Winter rain. Rain of light that saturated every inch of my estate, every square inch of grass, drift of rain threading light through the empty darkness itself. I was weary of this night because I had met with such terrible misfortune not too long ago. All which apparently conspiring to heighten that superstitious melancholy that had seized upon my mansion. The more I thought, the more I was bewildered. Night passed on without rest. The sound of carriages broke upon my ear. The solemn tones of the old grandfather clock announced midnight—a strange death-like stillness pervades all nature all nature. Like the ominous calm which precedes some more than usually terrific outbreak of the elements, they seem to have paused in their ordinary fluctuations, to gather a terrific strength for the great effort. A faint pea of thunder now comes from far off. Like a signal gun for the battle of the winds to begin, it appeared to awaken them from their lethargy, and one awful, warring hurricane swept over a whole city, producing more devastation in the four or five minutes it lasted, than would half century of ordinary phenomena. Oh, how the storm raged! Hair—rain—wind. It was, in very truth, as awful night. There is an antique chamber in this ancient house. Curious and quaint carvings adorn the walls, and a large chimney-piece is a curiosity of itself. The ceiling is low, and a large bay window, from roof to floor, looks to the west. The window is latticed, and filled with curiously painted glass and rich stained pieces, which send in a strange, yet beautiful light, when sun or moon shines into the apartment. #RandolphHarris 1 of 5

There is but one portrait in that room, although the walls are panelled for the express purpose of containing a series of pictures. The portrait is of William, as a young man, with his handsome pale face, stately brow, and a whimsical look about the eyes. There is a stately bed in this chamber, of carved walnut-wood is it made, rich in design and elaborate inexecution; one of those works of art which owe their existence to the Elizabethan era. It is hung with heavy silken and damask furnishing; nodding feathers are at its corners—covered with dust are they, and they lend a funeral aspect to the room. The floor is of polished oak. God! how the hail dashes on the old bay window! Like an occasional discharge of mimic musketry, it comes clashing, beating, and cracking upon the small panes; but they resist it—their small size saves them; the wind, the hail, the rain, expend their fury in vain. The turmoil of the elements wakes the senses, although it cannot entirely break the repose they have lapsed into. Oh, what a World of witchery. Was that lightning? Yes—an awful, vivid, terrifying flash—then a roaring peal of thunder, as if a thousand mountains were rolling one over the other in the blue vault of Heaven! Who sleeps now in that ancient city? Not one living soul. The dread trumpet of eternity could not more effectually have awakened anyone. The hail continues. The wind continues. The uproar of the elements seems at its height. I lay in bed waiting for sleep to come. However, I lay for a long time and it came only reluctantly. #RandolphHarris 2 of 5

Rain continued to whicker and spat on my bedroom window. There was a skittering sound. It could have the claws of some capering demon. I sat upon my bed and pressed my hands upon my eyes. Heavens! what a wild torrent of wind, and rain, and hail! The thunder likewise seems intent upon awakening sufficient echoes to last until the next flash of forked lightening should again produce the wild concussion of the air. I murmured a prayer—a prayer for those I love best; the names of those dear to my gentle hear come from my lips; and I weep and pray; I think then of what devastation the storm must surely produce, and to the great God of Heaven I pray for all living things. Another flash—a wild, blue, bewildering flash of lightning streams across that bay window, for an instant brining out every color in it with terrible distinctness. A shriek bursts from my lips, and then, with my eyes fixed upon that window, which, in another moment, is all darkness, and with such an expression of terror upon my face as it had never before known, I trembled, and the perspiration of intense fear stood upon my brow. “What—what was it?” I gasped; “real, or delusion? Oh, God, there are people in the World with hunger for power and influence enough to risk dabbling in dark, cruel possibilities of magic. Particular locations could infect individual people with what society termed evil. Those people are random victims of contagion. However, I had seen real ghouls. Now, a figure tall and gaunt, endeavoring from the outside to unclasp the window. I saw it. That flash of lightning revealed it to me. It stood at the whole length of the window.” #RandolphHarris 3 of 5

There is a lull of the wind. The hail is not falling so thickly—moreover, it now fell, what there is of it, straight, and yet a strange clattering sound came upon the glass of that long window. It could not be a delusion—I am awake, and I hear it. What can produce it? Another flash of lightning—another shriek—there can be now no delusion. The house is uncomfortably cold. A tall figure is standing on the ledge immediately outside the long window. It is its finger-nails upon the glass that produces the sound so like the hail, now that the hail has ceased. Intense fear paralyzed my limbs. That one shrike is all I can utter—with hands clasped, a face of marble, a heart beating so wildly in my bosom, that it moment it seems as if it would break its confines, eyes distended and fixed upon the window, I wait, froze with horror. The pattering and clattering of the nails continue. No word is spoken. I fancy I can trace the darker form of that figure against the window, and I can see the long arms moving to and fro, feeling for some mode of entrance. What strange light is that which now gradually creeps up into the air? red and terrible—brighter and brighter it grows. The light has set fire to the water tower, and the reflection of the rapidly consuming building falls upon that long window. There can be no mistake. The figure is there, still feeling for an entrance, and clattering against the glass with its long nail, that appear as if the growth of many years had been untouched. I try to scream again but a chocking sensation comes over me, and I cannot. It is too dreadful—I try to move—each limb seems weighed down by tons of lead—I can but in a hoarse faint whisper cry,–“Help—help—help—help!” #RandolphHarris 4 of 5

Suddenly I was startled beyond belief when a small pane of glass is broken and the form from without introduces a long gaunt hand, which seems utterly destitute of flesh. The fastening is removed, and one-half of the window, which opens like folding doors, is swung wide open upon its hinges. My heart is running at that eternal rhythm, so many gradations. There is a look of terror upon my face, it is dreadful. The figure turns half rough, and the light falls upon the face. It is perfectly white—perfectly bloodless. The eyes look like polished tin; the lips are drawn back. It approaches the bed with a strange, gliding moment. It clashes together the long nails that literally appear to hand from the fingers. No sound comes from its lips. However, my eyes are fascinated. The glance of a serpent could not have produced a greater effect upon me than did the fixed gaze of those awful, metallic-looking eyes that were bent on my face. Crouching down so that the gigantic height was lost, and the horrible, protruding white face was the most prominent object, came on the figure. With a sudden rush that could not be foreseen—with a strange howling cry that was enough to awaken terror in every breast, the figure seized the long tresses of my hair, and twining them round his bony hands. I quivered with the agony of my soul. I crept into the Hall through the secret passage which led from the house to the Observational Tower. The house and the grounds were thoroughly searched, but the creature had vanished from the face of the Earth, all that was found was a clawlike finger nail. #RandolphHarris 5 of 5

The Winchester Mystery House

The tale of the man in the dark cloak is well known to the staff of The Winchester Mystery House. On November 23, at 5.30 p.m., a tour guide was locking up, when he saw the man across the courtyard. He was going into the East Wing in what he thought was a dark coat. Thinking that it was a visitor still looking round, he waited outside for five minutes for the man to finish his tour, but still there was no sign of him. The tour guide went into the east wing to see what he was doing, and he saw a malignant face peering down at him from the stairs. In the long darkness that followed—haunted he was by the ravaged face. Four years would pass before anything happened to disturb his melancholy conviction. 🎟️ Tickets on sale now at link in bio! https://winchestermysteryhouse.com/

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