbara Castle is a place where the past and present collide. It invites us to explore the mysteries that lie within its walls and contemplate the enduring legacy of those who came before us.
Right in the middle of the road at night at Baytakhol Road in India it is said that the ghost of a girl is haunting this stretch, screaming at the passing cars.
Between the residential district of Dhavali and the census town of Borim lies a stretch of road shrouded in mystery and dread—the infamous Baytakhol Road said to be haunted by a young girl said to appear in the middle of the road.
Read more: Check out all of the ghost stories from India
The stretch of road has become notorious because of all the incidents and accidents that have happened along the Baytakhol Road, many that resulted in loss of lives. Some of the accidents are said to have been caused because of the paranormal things said to happen here.
Ghostlore of Baytakhol Road
According to witnesses that have taken a drive through the Baytakhol Road, recount a spine-chilling phenomenon involving a young girl who materializes in the middle of the road as she screams that pierces the night air.
Drivers, overcome with fear and confusion, find themselves losing control of their vehicles as the apparition vanishes into thin air, leaving behind a trail of chaos and tragedy. When they finally got control over their vehicle again and look back to where she was standing, there was no one there.
Read more: Check out all of the Haunted Roads around the world
The initial scare when the girl haunting Baytakhol Road screams, or the realization of her vanishing into thin air, is said to be the cause of numerous accidents.
Phantom Encounters Along Baytakhol Road
Eyewitness testimonies documents encounters with a spectral woman standing ominously in the road’s path along Baytakhol Road. Drivers describe an overwhelming sense of dread as they approach, only to be met with distressing vocalizations that seem to emanate from the ethereal figure.
A chilling anecdote of Baytakhol Road recounts the harrowing experience of two travelers who encountered a distraught woman, crying inconsolably along the roadside.
Despite their efforts to assist her, asking if she wanted a lift, she vanished into thin air before their eyes. They decided to continue their travels when the woman kept reappearing moments later in the backseat of their vehicle, her gaze fixed upon them with an otherworldly intensity.
The Realm of the Supernatural
The Baytakhol-Borim region is steeped in tales of paranormal activity, with reports of spectral infants and phantom women haunting the area, especially encountering the woman asking for a lift somewhere. Witnesses speak of ghostly apparitions crossing the road before disappearing into the night, leaving behind an eerie silence broken only by the echoes of blood-curdling laughter.
About fifteen years ago, on a date late in August or early in September, a train drew up at Wilsthorpe, a country station in Eastern England. Out of it stepped (with other passengers) a rather tall and reasonably good-looking young man, carrying a handbag and some papers tied up in a packet. He was expecting to be met, one would say, from the way in which he looked about him: and he was, as obviously, expected. The stationmaster ran forward a step or two, and then, seeming to recollect himself, turned and beckoned to a stout and consequential person with a short round beard who was scanning the train with some appearance of bewilderment. ‘Mr. Cooper,’ he called out,—‘Mr. Cooper, I think this is your gentleman’; and then to the passenger who had just alighted, ‘Mr. Humphreys, sir? Glad to bid you welcome to Wilsthorpe. There’s a cart from the Hall for your luggage, and here’s Mr. Cooper, what I think you know.’ Mr. Cooper had hurried up, and now raised his hat and shook hands. ‘Very pleased, I’m sure,’ he said, ‘to give the echo to Mr. Palmer’s kind words. I should have been the first to render expression to them but for the face not being familiar to me, Mr. Humphreys. May your residence among us be marked as a red-letter day, sir.’ ‘Thank you very much, Mr. Cooper,’ said Humphreys, ‘for your good wishes, and Mr. Palmer also. I do hope very much that this change of—er—tenancy—which you must all regret, I am sure—will not be to the detriment of those with whom I shall be brought in contact.’ He stopped, feeling that the words were not fitting themselves together in the happiest way, and Mr. Cooper cut in, ‘Oh, you may rest satisfied of that, Mr. Humphreys. I’ll take it upon myself to assure you, sir, that a warm welcome awaits you on all sides. And as to any change of propriety turning out detrimental to the neighbourhood, well, your late uncle—’ And here Mr. Cooper also stopped, possibly in obedience to an inner monitor, possibly because Mr. Palmer, clearing his throat loudly, asked Humphreys for his ticket. The two men left the little station, and—at Humphreys’ suggestion—decided to walk to Mr. Cooper’s house, where luncheon was awaiting them.
The relation in which these personages stood to each other can be explained in a very few lines. Humphreys had inherited—quite unexpectedly—a property from an uncle: neither the property nor the uncle had he ever seen. He was alone in the world—a man of good ability and kindly nature, whose employment in a Government office for the last four or five years had not gone far to fit him for the life of a country gentleman. He was studious and rather diffident, and had few out-of-door pursuits except golf and gardening. To-day he had come down for the first time to visit Wilsthorpe and confer with Mr. Cooper, the bailiff, as to the matters which needed immediate attention. It may be asked how this came to be his first visit? Ought he not in decency to have attended his uncle’s funeral? The answer is not far to seek: he had been abroad at the time of the death, and his address had not been at once procurable. So he had put off coming to Wilsthorpe till he heard that all things were ready for him. And now we find him arrived at Mr. Cooper’s comfortable house, facing the parsonage, and having just shaken hands with the smiling Mrs. and Miss Cooper.
During the minutes that preceded the announcement of luncheon the party settled themselves on elaborate chairs in the drawing-room, Humphreys, for his part, perspiring quietly in the consciousness that stock was being taken of him.
‘I was just saying to Mr. Humphreys, my dear,’ said Mr. Cooper, ‘that I hope and trust that his residence among us here in Wilsthorpe will be marked as a red-letter day.’
‘Yes, indeed, I’m sure,’ said Mrs. Cooper heartily, ‘and many, many of them.’
Miss Cooper murmured words to the same effect, and Humphreys attempted a pleasantry about painting the whole calendar red, which, though greeted with shrill laughter, was evidently not fully understood. At this point they proceeded to luncheon.
‘Do you know this part of the country at all, Mr. Humphreys?’ said Mrs. Cooper, after a short interval. This was a better opening.
‘No, I’m sorry to say I do not,’ said Humphreys. ‘It seems very pleasant, what I could see of it coming down in the train.’
‘Oh, it is a pleasant part. Really, I sometimes say I don’t know a nicer district, for the country; and the people round, too: such a quantity always going on. But I’m afraid you’ve come a little late for some of the better garden parties, Mr. Humphreys.’
‘I suppose I have; dear me, what a pity!’ said Humphreys, with a gleam of relief; and then, feeling that something more could be got out of this topic, ‘But after all, you see, Mrs. Cooper, even if I could have been here earlier, I should have been cut off from them, should I not? My poor uncle’s recent death, you know—’
‘Oh dear, Mr. Humphreys, to be sure; what a dreadful thing of me to say!’ (And Mr. and Miss Cooper seconded the proposition inarticulately.) ‘What must you have thought? I am sorry: you must really forgive me.’
