Chapter 1

St Andrews
Ghost Stories

BY
W. T. LINSKILL
(Dean of Guild).

_FOURTH EDITION._

There are ghosts and phantoms round us,
On the mountains, on the sea;
Some are cold and some are clammy,
Some are hot as hot can be.
They can creep, and crawl, and hover,
And can howl, and shriek, and wail,
And those who want to hear of them
Must read this little tale.

W. T. L.

J. & G. INNES, _St Andrews Citizen_ Office.
1921.

DEDICATED TO MY OLD FRIENDS, JOHN L. LOW AND CHARLES BLAIR MACDONALD.

CONTENTS.

PAGE.

THE BECKONING MONK, 1

THE HAUNTINGS AND MYSTERIES OF LAUSDREE CASTLE, 7

A HAUNTED MANOR HOUSE AND THE DUEL AT ST ANDREWS, 15

THE APPARITION OF THE PRIOR OF PITTENWEEM, 21

A TRUE TALE OF THE PHANTOM COACH, 27

THE VEILED NUN OF ST LEONARDS, 31

THE MONK OF ST RULE’S TOWER, 35

RELATED BY CAPTAIN CHESTER, 39

THE SCREAMING SKULL OF GREYFRIARS, 44

THE SPECTRE OF THE CASTLE, 49

THE SMOTHERED PIPER OF THE WEST CLIFFS, 55

THE BEAUTIFUL WHITE LADY OF THE HAUNTED TOWER, 59

CONCERNING MORE APPEARANCES OF THE WHITE LADY, 62

A SPIRITUALISTIC SEANCE, 66

THE APPARITION OF SIR RODGER DE WANKLYN, 70

THE BEWITCHED ERMENTRUDE, 75

A VERY PECULIAR HOUSE. 80

The Beckoning Monk.

Many years ago, about the time of the Tay Bridge gale, I was staying at
Edinburgh with a friend of mine, an actor manager. I had just come down
from the paint-room of the theatre, and was emerging from the stage-door,
when I encountered Miss Elsie H⸺, a then well-known actress.

“You are just the very person I wanted to meet,” she said. “Allow me to
introduce you to my friend, Mr Spencer Ashton. He’s not an actor, he’s an
artist, and he’s got such a queer, queer story about ghosts and things
near your beloved St Andrews.”

I bowed to Mr Ashton, who was a quiet-looking man, pale and thin, rather
like a benevolent animated hairpin. He reminded me somehow of Fred Vokes.
We shook hands warmly.

“Yes,” he said, “my story sounds like fiction, but it is a fact, as I can
prove. It is rather long, but it may possibly interest you. Where could
we foregather?”

“Come and dine with me at the Edinburgh Hotel to-night at eight. I’ll get
a private room,” I said.

“Right oh!” said he, and we parted.

That evening at eight o’clock we met at the old Edinburgh Hotel (now no
longer in existence), and after dinner he told me his very remarkable
tale.

“Some years ago,” he said, “I was staying in a small coast town in Fife,
not very far from St Andrews. I was painting some quaint houses and
things of the sort that tickled my fancy at the time, and I was very much
amused and excited by some of the bogie tales told me by the fisher folk.
One story particularly interested me.”

“And what was that?” I asked.

“Well, it was about a strange, dwarfish, old man, who, they swore, was
constantly wandering about among the rocks at nightfall; a queer, uncanny
creature, they said, who was ‘aye beckoning to them,’ and who was never
seen or known in the daylight. I heard so much at various times and from
various people about this old man that I resolved to look for him and see
what his game really was. I went down to the beach times without number,
but saw nothing worse than myself, and I was almost giving the job up as
hopeless, when one night ‘I struck oil,’ as the Yankees would say.”

“Good,” I said, “let me hear.”

“It was after dusk,” he proceeded, “very rough and windy, but with a
feeble moon peeping out at times between the racing clouds. I was alone
on the beach. Next moment I was _not_ alone.”

“Not alone,” I remarked. “Who was there?”

