"I'd really prefer not to be run to ground by a prehistoric ghost horse. Until recently, I wasn't even aware this was a possibility. Live and learn. Or rather live and hide under your bed, assuming there are no other monsters there. Now, I have nothing against equines, having worked on horse farms in Illinois and Wisconsin during my misspent youth. The horses you interact with on a working horse farm are far different than those sleek racehorses, finely-groomed family pet horses, muscular beer-cart pulling Clydesdales, or emotional support ponies. What you get on a horse farm are "schooling" horses, which are critters used to teach novices to ride without falling off, groom without getting kicked through a wall, and how to muck out a stall. As one would expect when forced to endure the fumbling of inexperienced riders, you will not find a more cantankerous segment of the species. Of course, when I developed this opinion, I was unaware that an angry, prehistoric ghost horse was an option. My taxonomy obviously needs some revision. In the late 19th Century, a certain Captain Beauclerk of the British 10th Regiment of Foot reported a bizarre chase involving the menacing specter of just such a horse.
Historically, His Majesty's 10th Regiment of Foot (also known as the Royal Lincolnshire Regiment) were a bunch of hardcore Redcoats. In the American Revolution they fought at Lexington and Concord, the Battle of Bunker Hill, the Battle of Long Island, the Invasion of Manhattan Island, the Battle of Germantown, the Battle at Monmouth Courthouse, and the defense of Newport and Quaker Hill, eventually returning to England in September, 1778. After fighting in the Napoleonic Wars in Europe, in 1842 the 10th were reposted to India where they continued to be bloodied in the First Anglo-Sikh War, the Relief of Multan in 1849, the Battle of Gujrat in February 1849, the outbreak of the Indian Rebellion in 1857, and the failed first relief of the Siege of Arrah. Either these were some seriously tough hombres or someone bore them a homicidal grudge. And Captain Beauclerk was one of these hardy souls. When Beauclerk first joined the Regiment, his commanding officer was one Colonel Onslow. Eventually both Beauclerk and Onslow returned to their civilian lives. Beauclerk settled in in London, while Onslow retired to the family manor (Eastover Hall) at the base of the Chiltern Hills 30 miles northwest of the city. Onslow and Beauclerk stayed in touch. Onslow longed to see his comrade again and invited him to Eastover for the Easter holiday. As further inducement, knowing Beauclerk's interest in psychical research (albeit from a skeptical perspective), Onslow told him Eastover Hall was haunted. What self-respecting ghost hunter could resist such a temptation? Looking forward to seeing his old friend, Beauclerk set out for Eastover on Good Friday. Beauclerk described Eastover at the time he arrived. Certainly seemed like the kind of place that might endear itself to the average ghost.
The grounds of Eastover Hall were extensive; but, in the ordinary sense, far from beautiful. To me, however, they were more than beautiful; there was a grandeur in them — a grandeur that appealed to me far more than mere beauty — the grandeur of desolation, the grandeur of the Unknown. As we passed through the massive iron gates of the lodge, I looked upon countless acres of withered, undulating grass; upon a few rank sedges; upon a score or so of decayed trees; upon a house — huge, bare, grey and massive; upon bleak walls; upon vacant, eye like windows; upon crude, scenic inhospitality, the very magnitude of which overpowered me. I have said it was cold; but there hung over the estate of Eastover an iciness that brought with it a quickening, a sickening of the heart, and a dreariness that, whilst being depressing in the extreme, was, withal, sublime. Sublime and mysterious; mysterious and insoluble. A thousand fancies swarmed through my mind; yet I could grapple with none; and I was loathe to acknowledge that, although there are combinations of very simple material objects which might have had the power of affecting me thus, yet any attempt to analyze that power was beyond — far beyond — my mental capability. The house, though old — and its black oak paneling, silent staircases, dark corridors, and general air of gloom were certainly suggestive of ghosts — did not affect me in the same degree. The fear it inspired was the ordinary fear inspired by the ordinary super-physical, but the fear I felt in the grounds was a fear created by something out of the way — something far more bizarre than a mere phantom of the dead (O'Donnell, 1913, p149-150)…"
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