I had been expecting something in the way of preliminary effects, and for all I know now, the Kirkaldys had indeed planned some fraudulent demonstration–but nothing of the kind took place. The deep darkness had endured for perhaps five minutes, perhaps longer, before an event occurred which was very strange indeed, though perhaps few or none of our party found it totally unexpected.
Though I was absolutely certain that neither of the hands I held had escaped me for an instant, despite all of our precautions, someone–or something–else, besides we eight who sat at table, had now come into the room.
In the near-perfect darkness it was naturally impossible to be sure of any but the crudest contours of this figure; but what appeared to be a real, material form, that of a young girl in some kind of loose, flowing white garment, was certainly now standing, motionless, just inside the central pair of French doors. I was facing in that direction, and had been watching alertly, but still, except for the sudden appearance of the figure itself, I had seen no telltale sign that any of those windows might have been opened, or any disturbance of their draperies, which were outlined by a very faint illumination from outside.
In the gloom I could not clearly see Louisa’s mother, seated three spaces to my right, nor could I be certain that she had turned her head toward the visitor. but I could tell from the sharp sound of her indrawn breath that she had immediately become aware of the new presence.
A moment later, Mrs. Altamont began a joyful, almost hysterical though low-voiced sobbing and keening.
The general reaction around the table was expressed by a louder sound, a rustle of clothing, a sharp tug that came transmitted like a galvanic shock round the circle of clasped hands, and the heavy scrape of chair legs on the carpet. I thought that Mrs. Altamont would have leaped to her feet, but a girl’s or woman’s voice, one I did not recognize, commanded sharply: “Don’t break the circle!”
At the same instant the soft grasp of young Rebecca, tightened upon my right hand with convulsive force; and I recall making a mental note of the fact, as a peculiarity to be remembered, that through all this, the right hand of Abraham Kirkaldy remained limp in my left.
“Who are you?” The question was put sharply, in the voice of Sarah Kirkaldy, and the fright in her voice was chilling.
To me, the soft answer, in a clear new voice, was more frightening stilclass="underline" “I am Louisa–Louisa Altamont.”
At that, both of Louisa’s parents uttered incoherent sounds. Martin Armstrong also began to speak, but fell silent again before I could be sure of even his first intended word.
The figure in white, supposedly that of the drowned girl, was still standing near the curtained French windows. Now she changed her position slightly. Then, speaking in thin, halting tones like one entranced, like one repeating a lesson learned by rote, she recited: “There is a great wrong that must be righted before I can find rest. A stolen treasure that must be found–and given back–”
Whatever course the recitation might have taken from that point, the speaker was denied the opportunity to complete it. Her words were drowned out by the loud, repeated cries of Madeline Altamont; despite the urgings of Sarah Kirkaldy, the mother could not or would not be silent, but continued a terrible struggle to force her own questions upon the attention of her daughter.
Ambrose Altamont, seated between his wife and Sarah, was, of all the people round the table, actually nearest to the apparition when it came in, but with his back turned to it. Now Altamont, straining against the pull of those to right and left who gripped his hands, had twisted halfway around to confront this visitor with whom his wife was pleading. Against the background of the westernmost pair of French doors I could see the man’s dim shape rising partially from his chair, and I heard him utter a dreadful, hoarse, incoherent cry.
A moment later the father, wrenching his hands free from the grip of those holding them, stood fully erect and went lurching toward the figure in white. He succeeded–as he reported later–in touching Louisa’s hand. At this moment also, he was able to look closely into her face, and to hear her voice, perhaps murmuring words bearing upon some secret that he and his elder daughter alone had shared.
Altamont called her name, hoarsely, again and again. He was obviously overwhelmed by the conviction that after all, against all his beliefs and expectations, this was truly his daughter, restored to him by some miracle of spiritual power.
When the voice of the apparition replied to him, I thought that it had changed, become notably less forced and unnatural. “Father, I’m all right, really... except I... I can’t...” She added more, but nothing that I could hear distinctly.
Moments after the circle of clasping hands was broken by Altamont’s defection, it had utterly disintegrated. I jumped to my feet, with the final orders given me by Sherlock Holmes still ringing in my ears–we had discussed in advance what ought to be done in the case of some chaotic development like this.
My first effort was simply to turn on the electric chandelier. I had taken careful note of the position of the switch, on the wall to my left, beside the door leading to the hallway. My original intent, however, proved impossible to achieve in the darkness and confusion. Colliding blindly with other people and stumbling over fallen chairs, I found myself somewhat disoriented, groping over a blank wall after a switch that seemed to have perversely moved itself.
The night was full of cries and shouts in both men’s and women’s voices. Martin Armstrong, who had been sitting between Rebecca and Mrs. Altamont, later recounted that he had found himself stunned, confronted with the staggering fact that the woman he loved was not dead after all, but rather that she stood living, here in the same room with him. Martin had drawn his feet under his chair, in preparation for an all-out leap toward Louisa. He was filled with a mighty determination that he would at all costs not allow her to escape–
In the middle of all this, Abraham Kirkaldy cried out in a changed and terrible voice: “Stop! I see–” his words broke off at that point, his utterance degenerating into a hoarse cry of sheer horror. but a moment later his voice rang out clearly again: “Stop! A thing from hell is here among us!”
This declamation was followed by other sounds from other members of the gathering, groans and protests, and a howl that raised the hair on the back of my neck.
Next young Kirkaldy shouted that the visitant should “Go back to your grave!”
I heard Martin Armstrong cry out like a man caught in the grip of a sudden and terrible new emotion, raising a desperate shout that rose clearly above the other confused noises in the room.
And I could distinguish the voice of Sherlock Holmes, masterful and incisive, urging calm, urging those present to let the figure alone. but alas, none of the others who heard him were paying much attention.
Armstrong, as he told me later, actually succeeded in reaching the visitant and attempted to prevent her getting away, meanwhile shouting for lights. but with a strength beyond the human, and a determination that Armstrong found inexplicable, the slender girl twisted and pulled herself free.
By this time, both of Louisa’s parents were also clutching at the mysterious intruder, struggling with a terrible earnestness to hold her, as if they would by their own efforts cheat Death of his prize after all.
The girl’s voice in the dark was heartrending. “Mother. Father...”
Listening, I received the impression that the undead girl was striving in agony to accomplish something. It was not a mere physical effort, but an attempt to convey to her parents that there was something that must be done before the recently undead, she herself in particular, could rest. Something that Louisa’s parents must do–for her benefit.