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Technical form of apparition: Either a phantasm of the dead or sub-human elemental

Source of authenticity: Eye-witness

Cause of haunting: A matter of surmise

When I was reading for the Royal Irish Constabulary at that excellent and ever-popular Queen’s Service Academy in Dublin, I made many friends among my fellow students, certain of whom it has been my good fortune to meet in after life.

Quite recently, for example, whilst on a visit of enjoyment to London, I ran up against T. at Daly’s Theatre. T, one of the best-hearted fellows who ever trod in Ely Square, passed in second for the Royal Irish Constabulary, and is now a District Inspector in some outlandish village in Connemara.

And again, a summer or two ago, when I was on the pier at Bournemouth, I “plumped” myself down on a seat near to “G,” who, although never a very great friend of mine, I was uncommonly glad to meet under the circumstances.

But last year I was unusually lucky, chancing to find, a passenger on the same boat as myself, Harry O’Moore, one of my very best “chums,” from whom I learned the following story:

“You must know,” he began, as we sat on deck watching the lofty outlines of St. David’s Head slowly fade in the distance, “you must know, O’Donnell, that after leaving Crawley’s I inherited a nice little sum of money from my aunt, Lady Maughan of Blackrock, who, dying quite unexpectedly, left the bulk of her property to my family. My brother Bob had her estate in Roscommon; Charley, the house near Dublin; whilst I—lucky beggar that I am—(for I was head over heels in debt at the time) suddenly found myself the happy possessor of £20,000 and—a bog-oak grandfather clock.”

Here I thought fit to interrupt.

“A bog-oak clock!” I exclaimed. “Good gracious me! what a funny legacy! Had you taken a fancy to it?”

“I had never even seen it!” O’Moore laughed—then, looking suddenly serious: “My aunt, O’Donnell, as I daresay you recollect, was rather dry and satirical. The clock has not been exactly a pleasant acquisition to my establishment; so I fancy she may have bequeathed it to me as a sort of antidote to the exhilarating effect of £20,000. A sort of ‘bitter with the sweet,’ don’t you know! You appear astonished! You would like to hear more about the clock? And you are quite right, too; the history of a really antique piece of furniture is a million times more interesting a subject to discuss than a ton of gold. To begin with, it was almost as new to my aunt as to me; she had only had it a week before she died, and during that brief interval she had made up her mind to leave it to me. Odd, was it not? I thought so, too, at her funeral! Now it seems quite natural; I was her metaphysician, I knew her and understood her idiosyncrasies better than most people. She bought the clock for a mere song from a second-hand furniture dealer in Grafton Street. I was living at the time near Basingstoke in a small house—one of those horrible anachronisms, an up-to-date villa in an old-world village.

“It’s a charming neighbourhood—suited me down to the ground: flat country (hills tire me to death), excellent roads (I am fond of riding), trout streams, pretty meadows, crowds of honeysuckle and that sort of thing, and, to crown all else, Pines!!! Now, if there is one scent for which I have a special weakness, it is that of the pine. I could sit out of doors ad infinitum sniffing pines. It intoxicates me; hence I grew very fond of Hampshire.

“Let me return to the clock. It came from Dublin to Bristol viâ the good old Argo (what Bristolian is there, I should like to know, who doesn’t love the Argo!) and thence by rail to Basingstoke, arriving at my house after dusk. You see, I am talking of it almost as if it were some live person! But then, you see, it was a bog-oak grandfather’s clock—no common grinder I can assure you; and I was prepared to pay it every homage the moment it was landed in the hall.

“The carter, however, was by no means so enamoured of it; he was a rough, churlish fellow (what British workmen is not?). ‘If you take my advice, mister!’ he growled, ‘you’ll pitch the himpish thing in some one helse’s garden rightaway.’ (How characteristic of the charitable Briton.)

“I gently rebuked the irate man. Of course, he could afford to be more prodigal with his belongings than I. With evident haste, and still muttering angrily, he went—and I—I called to my housekeeper (Mrs. Partridge), and we examined the heirloom together.

“It certainly was a most imposing piece of furniture. Standing at least eight feet high, with a face large in proportion, it towered above me like a giant negro—black—I can’t describe to you how black—black as ebony and shining.

“I asked Mrs. Partridge how she liked it; for, to tell you the truth, there was something so indefinably queer about it that I began to wonder if the carter had spoken the truth.

“ ‘It is truly magnificent!’ she said, running her hand over its polished surface, ‘I have never seen so fine a piece of workmanship! It will be the making of this hall—but—it reminds me of a hearse!!!’

“We laughed—the analogy was simply ludicrous. A grandfather’s clock and a hearse! But then—it told the Time! and Time is sometimes represented in the guise of Death! Father Death with the sickle!

“My laughter left me and I shivered.

