The Death Bogle Of The Cross Roads And The Inextinguishable Candle Of The Old White House Pitlochry

Several years ago, bent on revisiting Perthshire, a locality which had

great attractions for me as a boy, I answered an advertisement in a

popular ladies' weekly. As far as I can recollect, it was somewhat to

this effect: Comfortable home offered to a gentleman (a bachelor) at

moderate terms in an elderly Highland lady's house at Pitlochry. Must

be a strict teetotaller and non-smoker. F.M., Box so-and-so.

The naivete and originality of the advertisement pleased me. The idea

of obtaining as a boarder a young man combining such virtues as

abstinence from alcohol and tobacco amused me vastly. And then a

bachelor, too! Did she mean to make love to him herself? The sly old

thing! She took care to insert the epithet elderly, in order to

avoid suspicion; and there was no doubt about it--she thirsted for

matrimony. Being tabooed by all the men who had even as much as

caught a passing glimpse of her, this was her last resource--she would

entrap some unwary stranger, a man with money of course, and inveigle

him into marrying her. And there rose up before me visions of a tall,

angular, forty-year-old Scottish spinster, with high cheek-bones,

virulent, sandy hair, and brawny arms--the sort of woman that ought

not to have been a woman at all--the sort that sets all my teeth on

edge. Yet it was Pitlochry, heavenly Pitlochry, and there was no one

else advertising in that town. That I should suit her in every respect

but the matrimonial, I did not doubt. I can pass muster in any company

as a teetotaller; I abominate tobacco (leastways it abominates me,

which amounts to much about the same thing), and I am, or rather I can

be, tolerably amenable, if my surroundings are not positively

infernal, and there are no County Council children within shooting


But for once my instincts were all wrong. The advertiser--a Miss Flora

Macdonald of Donald Murray House--did not resemble my

preconception of her in any respect. She was of medium height, and

dainty build--a fairy-like creature clad in rustling silks, with wavy,

white hair, bright, blue eyes, straight, delicate features, and hands,

the shape and slenderness of which at once pronounced her a psychic.

She greeted me with all the stately courtesy of the Old School; my

portmanteau was taken upstairs by a solemn-eyed lad in the Macdonald

tartan; and the tea bell rang me down to a most appetising repast of

strawberries and cream, scones, and delicious buttered toast. I fell

in love with my hostess--it would be sheer sacrilege to designate such

a divine creature by the vulgar term of landlady--at once. When

one's impressions of a place are at first exalted, they are often,

later on, apt to become equally abased. In this case, however, it was

otherwise. My appreciation both of Miss Flora Macdonald and of her

house daily increased. The food was all that could be desired, and my

bedroom, sweet with the perfume of jasmine and roses, presented such

a picture of dainty cleanliness, as awakened in me feelings of shame,

that it should be defiled by all my dusty, travel-worn accoutrements.

I flatter myself that Miss Macdonald liked me also. That she did not

regard me altogether as one of the common herd was doubtless, in some

degree, due to the fact that she was a Jacobite; and in a discussion

on the associations of her romantic namesake, Flora Macdonald, with

Perthshire, it leaked out that our respective ancestors had commanded

battalions in Louis XIV.'s far-famed Scottish and Irish Brigades. That

discovery bridged gulfs. We were no longer payer and paid--we were

friends--friends for life.

A lump comes into my throat as I pen these words, for it is only a

short time since I heard of her death.

A week or so after I had settled in her home, I took, at her

suggestion, a rest (and, I quite agree with her, it was a very

necessary rest) from my writing, and spent the day on Loch Tay,

leaving again for Donald Murray House at seven o'clock in the

evening. It was a brilliant, moonlight night. Not a cloud in the sky,

and the landscape stood out almost as clearly as in the daytime. I

cycled, and after a hard but thoroughly enjoyable spell of pedalling,

eventually came to a standstill on the high road, a mile or two from

the first lights of Pitlochry. I halted, not through fatigue, for I

was almost as fresh as when I started, but because I was entranced

with the delightful atmosphere, and wanted to draw in a few really

deep draughts of it before turning into bed. My halting-place was on a

triangular plot of grass at the junction of four roads. I propped my

machine against a hedge, and stood with my back leaning against a

sign-post, and my face in the direction whence I had come. I remained

in this attitude for some minutes, probably ten, and was about to

remount my bicycle, when I suddenly became icy cold, and a frightful,

hideous terror seized and gripped me so hard, that the machine,

slipping from my palsied hands, fell to the ground with a crash. The

next instant something--for the life of me I knew not what, its

outline was so blurred and indefinite--alighted on the open space in

front of me with a soft thud, and remained standing as bolt upright

as a cylindrical pillar. From afar off, there then came the low rumble

of wheels, which momentarily grew in intensity, until there thundered

into view a waggon, weighed down beneath a monstrous stack of hay, on

the top of which sat a man in a wide-brimmed straw hat, engaged in a

deep confabulation with a boy in corduroys who sprawled beside him.

The horse, catching sight of the motionless thing opposite me, at

once stood still and snorted violently. The man cried out, Hey! hey!

What's the matter with ye, beast? And then in an hysterical kind of

screech, Great God! What's yon figure that I see? What's yon figure,


The boy immediately raised himself into a kneeling position, and,

clutching hold of the man's arm, screamed, I dinna ken, I dinna ken,

Matthew; but take heed, mon, it does na touch me. It's me it's come

after, na ye.

