 Story 1 of Thirty Goals Stories. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Kurt Ziegler, Lake Placid, Florida. Thirty Goals Stories by various authors. Story 1. The Filayed Hand by Guida Malpasant One evening about eight months ago I met with some college comrades at the lodgings of our friend Louis R. We drank punch and smoked, talked of literature and art, made jokes like any other company of young men. Suddenly the door flew open and one who had been my friend since boyhood burst in like a hurricane. Guess where I come from, he cried. I bet on the maybeal, responded one. No said another. You're too gay. You come from borrowing money, from burying a rich uncle, or from punning your watch. You're getting sober, cried a third, and as you sended the punch in Louis's room you came up here to get drunk again. You're all wrong, he replied. I come from P. in Normandy, where I have spent eight days, and whence I have brought one of my friends, a great criminal, whom I ask permission to present to you. With these words he drew from his pocket a long black hand, from which the skin had been stripped. It had been severed at the wrist. Its dry and shriveled shape, and the narrow, yellowed nails, still clinging to the fingers, made it frightful to look upon. The muscles, which showed that its first owner had been possessed of great strength, were bound in place by a strip of parchment-like skin. Just fancy, said my friend, the other day they sold the effects of an old sorcerer, recently deceased, well known in all the country. Every Saturday night he used to go to which gatherings on a broomstick. He practised the white magic and the black, gave blue milk to the cows, and made them wear tails like that of the companion of St. Anthony. The old scandal always had a deep affection for this hand, which, he said, was that of a celebrated criminal, executed in 1736 for having thrown his lawful wife headfirst into a well, for which I do not blame him, and then hanging in the belfry the priest who had married him. After this double exploit he went away, and during his subsequent career, which was brief but exciting, he robbed twelve travellers, smoked a score of monks in their monastery, and made a sororaleo of a convent. But what are you going to do with this horror, we cried. A par bleu, I will make it the handle of my doorbell, and frighten my creditors. My friend, said Henry Smith, a big, phlegmatic Englishman, I believe that this hand is only a kind of Indian meat, preserved by a new process. I advise you to make bullion of it. Rail not, Miss yours, said, with the utmost sang Freud, a medical student who was three-quarters drunk, but if you follow my advice, Pierre, you'll give this piece of human debris Christian burial, for fear lest its owner should come to demand it. Then, too, this hand has acquired some bad habits, for you know the proverb, who has killed will kill. And who has drank will drink, replied the host as he poured out a big glass of punch for the student, who emptied it at a drought and slid dead drunk under the table. His sudden dropping out of the company was greeted with a burst of laughter, and Pierre, raising his glass and saluting the hand, cried, I drink to the next visit of thy master. Then the conversation turned upon other subjects, and shortly afterward each returned to his lodgings. About two o'clock the next day I was passing Pierre's door, I entered and found him reading and smoking. Well, how goes it? said I. Very well, he responded. And your hand? My hand? Did you not see it on the bell-pole? I put it there when I returned home last night. But apropos of this, what do you think? Some idiot doubtless to play a stupid joke on me came ringing at my door towards midnight. I demanded who was there, but as no one replied I went back to bed again and to sleep. At this moment the door opened and the landlord, a fat and extremely impertinent person, entered without saluting us. Sir, said he, I pray you take away immediately that carrion which you have hung to your bell-pole. Unless you do this I shall be compelled to ask you to leave. Sir, responded Pierre, with much gravity. You insult a hand which does not merit it. You know that it belonged to a man of high breeding? The landlord turned on his heel and made his exit, without speaking. Pierre followed him, detached the hand and affixed it to the bell-cord hanging in his o' clove. That is better, said he. This hand, like the brother, almost die, of the trappists, will give my thoughts a serious turn every night before I sleep. At the end of an hour I left him and returned to my own apartment. I slept badly the following night and was nervous and agitated, and several times awoke with a start. Once I imagined even that a man had broken into my room and I sprang up and searched the closets and under the bed. Toward six o'clock in the morning I was commencing to doze at last, when a loud knocking at my door made me jump from my couch. It was my friend Pierre's servant, half dressed, pale and trembling. Ah, sir! cried he, sobbing. My poor master! Someone has murdered him. I dressed myself hastily and ran to Pierre's lodgings. The house was full of people disputing together, and everything was in a commotion. Everyone was talking at the same time, recounting and commenting on the occurrence in all sorts of ways. With great difficulty I reached the bedroom, made myself known to those guarding the door, and was permitted to enter. Four agents of police were standing in the middle of the apartment, pencils in hand, examining every detail, conferring in low voices and writing from time to time in their notebooks. Two doctors were in consultation by the bed on which lay the unconscious form of Pierre. He was not dead, but his face was fixed in an expression of the most awful terror. His eyes were open their widest, and the dilated pupil seemed to regard fixedly, with unspeakable horror, something unknown and frightful. His hands were clenched. I raised the quilt which covered his body from the chin downward, and saw on his neck, deeply sunk in the flesh, the marks of fingers. Some drops of blood spotted his shirt. At that moment one thing struck me. I chanced to notice that the shriveled hand was no longer attached to the bell cord. The doctors had doubtless removed it to avoid the comments of those entering the chamber where the wounded man lay, because the appearance of this hand was indeed frightful. I did not inquire what had become of it. I now clip from a newspaper of the next day the story of the crime with all the details that the police were able to procure. A frightful attempt was made yesterday on the life of young M. Pierre B. Student, who belongs to one of the best families in Normandy. He returned home about ten o'clock in the evening, and excused his valet, Bovain, from further attendance upon him, saying that he felt fatigued and was going to bed. Towards midnight, Bovain was suddenly awakened by the furious ringing of his master's bell. He was afraid and lighted a lamp and waited. The bell was silent about a minute, then rang again with such remnants that the domestic, Matt with Fright, flew from his room to awaken the concierge, who ran to summon the police, and at the end of about fifteen minutes, two policemen forced open the door. A horrible sight met their eyes. Furniture was overturned, giving evidence of a fearful struggle between the victim and his assailant. In the middle of the room, upon his back, his body rigid, with livid face and frightfully dilated eyes, lay motionless young Pierre B., bearing upon his neck the deep imprints of five fingers. Dr. Bourdean was called immediately, and his report says that the aggressor must have been possessed of prodigious strength, and have had an extraordinarily thin and sinewy hand, because the fingers left in the flesh of the victims five holes like those from a pistol-ball, and had penetrated until they almost met. There is no clue to the motive of the crime or to its perpetrator. The police are making a thorough investigation. The following appeared in the same newspaper next day. Monsieur Pierre B., the victim of the frightful assault of which we published an account yesterday, has regained consciousness after two hours of the most assidious care by Dr. Bourdean. His life is not in danger, but is strongly feared that he has lost his reason. No trace has been found of his assailant. My poor friend was indeed insane. For seven months I visited him daily at the hospital where we had placed him, but he did not recover the light of reason. In his delirium, strange words escaped him, and, like all madmen, he had one fixed idea. He believed himself continually pursued by a specter. One day they came for me in haste, saying he was worse, and when I arrived I found him dying. For two hours he remained very calm, then suddenly, rising from his bed in spite of our efforts, he cried, waving his arms as if a prey to the most awful terror. Take it away! Take it away! It strangles me! Help! Help! Twice he made the circuit of the room, uttering horrible screams, then fell face downward dead. As he was an orphan I was charged to take the body to the little village of P., in Normandy, where his parents were buried. It was the place from which he had arrived the evening he found us drinking punch in Louis R's room, when he had presented us the flayed hand. His body was enclosed in a lead coffin, and four days afterwards I walked sadly beside the old curie, who had given him his first lessons to the little cemetery where they dug his grave. It was a beautiful day, and sunshine from a cloudless sky flooded the earth. Birds sang from the blackberry bushes where many a time, when we were children, we had stolen to eat the fruit. Again I saw Pierre and myself creeping along behind the hedge and slipping through the gap that we knew so well, down at the end of the little plot where they buried the poor. Again we would return to the house with cheeks and lips black with the juice of the berries we had eaten. I looked at the bushes, they were covered with fruit. Mechanically I picked some and bore it to my mouth. The curie had opened up his breviary and was muttering his prayers in a low voice. I heard at the end of the walk the spades of the gravediggers who were opening the tomb. Suddenly they called out. The curie closed his book, and we went to see what they wished of us. They had found a coffin, in digging a stroke of the pickaxe had started the cover, and we perceived within a skeleton of unusual stature, laying on its back, its hollow eyes seeming yet to menace and defy us. I was troubled, I know not why, and almost afraid. Hold, cried one of the men, look there! One of the rascals hands had been severed at the wrist. Ah, here it is! And he picked up from beside the body a huge withered hand and held it out to us. See, cried the other laughing, see how he glares at you, as if he would spring at your throat to make you give back his hand. Go, said the curie, leave the dead in peace and close the coffin. We will make Port Pierre's grave elsewhere. The next day all was finished, and I returned to Paris, after having left fifty francs with the old curie for masses to be said for the repose of the soul of him whose sepulcher we had troubled. End of Story One Story Two of Thirty Ghost Stories by Various Authors This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Parler Car Ghost Aldrape with Blue Denim, the seaside cottage of my friend, Sarah Pine. She asked me to go there with her when she opened to have it set in order for the summer. She confessed she felt a trifle nervous at the idea of entering it alone. And I'm always ready for an excursion. So much Blue Denim rather surprised me, because Blue is not complementary to Sarah's complexion. She always wears some shade of red, by preference. She perceived my wonder. She is very near-sighted