‘Not at all, Mrs. Cooper, I assure you. I can’t honestly assert that my uncle’s death was a great grief to me, for I had never seen him. All I meant was that I supposed I shouldn’t be expected to take part for some little time in festivities of that kind.’
‘Now, really it’s very kind of you to take it in that way, Mr. Humphreys, isn’t it, George? And you do forgive me? But only fancy! You never saw poor old Mr. Wilson!’
‘Never in my life; nor did I ever have a letter from him. But, by the way, you have something to forgive me for. I’ve never thanked you, except by letter, for all the trouble you’ve taken to find people to look after me at the Hall.’
‘Oh, I’m sure that was nothing, Mr. Humphreys; but I really do think that you’ll find them give satisfaction. The man and his wife whom we’ve got for the butler and housekeeper we’ve known for a number of years: such a nice respectable couple, and Mr. Cooper, I’m sure, can answer for the men in the stables and gardens.’
‘Yes, Mr. Humphreys, they’re a good lot. The head gardener’s the only one who’s stopped on from Mr. Wilson’s time. The major part of the employees, as you no doubt saw by the will, received legacies from the old gentleman and retired from their posts, and as the wife says, your housekeeper and butler are calculated to render you every satisfaction.’
‘So everything, Mr. Humphreys, is ready for you to step in this very day, according to what I understood you to wish,’ said Mrs. Cooper. ‘Everything, that is, except company, and there I’m afraid you’ll find yourself quite at a standstill. Only we did understand it was your intention to move in at once. If not, I’m sure you know we should have been only too pleased for you to stay here.’
‘I’m quite sure you would, Mrs. Cooper, and I’m very grateful to you. But I thought I had really better make the plunge at once. I’m accustomed to living alone, and there will be quite enough to occupy my evenings—looking over papers and books and so on—for some time to come, I thought if Mr. Cooper could spare the time this afternoon to go over the house and grounds with me—’
‘Certainly, certainly, Mr. Humphreys. My time is your own, up to any hour you please.’
‘Till dinner-time, father, you mean,’ said Miss Cooper. ‘Don’t forget we’re going over to the Brasnetts’. And have you got all the garden keys?’
‘Are you a great gardener, Miss Cooper?’ said Mr. Humphreys. ‘I wish you would tell me what I’m to expect at the Hall.’
‘Oh, I don’t know about a great gardener, Mr. Humphreys: I’m very fond of flowers—but the Hall garden might be made quite lovely, I often say. It’s very old-fashioned as it is: and a great deal of shrubbery. There’s an old temple, besides, and a maze.’
‘Really? Have you explored it ever?’
‘No-o,’ said Miss Cooper, drawing in her lips and shaking her head. ‘I’ve often longed to try, but old Mr. Wilson always kept it locked. He wouldn’t even let Lady Wardrop into it. (She lives near here, at Bentley, you know, and she’s a great gardener, if you like.) That’s why I asked father if he had all the keys.’
‘I see. Well, I must evidently look into that, and show you over it when I’ve learnt the way.’
‘Oh, thank you so much, Mr. Humphreys! Now I shall have the laugh of Miss Foster (that’s our rector’s daughter, you know; they’re away on their holiday now—such nice people). We always had a joke between us which should be the first to get into the maze.’
‘I think the garden keys must be up at the house,’ said Mr. Cooper, who had been looking over a large bunch. ‘There is a number there in the library. Now, Mr. Humphreys, if you’re prepared, we might bid goodbye to these ladies and set forward on our little tour of exploration.’
As they came out of Mr. Cooper’s front gate, Humphreys had to run the gauntlet—not of an organized demonstration, but of a good deal of touching of hats and careful contemplation from the men and women who had gathered in somewhat unusual numbers in the village street. He had, further, to exchange some remarks with the wife of the lodge-keeper as they passed the park gates, and with the lodge-keeper himself, who was attending to the park road. I cannot, however, spare the time to report the progress fully. As they traversed the half-mile or so between the lodge and the house, Humphreys took occasion to ask his companion some question which brought up the topic of his late uncle, and it did not take long before Mr. Cooper was embarked upon a disquisition.
‘It is singular to think, as the wife was saying just now, that you should never have seen the old gentleman. And yet—you won’t misunderstand me, Mr. Humphreys, I feel confident, when I say that in my opinion there would have been but little congeniality betwixt yourself and him. Not that I have a word to say in deprecation—not a single word. I can tell you what he was,’ said Mr. Cooper, pulling up suddenly and fixing Humphreys with his eye. ‘Can tell you what he was in a nutshell, as the saying goes. He was a complete, thorough valentudinarian. That describes him to a T. That’s what he was, sir, a complete valentudinarian. No participation in what went on around him. I did venture, I think, to send you a few words of cutting from our local paper, which I took the occasion to contribute on his decease. If I recollect myself aright, such is very much the gist of them. But don’t, Mr. Humphreys,’ continued Cooper, tapping him impressively on the chest,—‘don’t you run away with the impression that I wish to say aught but what is most creditable—most creditable—of your respected uncle and my late employer. Upright, Mr. Humphreys—open as the day; liberal to all in his dealings. He had the heart to feel and the hand to accommodate. But there it was: there was the stumbling-block—his unfortunate health—or, as I might more truly phrase it, his want of health.’
‘Yes, poor man. Did he suffer from any special disorder before his last illness—which, I take it, was little more than old age?’
‘Just that, Mr. Humphreys—just that. The flash flickering slowly away in the pan,’ said Cooper, with what he considered an appropriate gesture,—‘the golden bowl gradually ceasing to vibrate. But as to your other question I should return a negative answer. General absence of vitality? yes: special complaint? no, unless you reckon a nasty cough he had with him. Why, here we are pretty much at the house. A handsome mansion, Mr. Humphreys, don’t you consider?’
It deserved the epithet, on the whole: but it was oddly proportioned—a very tall red-brick house, with a plain parapet concealing the roof almost entirely. It gave the impression of a town house set down in the country; there was a basement, and a rather imposing flight of steps leading up to the front door. It seemed also, owing to its height, to desiderate wings, but there were none. The stables and other offices were concealed by trees. Humphreys guessed its probable date as 1770 or thereabouts.
