It may be—I do not say that it is—but it may be that it is as unreasonable to require a ghost to appear in an atmosphere of cold skepticism as to require a photograph to be developed in a blaze of sunlight. There is a stairway in the Winchester mansion that appears to lead to the ceiling and stop, but it does lead to somewhere. “This stairway,” Mrs. Winchester concluded, with the graceful movement of her arm, which seemed no less natural than the musical quaver in her tone—“this stairway leads to my son’s rooms.” For the first time in my brief experience of Mrs. Winchester the quiet serenity of expression which constituted one of the many charms of her beautiful face left it utterly. The large, deep brown eyes were visible to me now only through the screen of dropping lashes. The coils of her glorious brown hair were beneath my eyes. She had bent her heard with the manifest purpose of concealing some too poignant emotion. For the space of a minute I had to gaze vacantly at the sudden brownness of her smooth brow, the quick curl of her exquisite red lip. The change from the response of manner which made the mere presence of this lady soothing disconcerted me. I felt a sudden wonder that one so fair to behold should have remained a widow. Then I glanced over my shoulder at the stairway. Access to the wide flight of waxed wood steps was denied by a ceiling curiously at the top of the staircase. My eye followed the stairway to the ceiling. It was that of the top floor. Like everything connected with this Queen Anne Victorian mansion, the was mysterious and of a massive scale. They wound about the turn of the stairway at the top floor and were lost to view behind heavy green curtains of velvet. As I gazed curiously, I heard the notes of one of Beethoven’s most mystical compositions coming from the Grand Ball room. #RandolphHarris 1 of 18
My ears had but begun to drink in the rhythm when I experienced an uncanny shock of what I can only call suspicion. It was the sort of sensation I had had when, years before, I felt intuitively the presence of a person hiding in my room. The instinct had not misled me then. I was sure it did not mislead me now. There was no shadow of doubt in my mind that behind the curtain above us at the head of those stairs lurked an eavesdropper. There seems to linger in things material some trace of the personality of him or her by whose daily contact they once derived their atmosphere or their essence. I know not what term may best denote the subtle influence of the individual upon surrounding objects. A suggestion of it came vividly into my mind as my eye roved up the stair and was halted by the curtain. All objects here conveyed their messages as plainly as a whisper in the ear. The half light seemed charged with intimations of an unrevealed but not unsuspected presence. The very floor beneath my feet, like the ceiling overheard, was telling some story, and telling it in a way that thrilled. However, that lady at my side was moved, apparently, only by the music floating to us from behind the curtain. “That is William himself playing,” I heard her whisper. I withdrew my eyes from the stairway and gazed ne more at the widow’s pale face. Mrs. Winchester was always lovely to look upon, but each time she alluded to her son the light in her deep brown eyes made her seem young despite the wealth she had acquired. She withdrew noiselessly from the gate at the foot of the stairway, and I had no alternative but to follow. We were in the library below before she said another word. “You shall meet my son at dinner; that is, if he comes down to dinner.” She hesitated. Her soft hand clutched the handkerchief she held. “You will not mention that gate to my son?” #RandolphHarris 2 of 18
Her eyes framed a piteous appeal to me as she asked that. I bowed my head, fearing lest a word might wound her. “My son is a little—fanciful.” She brought out the last word by a visible effort. “No one goes to the top floor—not even myself—except the housekeeper.” I had no time to reply before she fled, leaving me to work among the books. Instead of delving at once among the mass of papers upon the library table, I mused for some minutes upon the mystery of the forbidden floor. I have never seen the young man who held such undisturbed possession there. My own connection with this household had begun only a day or two before. My presence in the mansion was due to the anxiety of Mrs. Winchester to give the World an authentic biography of her late distinguished husband. His career had been no less varied than it seemed brilliant. This splendour of his Civil War record and his presidency of the Winchester Repeating Arms Company caused his election to conspicuous public posts. He had served his native and in her diplomatic corps. Great financial enterprises owed their success to his administrative genius. One of his speeches was so perfect a specimen of a certain kind of oratory as to