The Elliott O’Donnell Supernatural Megapack

by Elliott O'Donnell

  “‘Of course there were,’ I said—for I verily believed, O’Donnell, fear had, for the time being, turned her brain.

  “On our way home she suddenly called my attention to Eric.

  “‘Charlie,’ she cried, ‘what’s that mark on his cheek? He’s hurt!’

  “I looked—and my heart turned sick within me. On the boy’s cheek was a faint red scratch, just as might have been caused by a slight, very slight contact with some animal’s claw.

  “‘Sahib!’ Cushai whispered to me, when he saw it and heard of our adventure. ‘Sahib! Beware! Nahra was a clever man. He must have used the spirit of the white tiger as his tool. Let the medicine man examine the scar.’

  “I did so. I took Eric to a Dr. Nicholson, who lived close by.

  “He looked at the wound curiously for a few moments, and then said to me—he was renowned for his plain speaking—‘Mr. De Silva, there’s no use beating about the bush, and prolonging the agony unnecessarily for you and your wife. The boy’s got leprosy—God alone knows how! At the most he may live six weeks.’

  “The shock, of course, was terrible. Eric had to be isolated from everyone—even from those who loved him best—and died within a month.

  “‘Sahib, I knew!’ Cushai said to me the day of the funeral, ‘I knew some disaster would befall you. Nahra was a wonderful man, and his curse had to be fulfilled. You may rest assured, however, nothing further will befall you, for I saw Nahra in a vision this morning, and he told me both his and the white tiger’s spirit were now on friendly terms, and would trouble you no more.’

  “My wife and I left the place at once, and for a long time I lived in a hell of suspense lest she should develop the infernal disease. By a merciful providence, however, she did no such thing, but, on the contrary, picked up in health in the most marvellous fashion; indeed, she only told me yesterday, she felt better than she had done for years. I’ve told you the story, O’Donnell—and it is true in every detail—because it goes a long way to substantiate your theory that animals, as well as human beings, have a future life.”

  “I am absolutely sure they have!” I replied.

  Jungle Animals and Psychic Faculties

  It is, of course, impossible to say whether animals of the jungle possess psychic faculties, without putting them to the test, and this, for obvious reasons, is extremely difficult. But since I have found that such properties are possessed—in varying degree—by all animals I have tested, it seems only too probable that bears and tigers, and all beasts of prey, are similarly endowed.

  It would be interesting to experiment with a beast of prey in a haunted locality; to observe to what extent it would be aware of the advent of the Unknown, and to note its behaviour in the actual presence of the phenomena.

  ANIMAL GHOSTS, PART III

  BIRDS AND THE UNKNOWN

  CHAPTER VII

  BIRDS AND THE UNKNOWN

  As Edgar Allan Poe has suggested in his immortal poem of “The Raven,” there is a strong link between certain species of birds and the Unknown.

  We all know that vultures, kites and crows scent dead bodies from a great way off, but we don’t all know that these and other kinds of birds possess, in addition, the psychic property of scenting the advent not only of the phantom of death, but of many, if not, indeed, all other spirits. Within my knowledge there have been cases when, before a death in the house, ravens, jackdaws, canaries, magpies, and even parrots, have shown unmistakable signs of uneasiness and distress. The raven has croaked in a high-pitched, abnormal key; the jackdaw and canary have become silent and dejected, from time to time shivering; the magpie even has feigned death; the parrot has shrieked incessantly. Owls, too, are sure predictors of death, and may be heard hooting in the most doleful manner outside the house of anyone doomed to die shortly.

  In an article entitled “Psychic Records,” the editor of the Occult Review (in the August number, 1905) supplies the following anecdotes of ghosts of birds furnished him by his correspondents.

  “In the autumn of 1877 my husband was lying seriously ill with rheumatic fever, and I had sat up several nights. At last the doctors insisted on my going to bed; and very unwillingly I retired to a spare room. While undressing I was surprised to see a very large white bird come from the fireplace, make a hovering circle round me, and finally go to the top of a large double chest of drawers. I was too tired to trouble about it, and thought I would let it remain until morning. The next morning I said to the housemaid:

  “‘There was a large bird in the spare room last night, which flew to the top of the drawers. See that it is put out.’

  “The nurse, who was present, said:

  “‘Oh, dear, ma’am, I am afraid that is an omen, and means the master won’t live,’ and she was confirmed in her opinion by the maid saying she had searched, and there was no trace of any bird.

  “I was quite angry, as my husband was decidedly better, had slept through the night, and we thought the crisis had passed. I went to his bedside and found him quietly sleeping, but he never woke, and in about an hour passed quietly away.

  “I thought no more of the bird, fancying I must have been mistaken from being overtired.