“Certainly not alone,” said Ashton. “About three yards from me stood a
quaint, short, shrivelled, old creature. At that time the comic opera
of ‘Pinafore’ was new to the stage-loving world, and this strange being
resembled the character of ‘Dick Deadeye’ in that piece. But this old man
was much uglier and more repulsive. He wore a tattered monk’s robe, had a
fringe of black hair, heavy black eyebrows, very protruding teeth, and a
pale, pointed, unshaven chin. Moreover, he possessed only one eye, which
was large and telescopic looking.”

“What a horrid brute,” I said.

“Oh! he wasn’t half so bad after all,” said Ashton, “though his
appearance was certainly against him. He kept beckoning to me with a
pale, withered hand, continually muttering, ‘Come.’ I felt compelled to
follow him, and follow him I did.”

I lit up another pipe and listened intently.

“He took me,” resumed Ashton, “into a natural cave, a cleft in the rocks,
and we went stumbling over the rocks and stones, and splashing into
pools. At least I did. He seemed to get along all right. At the far end
of this clammy cave, a very narrow staircase, cut out of solid rock,
ascended abruptly about twenty or thirty steps, then turned a corner and
descended again into a large passage. Then a mighty queer thing happened.”

“What might that be?” I enquired.

“Well, my guide somehow or other suddenly became possessed of a huge
great candlestick with a lighted candle in it, about three feet high,
which lit up the vaulted passage.

“‘We now stand in the monk’s sub-way,’ he said.

“‘Indeed, and who may you be? Are you a man or a ghost?’

“The queer figure turned. ‘I am human,’ he said, ‘do not fear me. I
_was_ a monk years ago, now I am reincarnate—time and space are nothing
whatever to me. I only arrived a short while ago from Naples to meet you
here.’”

“Good heavens, Ashton,” I said, “is this all true?”

“Absolutely true, my dear fellow,” said Ashton. “I was in my sound
senses, not hypnotised or anything of that sort, I assure you. On and
on we went, the little man with his big candle leading the way, and I
following. Two or three times the sub-way narrowed, and we had a tight
squeeze to get through, I can tell you.”

“What a rum place,” I interjected.

“Yes, it was that,” said Ashton, “but it got still rummer as we went
up and down more stairs, and then popped through a hole into a lower
gallery, and I noticed side passages branching off in several different
directions.

“‘Walk carefully and look where you tread,’ said my monkish guide. ‘There
are pitfalls here; be very wary.’

“Then I noticed at my feet a deep, rock-hewn pit about two feet wide
right across the passage. ‘What is that for?’ I asked. ‘To trap intruders
and enemies,’ said the little monk. ‘_Look down._’ I did so, and I saw at
the bottom, in a pool of water, a whitened skull and a number of bones.
We passed four or five such shafts in our progress.”

“’Pon my word, this beats me altogether,” I interpolated.

“It would have beaten me altogether if I had fallen into one of those
traps,” said Ashton. “Suddenly the close, damp, fungus sort of air
changed and I smelt a sweet fragrant odour. ‘I smell incense,’ I said to
the monk.

“‘It is the wraith, or ghost, of a smell,’ he said. ‘There has been no
incense hereaway since 1546. There are ghosts of sounds and smells,
just as there are ghosts of people. We are here surrounded by spirits,
but they are transparent, and you cannot see them unless they are
materialised, but you can feel them.’

“‘Hush, hark!’ said the monk, and then I heard a muffled sound of most
beautiful chiming bells, the like I never heard before.

“‘What is that?’

“‘The old bells of St Andrews Cathedral. That is the ghost of sounds long
ago ceased,’ and the monk muttered some Latin. Then all of a sudden I
heard very beautiful chanting for a moment or more, then it died away.

“‘That is the long dead choir of monks chanting vespers,’ remarked my
guide, sadly.

“At this period the monk and I entered a large, rock-hewn chamber, wide
and lofty. In it there were numerous huge old iron clamped chests of
different sizes and shapes.

“‘These,’ said the monk, ‘are packed full of treasures, jewels, and
vestments. They will be needed again some day. Above us _now_ there are
ploughed fields, but long ago right over our heads there existed a church
and monastery to which these things belonged.’ He pointed with a skinny
claw of a hand to one corner of the chamber. ‘There,’ he said, ‘is the
staircase that once led to the church above.’”

Ashton stopped and lit a cigar, then resumed.

“Well, on we went again, turning, twisting, going up steps, round
corners, through more holes, and stepping over pitfall shafts. It was a
loathsome and gruesome place.