and therefore sees everything by some sort of sixth sense. You do not like my portiers and curtains and table covers, she said. Neither do I, but I did it to accommodate. And now he rests well in his grave, I hope. Who's grave for pity's sake? Mr. J. Billington Prices. And who is he? He doesn't sound interesting. Then I will tell you about him, said Sarah, taking a seat directly in front of one of those curtains. Last autumn I was leaving this place for New York, travelling on the fast express train known as the Flying Yankee. Of course, I thought of the Flying Dutchman and Wagner's musical setting of the Ankenny legend, and how different things are in these days of steam, etc. Then I looked out of the window at the landscape, the horizon that seemed to wheel in a great curve as the train sped on. Every now and then I had an impression, at the tail of the eye, that a man was sitting in a chair three or four numbers in front of me, on the opposite side of the car. Each time that I saw this shape I looked at the chair and ascertained that it was unoccupied. But it was an odd trick of vision. I raised my lawn yet, and the chair showed emptier than before. There was nobody in it, certainly. But the more I knew that it was vacant, the more plainly I saw the man. Always with the corner of my eye. It made me nervous. When passengers entered the car I dreaded less they might take that seat. What would happen if they should? A bag was put in the chair. That made me uncomfortable. The bag was removed at the next station. Then a baby was placed in the seat. It began to laugh as though someone had gently tickled it. There was something odd about that chair. Thirteen was its number. When I looked away from it the impression was strong upon me that some person sitting there was watching me. Really, it would not do to humor such fancies. So I touched the electric button, asked the porter to bring me a table, and taking from my bag a pack of cards, proceeded to divert myself with a game of patience. I was puzzling where to put a seven of spades. Where can it go? I murmured to myself. A voice behind me prompted, play the Four of Diamonds on the Five, and you can do it. I started. The only occupants of the car besides me were a bridal couple, a mother with three little children, and a typical preacher of one of the straightest sex. Who had spoken? Play up the Four, madam, repeated this voice. I looked fearfully over my shoulder. At first I saw a bluish cloud, like cigar smoke, but in odorous. Then the vision cleared, and I saw a young man whom I knew by a subtle intuition to be the occupant, seen and not seen, of chair number thirteen. Evidently he was a travelling salesman, and a ghost. Of course, a drummer's ghost sounds ridiculous. They're so extremely alive. Or else you would expect a dead drummer to be particularly dead and not walk. This was a most common place looking ghost, cordial, pushing, business-like. At the same time his face had an expression of uttered despair and horror, which made him still more preposterous. Of course it is not nice to let a stranger speak to one, even on so impersonal a topic as a Four of Diamonds. But a ghost there can't be any rule of etiquette about talking with a ghost. My dear, it was dreadful! That forward creature showed me how to play all the cards, and then begged me to lay them out again, in order that he might give me some clever points. I was too much amazed and disturbed to speak. I could only place the cards at his suggestion. This I did so as not to appear to be listening to the empty air, and be supposed to be a crazy woman. Presently the ghost spoke again and told me his story. Madam, he said, I have been riding back and forth on this car ever since February 22, 1890. Seven months and eleven days. All this time I have not exchanged a word with anyone. For a drummer, it's pretty hard, you may believe. You know the story of the flying Dutchman? Well, that is very nearly my case. A curse is upon me and will not be removed until some kind soul. But I'm getting ahead of my text. That day there were four of us, travelling for different houses. One of the boys was in wool, one in baking powder, one in boots and shoes, and myself in cotton goods. I had on the road, took seats together and fell into talking shop. Those fellows told big lies about their sales, Washington's birthday though it was. The baking powder man raised the amount of the bills of goods which yet sold better than a whole can of his stuff could have done. I admitted the straight truth, that I had not yet been able to make a sale. And then I swore, not in a light-minded, chipper style of verbal trimmings, but a great, round, heaven-defying oath, that I would sell a case of blue denim on that trip if it took me forever. We became dry with talk, and when the train stopped at Rivermouth we went out to have some beer. It is good there, you know. Pardon me. I forgot I was speaking to a lady. Well, we had to run to get aboard. I missed my footing, fell under the wheels, and the next thing I knew they were holding an inquest over my remains, while I disemboweled, was sitting in the corner of the undertaker's table, wondering which of the corner's jury was likely to want a case of blue denims. Then I remembered my wicked oath, and understood that I was a sole doom to wander until I could succeed in selling that bill of goods. I spoke once or twice, offering the denims under value, but nobody noticed me. Verdick, accidental death, negligence of deceased, railroad corporation not to blame, deceased got out for beer at his own risk. The other drummers took charge of the remains, and wrote a beautiful letter to my relatives about my social qualities and my impressive conversation. I wish it had been less impressive at that time. I mind of lied about my sales, or I mind of said that I hoped for better luck, but after that oath there was nothing for it. Back and forth, back and forth on this road, in Chair No. 13, to all eternity. Nobody suspects my presence. They sit on my knees. I'm playing in luck when it is a nice baby as it was this afternoon. They pile wraps, bags, even railway literature on me. They play cards under my nose, and what duffer some of them are. You, madam, are the first person who has perceived me, and therefore I ventured to speak to you, meaning no offence. I can see that you are sorry for me. Now, if you recall the story of the flying Dutchman, he was saved by the charity of a good woman. In fact, Santa married him. Now I'm not asking anything of that size. I see that you wear a wedding ring, and no doubt you make some man's happiness. I wasn't a married man myself, and naturally I'm not a married ghost. And that has nothing to do with the matter, anyway. But if you could, I don't suppose you would have any use for them. But if you were disposed to do a good turn, solid Christian charity, I should be everlastingly grateful, and you may have that case of denim at seventy-two dollars and fifty cents. And that quality is quoted to-day at eighty dollars. Does it go, madam? The speech of the poor ghost was not very eloquent, but his eyes had an intense eager glare, which was terrible. Something, pity, fear, I do not know what, compelled me. I decided to do without that white and gold evening cloak. Instead I gave seventy-two dollars and fifty cents to the ghost and took from him a receipt for the sum, signed J. Billington Price. Then he smiled contentedly, thanked me with emotion, and returned to chair number thirteen. Several times on the journey, although I did not perceive him again, I felt dazed. When the train arrived at New York, and I, with the other passengers, dismounted, it seemed to me that a strong hand passed under my elbow, steadying me down the steps. As I walked the length of the station, my bag, not heavy at any time, appeared to become weightless. I believed that the parlor-car ghost walked beside me, carrying the bag, whose handle still remained in my other hand. Indeed, once or twice I thought I felt the touch of cold fingers against mine. Since then I have no reason to suppose that the poor ghost is not at rest, I hope he is. But I never expected nor wished for the blue denims. The next day, however, a dray belonging to a great wholesale house backed up to our door and delivered a case of denims, with a receded bill for the same. What was I to do? I could not go about selling blue denims. I could not give them away without exciting comment. So I furnished the cottage with them. And you know the effect on my complexion. Pity me, dear, and credit me, frivolous woman as I am, with having saved a soul at the expense of my own vanity. My story is told. What do you think about it? End of Story 2 Story 3 of 30 Ghost Stories by Various Authors This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Ghost of Buckstown Inn by Arnold M. Anderson Several travel-worn drummers sat in the lobby exchanging yarns. It was Rodney Green's turn, and he looked wise and began his tale. I don't claim, by any means, that the belief in ghosts is a general thing in Arkansas, but I do say that I had an experience out there a few years ago. It was late in the fall, and I happened to be in the village of Buckstown, which desecrates a very limited portion of the state. The town is as small and dirty a place as I ever saw, and the Buckstown Inn was not much above the general character of the place. The region is inhabited by natives who still cling to all sorts of foolish superstitions. The inn, in the antebellum days, was kept by one who was said to be the meanest and most crabbed of mortals. The old demon was as miserly as he was mean, and all his narrow life he hoarded his filthy lucra with fiendish greed. Report had it also that he had even murdered his patrons in their beds for their money. What the facts actually were, I don't know, but even so to this day the old inn is held in suspicion. A lingering effect of former horror still clouds its memory. The prison proprietor, Bunk Watson, his real name is Bunker, I believe, is an altogether different sort of chap. A southern style, in fact. One of those shiftless, heedless, happy-go-lucky mortals who love strong whiskey and who choose an enormous quid of black tobacco and smokes a corn-cop pipe at the same time. When the former keeper shuffled off, his property fell to a distant relative, the prison keeper, who, with his family, immediately moved in from a neighboring hamlet and took possession. It was well known that the old proprietor had accumulated considerable wealth during his sojourn among the living, but all efforts to discover any treasure upon the premises had failed, and now the idea of ever finding it was practically given up. As far as Bunk was concerned, the matter troubled him little. He had a hard-working wife who ran things the best she could under the circumstances, and saw that his meals were forthcoming at their respective intervals. What more could he wish? Why should he care if there was a treasure buried upon his place? Indeed, it would have been a sore puzzle for him to know what to do with a fortune, unless perhaps his wife came to his aid. Among the stories that hovered in the history of the Bucks Town Inn was one which involved a ghost. In the room where the former keeper had died peculiar noises were heard at unearthly hours, sighing, moaning, and, in fact, all the other indications which point to the existence of ghosts were said to be present. On account of this the chamber had long since been abandoned. I listened with keen interest to the wonderful tales about the haunted rooms, and then suddenly resolved to investigate. To sleep in that chamber that very night and see for myself all that was to be seen. I told Buck of my purpose. He shook his head, shrugged his shoulders, but instead of warning me and offering a flood of protests, as I expected, he merely took his pipe from