have found a place in the school readers. The widow of this brilliant man had been shocked by what he purported to be accurate versions of her husband’s career. These had been exploited in various periodicals and newspapers in a fashion calculated to discredit the motives of the dead man at one great crisis in the nation’s destiny. Mrs. Winchester burned to vindicate the good name of him whose memory was to her so sacred. The executors of her husband’s estate had made me a most flattering offer to undertake the task of a biographer. The prospect of a few months in the country amid surroundings so conducive to my personal comfort was too tempting to resist, quite apart from all considerations respecting the liberal stipend offered by the widow. #RandolphHarris 3 of 18
This was the second day of my residence in the Winchester mansion. I had no clue the character of the widow’s son. I gathered from the somewhat vague details supplied by the reticent lawyer who engaged me in the city that William Winchester II, was a gifted but somewhat fantastic young man, who wrote poetry and painted. From the elderly housekeeper who showed me to my room on the night of arrival, I derived the additional impression that he kept much to himself. It now appeared that he barred himself against intrusion behind a gate. For the extreme beauty of the widow, I had been totally unprepared. I had expected to find an ancient dame living in the past. I found, instead, a gracious lady, white-haired, to be sure, but seductive in the willowy lightness of her figure and irresistible through the fresh beauty of her face. It was time to dress for dinner when my preliminary inspection of the late president and general’s correspondence was completed. The intimacy of the relation revealed in the letters with men who have made our country’s history was astounding. It was obvious that a biograph of the eminent statesman would prove highly sensational, disclosing, as it must, unsuspected factors in the growth of our republic from an isolated nation to a position of supreme importance among the great powers of the World. One or two episodes of historical importance with which these letters were concerned made it imperative to consult not only the widow, but the son, before any details could be made public. I had not spent two hours in a study of the documents before me, yet I was already in possession of political secrets for which many a sensational publication would pay considerable sums. #RandolphHarris 4 of 18
My appreciation of this face made me a little uncomfortable. What if the facts now in my possession were disclosed prematurely through someone’s indiscretion? I might be accused of betraying a confidence. In much perplexity I restored the bundles of letter to the great desk at which I worked. I must consult the dead man’s son without delay. As I left the library for the dining room my ear caught the strains of music from the top of the house. I halted at the head of the stairs. The keys of a piano were evidently responding to the hand of a master. I could have listened for an hour. The air was quite unknow to me, although the rhythm vaguely suggested the Italian school. The thought flashed through my mind that I might be listening to one of the young man’s own compositions. In the event that, William Winchester II was a genius. My eye met that of the old house keeper. She stood mutely and with the rigidity of a statue, gazing down at my upturned face. I felt a moment’s annoyance. This old lady might be one of those disagreeable people whose aptitude for watching unobserved suggests a tendency to by sly. “Master William will not be down tonight, sir,” she said. Her tone was hushed. Her manner was respectful enough. I could not help thinking, as I studied her lined face, that she alone had access to the forbidden floor. With her last word she disappeared, and I went on down. Whatever intentions I had formed to discuss the matter perplexing me with Mrs. Winchester herself were foiled by the presence of guests. One of these was a graceful young lady, dark-eyed and tall with a becoming gravity of manner. The other was her father, a local judge, pompous and little, with that self-assertiveness which a career on the bench does so much to develop in a man. #RandolphHarris 5 of 18