“Out of a side passage I saw a female figure glide quickly along. She was
dressed as a bride for a wedding; then she disappeared.

“‘Fear not,’ said the monk, ‘that is Mirren of Hepburn’s Tower, the White
Lady, she can materialise herself and appear when she chooses, but she is
not reincarnate as I am.’

“Well, after we had gone on it seemed for hours, as I have described, the
monk paused.

“‘I fear I must leave you,’ he said, suddenly. ‘I am wanted. Before I go,
take this,’ and he placed in my hand a tiny gold cup delicately chased;
‘it is a talisman and will bring you good luck always,’ he said. ‘Keep
it safe, I may never see you again here, but do not forget.’

“Then I was alone in black darkness. He and his candle had vanished in a
second. Quite alone in that awful prison, heaven only knows how far below
the ground, I could never have gone back, and I feared to go forward. I
was entombed in a worse place than the Roman Catacombs, with no hope of
rescue, as it was unknown and forgotten by all.”

“What a fearful position to be in,” I said.

“I should think it was,” said Ashton. “The awful horror of it I can
never forget as long as I live. I was absolutely powerless and helpless.
I had lost my nerve, and I screamed aloud in an agony of mind. I had
some matches, and these I used at rare intervals, crawling carefully and
feeling my way along the slimy floor of the passage. I had a terrible
feeling, too, that something intangible, but horrible, was crawling along
after me and stopping when I stopped. I heard it breathing. I struck a
match, and it was lucky, for I just missed another of those pitfalls. By
the light of the match I saw a small shrine in an alcove which had once
been handsomely ornamented. My progress forward was suddenly stopped by
a gruesome procession of skeleton monks all in white. They crossed the
main sub-way from one side passage and entered another. Their heads were
all grinning skulls, and in their long bony fingers they bore enormous
candles, which illuminated the passage with a feeble blue glare.”

“It’s awful,” I remarked.

“On, and on, I slowly went. It seemed hours and hours. I was exhausted
and hungry and thirsty. After a time I passed through open oak
nail-studded doors that were rotting on their hinges, and then—_then_, I
saw a _sight so horrible_ that I would never mention it to anyone. I dare
not, I may know its meaning some day—I hope so—”

“What on earth was it?” I inquired eagerly.

“For heaven’s sake let me go on and do not ask about it,” said Ashton,
turning ghastly pale. “The horror of the whole thing so upset me that
my foot slipped, and I fell down what seemed to be a steep stairway.
As I struck the bottom I felt my left wrist snap, and I fainted. When
I regained my senses for a brief moment, I found that the White Lady,
bearing a taper, was bending kindly over me. She had a lovely face, but
as pale as white marble. She laid an icy cold hand on my hot brow, and
then all was darkness again.

“Now listen! Next time I came to myself and opened my eyes I was out of
the accursed passage. I saw the sky and the stars, and I felt a fresh
breeze blowing. Oh! joy, I was back on the earth again, that I knew. I
staggered feebly to my feet, and where on earth do you think I found I
had been lying?”

“I cannot guess,” I said.

“Just inside the archway of the old Pends gateway at St Andrews,” said
Ashton.

“How on earth did you get there?”

“Heaven knows,” said Ashton, “I expect the White Lady helped me somehow.
It all seemed like a fearful nightmare, but I had the gold cup in my
pocket and my broken wrist to bear testimony to what I had gone through.
To make a long story short, I went home to my people, where I lay for six
long weeks suffering from brain fever and shock. I always carry the cup
with me. I am not superstitious; but it brings me good luck _always_.”

Ashton showed me the monk’s gold cup. It was a beautiful little relic.

“Did you ever examine the place where you entered the passage?” I asked.

“Oh, yes,” he replied, “I went there some years afterwards and found the
cave, but it has all fallen in now.”

“By Jove! It’s very late, thanks for the dinner, I must be off. Good
night.”

I lit a pipe and pondered over that curious story. The entrance to the
passage in the cave has fallen in; the exit from it in St Andrews is
unknown to Ashton—only the White Lady knows.

On the whole, the story is wrapped in mystery, and does not help one much
to unravel the wonders that lie in underground St Andrews. We may know
some day or never.

