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

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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

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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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tensely, so that at the first glance, I hardly believed it was he. His mouth was open as if crying out, and his lips were a livid purplish-blue, the color of cold lips, and, in spots, were speckled in red. But the thing that fixed my attention was his gaze, a horrified, terrorized look. He heemed to be seeing something which absolutely possessed his faculties. He was looking intensely up through space toward the ceiling. The intensity of his gaze caused my eyes to turn unconsciously to see what he was looking at, and it was then that I received my greatest surprise. For, there on the yellowed ceiling paper, was a red letter, Sigma It was put on with some substance that was neither paint nor ink, for the paper was not stained with the oil nor did the color run on the porous paper. There was nothing else there. I got up and went to call the family, when I saw that the door was locked. I went to the window and it, too, was cecurely barred. I got the key off of the table, from the same place it was placed the night before. I opened the door and called Martin, who came up and looked at the dean. His face showed that he expected something like this to happen. We got the doctor from the town, and he examined the body in the presence of Martin and me. There were no signs of any violence on the body, so the coroner returned a verdict of death from an unknown cause. Martin vouched for my character and, for lack of any evidence, everyone was cleared. I attended the funeral, when my friend's body was laid away in the Buckden cemetary. I left for Durham the next day, and here I am. I do not attempt to explain what occurred during that visit, for I can find no reason for it. So I leave it for you to form your own conclusions. CNote, by author, while proofreading: Martin wrote me, telling me that the red Sigma dissappeared from the ceiling just one month to the day after my friend's death. The paper in no way showed any signs of disturbancej Donald Cherry, '24- -if SPANISH GOLD During the summer of 1922, an important discovery was made at the Mission La Purissima Concepcion, about three miles from Lompoc. Indian skulls, bones. and belongings were found. There were numerous collections of coins, both Spanish and Mexican, unearthed by thc toiling excavators. Martin Luthy, his father, L. Mark, and two Spaniards, Sr. Vesquez and Sr. Toro, were the chief figures in the excavating business. Mr. Luthy and L. Mark were dealers in antiques, and Martin, a boy of eighteen, was assisting his father in the work. The two Spaniards were merely laborers, working under the direction of the others. ..... . One hot day in mid-July the workers were startled by a loud exclamation utter- ed by young Luthy. When they had gathered around him, he showed them a cylinder made of baked clay. Both ends were closed by plugs of clay and the whole was generously smeared with black tar. Must be something valuable in there, judging by the amount of labor put on the outside, said Mr. Mark. l'll het its a record of the doings of the padres and the Mission here, conjectured Martin. Well, put it up until we have time to look at it some place else, said Martin's father. Then he continued in a lower tone so the Spaniards could not hear, I distrust those two 'Greaselsf and it will le best to take no chances. That noon, while at lunch, the party of men directing the enterprise noticed that the Spaniards did a lot of muttering in their native tongue. Occasionally they shot black looks towords the others. No open move of hostility was made 16