“So you’re Mr. Axelrod, are you?” he snapped, seizing my hand. “Glad to meet you. I hope you’ll turn out a right account of my old friend, the Senator and President of Winchester Repeating arms.” With that he dropped my hand, or rather flung it from him. I was so extremely amused by his swelling port that I at once forgave the brusqueness of this little judge. One could have forgiven a man with such a daughter. Miss Parfrey soothed where her father ruffled. She deferred where he played bully. But she was hopelessly eclipsed by the dazzling beauty of the brown-haired woman. Mrs. Winchester wore a decollete dress of black and lace, which covered her all the way up to her neck down to her ankles. Her perfect arms were fluttering in motion. Her manifest regret at the absence of her son lent to the smile with which she favored us in turn an inexpressible melancholy that sweetened her face like a perfume. I understood that the judge was a widower. If he could be trying to court our hostess, I wondered. “So William won’t come down from the top of the house!” I heard the judge say as he finished his pot roast. “Gad! He’s behaving like his ancestress.” He looked about him at the rest of us while a broad grin creased his jowl on both sides. I had been exchanging ideas with Miss Parfery on the subject of Venice, but the loud tones in which His Honor proclaimed his impression challenged our attention. “His ancestress!” I repeated blankly, no one else having volunteered an observation. “His ancestress!” repeated Judge Parfrey, attacking the game just set in front of him. “She was to have been married from this very house to an officer of Washington’s army.” Mrs. Winchester proffered this observation in her musical tone. She had not shown much interest in the conversation until now. #RandolphHarris 6 of 18
“The Senator told me the story,” proceeded the judge. “The Revolutionary War was raging at that time.” I glanced at the countenance of Mrs. Winchester. A flushed which heightened her beauty a moment before had left her cheeks entirely. “Did the marriage of William’s ancestress take place?” she inquired faintly. “Gad, no!” cried the judge. “Her betrothed came to this very house a day or two before the wedding was to take place—” He hesitated. “And the British captured him?” I suggested. “They captured her,” replied the judge with a laugh. “Her lover caught her kissing Lord Cromwell’s aided-de-camp on the top floor.” “Then she married the Briton instead of the Yankee!” I made the observation as gaily as I could for the sake of lifting the pall which seemed to have dropped upon the subject. My effort was vain, for the retort of the judge seemed to extinguish us completely. “She married neither,” he said shortly. “Until the day of her death she never left that top floor.” I exchanged glances with Miss. Parfrey. Mrs. Winchester too a sip of coffee. The judge, unaware of the mischief he had done stuck to the theme all night. He was still pointing the moral of the legend when his car arrived to take him home. I heard him taking his noisy leave of his hostess at the door, his loud voice relieved at intervals by a brief remark from his daughter. In the matter of apparitions…popular and simple human testimony is of more considerable weight than is the purely scientific testimony. Mrs. Winchester was still very place when she came back to the dining-room. “I think I will say good night,” she observed faintly. I saw her clutch the back of the chair. In a moment I was at her side. “It is nothing,” I heard her cry. “I am afraid our conversation this evening upset you,” I ventured. However, she shook her head. “Arthur’s absence upset me.” I could just catch her whisper. “He seemed very much attached to her—once. Now he will not even come downstairs for a sight of her.” #RandolphHarris 7 of 18
I understood. I could only gaze in silent sympathy into her face. Then she extended her hand, bade me good night, and left the room. I lit a cigar and made my way to the library. It was close upon midnight as I sank into a great leather chair, yet the thought of bed made me restless. My purpose in coming to this house seemed defeated already. I smoked on in the darkness until I heard a clock behind me chime at the hour. The silver strokes beat the air one after another, until the toll of twelve reminded me that a new day was brining me a duty. I got upon my feet with a disconcerting sense that the location of the electric button that switched on the light was a mystery to be solved. I took a single step toward the window, when a moving something drew my eye to the great bookcase looming in the shadow against an opposite wall. Slowly and steadily the object grew luminous as I watched it. The wraith of a feminine form defined itself to my staring eyes with a loveliness so appealing that, in spite of the thrill, I felt at the root of each hair on my head I would not have sold the sight before me for a bag of gold. It is a mistake to think the giants rumored to lurk the halls of the Winchester mansion were all blood-sucking creatures as the causeway guides say, but, bare in mind they were in drink, were as peaceable as rabbits. I saw a pair of sloping shoulders beneath a firmly chiseled neck. I saw a rounded waist and a delicate hand pressed to a smooth cheek. The long robe forming the vestment of this apparition was twined about the curves of the figure after the fashion favored by all sculptors of Greek goddesses. Only the face was kept from me. I remained for the first few minutes of this experience as motionless as the fantom at which I stared. I did not stir until I saw it glide. The apparition darted and halted, darted and halted, making, it seemed, for the wide door at the extremity of the vast apartment. #RandolphHarris 8 of 18