The mature couple who had been engaged to act as butler and cook-housekeeper were waiting inside the front door, and opened it as their new master approached. Their name, Humphreys already knew, was Calton; of their appearance and manner he formed a favourable impression in the few minutes’ talk he had with them. It was agreed that he should go through the plate and the cellar next day with Mr. Calton, and that Mrs. C. should have a talk with him about linen, bedding, and so on—what there was, and what there ought to be. Then he and Cooper, dismissing the Caltons for the present, began their view of the house. Its topography is not of importance to this story. The large rooms on the ground floor were satisfactory, especially the library, which was as large as the dining-room, and had three tall windows facing east. The bedroom prepared for Humphreys was immediately above it. There were many pleasant, and a few really interesting, old pictures. None of the furniture was new, and hardly any of the books were later than the seventies. After hearing of and seeing the few changes his uncle had made in the house, and contemplating a shiny portrait of him which adorned the drawing-room, Humphreys was forced to agree with Cooper that in all probability there would have been little to attract him in his predecessor. It made him rather sad that he could not be sorry—dolebat se dolere non posse—for the man who, whether with or without some feeling of kindliness towards his unknown nephew, had contributed so much to his well-being; for he felt that Wilsthorpe was a place in which he could be happy, and especially happy, it might be, in its library.
And now it was time to go over the garden: the empty stables could wait, and so could the laundry. So to the garden they addressed themselves, and it was soon evident that Miss Cooper had been right in thinking that there were possibilities. Also that Mr. Cooper had done well in keeping on the gardener. The deceased Mr. Wilson might not have, indeed plainly had not, been imbued with the latest views on gardening, but whatever had been done here had been done under the eye of a knowledgeable man, and the equipment and stock were excellent. Cooper was delighted with the pleasure Humphreys showed, and with the suggestions he let fall from time to time. ‘I can see,’ he said, ‘that you’ve found your meatear here, Mr. Humphreys: you’ll make this place a regular signosier before very many seasons have passed over our heads. I wish Clutterham had been here—that’s the head gardener—and here he would have been of course, as I told you, but for his son’s being horse doover with a fever, poor fellow! I should like him to have heard how the place strikes you.’
‘Yes, you told me he couldn’t be here today, and I was very sorry to hear the reason, but it will be time enough tomorrow. What is that white building on the mound at the end of the grass ride? Is it the temple Miss Cooper mentioned?’
‘That it is, Mr. Humphreys—the Temple of Friendship. Constructed of marble brought out of Italy for the purpose, by your late uncle’s grandfather. Would it interest you perhaps to take a turn there? You get a very sweet prospect of the park.’
The general lines of the temple were those of the Sibyl’s Temple at Tivoli, helped out by a dome, only the whole was a good deal smaller. Some ancient sepulchral reliefs were built into the wall, and about it all was a pleasant flavour of the grand tour. Cooper produced the key, and with some difficulty opened the heavy door. Inside there was a handsome ceiling, but little furniture. Most of the floor was occupied by a pile of thick circular blocks of stone, each of which had a single letter deeply cut on its slightly convex upper surface. ‘What is the meaning of these?’ Humphreys inquired.
‘Meaning? Well, all things, we’re told, have their purpose, Mr. Humphreys, and I suppose these blocks have had theirs as well as another. But what that purpose is or was [Mr. Cooper assumed a didactic attitude here], I, for one, should be at a loss to point out to you, sir. All I know of them—and it’s summed up in a very few words—is just this: that they’re stated to have been removed by your late uncle, at a period before I entered on the scene, from the maze. That, Mr. Humphreys, is—’
‘Oh, the maze!’ exclaimed Humphreys. ‘I’d forgotten that: we must have a look at it. Where is it?’
Cooper drew him to the door of the temple, and pointed with his stick. ‘Guide your eye,’ he said (somewhat in the manner of the Second Elder in Handel’s ‘Susanna’—
Far to the west direct your straining eyes Where yon tall holm-tree rises to the skies)
‘Guide your eye by my stick here, and follow out the line directly opposite to the spot where we’re standing now, and I’ll engage, Mr. Humphreys, that you’ll catch the archway over the entrance. You’ll see it just at the end of the walk answering to the one that leads up to this very building. Did you think of going there at once? because if that be the case, I must go to the house and procure the key. If you would walk on there, I’ll rejoin you in a few moments’ time.’
Accordingly Humphreys strolled down the ride leading to the temple, past the garden-front of the house, and up the turfy approach to the archway which Cooper had pointed out to him. He was surprised to find that the whole maze was surrounded by a high wall, and that the archway was provided with a padlocked iron gate; but then he remembered that Miss Cooper had spoken of his uncle’s objection to letting anyone enter this part of the garden. He was now at the gate, and still Cooper came not. For a few minutes he occupied himself in reading the motto cut over the entrance, Secretum meum mihi et filiis domus meae, and in trying to recollect the source of it. Then he became impatient and considered the possibility of scaling the wall. This was clearly not worth while; it might have been done if he had been wearing an older suit: or could the padlock—a very old one—be forced? No, apparently not: and yet, as he gave a final irritated kick at the gate, something gave way, and the lock fell at his feet. He pushed the gate open inconveniencing a number of nettles as he did so, and stepped into the enclosure.
It was a yew maze, of circular form, and the hedges, long untrimmed, had grown out and upwards to a most unorthodox breadth and height. The walks, too, were next door to impassable. Only by entirely disregarding scratches, nettle-stings, and wet, could Humphreys force his way along them; but at any rate this condition of things, he reflected, would make it easier for him to find his way out again, for he left a very visible track. So far as he could remember, he had never been in a maze before, nor did it seem to him now that he had missed much. The dankness and darkness, and smell of crushed goosegrass and nettles were anything but cheerful. Still, it did not seem to be a very intricate specimen of its kind. Here he was (by the way, was that Cooper arrived at last? No!) very nearly at the heart of it, without having taken much thought as to what path he was following. Ah! there at last was the centre, easily gained. And there was something to reward him. His first impression was that the central ornament was a sundial; but when he had switched away some portion of the thick growth of brambles and bindweed that had formed over it, he saw that it was a less ordinary decoration. A stone column about four feet high, and on the top of it a metal globe—copper, to judge by the green patina—engraved, and finely engraved too, with figures in outline, and letters. That was what Humphreys saw, and a brief glance at the figures convinced him that it was one of those mysterious things called celestial globes, from which, one would suppose, no one ever yet derived any information about the heavens. However, it was too dark—at least in the maze—for him to examine this curiosity at all closely, and besides, he now heard Cooper’s voice, and sounds as of an elephant in the jungle. Humphreys called to him to follow the track he had beaten out, and soon Cooper emerged panting into the central circle. He was full of apologies for his delay; he had not been able, after all, to find the key. ‘But there!’ he said, ‘you’ve penetrated into the heart of the mystery unaided and unannealed, as the saying goes. Well! I suppose it’s a matter of thirty to forty years since any human foot has trod these precincts. Certain it is that I’ve never set foot in them before. Well, well! what’s the old proverb about angels fearing to tread? It’s proved true once again in this case.’ Humphreys’ acquaintance with Cooper, though it had been short, was sufficient to assure him that there was no guile in this allusion, and he forbore the obvious remark, merely suggesting that it was fully time to get back to the house for a late cup of tea, and to release Cooper for his evening engagement. They left the maze accordingly, experiencing well-nigh the same ease in retracing their path as they had in coming in.
