The story which I write here came to me from a friend of mine, and she has allowed me to copy this down and offer to the magazine to publish soon. I do not know what people will make of it, but I assure you that it has had a lasting affect on me. I shall start, first, with the word painting business.
Dundee is one of the largest cities in Scotland, famous for three things: Jute, Jam and Journalism. There is a tall hill which dominates the skyline of the city and a large brown brick smoke-stack, named Cox's Stack, and these are the prominent features. The name of the hill is called The Law, and on the top is a memorial to the Great War.
Once upon a time, there was a lane near Broughty Ferry, which is on the far eastern side of the city, that held the most millionaires on one street that anywhere in the world. The houses are Victorian in construction, and the mills and factories are all at work.
Agatha, which is the name of my friend – I have taken the liberty of disguising the name, since it would not be well if they were to be discovered, and they be more so ridiculed and their lives tainted by scandal – told me her story, and I have, in every way, no reason to disbelieve her.
Her story thus began.

I've always wanted to come back to Dundee (she said), and I know that I would like to go back there, but I don't know if I should, after what happened the last time we went there after the death of my Uncle Henry.
It was April 1927 we went there, and it was a few weeks after my uncle's death and we were just in time for the funeral. Archibald, my husband, and I were delighted to see other members of my family, though I wish it could have been in better circumstances. I had been a long way away from Scotland, in Kentucky, and I had received the telegram from my father who is, as you know, now in his grave, that my uncle caught the consumption and he had passed away quickly.
To tell you the truth I am quite glad that I was not there when he died; it would have been, as my father told me, far too distressing, like it had been for my mother to witness. He had been coughing blood a great deal.
However, I am diverting from the story.
We attended the funeral and spoke a long time with my mother and father. He said to me, “It really was good of you to come, darling.”
“Not at all,” I said, “I just wish it was through better circumstance. We had no trouble catching the Olympic, did we darling?” I turned to my husband who smiled and had his arm over my shoulder, keeping me close to him.
He replied in the affirmative that we didn't have any trouble. We gathered at the family home and talked amongst ourselves for a long time. I cannot remember what exactly was said, but there was talk about the will, and the solicitor came towards my mother and I, as we sat down to take tea and said to us plainly, “Forgive me ladies if I intrude, but there is news about your uncle's estate. His will, I mean.”
This couldn't be good. If solicitors are about to talk about wills then I know there is something dreadfully wrong. Perhaps it hadn't be drafted correctly, or it was poorly written and almost indecipherable? These ideas rushed through my mind and my expression must have betrayed them, for he said suddenly, “Oh worry not, it is nothing bad. It is just that there has been a notice for Miss Agatha in the codicil, he has left her something.”
Now this was strange, indeed! My uncle was never very fond of me, so I imagined that it would be something perfectly horrid. But no, it wasn't. When the will was read, it turned out that he had left us his large house in the country near the Sidlaw Hills. This was delightful.
We were taken to the house and it turned out that this was one of the loveliest houses in Angus county. It was a large mansion house, with a large porch and a veranda at the back. All around it were wide lawns which were boarded by a line of conifers and fir trees. I had never seen the like of it. I didn't even know that my uncle was in possession of it. Before we took possession of the place, we resolved to stay as many as three weeks there and see if it was fit to live in, and see if it was suitable enough to raise children in.
We came out of the motor car and took our luggage in. We were met with three servants, all girls. Apparently all men had been lost to the war and the ladies have kept the house running even in the master's absence and death. We were met and welcomed with open arms. The middle one, a short fat woman with a round face and cheeks set in a permanent blush, they reminded me of apples – to tell the truth, I nearly laughed at sight of her – and she said, “Welcome sir and ma'am. I don't know if the master's solicitor told you that there would be a welcoming committee prepared for you.” I replied that he had not. She had a beaming smile, which I was always fond of, and she turned to the two other maids and she gave a command to take the luggage from the car and to our room. They did so, flawlessly as if they were dancing.
I smiled as I watched the performance, lithe, slender, as if floating, they moved to and from the car and carrying their burdens into the house and upwards, and as they did so, the fat one, let's call her Mrs. Buntin, brought us inside and showed us the layout of the house. The inside was enormous; there were several rooms on the ground floor, library, drawing room, smoking room for when the men wished to retire and talk about worldly matters, like politics and such; there was also a writing room at the back which looking onto the lawns and forest behind the house, and with a sight of the hills above us.
Upstairs was just as grand, six bedrooms, and a boudoir. I was very well please and impressed with the house and I thought it would be lovely to raise the children. The house in Kentucky would be a lovely place to remain, but this could be the summer home with which we could live.
Exploring more of the downstairs area, I found that there was a set of backstairs, and looking up for a fraction of a second, I thought I saw someone standing there. I looked up again, but there was nothing there. I consoled myself with the idea that I was just imagining things. I ascended the stairs and found that it only held a landing leading to the bedrooms and there were several servants' closets; they held nothing of interest but brooms and mops and polishing apparel. I fancied to believe, like when I was a little girl, acting, that I was a Wicked Witch and took the broom and made a pose, like I was sitting on the broom and made a silent witch cackle.
To my great embarrassment, Archie found me. Blushing, I put the broom away and he followed me laughing and I laughed along with him.