his mouth, let fly a quarter so of yellowish juice from between a pair of brown-stained lips, and, opening one corner of his white mouth, lazily called out Jane. His wife appeared, and he intimated that I should settle the matter with the old woman. The prospect of a fee persuaded the wife, and off she went to arrange for my bed in that ill-fated room. At nine o'clock that evening I bid the family good night, took my candle, ascended the rickety stairs, and entered the chamber of horrors. The atmosphere was heavy, and had a peculiar odor that was not at all pleasing. However, I latched the door and was soon in bed. Having propped myself up with pillows, I was prepared to await the coming of the ghost. Overhead the dusty rafters, which once had experienced the sensation of being whitewashed, but were now a dirty yellowish color, were hung with a fantastic array of cobwebs. The flickering light of the candle reflected upon the walls and against the ceiling a pyramid of grotesque shapes, and with this effect being continually disturbed by the swaying cobwebs, the whole caused the room to appear rather ghostly after all, and especially so to an imaginative mind. I waited and waited for hours, it seemed, but still no ghost. Perhaps it was afraid of my candle-light, so I blew it out. No sooner had I done this and settled back in bed again than a white hand appeared through the door, then a whole figure, at last the ghost had come, a white and sheeted ghost. It had come right through the door, although it was locked, and now advanced toward the bed. Raising its long, wide arm, it pointed a bony finger at me and then commanded, come with me. Thereupon it turned from the door, while instantly I jumped out of bed to follow. Some unseen power compelled me to obey. The door flew open and the ghost led me down the stairs, through long halls into the cellar, through mysterious underground corridors, upstairs again, end-and-out rooms which I never dreamed were to be found in that old rambling inn. Finally, through a small door in the rear, we left the house. I was in my sleeping garments, but no matter, I had to follow. The white form with a slow and measured tread and as silent as death led the way into the orchard. There under a tree at the farther end, it pointed to the ground, and in the same ghostly tones before used said, Here you will find a great treasure buried. Then the ghost disappeared and I saw it no more. I stood dazed and trembling. Upon recovering my wets, I started to dig, but the chill of the night air and the scantiness of my night robes made such labor impracticable. So I decided to leave some mark to identify the place and come round again at daybreak. I reached up and broke off a limb. Overcome with my night's exertions I slept the next morning until a loud rapping on my door and a croaking voice warned me that it was noon. I had intended to leave Buckstown in that day, but prompted by curiosity and anxious to investigate, I unpacked my grip sack for a comfortable stay. You must understand that this was my first experience with a ghost, and I feared I might never see another. At breakfast my lady waited on me in silence, though once I detected her eyes following me with a peculiar expression. She wanted to ask me how I enjoyed the night, but I would not gratify her by volunteering a word. My host was more outspoken. Reckon you didn't get much sleep, said he with a queer smile. Did you hear anything? I asked. Well, I did, yes, he said with a drawl, but you didn't disturb me any. I knew you'd have trouble when you went into that room to sleep. That afternoon I slipped out to the tree. But to my amazement I found that the twig I had broken from the branches was gone. Finally I found under the lower trunk of an apple tree an open place from which a small branch had evidently been rested. But on looking further I discovered that every apple tree in the orchard had been similarly disfigured. More mysterious than ever, I said, but to-night shall decide. That night I pleaded wearing us, which no one seemed inclined to question, and sought my couch earlier. Going to try it again, asked my host. Yes, and I'll stay all winter, but what I'll get even with that ghost, I said. That night I kept the candle burning until midnight, when I blew it out. Incidentally the room was flooded with a soft light, and at the foot of the bed stood my ghost, the identical ghost of last night. Again the bony finger beckoned, and a sepulchral voice whispered, follow me. I sprang from the bed, but the figure darted ahead of me. It flew through the doorway and down the stairs, and I after it. At the foot of the stairs an unseen hand reached forward and caught my foot, and I fell sprawling headlong. But in a second I was on my feet and pursuing the ghost. It had gained on me a few yards, but I was quicker, and just as we reached the outside door I nearly touched its robes. They sent a chill through my frame, and I nearly gave up the pursuit. As it passed through the doorway, it turned and gave me one look, and I caught the same malignant light in its eyes that I remembered from the night before. In the open orchard I was sure I could catch it. But my ghost had no intention of allowing me any such opportunity. To my disgust it darted backward and into the house, slamming the door in my face. In my frenzy of fear and chagrin I threw myself against the open door with such force that its rusty old hinges yielded, and I landed in the big front room of the inn, just in time to see the white skirts of the ghost flit up the stairs. Upstairs I flew after it, and into an old chamber. There, huddled in a corner, I saw it. In the minutes delay it had secured a lighted candle, and as I entered it advanced to daunt me with bony arm upraised to a great height. Caught, I cried, throwing my arms around the figure, and I made the acquaintance of a real live ghost. The white robes fell, and I saw revealed my hostess of Buckstown Inn. Next morning, when I threatened to call the police, she confessed to me that she had masqueraded as a ghost to draw visitors to the out-of-the-way old place, and that she found his tale of being haunted highly profitable to her. End of Story 3 Story 4 of Thirty Ghost Stories by Various Authors This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Burglar's Ghost I'm not an imaginative man, and no one who knows me can say I have ever indulged in sentimental ideas upon any subject. I am rather predisposed, in fact, to look at everything from a purely practical standpoint, and this quality has been further developed in me by the fact that for twenty years I have been an active member of the Detective Police Force at Westford. A large town in one of our most important manufacturing districts. A policeman, as most people will readily believe, has to deal with so much practical life that he has small opportunity for developing other than practical qualities, and is more apt to believe intangible things than in ideas of somewhat superstitious nature. However, I was once under the firm conviction that I had been helped up the latter of life by the ghost of a once well-known burglar. I have told the story to many, and have heard it commented upon in various fashions. Whether the comments were satirical or practical, it made no difference to me. I had a firm faith at that time in the truth of my tale. Eighteen years ago I was a plain-clothes officer at Westford. I was then twenty-three years of age, and very anxious about two matters. First and foremost I desired promotion. Second, I wished to be married. Of course I was more eager about the second than the first, because my sweetheart, Alice Moore, was one of the prettiest and cleverest girls in the town. But I put promotion first for the simple reason that with me promotion must come before marriage. Knowing this I was always on the lookout for a chance of distinguishing myself, and I paid much attention to my duties that my superiors began to notice me, and foretold a successful career for me in the future. One evening in the last week of September, eighteen-seventy-three, I was sitting in my lodgings wondering what I could do to earn the promotion which I so earnestly wished for. Things were quiet just then in Westford, and I am afraid I half wished that something dreadful might occur if I only could have a share in it. I was pursuing this train of thought when suddenly I heard a voice say, Good evening, officer. I turned sharply around. It was almost dusk and my lamp was not lighted. For all that I could see clearly enough a man who was sitting by a chest of drawers that stood between the door and the window. His chair stood between the drawers and the door, and I concluded that he had quietly entered my room and seated himself before addressing me. Good evening, I replied. I didn't hear you come in. He laughed when I said that. A low, chuckling, rather sly laugh. No, he said. I dare say not, officer. I'm a very quiet sort of person. You might say, in fact, noiseless. Just so. I looked at him narrowly, feeling considerably surprised and astonished at his presence. He was a thickly built man with a square face and heavy chin. His nose was small, but aggressive. His eyes were little and overshadowed by heavy eyebrows. I could see them twinkle when he spoke. As for his dress, it was in keeping with his face. He wore a rough suit of woolen or frieze. A thick, gaily colored welcher neckerchief encircled his bow-like throat, and in his big hands he continually twirled and twisted a fur cap, made apparently out of the skin of some favorite dog. As he sat there smiling at me and saying nothing, it made me feel uncomfortable. What do you want with me? I asked. Just a little matter of business, he answered. You should have gone to the office, I said. We're not supposed to do business at home. Right you are, Governor, he replied. But I wanted to see you. It is you that's got to do my job. If I have seen the superintendent, he might have put somebody else on it. That wouldn't have suited me. You see, officer, you're young and naturally eager for promotion, eh? What is it you want? I inquired again. Ain't you eager to be promoted? he reiterated. Ain't you now, officer? I saw no reason why I should conceal the fact, even from this strange visitor. I admitted that I was eager for promotion. Ah! he said, with a satisfied smile. I'm glad of that. It'll make you all the keener. Now, officer, you listen to me. I'm a-going to put you on to a nice little job. I daresay you'll be a sergeant before long, you will. You'll be complimented and praised for your clever conduct in this airfare. Mark my words if you ain't. Out with it, I said. Fancying I saw through the man's meaning. You're going to split on some of your pals, I suppose, and you want a reward. He shook his head. A reward, he said, wouldn't be no use to me at all. No, not if it was a thousand pounds. No, it ain't nothing to do with reward. But now, officer, did you ever hear of a light-toed gem? Light-toed gem? I should have been a poor detective if I had not. Why, the man under that sobriquet was one of the cleverest burglars and thieves in England, and had enjoyed such a famous career that his name was a household word. At that moment there was an additional interest attached to him. He had been convicted of burglary at the North Minister of Cesis in 1871, and sentenced to ten years' penal servitude. After serving nearly two years of his time he escaped from Portland, getting away in such clever fashion that he had never been heard of since. Where he was no one could say, but lately there had been a strong suspicion among the police that light-toed gem was at his old tricks again. Light-toed gem, I repeated. I should think so. Why, what do you know about him? He smiled and nodded his head. Light-toed gem, said he, is in Westford at this air-hiddenical moment. Listen to