As I kept pace with its advance I marveled at the ethereal grace revealed in every stage of this mute progress. The restless clock seemed eager to accompany us through the darkness, so quick was its ticking to my ear. I had never quivered with so icy a chill as now galvanized my limbs into a kind of movement so like that of this ghost before me that I seemed unearthly to myself. On, on we went, through the door and out upon the rug beyond. Not until the staircase halted the spectre for a moment did it turn. For the first time I looked into the face. Prepared though I was by the unspeakable perfection of form before me for a loveliness of feature which could alone accompany a presence so angelic, the countenance upon which I was allowed to gaze at last transformed me for the instant into a living statue. the chin, rounded with a beauty that told also of strength; the nose, straight, firm, positive, yet delicate, sensitive, tremulous; the brow, noble and serene—these details blended themselves into an expressiveness that caught its quality from a pair of eyes into which I could not look. They did not seem to evade me. The figure kept its gaze upon the floor. The light radiated from the eyes was that, I saw now, which lent its effulgence of the fantom. I realized by a species of intuition that one glance of these orbs meant the loss of consciousness for any upon whom it fell. No one could have endured the delicious shock of so much beauty. I followed to the very top of the next flight of stairs. The fantom climbed another storey, and on I stole. It made for the gated that afforded access to the forbidden floor. There it halted, and turned to beckon me. I saw the folds of its vesture broaden like a wide white wing as the moving arm it waved pointed on and upward. Then it climbed the stair. I was at the ceiling, too, now, and I could not open the door. An instant recollection of the mother’s warning words enabled me to take my eyes from the fantom for the first time. I could not go any further or search for a secret passageway without becoming guilty of a breach of trust. #RandolphHarris 9 of 18
Yet I could no more have gazed at all this grace and beauty, fantom and thing of shadow though it was, without slavish obedience to its least behest than Paris and the men on the walls of Troy could contemplate the loveliest of women without falling in homage at her feet. I put a hand to my brow as I stole guiltily down to the library with all the silence of the ghost I had just beheld. The spacious apartment allotted to me was directly off the library itself. I had but to grope my way to a corner familiar now and find my bed. I fell upon it like a log. The staring sun roused me with my clothes still on and the vapors of an indescribable intoxication in my head. I made haste to change my clothes. The water of my bath seemed oddly warm, although I took it cold. I was in the dining-room before it occurred to me to look at my watch. It was nearly noon. Master William still will not leave the top floor this day. As I passed Mrs. Winchester, the sweet widow was looking at her garden. “I was afraid you might grow fanciful after that anecdote the judge told us last night,” she began, as I crossed the parlor where she took. “Do you believe in Ghosts, Mr. Axelrod?” I gazed keenly into her eyes for a minute. She was smiling. “Do I look as if I had seen a ghost?” I put the question gaily, but I could feel the beating of my heart. “My family and my fortune are being haunted by spirits—in fact of American Indians, Civil War soldiers, and others killed by the Winchester riles. The untimely deaths of my daughter and husband were caused by these spirits, and some say I am the next victim. However, I have appeased the spirits by building a great mansion for them. As long as construction of my house never ceases, I can rest assured that my life will not be in danger. Building this house is even supposed to bring me eternal life. These spirits are a sort of heirloom.” #RandolphHarris 10 of 18