By the end of the first week, we were installed happily in the house and we knew virtually all that there was to know about the house. Mrs. Buntin was very helpful with telling us about the place and its history. Apparently, this house was built as a secret hideaway for the Jacobites, or their supporters.
I found myself always in the library reading one of the many glorious volumes of stories and I found myself reading an M. R. James book, the title A Warning to the Curious. Ghost stories have always been a favourite of mine, and these were the best ghost stories I had ever read.
Passing the backstairs again, heading out to the back garden, I looked up at the top of the stairs, and as I suspected, there was nothing there. Smiling, I walked on and into the garden.
The sun spilled its light over the green, green lawns, and the flowers were in bloom and I basked in the warmth of the spring day. There was a gardener, and he was at work tending a rose bush and he was dead-heading them. He looked at me and gave me a toothy grin. He said, “Ah, Aye take it that you be the missus?”
“Yes,” I said. “I'm the missus.”
He smiled and went on with his work. I said, “You've done a marvellous job here, thank you very much.”
“Och, not at all, not at all,” he said. “Anything to help make this place look better than it used to. The last master didn't really care for greenery and things that grow.”
“Really?” I said. I remember my Uncle Henry, he never liked flowers. They were sickening to him; I don't know why.
As I cast my over my surroundings, I thought I saw, in the shadows under the trees, a figure dressed in black. I couldn't see clearly, but I was sure that there was someone there. Perhaps it was one of the inhabitants of the cottages nearby looking for mushrooms to cook, but who still did that? I couldn't remember. I thought nothing of it and went back inside and let the gardener do his work.
As I went inside, I found Archie in the drawing room with the light of the sun streaming through the windows. He was sitting on the sofa and reading a volume from the library, I asked what it was, and he replied that it was Sense and Sensibility. Smiling I sat across from him; I read my own volume and from some distant corner of the house, there was the shatter of glass and a shriek from downstairs in the kitchen. Startled we jumped to our feet, I felt the hairs on my arms rise, and I ran to the kitchens downstairs and we found Mrs. Buntin over the body of a girl who was convulsing and whimper.
I can't remember what I said, but I know it was something medical. I was a nurse during the war and I had dealt with people having fits before. I pride myself by saying that I still remember most of it.
The poor girl's eyes were white, but on her face, as if spreading from the mouth, a black form of powder settled on her face. I had never seen anything like this before; I ordered Archie telephone an ambulance, and have the poor girl brought to the Infirmary and there she could be looked after properly by professional nurses and doctors.
The ambulance came quickly but by then we were too late. She was dead on the floor.

In the days after the poor girl's death, there was held an inquest and the verdict of death by natural causes. Her heart had given out, but there was also an aneurysm in her brain. So two deadly conditions had formed a lethal combination and thus took her life.
The funeral was held, and we resumed to normal life, but it was a great shock to us all. Mrs. Buntin, too, was in shock. She was holding back tears that were desperately needing to be shed.
But since the death of the maid, her name was Daisy, strange things began to happen. I felt like we were being watched every time I passed the back stairs, and one time, at night, when we had guests, I passed the backstairs to show people the outside, because we were able to see the stars that night and I looked up, and at the top, there was a figure, darkly dressed, and wearing a long black shroud, like a hooded cloak. I had an idea that it was a woman, or could it have been a man? No, definitely a woman, only a woman would wear a cloak that had a very wide, halo-like hood.
She – the figure – stood there, silent, still as a statue. A chill ran down me. I had half a mind to go up the stairs and rip the shroud from the figure to see who it was, but I was called away. Archie called to me: “Darling! Hurry, you'll miss the meteor shower!”
I looked at his smiling face and nodded; I looked back up at the top of the stairs. Nothing. There was no-one there. Could I have seen a trick of the light? Was my imagination running away with me? Perhaps. Perhaps I should ration myself from reading ghost stories.
That was the first incident.
The second came to me in broad daylight and I was in the boudoir. I was running through some drawers, looking for something and when I came to the vanity stand, I opened a drawer and discovered a series of letters. They were written a few years ago; their dates I will not disclose, but they gave accounts of a lover and a rather terrible murder. The letters ran thus:

Letter I
Dear Henry,
I am writing to you because I miss you and I wish that we can see each other again. I want to meet you soon. Please write back to me as soon as you can.
All my Love to you,
M.
Letter II
Dear Henry,
I am sorry to have to write you this letter, but a boy who was with his father in the forest near your home, has found the body of the young woman you were courting. She has had her throat cut. I am sorry to have to tell you this, but I assure you that we shall do all in our power to find the scoundrel who committed this barbarous act.
Yours Sincerely,
Lawrence Murdoch.