me, officer. Light-toed gem is a gonna crack a crib tonight. Said crib is the mansion of Miss Singleton, that a rich old lady as lives out on Mapleton Road. You know her, awfully rich, with not but women's servants and animals about the place. There's some very valuable plate there. That's what Light-toed gem's after. He'll get in through the scullery window about one a.m., then he'll pass through the back and front kitchens and into the butler's pantry. Only it's a butleress, cause there ain't no men at all, and there he'll set to work on the safe. Some of his late pals in Portland gave him the tip about this air-job. How did you come to hear of it? I asked. Never mind, Governor. You wouldn't understand. Now I want you to be up there to-night to nab Light-toed gem red-handed, so to speak. It'll mean promotion for you, and it'll suit me down to the ground. You wants to be about and to watch him enter, then follow him and dog him. And he be armed, Officer, for gem'll fight like a tiger if you don't draw his teeth first. Now look here, my man, said I. This is all very well, but it's all irregular. You must tell me who you are and how you come to be in Light-toed gem secrets, and I'll put it down in black and white. I turned away from him to get my writing materials. I was not half a minute with my back to him, but when I turned around he was gone. The door was shut, but I had heard no sound from it either opening or shutting. Quick as I thought I darted to it, tore it wide open, and looked down the narrow staircase. There was no one there. I ran hastily downstairs into the passage and found my landlady, Mrs. Mariner, standing at the open door with a female friend. Mrs. Mariner, I said, breaking in upon their conversation. Which way did that man go who came downstairs just now? Mrs. Mariner looked at me strangely. There ain't been no man come downstairs, Mr. Parker, said she. Leased ways not this good three-quarters of an hour, which me and Mrs. Higgins here, as have come out who had taken airing. Her having been ironing all this blessed day, has been standing air all the time and ain't never seen us all. Nonsense, I said. A man came down from my room just now. The man you send up twenty minutes since. Mrs. Mariner looked at me with an expression betokening the most profound astonishment. Mrs. Higgins sighed deeply. Mr. Parker, said Mrs. Mariner, I'm sorry to say it, sir, but you're either intoxicated or else you're a sickening for brain fever, sir. There ain't no person entered this door, in or out, for nigh on to an hour, as me and Mrs. Higgins here will take our Bible-olth son. I went upstairs and looked in the rooms on either side of mine. The man was not there. I looked under my bed, and of course he was not there. He must have gone downstairs. But then the women must have seen him. There was only one door to the house. I gave it up in despair and began to smoke my pipe. By the time I had drawn the last whiff I decided that if anyone was intoxicated it was probably Mrs. Mariner and Mrs. Higgins, and that my strange visitor had departed by the door. I was not going to believe that he had anything supernatural about him. I had no duty that night, and as the hours wore on I found myself stern in my resolve to go up to Mrs. Singleton's house and see what I could make out of my informant's story. It was my opinion that my late visitor was a while impowell of light-toed gym, and that having become aware of the latter's plot, he had, for some reason of his own, decided to split on his old chum. Thieves' disagreement is an honest man's opportunity, and I determined to solve the truth of the story told me. Lest it should come to nothing, I decided not to report the matter to my chief. If I could really capture light-toed gym, my success would be all the more brilliant by being suddenly sprung upon the authorities. I made my plan of action rapidly. I took a revolver with me and went up to Mrs. Singleton's house. Fortunately I knew the housekeeper there, a middle-aged, strong-minded woman, easily frightened, which was a good thing. To her I communicated such information as I considered necessary. She consented to conceal me in the room where the safe stood. There was a cupboard close by the safe from which I could command a full view of the burglar's operations and pounce upon him at the right moment. If only my information was to be relied upon, there was every chance of capturing the famous burglar. Soon after midnight, when the house was all quiet, I went to the pantry and got into the cupboard, locking myself in. There were two openings in the panel, through which of either I was able to command a full view of the room. My position was somewhat cramped, but the time soon passed away. My mind was principally occupied in wondering if I was really about to have a chance of distinguishing myself. Somehow there was an air of unreality about the events of the evening which puzzled me. Suddenly I heard a sound which put me on the alert at once. It was nothing more than the creaking of a board or opening of a door would make in a quiet house, but it sounded intensified to my expectant ears. I drew myself up against the door of the cupboard and placed my eye to the opening of the panel. I had oiled the key of the door and kept my fingers upon it in readiness to spring upon the burglar at the proper moment. After what seemed some time, I saw the gleam of light through the keyhole of the door opening into the pantry. Then it opened, and a man carrying a small lantern came gently into the room. At first I could see nothing of his face, but when my eyes grew accustomed to the hazy light, I saw that I had been rightly informed, and that the burglar was indeed no other than the famous light-toed Jim. As I stood there watching him, I could not help admiring the cool fashion in which he went to work. He went over to the window and examined it. He tried the door of the cupboard in which I stood concealed. Then he locked the door of the pantry and turned his attention to the safe. He set his lamp on a chair before the lock and took from his pocket as neat and pretty a collection of tools as I ever saw. With these he went quietly and swiftly to work. Light-toed Jim was a somewhat slimly-built fellow, with little muscular development about him, while I'm a big man with plenty of bone and sinew. If matters had come to a fight between us, I could have done what I pleased with him, but I knew that Jim would not chance a fight. Somewhere about him I felt sure there was a revolver, which he would use on the least provocation. My plan therefore was to wait until his back was bent over the lock of the safe, then to open the cupboard door noiselessly and fall bodily upon him, pinning him to the ground beneath me. Before long the moment came. He was working away steadily at the lock. His whole attention concentrated on the job. The slight noise of his drill was sufficient to drown the faint click of the key in the cupboard door. I turned it quickly and tumbled right upon him, driving the tool out of his hands and tumbling him into a heap at the front of the safe. He uttered an exclamation of rage and astonishment as he went down, and immediately began to wriggle under me like an eel. As I kept him down with one hand I tried to pull out the handcuffs with the other. This somewhat embarrassed me, and the burglar profited by it to pull out a sharp knife. He had worked himself around on his back, and before I realized what he was after he was hacking furiously at me with his keen, dagger-like blade. Then I realized that we were going to have a fight for it, and prepared myself. He tried to run the knife into my side. I warded it off, but the blade caught the fleshy part of my left arm and I felt a warm stream of blood spurred out. That maddened me, and I seized one of the steel drills lay near at hand and hit my man with such a blow over the temple that he collapsed at once, and lay as if dead. I put the handcuffs on him instantly, and, to make matters still more certain, I secured his ankles. Then I rose and looked at my arm. The knife had made a nasty gash, and the blood was flowing freely. But it was not serious, and when the housekeeper, who had just then appeared on the scene, had banished it, I went out and secured the help of the first policeman I met in conveying light-toed Jim to the office. I felt a proud man when I made my report to the inspector. Light-toed Jim, said he. What, James Blant? Nonsense, Parker! But I took him to the cells where Jim was being attended to by the doctor. You're right, Parker, he said. That's the man. Well, this'll be a fine thing for you. After a time, feeling a little exhausted, I went home to try and get some sleep. The surgeon had attended to my arm, and told me it was but a superficial wound. It felt sore in spite of that. I had no sooner reached my lodgings than I saw sitting in my easy chair, the strange man who had called upon me earlier in the evening. He rose to his feet when I entered. I stared at him in utter astonishment. Well, Governor, said he. I see you've done it. You've got him square and fair, I reckon. Yes, I said. Ah, he said, with a sigh of complete satisfaction. Then I'm satisfied. Yes, I don't know as how there's ought more I could say. I reckon that's how Light-toed Jim and me's quits. I was determined to find out who this man was this time. Sit down, I said. There's a question or two I must ask you. Just let me get my coat off and I'll talk to you. I took my coat off and went over to the bed to lay it down. Now then I began and looked around at him. I said no more, being literally dumbstruck. The man was gone. I began to feel uncomfortable. I ran hastily downstairs, only to find the outer door locked and bolted, as I had left it a few minutes before. I went back, utterly non-plussed. For an hour I pondered the matter over, but could neither make head nor tail of it. When I went down to the office next morning I was informed that the burglar wanted to see me. I went to his cell where he was lying in bed with his head banished. I had hit him pretty hard as it turned out, and it was probable he would have to lie on the sick list for some days. Well, Governor, said he, you'd the best of me last night. You hit me rather hard that time. I was sorry to have to do it, my man, I answered. You would have stabbed me if you could. Yes, he said. I should. But I say, Governor, come a bit closer. I want to ask you a question. How did you know I was on that little job last night? For help me, there wasn't a soul knew a breath about it but myself. I hadn't no pals, never talked to nobody about it, never thought aloud about it, as I knows on. How came you to spot it, Governor? There was no one else in the cell with us, and I thought I might find out something about my mysterious visitor the night before. It was a pal of yours who gave me the information, I said. Can't be, Governor. No use telling me that. I ain't got no pals, least ways not in this job. Did you ever know a man like this? I described my visitor. As I proceeded, light-toed Jim's face assumed an expression of real terror. Whatever color was in it faded away. I never saw a man look more thoroughly frightened. Yes, yes, he said eagerly. In course I know who it is, why that's Barksy Bill, as I'd pal with it one time. And what did he say, Governor, that he owed me a grudge, that we was quits at last? Right you are, because he did owe me a grudge. I treated Bill very shabby, very shabby indeed, and he swore solemn he'd have his revenge. On you, Governor, what you see wasn't Barksy Bill at all, but his ghost, because Barksy Bill's been dead and buried this three year. I was naturally very much exercised in my mind over this weird development of the fair, and I used to think about it long after light-toed Jim had once more retired into the seclusion of Portland. While he was in charge at Westford