Lompoc High School - La Purisima Yearbook (Lompoc, CA)

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On a nice, yet a little windy, day in the early spring of the year 1892, I had just procured a copy of a treatise on the supernatural, written by a monk of the 11th century. I was anxious to see what progress had been made at that early date toward the exploration of the supernatural world. He cited several cases of ghostliness, but the keynote of his work was the idea of the hand of man behind the phenomena. Then I confess, I agreed with him. I was settled deep in my arm-chair, enjoying my treasure, before a fire pre- pared for me by the landlady. I had prepared for a solid day's pleasure with this old monk, for it was Ash Wednesday, and the day had been declared a full holiday. The manuscript was growing particularly interesting. My old monk was in the midst of a recital of a rather interesting story telling of the ghost of Buckden, in West Riding, in York. It seems that it had inhabited the place from prehistoric times. This was the one case the monk could not explain. This so-called ghost was supposed to have appeared at irregular intervals, sometimes eighty years, and sometimes fifty. At these appearances, a member of a certain family either died a mysterious death or was murdered. The story of this spirit was guarded rather closely and hardly told outside the family upon whom this malignant phantom vented his wrath. He could in no way account for these occurrences. So, it was with a certain degree of impatience that I opened the door, after repeated knockings, about four o'clock in the afternoon. To my surprise, it was my friend, the dean. I explained my reluctance to admit him, but he seemed preoccupied. After being rid of his wraps, and seated in a chair near mine, he looked at me. and said, The ghost of Buckden has given his sign again. Now, the manner in which he said this was enough to cause cold chills to run up and down one's back. The expression of horror, the sound of it in his voice, the absentminded fidgeting, were enough to fascinate the listener and cause him to want to know the facts in the case, notwithstanding the evident horror of it. Here was my friend, not usually one to be frightened easily, horrified and fearful at the mention or thought of The Ghost of Buckden. I knew that he had come from Grassington, about ten miles from Buckden, but, as his name did not coincide with that given in the monk's tale, I could see no reason for his fear other than the natural sympathy of one neighbor for another. He presently roused himself and, without commenting, handed me a letter, or rather a note, scribbled on coarse, blue paper in black ink, in a small cramped hand of an old person. It read: Grassington, Feb. 20, 1892. My dear cousin: We have received another sign. I wonder who it will be this time. Martin. The dean was gazing across the room with an absolutely terrified look. I sat there contemplating for a few minutes when he shook his head, turned to me and said, My friend, evidently the meaning of this does not impress you. I should not have expected it to do so. For years, my family has been horrified by the death of one of us by some means for which we can in no way account. We would find a piece of paper with the solitary Greek letter Sigma. Within, sometimes fl few days, sometimes a month, one would be killed or die. The last appearance was in 1830, when my grandfather was murdered. They found him with a dagger stuck through a piece of paper with the Sigma on it, into his heart. 14-

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about a mile down the road from the Del la Guerda rancho. Before they had left the gate, however, they heard the shouts and hoarse cries of what they knew from past experience to be the bandits of Diaz. Before there was time to make any defense, the yard in back of the house was alive with the horses of the outlaws, and the rough, uncouth marauders had forced their way into the kitchen, where they laughingly overcame old Paquita, who was bravely defending her realm with a rolling pin and a barrage of kettles and pans. . During the uproar, Mercedes had seized the frightened child and, running to the little chapel at the end of the garden, had placed him under the little altar. Then she had returned to her mother to help in preparing the food the bandits were bawling for. Finally, when the thieves l1ad roared and eaten their content, they began to prowl about the place, stripping it systematically. At last one of them saw the light from the candles in the chapel shining on the garden path. Bueno',, he muttered, the Chapel. Here there should be rich choice. Raising his voice, he called to his comrades, Follow meghere is the chapel. This is the best furnished raneho we've found yet I As he neared the end of the path, his followers heard him catch his breath in a muttered, Sanctissima!,' And there he stood, rooted to the spot, in the little pathway. As the others caught up with him they, too, were awe-stricken, and the laughter died in their throats. For there in the doorway, with the light from the altar candles shining on his golden curls, stood little Pepito-a vision of the Christ-child. The sight of all the strange men had startled him, and unable to move he stood there, looking back at them silently. Madre de Dios, whispered the leader, this place is not for us. VVe go. And silently they turned, mounted, and rode away. Lothele Miller. THE SIGN OF THE RED LETTER My name is of little importance, but you may care to know that I am a professor of psychology in Durham University. From my professorial realm in the sciences, it is an easy step to the realm of the supernatural. And it is there that my hobby lies. My specialty being man's physical mind, it is indeed doubly interesting for me to observe the working of my mind when confronting what is said to be the supernatural. Now, I am not a spiritualist, nor do I really believe in supernatural manifestations. But, in justice to myself, I must say that I have stood ready to revise my beliefs when I receive what I consider to be convincing evidence of a preternatural appearance. My method of investigation is purely scientific, for I am in this to solve the problem without a doubt. I am a member of various societies for psychic research, and I have attained quite a bit of distinction by my studies of the miracu- lous. As I have stated, I was not a believer in the supernatural, but I must admit that my convictions are somewhat shaken by the events I am about to record. My hobby of investigating cases of so-called spookiness has made me the cause for a deal of humor here at the University, among my colleagues of less serious pursuits. But, among all my fellow faculty-members here at Durham, one alone shared my interest in the superhuman, and that one was the Dean of University College, a learned and fine man, who, I learned, came from Grassington, in York. He was headmaster of Bishop Hatfield's Hall when I came here fresh from Oxford. He befriended me a great dealg and, when he bceame dean and I the master of phychology, we were inseparable. Now to the story: 13

