The Uncanny Welsh Story

7 thoughts on “The Uncanny Welsh Story”

  1. Old houses have… visitors. Or just crack?
    My grandmother told a story that took place in Gwalior, where her father, my great-grandfather, worked for Scindia, the Maharadjah.
    He took ill. Was asleep in a bedroom upstairs, and the family was downstairs waiting through the evening.
    I can imagine someone pushing the panka (punka?) to ease the heat of the evening.
    All of a sudden, the wooden stairs to the bedrooms started to creak, one at a time. The dog got up, looking at one step after the other.
    When the last stair stopped creaking, the dog started howling to death.
    Everyone rushed upstairs. My great-grandfather was dead.

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