I tried more than once to worm some more information out of him about the defunct Barksy Bill, but with no success. He would say no more than that Bill was dead and buried this three year, and with that I had to be content. Gradually I came to have a firm belief that I had indeed been visited by Barksy Bill's ghost, and I often told the story to brother officers, and sometimes got well laughed at. That, however, mattered little to me. I felt sure that any man who had gone through the same experience would have had the same beliefs. Of course I got my promotion and was soon afterward married. Things went well with me, and I was lifted from one step to another. In my secret mind I was always sure I owed my first rise to the burglar's ghost, and I should have continued to think so but for an incident which occurred just five years after my capture of light-toed Jim. I had occasion to travel to Sheffield from Lorde, and had to change trains at Leeds. The carriage I stepped into was occupied by a solitary individual who turned his face to me as I sat down. Though dressed in more respectable fashion, I immediately recognized the man who had visited me so mysteriously at my lodgings. My first feeling was one of fear, and I daresay my face showed it, for the man laughed. "'Hello, Governor,' said he. "'I see you knew me as soon as you come in. You owes a deal to me, Governor. Now don't ye? Eh?' "'Look here, my man,' I said. "'I've been taking you for a ghost these five years past. Now just tell me how you got in and out of my room that night, will you?' He laughed long and loud at that. "'A ghost,' said he. "'Well, if that ain't a good turn. "'Why, easy enough, Governor. I was a lodging for a day or two in the same house. It was easy enough, when you know how, to open a door very quiet and slip out, too. But I followed you sharp and looked for you. "'I, Governor, but you looked down, and I'd gone up. You should have come up to the Attics, and there you to found me. So you took me for a ghost. Well, I'm blowed.' I told him what Light-toed Jim had said in the cell. "'I,' said he. "'I dare say, Governor, you see, it was this way. It weren't Jim's fault I wasn't dead. He tried to murder me, Governor. He did, and left me a lion for dead. So I says to myself, when I comes round, that I'd pay him out sooner or later. But after that I quit the profession. Jim's nasty conduct havin' made me sick of it. So I went in for honest work at my old trade, which was draining and pipe-repairing. I was on a job of that sort in Westford, near Miss Singleton's house, when I see'd Light-toed Jim. I had a idea of what he was up to, havin' heard of the plate, and I watched as him one or two nights, and gets a notion how he was going to work the job. Then, of course, you being an officer and close at hand, I splits on him, and that's all. But you had got the time in details correct. Oh, why, of course, Governor, I was an old hand, served many years at Portland, I have, and I knew just how Jim would work it, after seeing his preliminary observations. But a ghost! Ha! Ha! Why, Governor, you must have been very green young officer in them days. Perhaps I was. At any rate I learned a lesson from the D. Devont-Barksee Bill, namely, that in searching a house it is always advisable to look up as well as down. End of Story 4 Story 5 of 30 Ghost Stories by Various Authors This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. A Phantom Toe I'm not a superstitious man, far from it, but despite all my efforts to the contrary, I could not help thinking, directly I had taken a survey of my chamber, that I should never quit it without going through a strange adventure. There was something in its immense size, heaviness and gloom that seemed to annihilate at one blow all my resolute skepticism as regards supernatural visitations. It appeared to me totally impossible to go into that room and disbelieve in ghosts. The fact is, I had unconsciously partaken at supper of that favorite Dutch dish, Sour Crout, and I suppose it had disagreed with me, and put strange fancies into my head. But this be as it may, I only know that after parting with my friend for the night, I gradually worked myself up into such a state of fidgetness that at last I wasn't sure whether I had become a ghost myself. Supposing, ruminated I, supposing the landlord himself should be a practical robber, and should have taken the lock and bolt from off this door for the purpose of entering here in the dead of night, abstracting all my property, and perhaps murdering me. I thought the dog had a very cutthroat air about him. Now, I had never had any such idea until that moment, for my host was a fat, all Dutchmen are fat, stupid-looking fellow, who I don't believe had sense enough to understand what a robbery or murder meant. But somehow or other, whenever we have anything really to annoy us, and certainly it was not pleasant to go to bed in a strange place without being able to fasten one's door, we are sure to aggravate it by myriads of chimeras of our own brain. So on the present occasion, in the midst of a thousand disagreeable reveries, some of the most wild absurdity, I jump very gloomily into bed, having first put out my candle, for total darkness is far preferable to its flickering, ghostly light, which transformed rather than revealed objects, and soon fell asleep, perfectly tired out with my day's writing. How long I lay asleep I don't know, but I suddenly awoke from a disagreeable dream of cutthroats, ghosts, and long-winding passages in a haunted inn. An indescribable feeling such as I never before experienced hung upon me. It seemed as if every nerve in my body had a hundred spirits tickling it, and this was accompanied by so great a heat that inwardly, cursing mind's whole sour-crout and wondering how the Dutchmen could endure such a poison, I was forced to sit up in bed to cool myself. The whole of the room was profoundly dark, accepting at one place, where the moonlight, falling through a crevice in the shutters, threw a straight line about an inch or so thick upon the floor, clear, sharp, and intensely brilliant against the darkness. I leave you to conceive my horror when, upon looking at this said line of light, I saw there a naked human toe, nothing more. For the first instant I thought the vision must be some effect of moonlight than that I was only half awake and could not distinctly see. So I rub my eyes two or three times and looked again. Still there was the accursed thing, plain, distinct, immovable, marble-like in its fixedness and rigidity, but in everything else horribly human. I am not an easily frightened man. No one who has traveled so much and seen so much has been exposed to so many dangers as I can be. But there was something so mysterious and unusual in the appearance of this single toe, that for a short time I could not think what to be at. So I did nothing but stare at it in a state of utter bewilderment. At length, however, as the toe did not vanish under my steady gaze, I thought I might as well change my tactics, and remembering that all midnight invaders, be they thieves, ghosts or devils, dislike nothing so much as a good noise, I shouted out in a loud voice, who's there? The toe immediately disappeared in the darkness. Almost simultaneously with my words I leapt out of bed and rushed towards the place where I had beheld the strange appearance. The next instant I ran against something and felt an iron grip round my body. After this I have no distinct recollection of what occurred, accepting that a fearful struggle ensued between me and my unseen opponent. That every now and then we were violently hurled to the floor, from which we always rose again in an instant, locked in a deadly embrace. That we tugged and strained and pulled and pushed, I in the convulsive and frantic energy of a fight for life. He, for by this time I had discovered that the intruder was a human being, actuated by some passion of which I was ignorant. That we whirled round and round, cheek to cheek and arm to arm, in fierce contest, till the room appeared to whiz round us, and that at least a dozen people, my fellow traveler among them, roused, I suppose, by our repeated falls, came pouring into the room with lights, and showed me struggling with a man having nothing on but a shirt, whose long-tangled hair and wild, unsettled eyes told me he was insane. And then, for the first time, I became aware that I had received in the conflict several gashes from a knife, which my opponent still held in his hand. To conclude my story in a few words, for I dare say all of you by this time are getting very tired. It turned out that my Midnight visitor was a madman who was being conveyed to a lunatic asylum at the Hague, and that he and his keeper had been obliged to stop at Delph on their way. The poor fellow had contrived during the night to escape from his keeper, who had carelessly forgotten to lock the door of his chamber, and with that irresistible desire to shed blood particular to so many insane people had possessed himself of a pocket-knife belonging to the man who had charge of him, entered my room, which was most likely the only one in the house unfastened, and was probably meditating the fatal stroke when I saw his toe in the moonlight, the rest of his body being hidden in the shade. After this terrible freak of his he was watched with much greater strictness, but I ought to observe, as some excuse for the keeper's negligence, that this was the first act of violence he had ever attempted. Dear readers, do you agree with Hamlet? Do you believe that there is more between heaven and earth than we dream of in our philosophy? Does it seem impossible to you that Alephus Levy conjured up the shade of Apollonius of Tyanna, the prophet of Magi, in a London hotel, and that the great sage, William Crooks, drank his tea at breakfast several days a week, for months in succession, in the society of the materialized spirit of a young lady, attired in white linen, with a feathered turban on her head? Do not laugh! Panic would seize you in the presence even of a turban spirit, and the grotesque spectacle but would intensify your terror. As for me, I did not laugh last night on reading an account in the New York newspaper of a criminal trial that will probably terminate in the death penalty of the accused. It is a sad case. I shudder as I transcribe the records of the trial from the testimony of the hotel waiter, who heard the conversation of the two Confederates through a keyhole, and of forty thoroughly credible witnesses, who testify to the same facts. What would my feelings if I had seen the beautiful victim with a gaping wound in her breast, into which she dipped her finger to mark the brow of a murder? About three o'clock in the afternoon of February 3rd, Professor Davenport, and Miss Ida, South Chot, a very pale and delicate young girl, who had submitted to the tests of Professor Davenport for a number of years, were finishing their dinner in their room in the second story of a New York hotel. Professor Benjamin Davenport was a celebrity, but it was said that he owed his fame to somewhat questionable means. The leading spiritualist did not repose the confidence in him that manifestly regarded for William Crooks or Daniel Douglas' home. Greedy and unscrupulous mediums, the author of Spiritualism in America thinks, are to blame for the most bitter attacks to which our cause has been exposed. When the materializations do not take place as quickly as circumstances require, they resort to trickery and fraud to extricate themselves from a dilemma. Professor Benjamin Davenport belonged to these versatile mediums. Aside from this, queer stories were afloat about him. He was secretly accused of highway robbery in South America, cheating at cards in the gambling houses of San Francisco, and the overhastey use of firearms towards persons who