M. Hersant examined the marks on the woman's body very closely with his
magnifying-glass. "Ah!" he suddenly exclaimed, bending down and almost touching the corpse
with his nose, "Ah!" "Have you made a discovery?" M. Durant enquired. "I prefer not to say at present," M. Hersant replied. "I should like to
see the spot where this body was found--now." "We will go there at once," M. Durant rejoined. The scene of the tragedy was the Orenburg road, at the foot of two
little hills; and on either side were the sloping fields, yellow with
the nodding corn. "That is the exact place where she lay," M. Durant said, indicating with
his finger a dark patch on a little wooden bridge spanning a stream,
within a stone's throw of a tumbledown mill-house, all overgrown with
ivy and lichens. M. Hersant looked round and sniffed the air with his
nostrils. "There is an air of loneliness about this spot," he remarked, "that in
itself suggests crime. If this were an ordinary murder, one could well
imagine the assassin was aided in his diabolical work by the
configuration of the land which, shelving as it does, slips down into
the narrow valley, so as to preclude any possibility of escape on the
part of the victim. The place seems especially designed by Providence as
a death-trap. Let us have a look at the interior of this building." "The police have searched it thoroughly," M. Durant said. "I've no doubt," M. Hersant replied drily. "No one knows better than I
what the thoroughness of the police means." They entered the premises cautiously, since the roof was in a rickety
condition, and any slight concussion might dislodge an avalanche of
stones and plaster. While M. Durant stood glancing round him rather
impatiently, M. Hersant made a careful scrutiny of the walls. "Humph," he said at last. "As you so rightly observed, Henri, this is a
remarkable case. I have finished my investigation for to-night. Let us
be going home. To-morrow I should like to visit Marthe's home." This conversation took place shortly before midnight; some six hours
later all Orskaia was ringing with the news that Marthe Popenkoff's
three children had all been found dead in their beds, their faces and
bodies lacerated in exactly the same manner as their mother's. There
seemed to be no doubt now that Marthe had been murdered, and the
populace cried shame on the police; for the assassin was still at large. They agreed that the murderer could be no other than Peter Popenkoff,
and the editor of the local paper repeating these statements, Peter
Popenkoff was duly charged with the crimes, and arrested. He was
pronounced guilty by all excepting M. Hersant; and of course M. Hersant
thought him guilty, too; only he liked to think differently from anyone
else. "I don't want to commit myself," was all they could get out of him. "I
may have something to say later on." M. Durant laughed and shrugged his shoulders. "It, undoubtedly, is Peter Popenkoff," he observed. "I had an idea that
he was the culprit all along." But a day or two later, Peter Popenkoff was found dead in prison with
the skin on his face and hands all torn to shreds. "There! Didn't we say so?" cried the inconsequent mob. "Peter Popenkoff
was innocent. One of the police themselves is the murderer." "Come, you must acknowledge that we are on the right track now--it is
one of the police," M. Durant said to his friend. But M. Hersant only shook his head. "I acknowledge nothing of the sort," he said. "Come with me to the
mill-house to-night, and I will then tell you what I think." To this proposition M. Durant willingly agreed, and, accompanied by his
friend and the village priest, set off. On their arrival, M. Hersant
produced a big compass, and on the earth floor of the mill-house drew a
large circle, in which he made with white chalk various signs and
symbols. He then sat in the middle of it, and bade his two companions
stand in the doorway and watch. The night grew darker and darker, and
presently into the air stole a something that all three men at once
realized was supernatural. M. Hersant coughed nervously, the priest
crossed himself, and M. Durant called out, "This is getting ridiculous. These mediæval proceedings are too absurd. Let us go home." The next
moment, from the far distance, a church clock began to strike. It was
midnight, and an impressive silence fell on the trio. Then there came a
noise like the flutterings of wings, a loud, blood-curdling scream, half
human and half animal, and a huge black owl, whirling down from the roof
of the building, perched in the circle directly in front of M. Hersant. "Pray, Father! Pray quickly," M. Hersant whispered. "Pray for the dead,
and sprinkle the circle with holy water." The priest, as well as his trembling limbs would allow, obeyed;
whereupon the bird instantly vanished. "For Heaven's sake," M. Durant gasped, "tell us what it all means." "Only this," M. Hersant said solemnly, "the phantasm we saw caused the
death of the Popenkoff family. It is the spirit of an owl that the
children, encouraged by their parents, killed in a most cruel manner. As
soon as I examined Marthe's body, I perceived the mutilations were due
to a bird; and when I visited this mill on the eve of my arrival, I knew
that a bird had once lived here; that it had been captured with lime and
murdered, and that it haunted the place." "How could you know that?" the priest exclaimed in astonishment. "I am clairvoyant. I saw the bird's ghost as it appeared to us just now. Afterwards I enquired of the Popenkoffs' neighbours, and the information
I gathered fully confirmed my suspicions--that the unfortunate bird had
been put to death in a most barbarous manner. The deaths of the three
children laid to rest any doubt I may have had with regard to the
superphysical playing a part in the death of Marthe. Then when her
better-half had been served likewise, I was certain that all five
pseudo-murders were wholly and solely acts of retribution, and that they
were perpetrated--I am inclined to think involuntarily--by the spirit of
the owl itself. Accordingly, I decided to hold a séance here--here in
its old haunt, and if possible to put an end to the earth-bound
condition and wanderings of the soul of the unhappy bird. Thanks to
Father Mickledoff we have done so, and there will be no more so-called
murders near Orskaia." _Hauntings by the Phantasms of Birds_

One of the most curious cases of hauntings by the phantasms of birds
happened towards the end of the eighteenth century in a church not
twenty miles from London. The sexton started the rumours, declaring that
he had heard strange noises, apparently proceeding from certain vaults
containing the tombs of two old and distinguished families. The noises,
which generally occurred on Friday nights, most often took the form of
mockings, suggesting to some of the listeners--the enaction of a murder,
and to others merely the flapping of wings.