I could feel that thrill at the roots of my hair. “And what are these ghosts like?” “These ghosts can be friendly or not—but often show themselves in a variety of ways. They can become visible; they can speak or make noises, touch you or even emit an odor like perfume or cigar smoke, to let you know they are there. Sometimes there is a ghostly mist. The vaporous clouds usually appear several feet off the ground and can move swiftly or simply stay still—almost like it is orbiting. The noisy ghosts have the ability to move or knock things over, make noise and manipulate the physical environment. Sometimes I hear loud knocking sounds, lights turning on and off, door slamming, even fire breaking out mysteriously have all been attributed out to this type of a spiritual disturbance. These poltergeists become strong and dangerous. There are also orbs, they appear as a transparent or translucent ball of light that is hovering over the over the ground. It is believed that orbs are the soul of a human. This is what inspired the window I made. There are also ghosts that form cold spots and are kind of like a spiral of light. There are also demons in this mansion. They have powers to heal people who have been possessed and great supernatural abilities in exchange for worship and yielded service. However, if demon powers heal, they can also cause diseases. Their object is not to liberate the victim but to deceive and enslave him or her. They heal or cause sickness as it furthers their nefarious plans. What is more significant is that even when demons help heal physical diseases, they exact a price either in some type of occult oppression or psychic disturbance in their victim or by causing one to fall a prey to error. Demonic spirits always have Satan’s costly price tag attached to it. Once, I was overtaken by a witch doctor. He drew from a leather bag a bundle of papers on which were green and orange markings, an imitation of Arabic writing. He started to read to me from the book, and before I could stop him, he began nonsense reading in an ordinary voice. Then suddenly his voice changed. #RandolphHarris 11 of 18
“He was possessed, and I heard a demon through his lips telling me that I had a sick little girl in my house. (My daughter had been sick for several days after she was born, and as he was a total stranger it was unlikely that he would have heard it. Six weeks later she died,” said Mrs. Winchester. I withdrew to the library without even introducing the subject of that interview with William Winchester II for which I longed. He did not descend from the room above the stairs to the ceiling. I had the dining-room to myself that evening. Mrs. Winchester, or so the housekeeper said, was indisposed. As I seated myself in the library, after a solitary stroll through the shrubbery of the lawn, it occurred to me that, as the authorized biographer of the late General Winchester, I ought to look into his ancestry. It was an easy matter to find the family genealogy among the volumes on the well-stocked shelves. One county history dealt exclusively with the Winchester mansion in which I was now at work. The edifice was venerable—for America—and, inevitably, had served as the headquarters for spiritual séances. I was so deeply immersed in my historical reading as to let three full hours slip by. The stroke of twelve had caught me unawares. I thought of the night before and shivered. Then I switched off the light. The fantom arose from the ground at my very feet! Only the bell in the belfry of the dark mansion tolling reached my ear as I stood rigid in the fantom’s radiant presence. I gazed at the phantom. I was myself and not myself in feeling weirdly, supernaturally energized. The incompleteness of my life was extinguished in the full tide of a holier love than mortals have thrilled to. In the inspiring presence of this wraith, I felt capable of that faith which moves mountains. #RandolphHarris 12 of 18
The fleshly and the spiritual ceased to contend as I contemplated with reverence with the haunting sweetness before me. I could have conquered the World, founded empires—then I became the greatest of poets, endowed with a genius breathed into me by this irresistible ghost. There surged through me all imaginable ecstasies, glorious powers, finer perceptions than ever mortal had. I understood in a flash whatever in my past had baffled me with the mystery of the Winchester House. Strains of exquisite much floated through the mansion. One does not see a ghost, but surrenders to it as the wax yield to the flame. The occult subjection that results is from dabbling with occult literature. Magic is of a demonic character no matter under what name it is known. It is obvious that there is no mathematical proof that either God or the devil exist. Nevertheless there are many things that point to this demonic nature. The simple principal of cause and effect is hardly ever evident in a tangible enough form to prove by law that magic is the root case of some offence or crime, but also some very beautiful things. I did not come out of this trance until a movement of the fantom intimated subtly to me that I was to emerge from its enchantment. I grew aware that I was following the vision once again through the portal. The transcendent object of my infatuation conducted me straight to the forbidden floor. I was favored as before with its beauteous gesture. No thought of the ban so recently placed upon my presence here was in mind, even had I left any power to oppose my mortal will to this immortal spirit. I followed in unceasingly, unquestioningly. There was no physical obstacle to my progress anywhere. The mahogany entry affording access to the room above the stairs to the ceiling had been thrown open. #RandolphHarris 13 of 18
