The Brother's Return; Or, Some Hatreds Never Die

Poltergeist events are irritating, disruptive, even terrifying events.  However, they are not usually dangerous, or even obviously malevolent.  One notable exception to this general paranormal rule was related by one “W.K.B” in the “Occult Review” for July 1908.  It stands out as one of the most sinister polt cases I’ve ever come across.

The site for our little tale was a modest house in Cavnakirk, a “townland” (a small geographical division of land) in the North of Ireland.  The cottage was occupied by a farmer named George Wilson and his sister, whose name was not given in the narrative.  They had a younger brother, but after feuding with his sister over some unrecorded matter, he moved permanently to Canada, ceasing all contact with his siblings.

One June evening, George came home from a long day of working his few acres of land.  He tied his two or three cows in their byre [cowshed] just behind his house.  On his way to the kitchen, he passed by his sister, who was heading to the byre to do the milking.  As George sat eating his supper, he could see his sister as she sat milking.  It was a pleasant, peaceful scene in the summer twilight.  He could hear her singing as the soft hisses of milk filled the pail.  Then, out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw a dark, indistinct figure dart across the yard.  It left his sight before he could determine its size or shape.  A second later, George heard his sister scream.  As he dashed into the yard, he heard her struggling and panting.

When George reached the byre, he was stunned to see his sister slumped against the wall.  Her face was black, her eyes were bulging, and her hands were at her throat, desperately clawing at some invisible force that was choking the life from her.  As George entered the byre, the pressure on her throat suddenly eased, leaving her gasping for breath.  It wasn’t until an hour later that she recovered enough to be able to speak.

She said that as she was milking, she noticed what seemed to be their younger brother moving across the yard.  Before she could react, the figure--now “dim and shadowy”--lunged at her, closing its fingers around her neck.  She could see the shadowy arms, and feel the fingers strangling her, but when she tried grabbing at the figure, her hands felt nothing solid.  When George rushed in, the figure let her go, and glided out the way it had come.  Before the figure left, it turned and gave her a look of pure malevolence.  She was certain it was the face of their younger brother.  The poor woman was, understandably enough, left in a state of terror, but after the night and the following day passed without incident, she had recovered her equilibrium enough to tell herself that what she had experienced was just the product of her imagination.

That evening, George and his sister retired to bed early, hoping for a well-earned restful night.  However, as soon as night fell, they heard a dreadful din coming from the kitchen.  As soon as George rose and lit a candle, the noises ceased, but when he returned to bed, they started up again, not stopping until dawn.

The siblings--now thoroughly convinced something not-of-this-world was going on--shared their problem with neighbors, several of whom offered to spend the night at their house.  As they all sat in the kitchen, all was quiet, so George suggested that they all go to bed.  As soon as they put out the light and closed the door behind them, they heard a terrible crash in the kitchen.  When they investigated, there was no sign of any disturbance.  Once they left the room, there was another violent crash.  Again, the noises kept going until daybreak.

George and his sister were frantic.  Each night, their cottage was filled with a din which made it impossible to get any rest, and nothing they tried seemed able to rid them of this furious and hateful spirit.  Finally, they appealed to one Richard Robinson, a man who was known throughout the region for his complete fearlessness.  He was a believer in the supernatural, but as he was also a deeply religious man, he felt that ghosts and devils and suchlike had no power over him.  When the Wilsons contacted him to do battle with their invisible foe, he was happy to help.  Some time later, Robinson told “W.K.B.” what happened next:

“It was about nine o'clock on a July evening when I started up the hills for Wilson's place. I had taken the precaution of carrying this sword with me”--here he used to display a long blade of Spanish manufacture--"and I was determined should the ghost appear that I would try the temper of the edge on it. When I reached Wilson's, I found the brother and sister there; the girl wanted to leave, but I insisted that she should remain, and about eleven o'clock I proposed that we should lie down. Previous to this I had examined the house inside and out. I had tried the windows, looked under the beds, and now I locked and bolted the door, raked the fire, and followed the Wilsons to the room. Here we sat for some time; but as everything remained quiet, I made the brother and sister lie down on the bed without undressing, and placing a lighted candle on a table I drew up a chair to the bedside and sat down, with my head resting on the bed. Presently I grew sleepy, and turning round I blew out the candle, and I was just dropping asleep when a scream from the girl made me leap to my feet. ‘There he is!' she exclaimed, and at that moment there was a crash as if a heavy weight had been flung across the room. Nothing moved, but a moment later a chair at the foot of the bed was thrown down. I sprang to the place, but there was nothing there, but another scream from the girl made me turn round, and I saw that the bed was heaving as if some person beneath was pressing it upward. Seizing the sword I flung myself on the floor and cut right and left beneath the bed; the heaving and pitching ceased, but a chair at the opposite side of the room was flung down. Then there was silence for a moment and I rose to my feet, and as I did so the chair I had just risen from was thrown against the door, and a moment later the bed began to heave again. Again I cut beneath it and the moving ceased, but the racket with the chairs began again. I moved to the table and lit the candle. Instantly everything was quiet, but a little later the tongs were flung violently across the kitchen. I rushed down, but the place was empty, but another scream from the girl brought me back to the room, and I found her lying trembling with fear, while the cold sweat streamed down her face. In reply to my questions she said that the moment I left the room a shadowy figure leaped on the bed, and made as though it would have gripped her by the throat. Her brother could see nothing, but he felt the pressure on the bed, and at the first gleam of the candle it was gone.

“I placed the candle on the table and sat down again by the bedside. I sat there for nearly an hour, but everything was quiet both in room and kitchen. Again I blew out the light, but the silence was unbroken. I was beginning to think that the ghost or whatever it was had gone, when I felt a sharp blow against my chair, and the next moment I felt the bed rise up under my arm. That there might be no mistake I flung myself face downwards on the bed, then seizing the sword I cut up and down beneath it, but the pressure still continued. I could hear the cracking of wood as the slats beneath were forced out of place, and dropping to the floor I crawled beneath the bed, cutting to right and left, but save when I struck the posts of the bed the sword touched nothing solid. I crawled out again, and instantly the heaving of the bed ceased, but a moment later there was a crash from the kitchen. Sword in hand, I rushed down, but the moon was shining brightly through the window and the place was empty.

“Soon after this the sounds ceased. There was a crack outside as if a stone had been flung against the byre door, but this was the last, and the rest of the night passed quietly enough.”

When autumn arrived with no sign of this supernatural persecution slowing down, the Wilsons gave up.  They sold off all their effects, and reportedly emigrated to America, where hopefully they managed to elude their spectral tormentor.  The Wilson farm was bought by a neighbor, but the house remained unoccupied.  Some years later, the new owner tried using the cottage as a stable, but the following morning, he found it was empty.  The mare who had been locked up in it overnight was found in a distant field, trembling and covered with a cold sweat.  The owner wisely took the hint and demolished the house.

There is nothing more to add to this story, except that shortly before the Wilsons abandoned their home, they received a letter from Canada, informing them that their brother was dead.  He died on the same day that his apparition very nearly fatally strangled his sister.