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 A Terrifying Ghost Story

OT LONG AGO, I was stopping at an old castle in the northern part of Scotland—that land of mystic-minded people—and a certain tower in this castle, somewhat older than the other portions of the building, had for centuries been known by both the inmates and the villagers to be inhabited by ghosts.

There was an old tapestried room in this tower which had not been touched or slept in within the memory of the place. However, my love of and interest in the supernatural was so strongly implanted in my nature that I implored my hostess, Lady Garvent, to allow me to sleep in this ancient tapestried room for one night at least. Accordingly, the valet transferred my baggage, shortly after my arrival that afternoon, to the apartment in the tower.

It was a typical Scottish winter’s night, the rain coming in driven gusts against the panes, with a howling wind with a scream in it like the voice of some unhappy Banshee, and occasionally a storm of sleet driving against the windows like the rattle of artillery. Round the big fire of logs in the hall we gathered cosily, the more content to be ensconced warmly indoors for hearing the war of the elements without.

My hostess expressed herself as only too pleased to be able to give me a night in the company of the family ghosts,



who had, happily, always confined themselves strictly to the room in the tower. The conversation drifted to the weird and the supernatural, and we all started to recount ghost stories that had come Rh