I set foot boldly upon the lowest step of the stair. The first contact seemed to afford me a definite sensation of personality in the very air. I can liken this feeling only to that bitter blast, the vague uneasiness, which is said to disseminate itself through the night as some vast iceberg skirts the coast of San Francisco. I had caught a chill, and I shivered. Nor for an instant did I halt. The stairway did not creak. By the time I had set foot upon its summit I was thrilling to some excitation, breathing in impressions like those one derives from moving passages of poetry or strong scenes in a play. I touched the wall only to find my feelings keener, my sensitiveness to the stimulation increased. All material objects exhaled the mystery stamped upon them by a person or an event in times past of which I was now absorbing impressions. I did not feel that murder had been done here. The tragedy was all of the heart, of the grief of a soul, of the perpetual and impotent longing of one who, loving, poured out an agony of sorrow to walls that caught the mood. The heart that had been crushed was a woman’s. This message, too, I was given by the impregnated air. The curtain at the summit of the stairway was pushed aside as if by a breath from some other World. I had attained a great quadrangular vestibule, tenantless except for the apparition and myself. The ghost, preceding me at an interval of some feet, was kneeling beside a wide window through which the warm night air came gently. I beheld a mass of the flowers in a vase upon a carved mahogany table with marble on its surface. I became conscious of the softness of Persian rugs beneath my feet. I moved as silently as the thing I followed. No attitude could express the forlornness of an indomitable grief more appealingly than that of the kneeling fantom. Magnetized by an attraction that made me daring, I touched the shoulder of the ghost. #RandolphHarris 14 of 18
The whiteness of one arm extended itself to my face. Slowly the vision grew toward me, folding itself closely about my neck and breast until the ghost literally rested in my arms. I could not see the features of my beloved as her unreal lips sought mine. I could not feel the long tresses I tried to stroke. I spoke no word as I vowed to cherish her in the World and prayed for death that I might be with her in the next. The mental and psychic damage done to me as a result of occultism was immense. I was infected by occultism. The time has passed in which witches and magicians were either burned or stoned to death. We must remember that magic itself is not to be understood by our five senses alone for it is rather a metaphysical and religious and extrasensory phenomenon. The tired moon that drooped prettily in the sky had sent a curious beam down here. My eye, habituated more and more to the sweet obscurity, caught now a sharper outline of the vase filled with flowers. The heavy table showed its carved proportions less reservedly. A mahogany chair, resisting as a sleeping monster might rest, upon the floor entered the enlarging field of my vision. The impression made by all these upon my spirits was one of personality radiating palpably from them. Not, indeed, that the objects had themselves this quality. I mean no more than that they emitted or effected suggestions of a personality with which they had been formerly in intimate contact. The darkness of that apartment, pierced by the beams from the window, seemed laden with such revelations. The great chair told of one who has reposed, and reposed gracefully, in its arms. The vase betrayed a secret it had caught concerning her who once delighted in its shapeliness. #RandolphHarris 15 of 18
Every emanation from the things around me was of evil purport. I was being warned. “And you will cherish me forever, beloved?” How I understood that she had put this question I can never tell. The words were not spoken. The language was not Earthly. A something within registered the appeal and responded to it. I told of my own unworthiness to be made the object of a celestial passion. I confessed my longing to reach the confines of the Universe in some high quest of a Holy Grail for her sake. I received the outpouring of her passionate regret that in an Earthly form years before she had cherished thoughts gross and material, the memory of which left her too sullied for the purity of my faith in her now. And her fantom arms were wreathed about my neck still, and her bowed head pillowed itself against me, and she quivered with ecstasies of which I partook as a leaf rises and falls with the breeze of a summer’s day. And her fantom arms were wreathed about my neck still, and her bowed head pillowed itself against me, and she quivered with ecstasies of which I partook as a leaf rises and falls with the breeze