‘Have you any idea,’ Humphreys asked, as they went towards the house, ‘why my uncle kept that place so carefully locked?’
Cooper pulled up, and Humphreys felt that he must be on the brink of a revelation.
‘I should merely be deceiving you, Mr. Humphreys, and that to no good purpose, if I laid claim to possess any information whatsoever on that topic. When I first entered upon my duties here, some eighteen years back, that maze was word for word in the condition you see it now, and the one and only occasion on which the question ever arose within my knowledge was that of which my girl made mention in your hearing. Lady Wardrop—I’ve not a word to say against her—wrote applying for admission to the maze. Your uncle showed me the note—a most civil note—everything that could be expected from such a quarter. ‘Cooper,’ he said, ‘I wish you’d reply to that note on my behalf.’ ‘Certainly Mr. Wilson,’ I said, for I was quite inured to acting as his secretary, ‘what answer shall I return to it?’ ‘Well,’ he said, ‘give Lady Wardrop my compliments, and tell her that if ever that portion of the grounds is taken in hand I shall be happy to give her the first opportunity of viewing it, but that it has been shut up now for a number of years, and I shall be grateful to her if she kindly won’t press the matter.’ That, Mr. Humphreys, was your good uncle’s last word on the subject, and I don’t think I can add anything to it. Unless,’ added Cooper, after a pause, ‘it might be just this: that, so far as I could form a judgement, he had a dislike (as people often will for one reason or another) to the memory of his grandfather, who, as I mentioned to you, had that maze laid out. A man of peculiar teenets, Mr. Humphreys, and a great traveller. You’ll have the opportunity, on the coming Sabbath, of seeing the tablet to him in our little parish church; put up it was some long time after his death.’
‘Oh! I should have expected a man who had such a taste for building to have designed a mausoleum for himself.’
‘Well, I’ve never noticed anything of the kind you mention; and, in fact, come to think of it, I’m not at all sure that his resting-place is within our boundaries at all: that he lays in the vault I’m pretty confident is not the case. Curious now that I shouldn’t be in a position to inform you on that heading! Still, after all, we can’t say, can we, Mr. Humphreys, that it’s a point of crucial importance where the pore mortal coils are bestowed?’
At this point they entered the house, and Cooper’s speculations were interrupted.
Tea was laid in the library, where Mr. Cooper fell upon subjects appropriate to the scene. ‘A fine collection of books! One of the finest, I’ve understood from connoisseurs, in this part of the country; splendid plates, too, in some of these works. I recollect your uncle showing me one with views of foreign towns—most absorbing it was: got up in first-rate style. And another all done by hand, with the ink as fresh as if it had been laid on yesterday, and yet, he told me, it was the work of some old monk hundreds of years back. I’ve always taken a keen interest in literature myself. Hardly anything to my mind can compare with a good hour’s reading after a hard day’s work; far better than wasting the whole evening at a friend’s house—and that reminds me, to be sure. I shall be getting into trouble with the wife if I don’t make the best of my way home and get ready to squander away one of these same evenings! I must be off, Mr. Humphreys.’
‘And that reminds me,’ said Humphreys, ‘if I’m to show Miss Cooper the maze tomorrow we must have it cleared out a bit. Could you say a word about that to the proper person?’
‘Why, to be sure. A couple of men with scythes could cut out a track tomorrow morning. I’ll leave word as I pass the lodge, and I’ll tell them, what’ll save you the trouble, perhaps, Mr. Humphreys, of having to go up and extract them yourself: that they’d better have some sticks or a tape to mark out their way with as they go on.’
‘A very good idea! Yes, do that; and I’ll expect Mrs. and Miss Cooper in the afternoon, and yourself about half-past ten in the morning.’
‘It’ll be a pleasure, I’m sure, both to them and to myself, Mr. Humphreys. Good night!’
Humphreys dined at eight. But for the fact that it was his first evening, and that Calton was evidently inclined for occasional conversation, he would have finished the novel he had bought for his journey. As it was, he had to listen and reply to some of Calton’s impressions of the neighbourhood and the season: the latter, it appeared, was seasonable, and the former had changed considerably—and not altogether for the worse—since Calton’s boyhood (which had been spent there). The village shop in particular had greatly improved since the year 1870. It was now possible to procure there pretty much anything you liked in reason: which was a conveniency, because suppose anythink was required of a suddent (and he had known such things before now), he (Calton) could step down there (supposing the shop to be still open), and order it in, without he borrered it of the Rectory, whereas in earlier days it would have been useless to pursue such a course in respect of anything but candles, or soap, or treacle, or perhaps a penny child’s picture-book, and nine times out of ten it’d be something more in the nature of a bottle of whisky you’d be requiring; leastways—On the whole Humphreys thought he would be prepared with a book in future.
The library was the obvious place for the after-dinner hours. Candle in hand and pipe in mouth, he moved round the room for some time, taking stock of the titles of the books. He had all the predisposition to take interest in an old library, and there was every opportunity for him here to make systematic acquaintance with one, for he had learned from Cooper that there was no catalogue save the very superficial one made for purposes of probate. The drawing up of a catalogue raisonné would be a delicious occupation for winter. There were probably treasures to be found, too: even manuscripts, if Cooper might be trusted.