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The dagger was of a peculiar make with a straight blade, and a handle of some unknown substance. Into it was carved the Greek character. And now they have found another sign. I am going home, for it will get me if I am its object, even if I stay here. If you care to come along, you mayg for you may succeed where others have failed, in solving this mystery. - By this time my curiosity had been aroused suiiiciently to cause me to earnestly assure him of my desire to do so. So this is how it came about that I entered the home of my friend in York, on March 10, 1892. That date has been burned into my memory so that it can never be eradicated. The building had evidently been an immense manor-house in its better days. It was a fine brick building, immediately reminding one of the period of the Wars of the Roses. The left wing was used as the dwelling, the right wing not being in use. I met the family, consisting of the cousin who had written, Martin, a small, shrunken fellow, his wife, the same type as he, and their son, a stalwart fine young man. Any doubt which I had before my arrival, concerning this family Was dispelled by the cordiality with which they greeted us: and, after the dean had dispelledby the cordiality with which they greeted usg and, after the dean had assured them of the safety of telling everything before me, by their evident fear when they related what had happened. They brought the sign out and let me examine it. It was a piece of white paper, yellowed with age, with slightly frayed edges, with a Greek Sigma painted on it in brilliant red paint, apparently put on with a fine brush. It showed no watermark. I can not explain the feeling that came over me, when I held that paper, but I felt the strength of the danger of the force that had written it. I felt dis- tinctly relieved when I handed it to my friend. We walked until about ten o'clock when my friend and I retired to a room on the second floor. The room had two small, but comfortable beds, a table, two old-fashioned chairs, and a lamp. The floor had a carpet securely tacked down, there was but one window, which was securely shutteredg and the one door had two bolts and an inside lock on it. The ceiling was papered neatly. My friend took the inside bed and I took the one near the window. We securely bolted the door and window, and prepared for a night's rest. We lay there talking until about half-past two, for neither of us was sleepy. At exactly seventeen minutes to three, the house rocked violently, giving the effect of a bad earthquake. We lighted the lamp and went around the room, but nothing had been disturbed. When I went to set the lamp on the table, there was a paper, this time absolutely white, with a red Sigma on it. We could find no further changes in the room, so we put out the lamp and returned to our beds. A few minutes later a round red spot, about four feet across, shone on the floor. I spoke to my friend, and he said that he noticed it too. A short while later it moved to the window, where it stayed for about a minute and vanished as mysteriously as it appeared. During all this we kept talking. We heard a soft laugh near the door, but, on lighting the lamp, we saw nothing. I, indeed, felt that there was some malignant presence there in the room, but I dismissed this as foolishness. After this, after bidding my friend good-night and hearing a peaceful, steady breathing come from his bed, I dropped into the realms of Morpheus. I dreamed no dreams, and experienced a perfectly senseless sleep, such as that felt by one who has taken ether. My day of travel and mental fatigue had produced their effect on me. As nearly as I could tell it was about half-past seven when I awoke. I look- ed at my friendg he was lying flat on his back . It was not his position which excited my attention, but the expression of the face. His face was drawn in- 15