of a summer’s day. I besought her now to look into my eyes. I saw her head denying that petition. I received some mysterious intimation that the meeting of our gaze must entail an indescribable fatality, not to her but to me. I conveyed my sense of joy in such a circumstance. Here was the proof of my devotion awaiting her acceptance. Let me but gaze into those eyes and I would wander forever through the Universe a blissful spirit. However, she only kept her face buried upon my shoulder and held my head with her arms. I had begun a more impassioned plea when she rushed from my embrace, reeling to the window. I saw her fall upon her knees cowering. She covered her face with one hand, while, extending the other, she pointed to some object behind me. I turned and beheld—William Wirt Winchester II! #RandolphHarris 16 of 18
There was no mistaking those eyes, that slight forehead, the delicacy of each refined feature. He was his father’s son. For a terrible moment he and I glared into each other’s faces. I saw him raise an arm. He rushed forward. I threw myself between him and the fantom, but when I directed my gaze to its refuge the object of my infatuation had disappeared. The next moment William Winchester II had me by the throat. Then consciousness left me, but not for long. I was prone upon the floor when my senses returned and the arm of William Winchester II was about my head. “I saw her with you!” He spoke in the musical accents of his own mother, but grief never found utterance so wild. His tone was a revelation. I cried my reply with the voice of a man in panic. “She made your vows of an eternal love and you pledged yours in return.” He bowed his head once more. I realized the sense of betrayal that tortured him. The ghost had proved unfaithful. I was torn with his own jealously, but he proved to me that his ordeal had been worse than mine. “I saw her with you!” he said. “One torture has been spared you. You never saw her when her gaze rested upon—me!” I hated him for a second time. Then I conquered my worst self and pitied him. He had removed his arm from my head and was assisting me to my feet. “We shall never see her again.” It was I who said this. He buried his face in his hands. “She was too timid,” he murmured faintly, “to let us look into her eyes.” The question elicited from me by this remark led to further revelations. He, too, had held mysterious communion with the infatuating wraith; had confessed a longing to reach the confined of the Universe for her sake. To him, too, she had professed regret that in an Earthly form years before her thoughts were gross and material. #RandolphHarris 17 of 18
It is conceivable that emotions generated by a passed and passing life may be conditioned by the state of mind at dissolution. The living and the dying set up vibrations in the emotional atmosphere. These continue in agitation. The place grows haunted. An appropriate or corresponding vibration can alone can alone break the spell. When that meets this, the suspended chord is complete and comes to a full close. Or, an emotional scene which has translated itself, so to speak, into terms of a material plane can, like music in a phonograph, retranslate itself back again. I felt now that I had the clue to my ghost. The lady in seclusion on the forbidden floor so long ago had been true to her lover—in her fashion. He had, indeed, surprised her in the arms of another. It was a sentimental accident in her life. She was denied the opportunity to explain. She was possibly the victim of a man’s sudden impulse. My own infatuation with the rare and beauteous spirit had led me far. In any event the longing of the human soul to be understood—the craving of this lady to vindicate herself—persisted while she lived. It was her most vehement desire as she passed away. The very walls, the chair she sat in, the vase in which she arranged her daily nosegay, grew sick with this discarded lady’s longing. If telepathy from living mind to living mind is a force so mighty as to covey a visual image from Santa Clara to Oakland, is it not perfectly conceivable that a telepathic force which has been stored there by the terrific emotional impulse of original crimes—may be powerful enough to produce a visual image? It was so with me. I did not cease my scrutiny of the countenance of William Wirt Winchester II as these thoughts ran riot in my head. His mind was too manifestly overwhelmed by the shock it had sustained. He paled slightly and spoke at last in lone tones. “I have nothing to live for.” #RandolphHarris 18 of 18
I am enitrely convinced of the existence of the Spiritual World–that there are real intelligences in that World, and that it is possible for them under certain circumstances to communicate with this World.
Summer is *almost* here and it’s getting quite warm at the Winchester Estate! Have you ever experienced the house in the summertime?
Randolph Harris II International Institute 