The third letter for me held the most interest. But it was then I heard something, the creak of the door behind me and I spun my head round to see who was there, but I found no-one. I turned my head back and looked into the vanity on the boudoir table and there I saw her. She was dressed all in black with a white lace shawl around her shoulders. Startled I gave a cry and turned again and still no-one was there. I turned and looking into the mirror again and nothing was there.
What was it? Who was it? Was I going out of my mind?
I was still clutching the batch of letters and went on to read the third one. It was written in scratchy handwriting, and it was splattered and blotted in places, almost as if it was written with a claw rather than a pen.

Letter III

YOU KNOW...

This was perhaps the most unsettling of the letters. I didn't know what to do. There was no sequel to this letter but the fourth letter in the batch was more illuminating than I could have possibly imagined.

Letter IV
Dear Sir,
I know that you instructed me to never write to you, but the bobbies are on to me. I have no means with which to disguise my deeds any longer. Sooner or later we will be found out. Your mission in acquiring Lady Mary's fortune is complete. Let me hide at the hall for some days and I swear I shall be of no nuisance; I can act as the footman, since you are needing a new one nowadays.

The name “Lady Mary” was familiar to me. Lady Mary. Lady Mary. Good God! He must mean Aunt Mary, Uncle Henry's wife! Uncle Henry had had Aunt Mary bumped off! Murdered!
I knew that I must tell Archie, but at that time, I flew out of the boudoir in such a way that a wild woman escaped from captivity would be. I ran to the bedroom where he was and I found him scratched on his arm. Blood seeping through the silk of his shirt. I ran over and applied pressure to his wound. Once it was dressed by Mrs. Buntin and myself, I asked her:
“What do you know about the case of Lady Mary's death?”
She looked at me, somewhat afraid. “Well, I don't know much about it, ma'am; it was before my time. But I remember the case. Poor woman was found in the woods, her throat slashed horrible. Mangled they said. They say it was some ruffian hiding in the woods. An escaped convict, no doubt.”
“What about an assassin?”
Both Archie and Mrs. Buntin were struck dumb by the idea, until I produced the letter.
“It's a forgery, no doubt,” said Archie after reading it for the fourth time. “There is no other explanation. One of the servants playing tricks -”
“None of my girls would ever do that sir!” protested Mrs. Buntin.
“But what about one of the men, when they were here?”
She thought for a moment and then nodded. “I suppose it is possible, sir.”
With that conclusion, the death of Aunt Mary was put aside.

Then came the night of the third and final incident.
I was restless and could not sleep, and therefore went downstairs and into the kitchen. I knew how to work a kettle and I fixed myself a mug of cocoa. Mrs. Buntin was there, too; she couldn't sleep either.
We talked for a while and laughed. The night seemed more cheerful than the rest.
Then, talk hopped onto the subject of ghosts.
“Oh as you know, ma'am, Scotland is full of ghosts and loves the stories. From Ghoulies and Ghosties and long leggedy beasties and things that go bump in the night; Good Lord, deliver us!”
We laughed at the declaration, but then came a loud thwump! on the table.
We jumped out of our seats and Mrs. Buntin let a cry of surprise escape her. She was then shaking and tears streaming down her face. There was the feeling of something pushing right past us with a deadly chilling force, and then the thuds retreated up the stairs, and I followed in hot pursuit.
Where it led was to the backstairs and I grasped the banister, panted a little and took in my surroundings in the dark.
I looked up and in the candlelight, there I saw her. The shadow at the top of the stairs.
Moonlight streamed onto her, bathing her in silver. I ascended the stairs and made myself pluck up the courage to tear away the shroud she wore and see who she truly was. When I reached the top level. I did exactly that and revealed a skeletal head. But the eyes were still in the sockets. They opened, alive, and then before I could let out a shriek, I felt two cold, clammy hands wrap around my throat tightly and try to strangle me.
But help was at hand, and Mrs. Buntin saw the scene of action and called for help, but before the house was roused, something happened to my assailant. He started choking himself. He then fell on top of me, leaning, as soon as his hands let go I pushed him off and down the stairs he tumbled. And on his face, when the lights were switched on, was a deep black powder. Covering his mouth and a majority of his head. His face was set in a look of extreme pain and terror, such as never seen before, and his eyes and teeth were immensely white against the powder.
Archie came running to the scene and saw the body. He ran up to me and held me close, but as I put my hands on his dressing gown, it smeared with something black.
My hand was covered in the same disgusting essence which now layered on the dead man's face!

The police were called, and as usual questions were asked and answers given.
The inspector, a man of excellent means and tireless method, asked what happened and we gave accounts of how it all came to be. When he asked about the powder on my hands, I said, “I must have touched his face when he was trying to strangle me, I don't know how it happened.”
They left and took the body away. But as we climbed the backstairs once more, I beheld the shadow, then it was gone, before my very eyes, and as we passed the window from which the moon was shining through, Archie and I saw, speeding across the garden, a shrouded figure. Whether running or floating, we didn't know, we couldn't see that well, but for a moment it was there, zooming across the lawn, and then it was gone under the trees.
And I have never been to Dundee, or anywhere near the place since. After careful consideration, I deemed it an unfit place to raise the children. I think staying in Kentucky was wiser.