“We placed the clock in the right-hand corner of the hall, opposite the front door, so that every one coming to the house could see it; and, as we anticipated, it was much admired—so much admired, in fact, that I became quite jealous—jealous, and of a clock! How very singular. But then I recollected I was ‘engaged,’ and, of course, I resented my fiancée taking notice of any one or anything save myself.

“Like all the other visitors, however, she never passed by the clock without pausing to look at it.

“ ‘I can’t help it,’ she whispered. ‘It’s its size! it’s stupendous! It quite fills the house! there is hardly any room to breathe! It’s a monstrous clock! It fascinates me! It’s more than a clock. You must GET RID of it.’

“Avice was whimsical. What, get rid of the Ebony Clock! Impossible—the idea tickled me. I laughed.

“I laughed then—but not later, when she had gone and all was quiet.

“From the hall below I heard it strike one, two, three—twelve!

“Its pendulum swung to and fro with a dull and ponderous clang, and the sound that came from its brazen lungs, though loud and deep and musical, was far too thrilling.

“Against my will, it made me think, and my thoughts were none too pleasant.

“Hardly had its vibrations ceased before I sat up in bed and listened! At first I attributed the noise I had heard to the pulsations of my heart—bump! bump! bump!—but as I crouched there, waiting, I was soon undeceived; the sounds not only increased in intensity, but drew nearer—bump! bump! bump!—just as if something huge and massive was moving across the hall floor and ascending the stairs!

“An icy fear stole all over me! What!—what in Heaven’s name could it be?

“I glanced in terror at the door—it was locked—locked and BOLTED—the village was much frequented by tramps, and I always went to bed prepared.

“But this noise—this series of heavy, mechanical booms—THIS could never be attributed to any burglar!

“It reached the top of the staircase, it pounded down the passage leading to my room; and then, with the most terrific crash, it FELL against my door!

“I was spellbound—petrified. I dared not—I COULD NOT move.

“It was the clock! the gigantic, monstrous clock!—the funereal, hideous clock! I heard it ticking! The suspicions that I entertained all along with regard to it were now confirmed—it lived!!! That was no ordinary striking—THIS was no ordinary ticking. The thing breathed, it spoke, it laughed—laughed in some diabolically ghoulish manner.

“I would have sacrificed my house and fortune to have been able to reach the bell. I could not. I could do nothing but sit there listening—listening to its mocking voice. The minutes passed by slowly—never had I had the leisure to count them with such painful accuracy; for the tickings, though of equal duration, varied most alarmingly in intonation.

“This horrible farce lasted without cessation till one, when, apparently convinced of its inability to gain admittance, it gave an extra loud and emphatic clang and took its departure.

“In the morning it was standing as usual in its corner in the hall, nor could I detect the slightest evidences of animation, neither in its glassy face nor in its sepulchral tone.

“Happening to pass by at that instant, Mrs. Partridge surprised me in my act of examination, and from her ashy cheeks and frightened glances I concluded she, too, had heard the noises and had rightly guessed their origin. Nor was I mistaken, for, on putting a few leading questions to her, she reluctantly admitted she had heard everything. ‘But,’ she whispered, ‘I have kept it from the maids, for if once they get hold of the idea the house is haunted they will leave to-morrow.’

“Unfortunately, her circumspection proved of no avail; night after night the clock repeated its vagaries, bumping on the staircases and passages to such a degree that the noise not only awakened the entire household, but aroused general suspicion.

“Nor were its attentions any longer restricted to me; it gradually extended the length of its wanderings till every part of the house had been explored and every door visited.

“The maids now complained to me. ‘They could not do their work,’ they argued, ‘if they were deprived of sleep, and sleep was out of the question whilst the disturbances continued. I must get rid of the clock.’

“To this proposition, however, I was by no means agreeable. I certainly had no reason to like the clock—indeed I loathed and hated it—but in some indefinable manner it fascinated me. I could not, I dare not part with it. ‘I have no doubt,’ I protested, ‘the annoyances will cease as soon as the clock has become at home with its surroundings. Have patience and all will be well.’

“They agreed to wait a little longer before giving me notice, and I fully hoped that my prophecy would be fulfilled. But the clock was far more persistent than I had anticipated. Adopting fresh tactics, it began a series of persecutions that speedily brought matters to a crisis.

“Christina, the cook, was the first victim.

“Not being a very fluent scribe, her letters caused her endless labour, and she often sat up writing long after the other servants had gone to bed.

“On the night in question she was plodding on wearily when the intense stillness of the house made her suddenly think of the time; it must be very late! Dare she venture in the hall?

“Christina was not a nervous woman; she had hitherto discredited all ghost-stories, and was quite the last person in the house to accept the theory that the present disturbances were due to any superphysical agency. She now, however, recollected all that had been said on the subject, and the close proximity of the clock filled her with dread; her fears being further augmented by the knowledge of her isolation—unluckily her room was completely cut off from any other in the house.