had never offended him. It was said, almost openly, that the Professor's wife had died from abuse and grief at his infidelity. But in spite of these annoying rumors, Mr. Davenport, by virtue of his skill as a fraud and faker, continued to exercise a great deal of influence upon certain plain and simple-minded folks, whom it was impossible to convince that they had not touched the materialized spirits of their brothers, mothers, or sisters through the agency of his wonderful power. With his professional success received material ascension from his swarthy, methystal-like countants, his deep, fiery eyes, his large curved nose, the cynical expression of his mouth, and the lofty, almost prophetic tone of his words. When the waiter had made his last visit, he did not go far. The following conversation took place in the room. There is to be a seance this evening at the residence of Mrs. Harding. Begin the medium. Quite a number of influential people will be there, and two or three millionaires. Conceal under your skirt the blonde woman's wig and the white material in which the spirits usually make their appearance. Very well replied Ida Sauchot, in a resigned tone. The waiter heard her, paced the room. After a pause she asked, Your spirit, are you going to control this evening, Benjamin? The waiter heard a loud, brutal laugh and the chair groaning beneath the weight of the demonstrative professor. Guess. How should I know? she asked. I am going to conjure up the spirit of my dead wife. And another burst of laughter issued from the room, full of sinister levity. A cry of terror burst from Ida's lips. A muffled sound indicated to drop her at the door that she was dragging herself to the feet of the professor. Benjamin. Benjamin, don't do it, she sobbed. Why not? They say I broke Mrs. Davenport's heart. The story is damaging my reputation, but it will be forgotten if her spirit should address me in terms of endearment from the other shore in the presence of numerous witnesses. For you will speak to me tenderly. Will you not, Ida? No, no, you shall not do it. You shall not think of it. Listen to me. For God's sake, during the four years that I have been with you, I have obeyed you faithfully and suffered patiently. I have lied and deceived like you. I learned to imitate the sleep and symptoms of clairvoyance. Tell me, did I ever refuse to serve you? Or utter a word of complaint, even when my shoulders bent with the weight of my burden, when you pierced the flesh of my arms with knitting needles. Worse than all this, I imitated distant voices behind curtains, and made mothers and wives believe that their sons and husbands had come from a better world to communicate with them. How often have I performed the most dangerous feats in parlors with the lamps turned low? Clothed in a shroud or white Muslim, I essayed to represent supernatural forms, whom tiered dimmed eyes recognized as those of departed dear ones. You do not know what I suffered at this unhallowed work. You scoff at the mysteries of eternity. I suffer the torments of an impending retribution. My God, if some time the dead whom I counterfeit should rise up before me with uplifted arms and dreadful imprecations. This constant terror has injured my heart. It will kill me. I am consumed by fever. Look how emaciated, how worn out and downcast I am, but I am under your control. Do as you like with me. I am in your power, and I want it to be so. Have I ever complained? But do not force me to do this thing, Benjamin. Have pity on me for what I have done for you in the past, for what I have been doing. Do not attempt this mummary. Do not compel me to play the role of your dead wife, who was so tender and beautiful. Oh, what put that into your mind? Spare me, Benjamin, I implore you. The Professor did not laugh again. Amid the confusion of upturned articles of furniture the eavesdropper distinguished the sound of a skull striking the floor. He concluded that Professor Davenport had knocked Miss Ida down with a blow of his fist, or kicked her as she approached him. But the waiter did not enter the room, as no one rang for him. That evening forty persons were assembled in Miss Joanne Harding's parlor, staring at a curtain where the spirit form was in process of materializing. One dark lantern in a corner of the room contributed the light that emphasized the darkness rather than relieved it. The room was pervaded by profound silence, save the quickened, suppressed breathing of the spectators. The fire in the gray cast mysterious rays of light, resembling fugitive spirits upon the objects around, almost indistinguishable in the semi-gloom. Professor Davenport was at his best this evening. The spirit world obeyed him without hesitation, like their lawful master. He was the mighty prince of souls. Hands that had no arms were seen picking flowers from the vases. The touch of an invisible spirit conjured sweet melodies from the keys of the piano. The furniture responded by intelligent wrappings to the most unanticipated questions. The Professor himself elevated his form in symbolical distortions from the floor to an altitude of three feet, indicated by Mrs. Harding, and remained suspended in the air for a quarter of an hour, holding life-colds in his hands. But the most interesting, as well as the most conclusive test, was to be the materialization of the spirit of Mrs. Arabella Davenport, which the Professor had promised at the beginning of the séance. The hours come, exclaimed the medium. And while the hearts of all throbbed with anxious suspense and their eyes distended with painful expectancy of the promised materialization, Benjamin Davenport stood before the curtain. In the twilight the tall man with the disheveled hair and demon look was really terrible and handsome. Appear, Arabella, he exclaimed in a commanding voice, with gestures of the Nazarene at the sepulcher of Lazarus. Suddenly a cry burst from behind the curtain, a piercing, shuttering, horrible shriek, the shriek of an expiring soul. The spectators trembled. Mrs. Harding almost fainted. The medium himself appeared surprised. But Benjamin recovered his composure on seeing the curtain move and admit the spirit. The apparition was that of a young woman with long-blonde tresses. She was beautiful and pale, clad in some light, whitish material. Her breast was bare and on the left side appeared a bleeding wound, in which trembled a knife. The spectators rose and retreated, pushing their chairs to the wall. Those who chance to look at the medium noticed that a deadly pallor had overspread his face and that he was cowering and trembling. But the young woman, Mrs. Arabella, the real one, whom he so well remembered, she had come in response to his summons and advanced in a direct line toward Benjamin, who in tear covered his eyes to shut out the ghastly sight and with a cry fled behind the furniture. But she dipped the finger of her thin hand into the blood from her wound and traced it across the brow of the unconscious medium, the while repeating in slow, monotonous tone that sounded like the echo of a whale again and again, you are my murderer, you are my murderer. And while he was rolling and tossing in deadly terror on the floor, they turned up the lights. The spirit had vanished, but in the communicating room behind the curtain they found the body of poor Miss Ida, South Chot, with horribly distorted features. A physician who was present pronounced it a heart stroke. And that is the reason that Professor Benjamin Davenport appeared alone in the New York courtroom to answer to the charge of having murdered his wife four years ago in San Francisco. End of Story 6 Story 7 of 30 Ghost Stories by Various Authors This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Phantom Woman He took an all-possessing, burning fancy to her from the first. She was neither young nor pretty, so far as he could see, but she was wrapped round with mystery. That was the key of it all. She was noticeable in spite of herself. Her face at the window, sunset after sunset, her eyes gazing out mournfully through the dusty pains, hypnotized the lawyer. He saw her through the twilight night after night, and he grew at length to wait through the days in a feverish waiting for dusk, and that one look at an unknown woman. She was always at the same window on the ground floor, sitting doing nothing. She looked beyond, so the infatuated solicitor fancied at him. Once he even thought that he detected the ghost of a friendly smile on her lips. Their eyes always met with a mute desire to make acquaintance. This romance went on for a couple of months. Gilbert Dent assured himself that nothing in his life can possibly remain stationary, and he cudgled his brain for a respectable manner of introducing himself to his idol. He had hardly arrived at this point when he received a shock. There came an evening when she was not at the window. Next morning he walked down Wood Lane on his way to the office. He always went by train, but he felt a strong disinclination to go through another day without a sight of her. His heart began to beat like a school girl's as he drew near the house. If she should be at the window. He was almost disposed to take his courage in his hand and call on her, and yes, even tell her in quick bursts that she had seriously become all the world to him. He could see nothing ridiculous in this course. The possibility of her being married, or having family ties of any sort, had simply never occurred to him. However, she was not at the window. What was more, there was a sinister silence, a sort of breathlessness about the whole place. It was a very hot morning in late August. He looked a long time, but no face came and no movement stirred in the house. He went his way, walking like a man who has been heavily knocked on the brow and see stars still. That afternoon he left the office early, and in less than an hour stood at the gate again. The window was blank. He pushed the gate back, it hung on one hinge, and walked up the drive to the door. There were five steps, five steps leading up to it. At the foot he wheeled aside sharply to the window. He had a sick dread of looking through the small panes. Why, he could not have told. When at last he found courage to look, he saw there was a small round table set just under the window, a work table to all appearance. One of those things with lots of little compartments all round and a lid in the middle which shut over a well-like cavity for holding pieces of needlework. He remembered that his mother had one thirty years before. Round the edge of the table was gripped a small, delicate hand. Gilbert Dent's eyes ran from this bloodless hand in slim wrist to a shoulder under a coarse stuffed bodice, to a rather wasted throat, which was bare and flung back. So this was the end, before the beginning. He saw her, she was dead, twisted on the floor with a ghastly face turned up toward the lane, and stiff fingers caught in desperation round the work table. He stumbled away along the path and into the lane. For a long time he could not realize the horror of this thing. The influence of the decayed house hung over him. Nothing seemed real. It was quite dart when he moved away from the gate and went in the direction of the nearest police station. That she was dead, this woman whose very name he did not know, although she influenced him so powerfully. He was certain. One look at the face would have told anyone that. That she was murdered he more than suspected. He had seen no blood about. There had been no mark on the long bare throat, and yet the word rushed in his ears, murder. Later on he went back with the police officer. They broke into the house and entered the room. It was in utter darkness, of course, by now. Dent, his fingers trembling, struck a match. It flared round the walls and lighted them for a moment before he let it fall on the dusty