A
feeling that there was something unnatural in the air, that the
stillness was but the prelude to some strange and startling event,
gradually came over me. I strove to reason with myself, to argue that
the feeling was wholly due to the novelty of my surroundings, but my
efforts were fruitless. And soon there stole upon me a sensation to
which I had been hitherto an utter stranger--I became afraid. An
irrepressible tremor pervaded my frame, my teeth chattered, my blood
froze. Obeying an impulse--an impulse I could not resist, I lifted
myself up from the pillows, and, peering fearfully into the shadowy
glow that lay directly in front of me--listened. Why I listened I do
not know, saving that an instinctive spirit prompted me. At first I
could hear nothing, and then, from a direction I could not define,
there came a noise, low, distinct, uninterpretative. It was repeated
in rapid succession, and speedily construed itself into the sound of
mailed footsteps racing up the long flight of stairs at the end of the
corridor leading to my room. Dreading to think what it might be, and
seized with a wild sentiment of self-preservation, I made frantic
endeavours to get out of bed and barricade my door. My limbs, however,
refused to move. I was paralysed. Nearer and nearer drew the sounds;
and I could at length distinguish, with a clearness that petrified my
very soul, the banging and clanging of sword scabbards, and the
panting and gasping of men, sore pressed in a wild and desperate race. And then the meaning of it all came to me with hideous abruptness--it
was a case of pursued and pursuing--the race was for--LIFE. Outside my
door the fugitive halted, and from the noise he made in trying to draw
his breath, I knew he was dead beat. His antagonist, however, gave him
but scant time for recovery. Bounding at him with prodigious leaps, he
struck him a blow that sent him reeling with such tremendous force
against the door, that the panels, although composed of the stoutest
oak, quivered and strained like flimsy matchboard. The blow was repeated; the cry that rose in the victim's throat was
converted into an abortive gurgling groan; and I heard the ponderous
battle-axe carve its way through helmet, bone, and brain. A moment
later came the sound of slithering armour; and the corpse, slipping
sideways, toppled to the ground with a sonorous clang. A silence too awful for words now ensued. Having finished his hideous
handiwork, the murderer was quietly deliberating what to do next;
whilst my dread of attracting his attention was so great that I
scarcely dare breathe. This intolerable state of things had already
lasted for what seemed to me a lifetime, when, glancing involuntarily
at the floor, I saw a stream of dark-looking fluid lazily lapping its
way to me from the direction of the door. Another moment and it would
reach my shoes. In my dismay I shrieked aloud. There was a sudden stir
without, a significant clatter of steel, and the next moment--despite
the fact that it was locked--the door slowly opened. The limits of my
endurance had now happily been reached, the over-taxed valves of my
heart could stand no more--I fainted. On my awakening to consciousness
it was morning, and the welcome sun rays revealed no evidences of the
distressing drama. I own I had a hard tussle before I could make up my
mind to spend another night in that room; and my feelings as I shut
the door on my retreating maid, and prepared to get into bed, were not
the most enviable. But nothing happened, nor did I again experience
anything of the sort till the evening before I left. I had lain down
all the afternoon--for I was tired after a long morning's tramp on the
moors, a thing I dearly love--and I was thinking it was about time to
get up, when a dark shadow suddenly fell across my face. I looked up hastily, and there, standing by my bedside and bending
over me, was a gigantic figure in bright armour. Its visor was up, and what I saw within the casque is stamped for ever
on my memory. It was the face of the dead--the long since dead--with
the expression--the subtly hellish expression--of the living. As I
gazed helplessly at it, it bent lower. I threw up my hands to ward it
off. There was a loud rap at the door. And as my maid softly entered
to tell me tea was ready--it vanished. *       *       *       *       *

The third account of the Glamis hauntings was told me as long ago as
the summer of 1893. I was travelling by rail from Perth to Glasgow,
and the only other occupant of my compartment was an elderly
gentleman, who, from his general air and appearance, might have been
a dominie, or member of some other learned profession. I can see him
in my mind's eye now--a tall, thin man with a premature stoop. He had
white hair, which was brushed forward on either side of his head in
such a manner as suggested a wig; bushy eyebrows; dark, piercing eyes;
and a stern, though somewhat sad, mouth. His features were fine and
scholarly; he was clean-shaven. There was something about
him--something that marked him from the general horde--something that
attracted me, and I began chatting with him soon after we left Perth. In the course of a conversation, that was at all events interesting to
me, I adroitly managed to introduce the subject of ghosts--then, as
ever, uppermost in my thoughts. *       *       *       *       *

Well, he said, I can tell you of something rather extraordinary that
my mother used to say happened to a friend of hers at Glamis. I have
no doubt you are well acquainted with the hackneyed stories in
connection with the hauntings at the castle; for example, Earl Beardie
playing cards with the Devil, and The Weeping Woman without Hands or
Tongue. You can read about them in scores of books and magazines. But
what befel my mother's friend, whom I will call Mrs. Gibbons--for I
have forgotten her proper name--was apparently of a novel nature. The
affair happened shortly before Mrs. Gibbons died, and I always thought
that what took place might have been, in some way, connected with her
death. She had driven over to the castle one day--during the absence of the
owner--to see her cousin, who was in the employ of the Earl and
Countess. Never having been at Glamis before, but having heard so much
about it, Mrs. Gibbons was not a little curious to see that part of
the building, called the Square Tower, that bore the reputation of
being haunted. Tactfully biding an opportunity, she sounded her relative on the
subject, and was laughingly informed that she might go anywhere about
the place she pleased, saving to one spot, namely, "Bluebeard's
Chamber"; and there she could certainly never succeed in poking her
nose, as its locality was known only to three people, all of whom were
pledged never to reveal it. At the commencement of her tour of
inspection, Mrs. Gibbons was disappointed--she was disappointed in the
Tower.