As he pursued his round the sense came upon him (as it does upon most of us in similar places) of the extreme unreadableness of a great portion of the collection. ‘Editions of Classics and Fathers, and Picart’s Religious Ceremonies, and the Harleian Miscellany, I suppose are all very well, but who is ever going to read Tostatus Abulensis, or Pineda on Job, or a book like this?’ He picked out a small quarto, loose in the binding, and from which the lettered label had fallen off; and observing that coffee was waiting for him, retired to a chair. Eventually he opened the book. It will be observed that his condemnation of it rested wholly on external grounds. For all he knew it might have been a collection of unique plays, but undeniably the outside was blank and forbidding. As a matter of fact, it was a collection of sermons or meditations, and mutilated at that, for the first sheet was gone. It seemed to belong to the latter end of the seventeenth century. He turned over the pages till his eye was caught by a marginal note: ‘A Parable of this Unhappy Condition,’ and he thought he would see what aptitudes the author might have for imaginative composition. ‘I have heard or read,’ so ran the passage, ‘whether in the way of Parable or true Relation I leave my Reader to judge, of a Man who, like Theseus, in the Attick Tale, should adventure himself, into a Labyrinth or Maze: and such an one indeed as was not laid out in the Fashion of our Topiary artists of this Age, but of a wide compass, in which, moreover, such unknown Pitfalls and Snares, nay, such ill-omened Inhabitants were commonly thought to lurk as could only be encountered at the Hazard of one’s very life. Now you may be sure that in such a Case the Disswasions of Friends were not wanting. ‘Consider of such-an-one’ says a Brother ‘how he went the way you wot of, and was never seen more.’ ‘Or of such another’ says the Mother ‘that adventured himself but a little way in, and from that day forth is so troubled in his Wits that he cannot tell what he saw, nor hath passed one good Night.’ ‘And have you never heard’ cries a Neighbour ‘of what Faces have been seen to look out over the Palisadoes and betwixt the Bars of the Gate?’ But all would not do: the Man was set upon his Purpose: for it seems it was the common fireside Talk of that Country that at the Heart and Centre of this Labyrinth there was a Jewel of such Price and Rarity that would enrich the Finder thereof for his life: and this should be his by right that could persever to come at it. What then? Quid multa? The Adventurer pass’d the Gates, and for a whole day’s space his Friends without had no news of him, except it might be by some indistinct Cries heard afar off in the Night, such as made them turn in their restless Beds and sweat for very Fear, not doubting but that their Son and Brother had put one more to the Catalogue of those unfortunates that had suffer’d shipwreck on that Voyage. So the next day they went with weeping Tears to the Clark of the Parish to order the Bell to be toll’d. And their Way took them hard by the gate of the Labyrinth: which they would have hastened by, from the Horrour they had of it, but that they caught sight of a sudden of a Man’s Body lying in the Roadway, and going up to it (with what Anticipations may be easily figured) found it to be him whom they reckoned as lost: and not dead, though he were in a Swound most like Death. They then, who had gone forth as Mourners came back rejoycing, and set to by all means to revive their Prodigal. Who, being come to himself, and hearing of their Anxieties and their Errand of that Morning, ‘Ay’ says he ‘you may as well finish what you were about: for, for all I have brought back the Jewel (which he shew’d them, and ’twas indeed a rare Piece) I have brought back that with it that will leave me neither Rest at Night nor Pleasure by Day.’ Whereupon they were instant with him to learn his Meaning, and where his Company should be that went so sore against his Stomach. ‘O’ says he ‘ ’tis here in my Breast: I cannot flee from it, do what I may.’ So it needed no Wizard to help them to a guess that it was the Recollection of what he had seen that troubled him so wonderfully. But they could get no more of him for a long Time but by Fits and Starts. However at long and at last they made shift to collect somewhat of this kind: that at first, while the Sun was bright, he went merrily on, and without any Difficulty reached the Heart of the Labyrinth and got the Jewel, and so set out on his way back rejoycing: but as the Night fell, wherein all the Beasts of the Forest do move, he begun to be sensible of some Creature keeping Pace with him and, as he thought, peering and looking upon him from the next Alley to that he was in; and that when he should stop, this Companion should stop also, which put him in some Disorder of his Spirits. And, indeed, as the Darkness increas’d, it seemed to him that there was more than one, and, it might be, even a whole Band of such Followers: at least so he judg’d by the Rustling and Cracking that they kept among the Thickets; besides that there would be at a Time a Sound of Whispering, which seem’d to import a Conference among them. But in regard of who they were or what Form they were of, he would not be persuaded to say what he thought. Upon his Hearers asking him what the Cries were which they heard in the Night (as was observ’d above) he gave them this Account: That about Midnight (so far as he could judge) he heard his Name call’d from a long way off, and he would have been sworn it was his Brother that so call’d him. So he stood still and hilloo’d at the Pitch of his Voice, and he suppos’d that the Echo, or the Noyse of his Shouting, disguis’d for the Moment any lesser sound; because, when there fell a Stillness again, he distinguish’d a Trampling (not loud) of running Feet coming very close behind him, wherewith he was so daunted that himself set off to run, and that he continued till the Dawn broke. Sometimes when his Breath fail’d him, he would cast himself flat on his Face, and hope that his Pursuers might over-run him in the Darkness, but at such a Time they would regularly make a Pause, and he could hear them pant and snuff as it had been a Hound at Fault: which wrought in him so extream an Horrour of mind, that he would be forc’d to betake himself again to turning and doubling, if by any Means he might throw them off the Scent. And, as if this Exertion was in itself not terrible enough, he had before him the constant Fear of falling into some Pit or Trap, of which he had heard, and indeed seen with his own Eyes that there were several, some at the sides and other in the Midst of the Alleys. So that in fine (he said) a more dreadful Night was never spent by Mortal Creature than that he had endur’d in that Labyrinth; and not that Jewel which he had in his Wallet, nor the richest that was ever brought out of the Indies, could be a sufficient Recompence to him for the Pains he had suffered.
‘I will spare to set down the further Recital of this Man’s Troubles, inasmuch as I am confident my Reader’s Intelligence will hit the Parallel I desire to draw. For is not this Jewel a just Emblem of the Satisfaction which a Man may bring back with him from a Course of this World’s Pleasures? and will not the Labyrinth serve for an Image of the World itself wherein such a Treasure (if we may believe the common Voice) is stored up?’
At about this point Humphreys thought that a little Patience would be an agreeable change, and that the writer’s ‘improvement’ of his Parable might be left to itself. So he put the book back in its former place, wondering as he did so whether his uncle had ever stumbled across that passage; and if so, whether it had worked on his fancy so much as to make him dislike the idea of a maze, and determine to shut up the one in the garden. Not long afterwards he went to bed.
The next day brought a morning’s hard work with Mr. Cooper, who, if exuberant in language, had the business of the estate at his fingers’ ends. He was very breezy this morning, Mr. Cooper was: had not forgotten the order to clear out the maze—the work was going on at that moment: his girl was on the tentacles of expectation about it. He also hoped that Humphreys had slept the sleep of the just, and that we should be favoured with a continuance of this congenial weather. At luncheon he enlarged on the pictures in the dining-room, and pointed out the portrait of the constructor of the temple and the maze. Humphreys examined this with considerable interest. It was the work of an Italian, and had been painted when old Mr. Wilson was visiting Rome as a young man. (There was, indeed, a view of the Colosseum in the background.) A pale thin face and large eyes were the characteristic features. In the hand was a partially unfolded roll of paper, on which could be distinguished the plan of a circular building, very probably the temple, and also part of that of a labyrinth. Humphreys got up on a chair to examine it, but it was not painted with sufficient clearness to be worth copying. It suggested to him, however, that he might as well make a plan of his own maze and hang it in the hall for the use of visitors.