floor. The policeman began to light his lantern and turned it stolidly on the window. He had no reason for delay. He was eager to get to the bottom of the business. His professional zeal was wetted. This promised to be a mystery with a spice in it. He turned the light full on the window. He gave a strange, choked cry, half of rage, half of apprehension. Then he went up to Gilbert Dent, who stood in the middle of the room with his hands before his eyes, and took his shoulder and shook it none too gently. There ain't anybody, he said. Dent looked widely at the window. The recess was empty except for the work-table. The woman was gone. They searched the house. They minutely inspected the garden. Everything was normal. Everything told the same mournful tale of desertion, of death, of long, empty years. But they found no woman nor trace of one. This house, said the policeman, looking suspiciously into the lawyer's face, has been empty for longer than I can remember. Nobody'll live in it. They do say something about foul play a good many years ago. I don't know about that. All I do know is that the landlord can't get it off his hands. It was doubtful if Gilbert Dent heard one word of what the man was saying. He was too stunned to do anything but creep home, when he was allowed to go, and let himself stealthily into his own house with a latch key. He was afraid even of himself. He did not go to bed that night. As for the mystery of the woman, the matter was allowed to drop. It ended officially. There was a shrug and a grin at the police station. The impression there was that the lawyer had been drinking, that the dead woman in the empty room was a gruesome freak of his tipsy brain. A week or so later Dent called on his brother Ned, the one near relation he had. Ned was a doctor. Perhaps he was a shade more matter of fact than Gilbert. At all events, when the latter told his story of the house and the woman, he attributed the affair solely to liver. You are overworked, the elder brother looked at the younger's yellow face. An experience of this nature is by no means uncommon. Haven't you heard of people having their pets spooks? But this was a real woman, he declared. I—I—well, I was in love with her. I had made up my mind to marry her, if I could. Ned gave him a king swift glance. We'll go to Brighton tomorrow, he said, with quiet decision. As for your work, everything must be put aside. You've run completely down. You ought to have been taken in hand before. They went to Brighton, and it really seemed as if Ned was right, and that the woman at the window had been merely a nervous creation. It seemed so, that is, for nearly three weeks, and then the climax came. It was in the twilight. She had always been a part of it, that Gilbert Dent saw her again, the woman that he had found lying dead. They were walking, the two brothers, along the cliffs. The wind was blowing in their faces, the sea was booming beneath the cliff. Ned had just said it was about time they turned back to the hotel, and had some dinner, when Gilbert with a cry leaped forward to the very edge of the flat grass path on which they were strolling. The movement was so sudden that his brother barely caught him in time. They struggled and swayed on the very edge of the cliff for a second. Gilbert, possessed by some sudden frenzy, seemed resolved to go over, but the other at last dragged him backward, and they rolled together on the close, thick turf. At this point Gilbert opened his eyes and tried to get on his feet. Better? Ask his brother cheerfully, holding out a helping hand. Strange! The sea has that effect on some people. Didn't think you were one of them. What effect? Vertigo, my dear fellow. Ned, said the other solemnly. I saw her. It's not worth your while to try to account for anything. I have been inclined to think that you were right, that she, the woman at the window, was a fancy, that I had fallen in love with the creation of my own brain. But I saw you tonight. You must have seen her yourself. She was within a couple of feet of you. Why did you not try and save her? It was nothing short of murder to let her go over like that. I did my best. You certainly did, to kill us both, said Ned grimly. Gilbert gave him a wild look. After luncheon Ned persuaded him to rest, watched him fall asleep, and then went out. In the porch of the hotel he was met by a waiter on his return, who told him that Gilbert had left about a quarter of an hour after he had himself gone out. Directly he heard this he feared the worst, having, as is usual in such cases, a very hazy idea of what the worst might be. Of course he must follow without a moment's delay, but a reference to the timetable told him that there was not another train for an hour, and that was slow. It was already getting dusk when he arrived there. He felt certain that Gilbert would go there. He got to the end of the lane and walked up it slowly, examining every house. There would be no difficulty in recognizing the one he wanted. Gilbert had described it in detail more than once. He stood outside the loosely hanging gate at last, and stared through the darkness at the shabby stucco front and rank garden. He went down a flight of steps to the back door, and finding it unfastened, stepped into a stone passage. It was one of the problems of the place that he should have avoided the main entrance door with a half-admitted dread, and that, only half-admitting still, he was afraid to mount the long flight of stone stairs leading from the servants' quarters. However, he pulled himself together and went up to the room. It was quite dark inside. He heard something scuttle across the floor. He felt the grit and dust of years under his feet. He struck a match, just as Gilbert had done, and looked at first at the recess in which the window was built. The match flared round the room for a moment and gave him a flash picture of his surroundings. He saw the stripes of gaudy paper moving almost imperceptibly, like tentacles of some sea monster from the wall. He saw a creature, it looked like a rat, scurry across the floor from the window to the great mantelpiece of hard white marble. If he had seen nothing more than this. He saw in detail all that first match had flashed at him. He saw his brother lying on the floor, a ghastly coincidence. His hand was caught round the edge of the work-table as hers had been. The other hand was clenched across his breast. There was a look of great agony on his face. A dead face, of course. This was the end of the affair. He was lying dead by the window where the woman had sat every night at dusk and smiled at him. A second match went out. The brother of the dead man struck a third. He looked again closely. Then he staggered to his feet and gave a cry. It rang through the empty rooms and echoed without wearing down the long-stone passages in the basement. Gilbert's head was thrown back, his chin peaking to the ceiling. On his throat were vivid marks. The doctor saw them distinctly. He saw the grip of small fingers, the distinct impression of a woman's little hand. The curious thing about the whole story, the most curious thing, perhaps, is that no other eye ever saw those murderous marks. So there was no scandal, no chase after the murderer, no undiscovered crime. They faded when the doctor saw his brother again in the full light and in the presence of others his throat was clear. And the post-mortem proved that death was due to natural causes. So the matter still stands, and will. But where the house and its overgrown garden stood runs a new road with neat red and white villas. Whatever secret it knew, if any, it kept discreetly. Ned Dent is morbid enough to go down the smart new road in the twilight sometimes in wonder. End of Story 7 Story 8 Sandy's Ghost Commendations for the night, stranger? Well yes, I reckon we can fix a place for you. Have a cheer and set you down. Thank you, don't you find this rather a lonely place? No neighbors, no nothing that I can see. How came you to settle here, so far removed from other habitations? Well, perhaps it's best not to ask too many questions to once. Beg your pardon? No offense was intended. I assure you, simply idle curiosity. Don't say another word, stranger, but come on in. We'll have a snack for supper. Polly, bring on some vitals. You're just in time. Polly at once obeyed. She was a typical western girl, tall, lithe, graceful, and lipid-eyed. She was clear-skinned and high-spirited, too, and in this case ignorant through no fault of her own. John Barr's eyes scant her intently, and a flush came to her cheeks. For the first time in her life she was unpleasantly conscious of her bare feet. It may have been this that made her stumble and spill some of the contents of an earthen bowl over the guest's knees as she placed it on the table. Her eyes flashed and a tear of anger twinkled on the lashes. She stopped, half meaning to apologize, but an oath from her father caused her to set the bowl down heavily and to hurry from the cabin. A moment later Barr saw a flutter of pink calico from behind a pile of rocks. Old Kit Robinson saw it, too. Don't wonder at your saying, taint right. She's a smart gal, and a good looker, too, as she'd have been sent away from here to school to be educated. She won't leave her no count dad. I ought to be shot for cussing her, but I ain't what I used to be. Sitting here and keeping guard makes me nervous. Barr's eyes ask the question as lips refuse to speak. Supper eaten. The men went outside and sat with their chairs folded back against the cabin. Something in the younger man's frank face had softened Old Kit into a reminiscent mood and made him strangely inclined to gratify a nightly curiosity. The soft evening wind sighed through the branches of the tall spruce pines, and the declining rays of the setting sun caused the shadow of the rude home to stretch out longer across the Greensward. From its shelter where he sat, John Barr looked out in the grand ranges of the Rockies, and wondered where in their vastness he would find the man he sought, the finding of whom had brought him into this wild and un-forsaken mining-camp. Stranger, I've taken like interior. You've been something about you that reminds me of someone I know, and you look like an honest chap. Say, do you believe in ghosts? He put the question very suddenly, and a look of disappointment crossed his face when Barr told him that he did not believe in spooks. Well, I've seen him. A thought connecting the pink calico with something in the past came to Barr's mind. Can't you tell me about it? He asked. I'd liked her if you'll swar on your derringer and never to blab. Will you swar? The solitary guest started a smile, but the smile faded at the thought of unshed tears in Polly's eyes. It might make it easier for her if he humored the old man. I swear, he said, and he did. Do you see, yawn, old spruce at the turn of the trail and the cliff just above? Well, that's the spot I'm watching and guarding till the owner comes and to reclaim it. I'm quick to burn powder and pretty sure shot. I know a man when I seize him, and I ain't easy fooled. Walter began with. I had a partner once, and he was a man, sure enough. He was from the State of New York. I never asked him as to how so fine a gent come to diggin' and shovelin' in the Rockies. Though to myself I said there was some good reason. He had light hair and we called him Sandy, for short, and he was just about as gritty as sand. We was as unlike as any two fellers you ever saw. He was quiet like and steady, and I was sorter wild and reckless, and I like mounting do-mo's too well. Well, when we had a little dust scraped together, we would divvy, and I took my share way down to the station on the other side of the cliffs and sent her off to the bank in Helena. But I always left some hid where the gal could find it. Old Sandy had a bank of his own that