The Hauntings and Mysteries of Lausdree Castle.

It is many years ago since I was on a walking tour in the Highlands,
far to the north of Bonnie Glenshee; and when on the moorlands I was
overtaken, for my sins, by a regular American snowstorm—a genuine
blissard of the most pronounced type. I struggled along as well as I
could for some considerable time, and then I became aware that someone
was beside me. It was a young Highland lassie with a plaid over her head.
I was pleased to learn from her that her name was “Jean,” that she was
the niece of a neighbouring innkeeper, and that she would speedily convey
me to his haven of rest. We trudged along in the blinding snow without
a word, and I was more than thankful to the lassie when I at last found
myself out of the snow in a nice little sanded parlour with a glorious
fire of peat and logs blazing on the hospitable hearth. A glass of
something hot, brought by mine host, was most welcome.

I found there was one other storm-stayed traveller in the wee house, an
old family butler, whose name I discovered was Jeremiah Anklebone. He had
been on a visit to relations in the North, and had been caught in the
snow like myself. We were both thankful to find such a warm, cosy shanty
on such an inclement evening, and, to use a Scots term, we foregathered
at the ingle inside.

He asked me if I knew much about spirits, to which I replied that I had
just had a glass, but he at once explained that although not averse to
toddy, he alluded to spirits of another nature, viz., ghosts, banshees,
boggards, and the like.

I told him I had frequently been in so-called haunted places in various
countries, but had never seen or heard anything except owls, bats, rats,
or mice.

He ventured the remark I had often heard before, that I could not be
receptive, and I told him I was thankful that I was not.

He was a fine old fellow, an ideal family butler, and doubtless the
recipient of many family secrets. He had big mutton-chop whiskers and a
bald head, and looked as if he had served turtle soup all his life; but
it was _not_ soup he was soaked with—he seemed fairly saturated with
spook lore. He informed me, quite calmly, that he was gifted with the
remarkable faculty of seeing apparitions, demons, etc.

I could not help remarking that it seemed a very unpleasant faculty to
possess, but he quite differed with me, and got as warm as his toddy
on the subject. I shall not in a hurry forget that wild evening in the
Highland inn before that blazing fire, or the wonderful narrations I
heard from Butler Anklebone. Space precludes me from putting down here
_all_ the marvels he revealed to me.

It seemed all his life—he was 62—he had been gasping like a fish on a
river’s bank to get into a really well-haunted house, but had utterly
failed till he took the post of head butler at Lausdree Castle, which he
informed me was but a short distance from St Andrews. He gave me a most
tremendous description of the old castle, and from his account it seemed
to be the asylum and gathering place of _all_ the bogies in Britain
and elsewhere. Congregated together there were the Ice Maid, the Brown
Lady, a headless man, a cauld lad, a black maiden, the Flaming Ghost,
the Wandering Monk, a ghost called Silky, auld Martha, a radiant bay, an
iron knight, a creeping ghost, jumping Jock, old No-legs, Great Eyes,
a talking dog, the Corbie Craw, a floating head, a dead hand, bleeding
footprints, and many other curious creatures far too numerous to mention.

The Castle, he said, was full of uncouth and most peculiar sights and
sounds, including rappings, hammerings, shrieks, groans, crashings,
wailings, and the like.

“What a remarkable place,” I said to Mr Butler Anklebone, “and how do you
account for so many spectres in so limited an area?”

“Oh! there is no time or space for them,” he said, “they are earth-bound
spirits, and can go from one part of the globe to another in a second;
but they have their favourite haunts and meeting places just as we folks
have, and Lausdree seems to appeal to their varied tastes.”

He then went on to tell me some details of the Haunted Castle. “There are
supposed to be,” he said, “beneath the Castle splendid old apartments,
dungeons, winding passages, and cellars; but history states that any
of those persons who tried to investigate these mysteries _returned no
more_, so the entrances were walled up and are now completely lost sight
of.

“There is a built-up chamber, but no one durst open it, the penalty being
total blindness or death, and such cases are on record. There is also a
coffin room shaped exactly like its name; but one of the queerest places
at Lausdree is a small apartment with a weird light of its own. At night
this room can be seen from the old garden, showing a pale, uncanny,
phosphorescent glow.