This determination of his was confirmed that same afternoon; for when Mrs. and Miss Cooper arrived, eager to be inducted into the maze, he found that he was wholly unable to lead them to the centre. The gardeners had removed the guide-marks they had been using, and even Clutterham, when summoned to assist, was as helpless as the rest. ‘The point is, you see, Mr. Wilson—I should say ‘Umphreys—these mazes is purposely constructed so much alike, with a view to mislead. Still, if you’ll foller me, I think I can put you right. I’ll just put my ‘at down ’ere as a starting-point.’ He stumped off, and after five minutes brought the party safe to the hat again. ‘Now that’s a very peculiar thing,’ he said, with a sheepish laugh. ‘I made sure I’d left that ‘at just over against a bramble-bush, and you can see for yourself there ain’t no bramble-bush not in this walk at all. If you’ll allow me, Mr. Humphreys—that’s the name, ain’t it, sir?—I’ll just call one of the men in to mark the place like.’
William Crack arrived, in answer to repeated shouts. He had some difficulty in making his way to the party. First he was seen or heard in an inside alley, then, almost at the same moment, in an outer one. However, he joined them at last, and was first consulted without effect and then stationed by the hat, which Clutterham still considered it necessary to leave on the ground. In spite of this strategy, they spent the best part of three-quarters of an hour in quite fruitless wanderings, and Humphreys was obliged at last, seeing how tired Mrs. Cooper was becoming, to suggest a retreat to tea, with profuse apologies to Miss Cooper. ‘At any rate you’ve won your bet with Miss Foster,’ he said; ‘you have been inside the maze; and I promise you the first thing I do shall be to make a proper plan of it with the lines marked out for you to go by.’ ‘That’s what’s wanted, sir,’ said Clutterham, ‘someone to draw out a plan and keep it by them. It might be very awkward, you see, anyone getting into that place and a shower of rain come on, and them not able to find their way out again; it might be hours before they could be got out, without you’d permit of me makin’ a short cut to the middle: what my meanin’ is, takin’ down a couple of trees in each ‘edge in a straight line so as you could git a clear view right through. Of course that’d do away with it as a maze, but I don’t know as you’d approve of that.’
‘No, I won’t have that done yet: I’ll make a plan first, and let you have a copy. Later on, if we find occasion, I’ll think of what you say.’
Humphreys was vexed and ashamed at the fiasco of the afternoon, and could not be satisfied without making another effort that evening to reach the centre of the maze. His irritation was increased by finding it without a single false step. He had thoughts of beginning his plan at once; but the light was fading, and he felt that by the time he had got the necessary materials together, work would be impossible.
Next morning accordingly, carrying a drawing-board, pencils, compasses, cartridge paper, and so forth (some of which had been borrowed from the Coopers and some found in the library cupboards), he went to the middle of the maze (again without any hesitation), and set out his materials. He was, however, delayed in making a start. The brambles and weeds that had obscured the column and globe were now all cleared away, and it was for the first time possible to see clearly what these were like. The column was featureless, resembling those on which sundials are usually placed. Not so the globe. I have said that it was finely engraved with figures and inscriptions, and that on a first glance Humphreys had taken it for a celestial globe: but he soon found that it did not answer to his recollection of such things. One feature seemed familiar; a winged serpent—Draco—encircled it about the place which, on a terrestrial globe, is occupied by the equator: but on the other hand, a good part of the upper hemisphere was covered by the outspread wings of a large figure whose head was concealed by a ring at the pole or summit of the whole. Around the place of the head the words princeps tenebrarum could be deciphered. In the lower hemisphere there was a space hatched all over with cross-lines and marked as umbra mortis. Near it was a range of mountains, and among them a valley with flames rising from it. This was lettered (will you be surprised to learn it?) vallis filiorum Hinnom. Above and below Draco were outlined various figures not unlike the pictures of the ordinary constellations, but not the same. Thus, a nude man with a raised club was described, not as Hercules but as Cain. Another, plunged up to his middle in earth and stretching out despairing arms, was Chore, not Ophiuchus, and a third, hung by his hair to a snaky tree, was Absolon. Near the last, a man in long robes and high cap, standing in a circle and addressing two shaggy demons who hovered outside, was described as Hostanes magus (a character unfamiliar to Humphreys). The scheme of the whole, indeed, seemed to be an assemblage of the patriarchs of evil, perhaps not uninfluenced by a study of Dante. Humphreys thought it an unusual exhibition of his great-grandfather’s taste, but reflected that he had probably picked it up in Italy and had never taken the trouble to examine it closely: certainly, had he set much store by it, he would not have exposed it to wind and weather. He tapped the metal—it seemed hollow and not very thick—and, turning from it, addressed himself to his plan. After half an hour’s work he found it was impossible to get on without using a clue: so he procured a roll of twine from Clutterham, and laid it out along the alleys from the entrance to the centre, tying the end to the ring at the top of the globe. This expedient helped him to set out a rough plan before luncheon, and in the afternoon he was able to draw it in more neatly. Towards tea-time Mr. Cooper joined him, and was much interested in his progress. ‘Now this—’ said Mr. Cooper, laying his hand on the globe, and then drawing it away hastily. ‘Whew! Holds the heat, doesn’t it, to a surprising degree, Mr. Humphreys. I suppose this metal—copper, isn’t it?—would be an insulator or conductor, or whatever they call it.’
‘The sun has been pretty strong this afternoon,’ said Humphreys, evading the scientific point, ‘but I didn’t notice the globe had got hot. No—it doesn’t seem very hot to me,’ he added.
‘Odd!’ said Mr. Cooper. ‘Now I can’t hardly bear my hand on it. Something in the difference of temperament between us, I suppose. I dare say you’re a chilly subject, Mr. Humphreys: I’m not: and there’s where the distinction lies. All this summer I’ve slept, if you’ll believe me, practically in statu quo, and had my morning tub as cold as I could get it. Day out and day in-let me assist you with that string.’
‘It’s all right, thanks; but if you’ll collect some of these pencils and things that are lying about I shall be much obliged. Now I think we’ve got everything, and we might get back to the house.’
They left the maze, Humphreys rolling up the clue as they went.
The night was rainy.
Most unfortunately it turned out that, whether by Cooper’s fault or not, the plan had been the one thing forgotten the evening before. As was to be expected, it was ruined by the wet. There was nothing for it but to begin again (the job would not be a long one this time). The clue therefore was put in place once more and a fresh start made. But Humphreys had not done much before an interruption came in the shape of Calton with a telegram. His late chief in London wanted to consult him. Only a brief interview was wanted, but the summons was urgent. This was annoying, yet it was not really upsetting; there was a train available in half an hour, and, unless things went very cross, he could be back, possibly by five o’clock, certainly by eight. He gave the plan to Calton to take to the house, but it was not worth while to remove the clue.