“Hastily putting away her writing materials, she was preparing to make a precipitate rush for the stairs when a peculiar thumping riveted her attention.

“Her blood congealed, her legs tottered, she could not move an inch. What was it?

“Her heart—only the pulsations of her heart.

“She burst out laughing. How truly ridiculous.

“Catching her breath and casting fearful looks of apprehension on all sides, she advanced towards the stairs and ‘tiptoeing’ stealthily across the hall, tried in vain to keep her eyes from the clock. But its sonorous ticking brought her to a peremptory halt.

“She stood and listened. Tick! tick! tick! It was so unlike any other ticking she had ever heard, it appalled her.

“The clock, too, seemed to have become blacker and even more gigantic.

“It reared itself above her like a monstrous coffin.

“She was now too terrified to think of escape, and could only clutch hold of the bannisters in momentary terror of some fresh phenomenon.

“In this helpless condition she watched the clock slowly increase in stature till its grotesquely carved summit all but swept the ceiling, whilst a pair of huge, toeless, grey feet protruded from beneath its base.

“Nor were these the only changes, for during their accomplishment others of an equally alarming nature had taken place, and the ticking, after having passed through many transitional stages, was now replaced by a spasmodic breathing, forcibly suggestive of something devilish and bestial.

“At this juncture words cannot convey any idea of what Christina suffered; nor had she seen the worst.

“Midnight at length came. In dumb agony she watched the minute-hand slowly make its last circuit; there were twelve frantic clangs, the door concealing the pendulum flew open, and an enormous hand, ashy grey, with long, mal-shaped fingers, made a convulsive grab at her.[1] Swinging to one side, she narrowly avoided capture and, glancing upwards, saw something so diabolically awful that her heart turned to ice.

“The face of the clock had disappeared, and in its place Christina saw a frightful head—grey and evil. It was very large and round, half human, half animal, and wholly beastly, with abnormally long, lidless eyes of pale blue that leered at the affrighted girl in the most sinister manner.

“Such a creature must have owed its origin to Hell.

“For some seconds she stared at it, too enthralled with horror even to breathe; and, then a sudden movement on its part breaking the spell, she regained control over her limbs and fled for her life.

*****

“Christina reported all this to me the next morning. She had narrowly escaped capture by darting through the front door which some one, fortunately for her, had forgotten to bolt. She had not returned to the house, but had, instead, passed the rest of the night in a neighbouring cottage.

“ ‘I won’t, under any circumstances, sir,’ she added, ‘sleep here again. Indeed, I could not, because I can’t abide the presence of that clock. I shan’t feel easy until I am miles away from it—in some big town, where the bustle and noise of life may help me to forget it—FORGET it!!’—and she shuddered.

“Partly as a compensation for what she had undergone and partly to avoid a scandal, I presented her with a substantial cheque.

“Despite Mrs. Partridge’s pleadings, I kept the clock. I could not—I dare not—part with it. It was my aunt’s bequest—it fascinated me! Do you understand, O’Donnell?—it fascinated me.

“But I did make one concession: I permitted them to remove it to the summer-house.

“My first care now was to see that all the doors were locked, and windows bolted before retiring to bed; a precaution that was speedily justified.

“For the next few nights after the removal of the clock I was awakened about twelve by a violent ringing of the front door bell, whilst a heavy crunching of the gravel beneath my window informed me our persecutor was trying to gain admittance.

“These nocturnal disturbances ceasing, I had begun to congratulate myself upon having seen the last of the hauntings, when a rumour reached me that the clock had actually begun to infest the more lonely of the lanes and by-roads.

“Nor did this report, as the sequel will show, long remain unverified.

“My uncle John, a rare old ‘sport,’ came to stay with me. He arrived about ten, and we had not yet gone to bed when the vicar of the parish burst into our presence in the greatest state of agitation.

“ ‘I must apologise for this late visit,’ he gasped, sinking into an easy chair, ‘I couldn’t get here before. Indeed, I did not intend calling this evening, and would not have done so but for an extraordinary incident that has just happened. Would you think it very unclerical if I were to ask you for a glass of neat brandy?’

“I glanced at him in ill-disguised terror. His blanched cheeks and trembling hands told their own tale—he had seen the clock.

“ ‘Thanks awfully,’ he said, replacing the empty glass on the table. ‘I feel better now—but, by jove! it DID unnerve me. Let me tell you from the beginning. I had been calling at Gillet’s Farm, which, as you know, is two or more miles from here, and the night being fine, I decided to go home by the fields. Well! all was right till I got to the little spinney lying at the foot of Dickson’s Hollow.