The moonlight was so strong that the faces of the speakers were

revealed to me with extraordinary vividness, and their horrified

expressions were even more startling than was the silent, ghastly

figure of the Unknown. The scene comes back to me, here, in my little

room in Norwood, with its every detail as clearly marked as on the

night it was first enacted. The long range of cone-shaped mountains,

darkly silhouetted against the silvery sky, and seemingly hushed in

gaping expectancy; the shining, scaly surface of some far-off tarn or

river, perceptible only at intervals, owing to the thick clusters of

gently nodding pines; the white-washed walls of cottages, glistening

amid the dark green denseness of the thickly leaved box trees, and the

light, feathery foliage of the golden laburnum; the undulating

meadows, besprinkled with gorse and grotesquely moulded crags of

granite; the white, the dazzling white roads, saturated with

moonbeams; all--all were overwhelmed with stillness--the stillness

that belongs, and belongs only, to the mountains, and trees, and

plains--the stillness of shadowland. I even counted the buttons, the

horn buttons, on the rustics' coats--one was missing from the man's,

two from the boy's; and I even noted the sweat-stains under the

armpits of Matthew's shirt, and the dents and tears in Tammas's soft

wideawake. I observed all these trivialities and more besides. I saw

the abrupt rising and falling of the man's chest as his breath came in

sharp jerks; the stream of dirty saliva that oozed from between his

blackberry-stained lips and dribbled down his chin; I saw their

hands--the man's, square-fingered, black-nailed, big-veined, shining

with perspiration and clutching grimly at the reins; the boy's,

smaller, and if anything rather more grimy--the one pressed flat down

on the hay, the other extended in front of him, the palm stretched

outwards and all the fingers widely apart.

And while these minute particulars were being driven into my soul, the

cause of it all--the indefinable, esoteric column--stood silent and

motionless over-against the hedge, a baleful glow emanating from it.

The horse suddenly broke the spell. Dashing its head forward, it broke

off at a gallop, and, tearing frantically past the phantasm, went

helter-skelter down the road to my left. I then saw Tammas turning a

somersault, miraculously saved from falling head first on to the

road, by rebounding from the pitchfork which had been wedged upright

in the hay, whilst the figure, which followed in their wake with

prodigious bounds, was apparently trying to get at him with its

spidery arms. But whether it succeeded or not I cannot say, for I was

so uncontrollably fearful lest it should return to me, that I mounted

my bicycle and rode as I had never ridden before and have never ridden


I described the incident to Miss Macdonald on my return. She looked

very serious.

It was stupid of me not to have warned you, she said. That that

particular spot in the road has always--at least ever since I can

remember--borne the reputation of being haunted. None of the peasants

round here will venture within a mile of it after twilight, so the

carters you saw must have been strangers. No one has ever seen the

ghost except in the misty form in which it appeared to you. It does

not frequent the place every night; it only appears periodically; and

its method never varies. It leaps over a wall or hedge, remains

stationary till some one approaches, and then pursues them with

monstrous springs. The person it touches invariably dies within a

year. I well recollect when I was in my teens, on just such a night as

this, driving home with my father from Lady Colin Ferner's croquet

party at Blair Atholl. When we got to the spot you name, the horse

shied, and before I could realise what had happened, we were racing

home at a terrific pace. My father and I sat in front, and the groom,

a Highland boy from the valley of Ben-y-gloe, behind. Never having

seen my father frightened, his agitation now alarmed me horribly, and

the more so as my instinct told me it was caused by something other

than the mere bolting of the horse. I was soon enlightened. A gigantic

figure, with leaps and bounds, suddenly overtook us, and, thrusting

out its long, thin arms, touched my father lightly on the hand, and

then with a harsh cry, more like that of some strange animal than that

of a human being, disappeared. Neither of us spoke till we reached

home,--I did not live here then, but in a house on the other side of

Pitlochry,--when my father, who was still as white as a sheet, took me

aside and whispered, 'Whatever you do, Flora, don't breathe a word of

what has happened to your mother, and never let her go along that road

at night. It was the death bogle. I shall die within twelve months.'

And he did.

Miss Macdonald paused. A brief silence ensued, and she then went on

with all her customary briskness: I cannot describe the thing any

more than you can, except that it gave me the impression it had no

eyes. But what it was, whether the ghost of a man, woman, or some

peculiar beast, I could not, for the life of me, tell. Now, Mr.

O'Donnell, have you had enough horrors for one evening, or would you

like to hear just one more?

Knowing that sleep was utterly out of the question, and that one or

two more thrills would make very little difference to my already

shattered nerves, I replied that I would listen eagerly to anything

she could tell me, however horrible. My permission thus gained--and

gained so readily--Miss Macdonald, not without, I noticed, one or two

apprehensive glances at the slightly rustling curtains, began her

narrative, which ran, as nearly as I can remember, as follows:--

After my father's death, I told my mother about our adventure the

night we drove home from Lady Colin Ferner's party, and asked her if

she remembered ever having heard anything that could possibly account

for the phenomenon. After a few moments' reflection, this is the story

she told me:--

The Dead Valley The Deserted House facebooktwittergoogle_plusredditpinterestlinkedinmail