“Mr Snaggers—that’s the footman—and I unlocked the door and examined the
place carefully. There is a table, a sofa, and a few old chairs therein,
and an all-pervading sickly light equally diffused. The furniture throws
no shadows whatever. The room seemed very chilly, and there was a feeling
as if all one’s vitality was being sucked out of one’s body, and drawing
one’s breath caused pain. Snaggers felt the same. No one could live long
in that eerie apartment. I know we were glad to lock it up again.

“Then there is a spiral stair, called ‘Meg’s Leg.’ I don’t know the
legend, but almost every night one hears her leg stumping up these steps.”

“What a creepy place it must be, to be sure,” I murmured, gravely.

“Yes!” said Anklebone, “and I tell you sir, Snaggers and I generally
arranged to go up to bed together; one always felt there was something
coming up the stairs behind one. When a person stopped, it stopped also,
and one could hear it breathing and panting, but nothing was to be seen.
Snaggers said one night when the candle went out he saw monstrous red
eyes, but I saw nothing then. The creeping creature I only saw twice,
it was like an enormous toad on spider’s legs. They say it has a human
head and face, but I only saw its back. Some folks say it is alive and
not a ghost, and that it hides somewhere in the cellars, but we never
could get a trace of it. One night I was going down to the service room
when my way was barred by a ghastly, tall figure, with great holes where
eyes should have been, so I just shut my eyes and rushed through it
downstairs. When I got down, I found all my clothes were covered with a
vile, sickly-smelling sticky sort of oil, and I had to destroy them all.”

“Go on, please,” I said, “you astonish me vastly.”

“Yes,” he said slowly, “it’s all very queer. Lausdree is haunted and
no mistake. Snaggers and I shared the same room. One night a great
blood-stained hand and arm came round the corner of the bed curtain and
tried to grab me. It was dead ice-cold too. Then a thing, an invisible
thing, used to patter into the room, puffing and groaning, and get under
the bed and heave it up, but we looked and there was never anything
there, and the door locked too. We saw a great black corkscrew thing one
night fall from the ceiling on to the floor and disappear, and then there
was a mighty rush along the passage. Outside the door a great crash,
a yell, and a groan dying away far below. There was a humorous spirit
also, the Iron Knight. We called him ‘Uncle.’ He was up to tricks. We
didn’t mind him. When the fat cook was sitting down to a meal, he’d pull
back her chair, and down she would come with a rare crash. If any of the
maids upset a tray of tea-things, or fell downstairs with the kettle, or
knocked over the great urn, they used to say—‘Oh! That’s Uncle again!’”

I told him (Mr Anklebone) that I was delighted there was a touch of
comedy in such a gruesome place, as I preferred comedians to ghosts any
day. One thing I learnt from his story, and that was, that if he was
head butler at Lausdree Castle, the head ghost was Sir Guy Ravelstocke,
whose portrait still hung in the old picture gallery. The Castle dated
back to Norman times, but about 1457 it fell into the hands of this
Sir Guy Ravelstocke, who had been educated at the “Stadium Generale,”
or University of Saint Andrews. He and his two friends, Geoffrey De
Beaumanoir and Roger Le Courville, held high revel and carnival in the
old halls of Lausdree, and were the terror of the whole countryside.
Sir Guy was a dissolute fellow, a gambler, and everything else bad. The
neighbours alleged that he had sold himself to Old Nick. He would spill
blood as if it was water, and he and his white steed, “Nogo,” were well
known all over Fife and the Lothians. He was held to be a free-booter, a
wizard and a warlock, a highwayman, a pirate, and a general desperado. He
had slain many men in mortal combat, and was found invulnerable.

“He must have been a sort of Michael Scott of Balwearie,” I remarked.

“He must have been a holy terror,” said the butler. “I’ve seen him often,
exactly like his portrait in the picture gallery. I’ve seen him in his
old-world dress with his sword hanging at his side, sometimes on his
white horse and sometimes on foot.

“There were always terrible knockings, shrieks, and crashes before he
appeared, and all our dogs showed the greatest terror. I slept in an old
four-poster bed, and he used to draw aside the curtain and glare at me
constantly. He nearly always was accompanied by the spectre of a negro
carrying his head under his arm. Sir Guy was a great traveller in foreign
lands, and, I have been told, used to bring back all sorts of curious
animals and insects with him. Perhaps that great toad thing I saw was one
of the creatures. I’ve heard toads live for ages.”