“ ‘Even in broad daylight I always feel a trifle apprehensive before entering it, as it is often frequented by tramps and other doubtful characters: in fact, there isn’t a more murderous looking spot in the county.

“ ‘All was so still, so unusually still I thought, and the shadows so incomprehensible that I had half a mind to retrace my steps, but, disliking to appear cowardly, and remembering, I must confess, that I had ordered a roast duck for supper, I climbed the wooden fence and plunged into the copse.

“ ‘At every step the silence increased, the cracking of twigs under my feet sounding like the report of firearms, whilst it grew so dark that I had in certain places literally to feel my way. When about halfway through the wood the shrubs that line the path on either side abruptly terminate, bringing into view a circle of sward, partially covered with ferns and bracken, and having in its midst a stunted willow that has always struck me as being peculiarly out of place there.

“ ‘Indeed, I was pondering over this incongruity when a tall figure stalked out from behind the tree, and, gliding swiftly forward, took to the path ahead of me.

“ ‘I rubbed my eyes and stared in amazement, and no doubt you will think me mad when I tell you the figure was nothing human.’

“ ‘What was it, then—an anthropoid ape?’ my Uncle John laughed.

“The vicar shook his head solemnly.

“ ‘I will describe it to you to the best of my ability,’ he said. ‘To begin with it was naked—stark, staring naked!’

“ ‘How positively indecent,’ murmured Uncle John, ‘really vicar, I don’t wonder you were frightened.’

“ ‘And then,’ the vicar continued, disregarding the interruption, ‘it was grey!—from head to foot a uniform livid grey.’

“ ‘A grey monstrosity! Ah! now THAT is interesting!’

“I looked at my uncle quizzically—was he still joking? But no! he was in sober earnest: could it be possible he knew anything about the clock.

“I leaned back in my chair and smiled—feebly.

“ ‘In height,’ the vicar went on, ‘it could not have been far from seven feet, it had an enormous round head crowned with a black mass of shock hair, no ears, huge spider-like hands and toeless feet.

“ ‘I could not see its face as its back was turned on me.

“ ‘Urged on by an irresistible impulse (although half dead with terror), I followed the Thing.

“ ‘Striding noiselessly along, it left the spinney, and crossing several fields entered your grounds by the gate in the rear of the house.’

“ ‘What!’ my uncle roared, banging the table with his fist, ‘what! do you mean to tell me you allowed it to come here!’

“ ‘I couldn’t stop it,’ the vicar said apologetically, stretching forward to help himself to some more brandy. ‘It led me to your summer-house, vanishing through the doorway. Resolved on seeing the last, and hoping thereby to discover some clue to the mystery, I cautiously approached the window, and, peering through the glass, saw the creature walk stealthily across the floor and disappear into a gigantic clock. I verily believe I was as much scared by the sight of that clock as I had been by the appearance of the spectre—they were both satanically awful.’

“ ‘Is that all?’ my Uncle John inquired.

“ ‘It is,’ the vicar replied, ‘and is it not enough?’

“My Uncle John got on his feet.

“ ‘Before returning a verdict,’ he said, ‘I must see the clock. Let us go to the summer-house at once.’

“The vicar and I were loud in our protests—‘We were sure my uncle must be tired; better put off the investigation to the morrow.’

“It was, however, of no avail; there was no gainsaying Uncle John when once he had made up his mind to do anything.

“We accordingly escorted him without further delay to the garden.

“The clock was standing quite peacefully where I had had it set.

“As soon as my uncle saw it he caught hold of my arm. ‘Where on earth did you get it from, Harry?’ he cried, bubbling over with excitement. ‘The last time I saw that clock was in Kleogh Castle, the home of the Blakes. It had been in their possession for centuries, and was made from what is supposed to be the oldest bog-oak in Ireland. Ah! the old lady left it you, did she? and you say she got it from Kelly’s in Grafton Street.

“ ‘Come! that explains everything. The Blakes—poor beggars—were sold up last year, and Kelly’s, I know, were represented at the sale.

“ ‘But now comes the extraordinary part of the affair. The grey figure our friend the vicar has just described to us tallies exactly with the phantasm that used to haunt Kleogh, and which the Blakes have always regarded in the light of a family ghost.

“ ‘Now it would appear that they are entirely wrong—that it is with the clock and not Kleogh this apparition is connected—a fact that is not at all surprising when we come to consider its origin and the vast antiquity of its frame.

“ ‘But let us examine it more carefully to-morrow.’

“We did so, and discovered that the frontal pillars on either side of the face of the clock consisted of two highly polished femur-bones which, although blackened through countless ages of immersion in the bog, and abnormally long (as is inevitably the case with Paleolithic man), were very unmistakably human.

*****

“I returned the clock anonymously to Kelly’s.”[2]