  “Some months after my husband’s death my youngest little one was born; he lived for twelve months, and then had an attack of bronchitis. He slept in a cot in my room, and I was undressing one night, when this same large white bird came from his cot, floated round me, and disappeared in the fireplace. At the time I did not for a moment think of it as anything but a strange coincidence, and in no way connected it with baby’s illness.

  “The next morning I was sitting by the drawing-room fire with baby on my lap. The doctor came in, looked at him, sounded his chest, and pronounced him much better. As he was a friend of the family, he sat down on the other side of the fireplace and was chatting in an ordinary way, when he suddenly jumped up with an exclamation, ‘Why, what does this mean?’ and took the child from my arms quite dead!

  “For two years we saw nothing more of the white bird, and we had moved to another place.

  “One day I was in my room, and my two little girls, aged six and eight, were standing at the window watching a kitten in the garden, when suddenly the youngest cried out:

  “‘Oh, mamma! Look at that great white bird,’ putting her hands as if to catch it, exactly in the way it flies round one.

  “I saw nothing, and the elder child said, ‘Don’t be silly, Jessie; there is no bird.’

  “‘But there is,’ said the child. ‘Don’t you see? There, look! There it is!’

  “I looked at my watch. It was twenty minutes past three.

  “Two days after we received the news that a niece of mine had died at twenty minutes past three. The children had never known anything of the former appearances, as we had never talked about it before them. We have seen nothing since of the bird, but have for some years had no death in the family.”

  So runs the article in the Occult Review, and I can corroborate it with similar experiences that have happened to my friends and to me.

  Some years ago, for instance, a great friend of my wife’s died, and on the day of the funeral a large bird tried to fly in at the window of the room where the corpse lay; while, shortly afterwards, an exactly similar bird visited the window of my wife’s and my room in a house, several hundreds of miles away. If it was only a coincidence, it was a very extraordinary one.

  Then again, this spring, just before the death of one of my wife’s relatives, a large bird flew violently against the window-pane behind which my wife was sitting—an incident that had never happened to her in that house before.

  Undoubtedly, spirits in the guise of birds—most probably they are the phantasms of birds that have actually once lived on the material plane—are the messengers of death.

  A Case of Bird haunting in
East Russia

  Some years ago the neighbourhood of Orskaia, in East Russia, was roused by an affair of a very remarkable nature. The body of a handsome young peasant woman, called Marthe Popenkoff, was found in a lonely part of the road, between Orskaia and Orenburg, with the skin of her face and body shockingly torn and lacerated, but without there being any wounds deep enough to cause her death, which the doctor attributed to syncope.

  The people of Orskaia, not satisfied with this verdict, declared Marthe had been murdered, and made such a loud clamour that the editor of the local paper at last voiced their sentiments in the East Russia Chronicle. It was then that M. Durant, a smart young French engineer, temporarily residing in those parts, became interested in the case, and decided to investigate it thoroughly. With this end in view he wrote to his friend M. Hersant—a keen student of the Occult—in Saratova, to join him, and three days after the despatch of his letter met the latter at the Orskaia railway station. M. Durant retailed the case as they drove to his house.

  “It is a remarkable affair, in every way,” he said. “The woman was leading a perfectly respectable married life; she was hard-working and industrious, and beyond the fact that she was over-indulgent to her children, does not seem to have had any serious faults. As far as I can ascertain she had no enemies.”

  “Nor secret lovers?” M. Hersant asked.

  “No; she was quite straight.”

  “And you feel sure she was murdered?”

  “I do. Public opinion so strongly favours that view.”

  “Did you see the marks on the woman?”

  “I did, and could make nothing of them. After supper I will take you to see her, in the morgue.”

  “What—she is still unburied?”

  “Yes—but there is nothing unusual about that. In these parts bodies are often kept for ten days—sometimes even longer.”

  M. Durant was as good as his word; after they had partaken of a somewhat hasty meal, they set out to the morgue, where they made a careful inspection of the poor woman’s remains.

  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 b
etter-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.

  The case soon attracted considerable attention, people flocking to the church from all over the country-side, and it was not long before certain persons came forward and declared they had ascertained the cause of the disturbance. The churchwarden, sexton, and his wife and others all swore to seeing a huge crow pecking and clawing at the coffins in the vaults, and flying about the chancel of the church, and perching on the communion rails. When they tried to seize it, it immediately vanished.

  An old lady, who came of a family of well-to-do yeomen, and who lived near the church about that time, said that the people in the town had for many years been convinced the church there was haunted by the phantom of a bird, which they believed to be the earth-bound soul of a murderer, who, owing to his wealth, was interred in the churchyard, instead of being buried at the cross-roads with the customary wooden stake driven through the middle of his body. This belief of the yokels received some corroboration from a neighbouring squire, who said he had seen the phantasm, and was quite positive it was the earth-bound soul of a criminal whose family history was known to him, and whose remains lay in the churchyard.