no one knew about, sceptin' himself, and every time we divided he'd carry part of it to his hidein' place, and then give the rest to me to send to his boy, that he said was bein' educated in some college way up in Boston. He seemed to think a heap of that boy. Archer a while, mild woman gave out, and soon we laid her away on the hillside. It was hard, stranger. Old Cat's voice failed him for a moment, but he quickly regained his composure and continued. But when old Sandy, my good old pard, give up I didn't care for nothin'. We bared him in style. All the boys from round the diggants was thar, and many an eye was wet. We didn't have nary a preacher, but the gal she prayed at the grave. For the life of me I don't know where she learned it. Reckon the old women must have told her. Next mornin' the gal showed me a letter that Sandy gave her just before he died. It was Ter's boy, and she was to give it to him, if he ever come out this way, and she got it yet. That same evening after supper, feelin' kinder gloomish, and like there was something in my throat I couldn't swallow, I took a stroll up the gulch. I went on out to the top of the ridge of the big rock and got her stud in where I'd find another pard like Sandy. All her once I felt a hand touch my shoulder kind of light once or twice. I jumped up, half-spectin' it was Sandy, but it was only the gal. Well, I was all took back at first, and then I got mad. What are you doin' up here? I ask, kinder tough. She had tears in her eyes as she looked up at me and said, Papp, don't get mad, I was lonesome. I see'd you comin' up this way, and I followed you, cause I wanted to tell you that Sandy said to give his boy his pile when he comes. Well, says I, you might've waited till I come back to the house, and then I sent her back. At her she was gone, I sought her studion where in the world Sandy's pile was. I tried to think where he could've hit it, but it weren't no use. All her once I noticed it was plumb dark, and these surroundings ain't a healthy place for a man to roam in after nightfall, especially if he ain't got his shootin' irons on. I cut a pretty swift gate for the shack. Just as I come around the bend there at the pine, I happen to look up toward the cliff, and there saw Sandy. Yes, sir, he was him sure as you're born. My feet felt heavy as lead, and I couldn't move from the spot. I tried your holler, but it weren't no go. Finally I gave a sudden jerk, and made a step toward him. And as I did so he disappeared. Then I made tracks for home, but I kept mum, because I know'd the boys would say that mounting dew was licking up my brains, and I would be seein' snakes and such things for long. The next night, somehow or another, I thought to go and see if he was there again. And sure enough, there he sought, lookin' kinder sad and makin' marks on the rocks with his fingers. I had my hand on my gun this time, so I got a little closer than a four. But by hooky he got away from me again, nor did he come back. I could hardly wait for the next night to come around. At the same time I was on hand, good and early, just as it begun to get dark, and the trees look like long spooks are stretchin' out their arms. I looked toward the cliff, and there he sought, markin', and scratchin' on the rock with his fingers and lookin' sad. Now, this being the third time, I kinder got bolder, and I went a little closer and says, Sandy, what's the matter with you? Didn't the boys do the plantin' right for you? Then as luck would have it I thought of something else right quick, and I said, or is it the dust you've hid where you're sittin'? Well, he looked up at me then, and the happiest smile come to his face, and all through once he disappeared again. And since then I've sought here garden the place till the right one comes along to claim it. Let's see, what did you say your name was? Pardon me, I thought I told you. My name is John Willett Barr. Polly, oh Polly, come here, gal. What was Sandy's full name? I plum-forgot. What do you want to know for, she asked. I ain't gon' her tell ya now. That's my own secret. Come, come, gal. Tell me true answers won't be healthy for you. Well, then, she answered stubbornly. It was John Willett Barr. At her reply the young man's face grew deathly pale, and he started up from his chair, but Kit thrust him back into his seat saying, bring me the letter, Polly. What are you going to do with it, Pa? She inquired cautiously. I promised old Sandy on my oath to keep it till the right one comes along to claim it, and I mean to keep my word. The right one is here, gal. There he sits. So trot that letter out, and don't parley long with me if you knows when you're well off. Polly stared at the young man in utter bewilderment for a moment. Then, turning slowly, she stepped quietly into the cabin after the precious document. An unusual gleam of joy lighted up her face, and a suppressed excitement shone in her eyes. Under her breath she said, somehow or other I felt he was the right one. Too truly, John Barr realized in that painful moment that whom he sought was now dead to him. That the father from whom he had been parted so many years was sleeping that long, dreamless sleep in the clay mound on the hillside, which marked his last resting place. As he turned to look at the face of old honest Kit, who had been his father's friend during those long years of forced exile, a happy smile lit up the old miner's rugged features as he pointed with his finger to the rock-lift near the old spruce vine, and said in an exultant, trembling voice, Lorry be stranger, just as I have seen him any a night, your dad, my part, poor old Sandy. With an eager voice John Barr sprang forward, and the mountains echoed and re-echoed the plaintive cry of, Father, Father, but his outstretched arms clasped only emptiness and the darkening shadows of the rapidly approaching night. With the city and its neighbor, Hansborough, there extends a track of pine forests for miles, with but few habitation scattered through it. Black and red creeks, with their numerous branches, drain this region into the Pascagoula River to the eastward. With the swamps of Pascagoula as a refuge, and the luxuriant and unfrequented bottoms of red and black creeks to browse upon, there are few choice or spots for deer. Knowing this fact, a small party of gentlemen on the day before a crisp, cold Christmas, started from Hansborough in a large four-wheeled wagon for a thirty-mile drive into this wilderness of pine and a weak sport after the deer. The guide was Jim Carruthers, a true woodsman, and the driver a general factotum, a jolly negro named Jack Lyons, then whom no one could make a better whole cake and cook a venison steak. His laugh could be heard a quarter of a mile, and his good nature was as expansive as the range of the laughter. The usual experiences of a hunting camp were hardly enjoyed during the first days of this life out of doors, but his cream did not rise until about the fifth night, when, from familiar intercourse, Jack Lyons became loquacious, and after the days twenty or twenty-five mile walk would spin yarns in front of the campfire, which brought forgetfulness of fatigue. The night before New Year's was intensely cold. The cold north wind of the afternoon had subsided at sunset, and only a gust now and again touched the musical leaves of the pines, making them vibrant with that mournful score of nature's operas which even maestro's have failed to catch. In front of two new and white tents, two sportsmen reclined at length within reach of the warmth of the fire, while opposite them rested at ease the guide and the worthy Jack Lyons. Weiried with the day's chase four staunch hounds, Ringwood, Rose, Jed, and Boxer were dreaming of future quarry. The firelight brought out, in bright relief, the trunks of the tall pines like cathedral columns, and sparkling through the leafy dome overhead, the scintillating stars glistened with diamond brightness. A silence which added its influence to the scene rested about the borders of the creek below, and gave more effect to the story of the veteran teamster than perhaps it otherwise would have had. If to dear run down to creek, said old Jack, smacking his lips over a carefully prepared brewing of the real Campbellton punch, we's bound to see fun to-morrow, for it'll take us down there by the old Gibbet's place. In daylight there's no place like it, but after nightfall, you bet you wouldn't catch this nigga there. Old Jack was naturally asked why he didn't care about visiting the Gibbet place that night. Asking to be excused till he filled his pipe, the silence was unbroken till his return. He piled on more pine knots and commenced. You know, German, that when the gun-bolts was in the south, we folks had to travel way back here on these roads, out in the range of their big guns. I was gauged by Mr. Harrison in Holland Salt from the factory at Mississippi City, and on their beach over Mobile, and I had been making a trip every week or so. This back-country road was never thought of by the Federals, and we had good times longed away, no shells and no shooting. The night, gentlemen, I speak enough was a Friday, that you all know it's unlucky. Well, you see, I hitched up Betsy and Rose in the lead, an old fox and blossom at the pole, and takes the biggest load of salt that the team ever carried. I starts out and crosses the Biloxi River and Hansborough just as the moon was going down. Yes, boss, these rows weren't no better than them now, and the rain made a mighty rough when you come to the holes. I sat in the seat whistling, the crows is in the pee-patch, and a thinking of Sarah Jameson, what was afterwards my wife, when I felt the off-four wheel go crush in a hole up to the hub. I'd made seventeen miles out of Hansborough. I did some cussing, and then went to the fence, about twenty yards off, and took out a rail to prise up the wheel. Then I saw I was at Mr. Givett's place. I says to myself, I'll go up to the house and get old Mr. Givett to give me a turn. I had gone by there two weeks before, and see'd the old man. Now, gentlemen, you're listening to me, for what I's telling you is as sure as Jimmy'll blow the horn on the last day. I walked up to the house, and there I saw a bright light inside. It showed out from the windows, and I saw shaders of Miss Givett and Mrs. Givett on the window curtain. Sure, honey, sure. The front door was shut, and I stepped up to the gallery and knocks with the butt end of my whip. I didn't knock loud, neither. God bless us all, gentlemen. The lights went out like that, and I hears up a laugh. Ha-ha-ha-ha! How that set my knees a-shaken. I opens the door, and there was no sign of anybody. I struck a match, and all the furniture was moved out, and the old red curtains that I thought I see'd was in rags. The whole family was gone for sure. I didn't know exactly what to think about them strange voices, but I started back to the wagon when it lightened. And, bless God, there in the front yard was six graves just made. Something wrong here, said I, and I builds a fire by the wagon and digs the wheel out. Just then Old Squire Pasteur came along to road from Mobile, and he tells me the news. Old Man Givett cut the throats of his wife and four children and shoots a self in the head out in jealousy of his wife. They was all buried in the front yard, and the house was deserted ten days before. Gentlemen, when I hear that, them miles make the quickest time to Mobile ever seed. A news can tell me there's no ghost, but you don't catch me round that log house of Givetts, sipped in suns an hour high. Jack looks suspiciously over his shoulder into the darkness and crawled into his blanket muttering. It scares this nigger even now to tell about that night. Sleep soon fell upon the camp, but the impression of Old Jack's story survived the night, and the next day he still asserted his truth.