All went as he had hoped. He spent a rather exciting evening in the library, for he lighted tonight upon a cupboard where some of the rarer books were kept. When he went up to bed he was glad to find that the servant had remembered to leave his curtains undrawn and his windows open. He put down his light, and went to the window which commanded a view of the garden and the park. It was a brilliant moonlight night. In a few weeks’ time the sonorous winds of autumn would break up all this calm. But now the distant woods were in a deep stillness; the slopes of the lawns were shining with dew; the colours of some of the flowers could almost be guessed. The light of the moon just caught the cornice of the temple and the curve of its leaden dome, and Humphreys had to own that, so seen, these conceits of a past age have a real beauty. In short, the light, the perfume of the woods, and the absolute quiet called up such kind old associations in his mind that he went on ruminating them for a long, long time. As he turned from the window he felt he had never seen anything more complete of its sort. The one feature that struck him with a sense of incongruity was a small Irish yew, thin and black, which stood out like an outpost of the shrubbery, through which the maze was approached. That, he thought, might as well be away: the wonder was that anyone should have thought it would look well in that position.
However, next morning, in the press of answering letters and going over books with Mr. Cooper, the Irish yew was forgotten. One letter, by the way, arrived this day which has to be mentioned. It was from that Lady Wardrop whom Miss Cooper had mentioned, and it renewed the application which she had addressed to Mr. Wilson. She pleaded, in the first place, that she was about to publish a Book of Mazes, and earnestly desired to include the plan of the Wilsthorpe Maze, and also that it would be a great kindness if Mr. Humphreys could let her see it (if at all) at an early date, since she would soon have to go abroad for the winter months. Her house at Bentley was not far distant, so Humphreys was able to send a note by hand to her suggesting the very next day or the day after for her visit; it may be said at once that the messenger brought back a most grateful answer, to the effect that the morrow would suit her admirably.
The only other event of the day was that the plan of the maze was successfully finished.
This night again was fair and brilliant and calm, and Humphreys lingered almost as long at his window. The Irish yew came to his mind again as he was on the point of drawing his curtains: but either he had been misled by a shadow the night before, or else the shrub was not really so obtrusive as he had fancied. Anyhow, he saw no reason for interfering with it. What he would do away with, however, was a clump of dark growth which had usurped a place against the house wall, and was threatening to obscure one of the lower range of windows. It did not look as if it could possibly be worth keeping; he fancied it dank and unhealthy, little as he could see of it.
Next day (it was a Friday—he had arrived at Wilsthorpe on a Monday) Lady Wardrop came over in her car soon after luncheon. She was a stout elderly person, very full of talk of all sorts and particularly inclined to make herself agreeable to Humphreys, who had gratified her very much by his ready granting of her request. They made a thorough exploration of the place together; and Lady Wardrop’s opinion of her host obviously rose sky-high when she found that he really knew something of gardening. She entered enthusiastically into all his plans for improvement, but agreed that it would be a vandalism to interfere with the characteristic laying-out of the ground near the house. With the temple she was particularly delighted, and, said she, ‘Do you know, Mr. Humphreys, I think your bailiff must be right about those lettered blocks of stone. One of my mazes—I’m sorry to say the stupid people have destroyed it now—it was at a place in Hampshire—had the track marked out in that way. They were tiles there, but lettered just like yours, and the letters, taken in the right order, formed an inscription—what it was I forget—something about Theseus and Ariadne. I have a copy of it, as well as the plan of the maze where it was. How people can do such things! I shall never forgive you if you injure your maze. Do you know, they’re becoming very uncommon? Almost every year I hear of one being grubbed up. Now, do let’s get straight to it: or, if you’re too busy, I know my way there perfectly, and I’m not afraid of getting lost in it; I know too much about mazes for that. Though I remember missing my lunch—not so very long ago either—through getting entangled in the one at Busbury. Well, of course, if you can manage to come with me, that will be all the nicer.’
After this confident prelude justice would seem to require that Lady Wardrop should have been hopelessly muddled by the Wilsthorpe maze. Nothing of that kind happened: yet it is to be doubted whether she got all the enjoyment from her new specimen that she expected. She was interested—keenly interested—to be sure, and pointed out to Humphreys a series of little depressions in the ground which, she thought, marked the places of the lettered blocks. She told him, too, what other mazes resembled his most closely in arrangement, and explained how it was usually possible to date a maze to within twenty years by means of its plan. This one, she already knew, must be about as old as 1780, and its features were just what might be expected. The globe, furthermore, completely absorbed her. It was unique in her experience, and she pored over it for long. ‘I should like a rubbing of that,’ she said, ‘if it could possibly be made. Yes, I am sure you would be most kind about it, Mr. Humphreys, but I trust you won’t attempt it on my account, I do indeed; I shouldn’t like to take any liberties here. I have the feeling that it might be resented. Now, confess,’ she went on, turning and facing Humphreys, ‘don’t you feel—haven’t you felt ever since you came in here—that a watch is being kept on us, and that if we overstepped the mark in any way there would be a—well, a pounce? No? I do; and I don’t care how soon we are outside the gate.’
‘After all,’ she said, when they were once more on their way to the house, ‘it may have been only the airlessness and the dull heat of that place that pressed on my brain. Still, I’ll take back one thing I said. I’m not sure that I shan’t forgive you after all, if I find next spring that that maze has been grubbed up.’
‘Whether or no that’s done, you shall have the plan, Lady Wardrop. I have made one, and no later than tonight I can trace you a copy.’
‘Admirable: a pencil tracing will be all I want, with an indication of the scale. I can easily have it brought into line with the rest of my plates. Many, many thanks.’
‘Very well, you shall have that tomorrow. I wish you could help me to a solution of my block-puzzle.’
‘What, those stones in the summer-house? That is a puzzle; they are in no sort of order? Of course not. But the men who put them down must have had some directions—perhaps you’ll find a paper about it among your uncle’s things. If not, you’ll have to call in somebody who’s an expert in ciphers.’
‘Advise me about something else, please,’ said Humphreys. ‘That bush-thing under the library window: you would have that away, wouldn’t you?’
‘Which? That? Oh, I think not,’ said Lady Wardrop. ‘I can’t see it very well from this distance, but it’s not unsightly.’
‘Perhaps you’re right; only, looking out of my window, just above it, last night, I thought it took up too much room. It doesn’t seem to, as one sees it from here, certainly. Very well, I’ll leave it alone for a bit.’
Tea was the next business, soon after which Lady Wardrop drove off; but, half-way down the drive, she stopped the car and beckoned to Humphreys, who was still on the front-door steps. He ran to glean her parting words, which were: ‘It just occurs to me, it might be worth your while to look at the underside of those stones. They must have been numbered, mustn’t they? Good-bye again. Home, please.’
