She had expected to see a gaunt, grim place, crumbling to
pieces with age, full of blood-curdling, spiral staircases, and deep,
dark dungeons; whereas everything was the reverse. The walls were in
an excellent state of preservation--absolutely intact; the rooms
bright and cheerful and equipped in the most modern style; there were
no dungeons, at least none on view, and the passages and staircases
were suggestive of nothing more alarming than--bats! She was
accompanied for some time by her relative, but, on the latter being
called away, Mrs. Gibbons continued her rambles alone. She had
explored the lower premises, and was leisurely examining a handsomely
furnished apartment on the top floor, when, in crossing from one side
of the room to the other, she ran into something. She looked
down--nothing was to be seen. Amazed beyond description, she thrust
out her hands, and they alighted on an object, which she had little
difficulty in identifying. It was an enormous cask or barrel lying in
a horizontal position. She bent down close to where she felt it, but she could see
nothing--nothing but the well-polished boards of the floor. To make
sure again that the barrel was there, she gave a little kick--and drew
back her foot with a cry of pain. She was not afraid--the sunshine in
the room forbade fear--only exasperated. She was certain a barrel was
there--that it was objective--and she was angry with herself for not
seeing it. She wondered if she were going blind; but the fact that
other objects in the room were plainly visible to her, discountenanced
such an idea. For some minutes she poked and jabbed at the Thing, and
then, seized with a sudden and uncontrollable panic, she turned round
and fled. And as she tore out of the room, along the passage and down
the seemingly interminable flight of stairs, she heard the barrel
behind her in close pursuit-bump--bump--bump! At the foot of the staircase Mrs. Gibbons met her cousin, and, as she
clutched the latter for support, the barrel shot past her, still
continuing its descent--bump--bump--bump! (though the steps as far as
she could see had ended)--till the sounds gradually dwindled away in
the far distance. Whilst the manifestations lasted, neither Mrs. Gibbons nor her cousin
spoke; but the latter, as soon as the sounds had ceased, dragged Mrs.
Gibbons away, and, in a voice shaking with terror, cried: "Quick,
quick--don't, for Heaven's sake, look round--worse has yet to come." And, pulling Mrs. Gibbons along in breathless haste, she
unceremoniously hustled her out of the Tower. "That was no barrel!" Mrs. Gibbons's cousin subsequently remarked by
way of explanation. "I saw it--I have seen it before. Don't ask me to
describe it. I dare not--I dare not even think of it. Whenever it
appears, a certain thing happens shortly afterwards. Don't, don't on
any account say a word about it to any one here." And Mrs. Gibbons, my
mother told me, came away from Glamis a thousand times more curious
than she was when she went. *       *       *       *       *

The last story I have to relate is one I heard many years ago, when I
was staying near Balmoral. A gentleman named Vance, with strong
antiquarian tastes, was staying at an inn near the Strathmore estate,
and, roaming abroad one afternoon, in a fit of absent-mindedness
entered the castle grounds. It so happened--fortunately for him--that
the family were away, and he encountered no one more formidable than a
man he took to be a gardener, an uncouth-looking fellow, with a huge
head covered with a mass of red hair, hawk-like features, and high
cheek-bones, high even for a Scot. Struck with the appearance of the
individual, Mr. Vance spoke, and, finding him wonderfully civil, asked
whether, by any chance, he ever came across any fossils, when digging
in the gardens. "I dinna ken the meaning of fossils," the man replied. "What are
they?" Mr. Vance explained, and a look of cunning gradually pervaded the
fellow's features. "No!" he said, "I've never found any of those
things, but if you'll give me your word to say nothing about it, I'll
show you something I once dug up over yonder by the Square Tower." "Do you mean the Haunted Tower?--the Tower that is supposed to contain
the secret room?" Mr. Vance exclaimed. An extraordinary expression--an expression such as Mr. Vance found it
impossible to analyse--came into the man's eyes. "Yes! that's it!" he
nodded. "What people call--and rightly call--the Haunted Tower. I got
it from there. But don't you say naught about it!" Mr. Vance, whose curiosity was roused, promised, and the man, politely
requesting him to follow, led the way to a cottage that stood near by,
in the heart of a gloomy wood. To Mr. Vance's astonishment the
treasure proved to be the skeleton of a hand--a hand with abnormally
large knuckles, and the first joint--of both fingers and thumb--much
shorter than the others. It was the most extraordinarily shaped hand
Mr. Vance had ever seen, and he did not know in the least how to
classify it. It repelled, yet interested him, and he eventually
offered the man a good sum to allow him to keep it. To his
astonishment the money was refused. "You may have the thing, and
welcome," the fellow said. "Only, I advise you not to look at it late
at night; or just before getting into bed. If you do, you may have bad
dreams." "I will take my chance of that!" Mr. Vance laughed. "You see, being a
hard-headed cockney, I am not superstitious. It is only you
Highlanders, and your first cousins the Irish, who believe nowadays in
bogles, omens, and such-like"; and, packing the hand carefully in his
knapsack, Mr. Vance bid the strange-looking creature good morning, and
went on his way. For the rest of the day the hand was uppermost in his
thoughts--nothing had ever fascinated him so much. He sat pondering
over it the whole evening, and bedtime found him still examining
it--examining it upstairs in his room by candlelight. He had a hazy
recollection that some clock had struck twelve, and he was beginning
to feel that it was about time to retire, when, in the mirror opposite
him, he caught sight of the door--it was open. "By Jove! that's odd!" he said to himself. "I could have sworn I shut
and bolted it." To make sure, he turned round--the door was closed. "An optical delusion," he murmured; "I will try again." He looked into the mirror--the door reflected in it was--open. Utterly
at a loss to know how to explain the phenomenon, he leaned forward in
his seat to examine the glass more carefully, and as he did so he
gave a start. On the threshold of the doorway was a shadow--black and
bulbous. A cold shiver ran down Mr. Vance's spine, and just for a
moment he felt afraid, terribly afraid; but he quickly composed
himself--it was nothing but an illusion--there was no shadow there in
reality--he had only to turn round, and the thing would be gone. It
was amusing--entertaining. He would wait and see what happened. The shadow moved.