I said I believed that was quite true.

“I found a queer place one day,” said Anklebone. “I was going up the
turret staircase, and found some of the steps moved back. I got Mr
Snaggers and Darkgood, the gardener, and we tugged them out. We called
the master, and then we found narrow steps going down to a locked door.
We forced it open, and got into a stone chamber. There were skulls and
bones all over the place. Most of them belonged to animals, but there was
a horrible thing on the floor, a sort of mummified vampire bat, with huge
teeth and enormous outstretched wings, like thick parchment, and four
legs. Perhaps it was a regular vampire. They fanned folks to sleep with
their great wings, and then sucked their blood dry. We cleared out the
room, and buried all the things in a wood.

“Now,” said Anklebone, “I will tell you the end of Sir Guy Ravelstocke.
He brought back with him from them foreign parts a nigger servant, and
they called him the ‘Apostle.’ Well, one night,” continued Anklebone, “he
and his chums were dining, and full of wine, and the ‘A—Postal’ offended
them somehow, and Sir Guy stabbed him. Then they chained his hands and
feet together, took him to the dungeon, and filled his mouth, nose, and
ears full of clay and left him. That is the nigger ghost I saw always
with Sir Guy—the murdered negro.

“About two years after, Sir Guy and his friends were in the same room
drinking when there came a great hammering at the Castle door. Sir Guy
drew his sword, flung open the door, and plunged out into the darkness. A
few moments passed then his friends rushed out on hearing wild unearthly
shrieks, but there was no Sir Guy to be seen, he had totally disappeared,
and was never heard of or seen in life again. We found his remains three
years ago, but I will tell you of that directly. One day Snaggers and I
had gone to St Andrews to buy things. We were just at the end of South
Street when a horseman dashed past us at full gallop. ‘Heavens,’ said
Snaggers, ‘it’s Sir Guy as I live.’ He went bang into the big iron gates
at the Cathedral. When we came up the great gates were locked, and there
was Sir Guy leaning up against the west gable scowling at us, but the
white horse had gone, and he melted away as we looked. I saw him again
with the negro at Magus Muir, and alone one dark night in North Street.

“I was alone one evening in the room below the banquet hall at Lausdree
and heard a pattering on the table. On looking up I saw a stain in the
ceiling, and drops of blood were dropping down on the table and the
floor. The room above was the very place where the negro was stabbed.
Next morning we went into the room where I saw the blood drip, and there
was the mark of a bloody hand on the table, but no stain on the roof.

“Now for the discovery. I had often dreamed about an old overgrown well
there was in the gardens, and felt very suspicious of what might be
therein. Then the gardener and the woodman told me they had frequently
seen the awful spectre of Sir Guy and the ‘Apostle’ hovering round about
the thicket that enclosed what was known as the haunted well, and then
vanish in the brushwood without disturbing it. I felt sure that there lay
the mystery of Sir Guy Ravelstocke. This idea was soon after confirmed
by a curious occurrence. One morning Snaggers was dusting an old oil
painting over the huge mantelpiece, and above the weeping stone in the
great hall, when somehow or other he contrived to touch a secret spring
and the painting flew back, open in its frame, and revealed a chamber
beyond.

“We sent for master, and got down by some steps into the room. Such a
queer place! It was octagonal in shape, and there had been either a great
fire or an explosion there. The vaulted stone roof and floor were all
blackened and cracked, and the fireplace and wood-panelling were all
burnt and charred.”

“Perhaps the chapel,” I remarked.

“That is what master said,” replied the butler, “and there were remains
of burnt tapestry, charred wood, and documents all over the stone floor.
Master got one piece of burnt paper with faded writing on it in some
foreign tongue. The odd thing was the big picture. The eyes were sort of
convex-like, and two holes were bored in the pupil of each of its eyes,
so that anyone standing up on top of the stone stairs could see all that
took place in the great hall below, and hear also.

“Master took the piece of parchment and managed to make out a few words.
They were—‘I am sure that Ravelstocke lies in the old Prior’s Well,
with the dead nigger servant we placed there.