The main occupation of this evening at any rate was settled. The tracing of the plan for Lady Wardrop and the careful collation of it with the original meant a couple of hours’ work at least. Accordingly, soon after nine Humphreys had his materials put out in the library and began. It was a still, stuffy evening; windows had to stand open, and he had more than one grisly encounter with a bat. These unnerving episodes made him keep the tail of his eye on the window. Once or twice it was a question whether there was—not a bat, but something more considerable—that had a mind to join him. How unpleasant it would be if someone had slipped noiselessly over the sill and was crouching on the floor!
The tracing of the plan was done: it remained to compare it with the original, and to see whether any paths had been wrongly closed or left open. With one finger on each paper, he traced out the course that must be followed from the entrance. There were one or two slight mistakes, but here, near the centre, was a bad confusion, probably due to the entry of the Second or Third Bat. Before correcting the copy he followed out carefully the last turnings of the path on the original. These, at least, were right; they led without a hitch to the middle space. Here was a feature which need not be repeated on the copy—an ugly black spot about the size of a shilling. Ink? No. It resembled a hole, but how should a hole be there? He stared at it with tired eyes: the work of tracing had been very laborious, and he was drowsy and oppressed… But surely this was a very odd hole. It seemed to go not only through the paper, but through the table on which it lay. Yes, and through the floor below that, down, and still down, even into infinite depths. He craned over it, utterly bewildered. Just as, when you were a child, you may have pored over a square inch of counterpane until it became a landscape with wooded hills, and perhaps even churches and houses, and you lost all thought of the true size of yourself and it, so this hole seemed to Humphreys for the moment the only thing in the world. For some reason it was hateful to him from the first, but he had gazed at it for some moments before any feeling of anxiety came upon him; and then it did come, stronger and stronger—a horror lest something might emerge from it, and a really agonizing conviction that a terror was on its way, from the sight of which he would not be able to escape. Oh yes, far, far down there was a movement, and the movement was upwards—towards the surface. Nearer and nearer it came, and it was of a blackish-grey colour with more than one dark hole. It took shape as a face—a human face—a burnt human face: and with the odious writhings of a wasp creeping out of a rotten apple there clambered forth an appearance of a form, waving black arms prepared to clasp the head that was bending over them. With a convulsion of despair Humphreys threw himself back, struck his head against a hanging lamp, and fell.
There was concussion of the brain, shock to the system, and a long confinement to bed. The doctor was badly puzzled, not by the symptoms, but by a request which Humphreys made to him as soon as he was able to say anything. ‘I wish you would open the ball in the maze.’ ‘Hardly room enough there, I should have thought,’ was the best answer he could summon up; ‘but it’s more in your way than mine; my dancing days are over.’ At which Humphreys muttered and turned over to sleep, and the doctor intimated to the nurses that the patient was not out of the wood yet. When he was better able to express his views, Humphreys made his meaning clear, and received a promise that the thing should be done at once. He was so anxious to learn the result that the doctor, who seemed a little pensive next morning, saw that more harm than good would be done by saving up his report. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I am afraid the ball is done for; the metal must have worn thin, I suppose. Anyhow, it went all to bits with the first blow of the chisel.’ ‘Well? go on, do!’ said Humphreys impatiently. ‘Oh! you want to know what we found in it, of course. Well, it was half full of stuff like ashes.’ ‘Ashes? What did you make of them?’ ‘I haven’t thoroughly examined them yet; there’s hardly been time: but Cooper’s made up his mind—I dare say from something I said—that it’s a case of cremation… Now don’t excite yourself, my good sir: yes, I must allow I think he’s probably right.’
The maze is gone, and Lady Wardrop has forgiven Humphreys; in fact, I believe he married her niece. She was right, too, in her conjecture that the stones in the temple were numbered. There had been a numeral painted on the bottom of each. Some few of these had rubbed off, but enough remained to enable Humphreys to reconstruct the inscription. It ran thus:
PENETRANS AD INTERIORA MORTIS
Grateful as Humphreys was to the memory of his uncle, he could not quite forgive him for having burnt the journals and letters of the James Wilson who had gifted Wilsthorpe with the maze and the temple. As to the circumstances of that ancestor’s death and burial no tradition survived; but his will, which was almost the only record of him accessible, assigned an unusually generous legacy to a servant who bore an Italian name.
Mr. Cooper’s view is that, humanly speaking, all these many solemn events have a meaning for us, if our limited intelligence permitted of our disintegrating it, while Mr. Calton has been reminded of an aunt now gone from us, who, about the year 1866, had been lost for upwards of an hour and a half in the maze at Covent Gardens, or it might be Hampton Court.
One of the oddest things in the whole series of transactions is that the book which contained the Parable has entirely disappeared. Humphreys has never been able to find it since he copied out the passage to send to Lady Wardrop.
Searching for its name, the utburd ghost from Norwegian folklore haunts the forests, waters and houses its parents left them to die. For the most part, they remained in folk tales, but sometimes, the stories about the dead children got real life consequences.
Perhaps one of the most well known figures from Irish mythology is the Banshee, the omen of death, wailing as death comes to a house. But where does she come from? And what does she want from the dead?
Before meeting a vampire in Transylvania, a short story places Jonathan Harket facing the undead outside of Munich. Could it have a connection to the village that according to legend, vanished suddenly in the middle ages.
One of the dark entities on the emerald island, there is the Death Coach who comes to collect the souls of the dead. Pulled by headless horses, the Cóiste Bodhar stops at nothing before its mission is complete, and misfortune happens upon those getting in its way.
In 1687, the ghost of a murdered child started to testify against its mother in northern Norway and people took it seriously. Today, the Utburd of Skåvoll or the Nille-case is remembered as the ghost story that condemned a woman to her death.
Have a look at some of the most haunted places in Dublin, from the mysteries of the Hellfire Club, churches where you can supposedly summon the devil and the dead lingering in the dusty libraries and colleges.
After strange knocking and poltergeist activity made the people at Erstad Farm believe it was haunted. And when they asked the ghost what it wanted, it unraveled the lives of more than one person forever.
Was there an iberian vampire before the European vampire panic in Eastern Europe? Who was really Conde Estruch, the vampire of Catalonia, and what happened to the witches of Llers Castle the count was said to use as his lair.
Join a haunted pub crawl through Dublin’s ancient streets for ghosts and a pint of Guinness. From plotting revolutionaries to somber writers, these pubs and bars are said to be a place where some of the patrons have been lingering for a long time.
In 1852, the alleged psychic Erika Larsdatter Bogen, arrived at Børholmen, a small island in western Norway. She claimed that she had found the ghost and corpse of the dead child, and she named the mother who allegedly buried it. But what was the truth?
Ghostly whispers in the old castle ruins, soldiers haunting the bloody battlefields and even the drums of pagan druids still lingering, Ireland is certainly a haunted country. This is only a small portion of the most haunted places in Ireland and the ghost stories behind them.
An online magazine about the paranormal, haunted and macabre. We collect the ghost stories from all around the world as well as review horror and gothic media.
