 The Haunted House in Charnwood Forest One fine, blustering autumn day, a quiet and venerable-looking old gentleman might be seen with stick in hand taking his way through the streets of Leicester. If anyone had followed him they would have found him directing his steps toward that side of the town which leads to Charnwood. The old gentleman, who was a Quaker, took his way leisurely but thoughtfully, stopping every now and then to see what the farmer's men were about, who were plowing up the stubbles to prepare for another year's crop. He paused also at this and that farmhouse, evidently having a pleasure in the sight of good fat cattle and in the flocks of poultry, fowls, ducks, geese and turkeys busy about the barn door, where the sound of the flail or the swivel, as they there term it, was already heard busily knocking out the corn of the last bountiful harvest. Our old friend, a friend, for though you, dear reader, do not know him, he was both at the time we speak of, our old friend, again trudging on, would pause on the brow of a hill at a style or on some rustic bridge, casting its little obliging arch over a brooklet and inhale the fresh or tunnel air. And after looking round him, not to himself, as if to say, I, all good, all beautiful, and so he went on again. But it would not be long before he would be arrested again by clusters of rich, jetty blackberries, hanging from some old hawthorn hedge, or by clusters of nuts, hanging by the wayside, through the cops. In all these natural beauties our old wayfare seemed to have the enjoyment of a child. Blackberries went into his mouth, and nuts into his pockets. And so, with a quiet, inquiring, and thoughtful, yet thoughtfully cheerful look, the good old man went on. He seemed bound for a long walk and yet to be in no hurry. In one place he stopped to talk to a very old labourer who was clearing out a ditch, and if he had been near he would have heard that their discourse was of the past days and the changes in that part of the country which the old labourer thought were very much for the worse. And worse they were for him, for formerly he was young and full of life, and now he was old and nearly empty of life. Then he was buoyant, sang songs, made love, went to wakes and merry-makings. Now his worrying days, and his marrying days, and his married days were over. His good old dame, who in those young buxom days was a round-faced, rosy, plump, and light-hearted damsel, was dead, and his children were married and had enough to do. In those days the poor fellow was strong and lusty, had no fear and no care. In these he was weak and tottering, had been pulled and harassed a thousand ways, and was left, as he said, like an old, dry kex, that is a hemlock or cow-pass-nip-stork, hollow and dry, to be knocked down and troddened into the dust some day. Yes, sure enough, those past days were much better days than these days were to him. No comparison. But Mr. John Bassford, our old wanderer, was taking a more cheerful view of things, and telling the nearly worn-out labourer that when the night came there followed morning, and that the next would be a heavenly morning, shining on hills of glory, on waters of life, on cities of the blessed, where no sun rose and no sun set, and where every joyful creature of joyful youth, who had been dear to him, and true to him and God, would again meet him and make times such as should cause songs of praise to spring out of his heart, just as flowers spring out of a vernal tree in the rekindled warmth of the sun. The old labourer leaned reverently on his spade as the worthy man talked to him. His grey locks, uncovered at his labour by any hat, were tossed in the autumn wind. His dim eye was fixed on the distant sky that rolled its dark masses of clouds on the gale, and the deep wrinkles of his pale and feeble temples seemed to grow deeper at the thoughts passing within him. He was listening as to a sermon which brought together his youth and his age, his past and his future, and there were verified on that spot words which Jesus Christ spoke nearly two thousand years ago. Wherever two or three are met together in my name, there am I in the midst of them. He was in the midst of the two only. There was a temple there in those open fields, sanctified by two pious hearts, which no ringing of bells, no sound of solemn organ, nor voice of congregated prayers, nor any preacher but the ever-present and invisible one, who there and then fulfilled his promise and was gracious, could have made more holy. Our old friend again turned to set forward. He shook the old labourer kindly by the hand, and there was a gaze of astonishment in the old man's face. The stranger had not only cheered him by his words, but left something to cheer him when he was gone. The friend now went on with a more determined step. He skirted the memorable park of Bradgert, famous for the abode of Lady Jane Gray and the visit of her schoolmaster, Roger Asham. He went on into a region of woods and hills. At some seven or eight miles from Leicester he drew near a solitary farmhouse within the ancient limits of the forest of Charmwood. It was certainly a lonely place amid the woodlands and the wild autumn fields. Evening was fast dropping down, and as the shade of night fell on the scene the wind tossed more rushingly the boughs of the thick trees and roared down the rocky valley. John Bassford went up to the farmhouse, however, as if that was the object of his journey, and a woman opening it at his knock he soon disappeared within. Now our old friend was a perfect stranger here, had never been here before, had no acquaintance nor actual business with the inhabitants. Though anyone watching his progress hither would have been quite satisfied that he was not wandering without an object, but he merely stated that he was somewhat fatigued with his walk from the town and requested leave to rest awhile. In such a place such a request is readily and even gladly granted. There was a cheerful fire burning on a bright, clean half. The kettle was singing on the hog-four tea and the contrast of the indoor comfort was sensibly heightened by the wild bloom without. The farmer's wife, who had admitted the stranger, soon went out and called her husband from the fold yard. He was a plain, hearty sort of man, gave our friend a hearty shake of the hand, sat down and began to converse. A little time seemed to establish a friendly interest between the stranger and the farmer and his wife. John Bassford asked whether they would allow him to smoke a pipe, which was not only readily accorded, but the farmer joined him. They smoked and talked alternately of the country and the town, Leicester being the farmer's market and as familiar to him as his own neighbourhood. He soon came to know, too, who his guest was and expressed much pleasure in the visit. Tea was carried into the parlour and thither they all adjourned, for now the farming men were coming into the kitchen, where they sat for the evening. Tea over the two gentlemen again had a pipe and the conversation wandered over a multitude of things and people known to both. But the night was come down, pitch dark, wild and windy, and old John Bassford had to return to Leicester. To Leicester exclaimed at once man and wife, to Leicester no such thing, he must stay where he was, where could he be better. John Bassford confessed that that was true. He had great pleasure in conversing with them, but then was it not an unwarrantable liberty to come to a stranger's house and make thus free. Not in the least, the farmer replied, the freer the better. The matter thus was settled and the evening wore on, but in the course of the evening the guest, whose simple manner, strong sense, and deeply pious feeling had made a most favourable impression on his entertainers, hinted that he had heard some strange rumours regarding this house, and that, in truth, had been the cause which had attracted him thither. He had heard, in fact, that a particular chamber in this house was haunted, and he had for a long time felt a growing desire to pass a night in it. He now begged this favour might be granted him. As he had opened this subject, an evident cloud and something of an unpleasant surprise had fallen on the countenances of both man and wife. It deepened as he proceeded. The farmer had withdrawn his pipe from his mouth and laid it on the table, and the woman had risen and looked uneasily at their guest. The moment that he uttered the wish to sleep in the haunted room both exclaimed in the same instant against it. No, never, they exclaimed, never on any consideration. They had made a firm resolve on that point which nothing would induce them to break through. The guest expressed himself disappointed, but did not press the matter further at the moment. He contented himself with turning the conversation quietly upon this subject, and after a while found the farmer and his wife confirmed to him everything that he had heard. Once more then, and as incidentally, he expressed his regret that he could not gratify the curiosity which had brought him so far, and, before the time for retiring arrived, again ventured to express how much what he had now heard had increased his previous desire to pass a night in that room. He did not profess to believe himself invulnerable to fears of such a kind, but was curious to convince himself of the actual existence of spiritual agency of this character. The farmer and his wife steadily refused. They declared that others who had come with the same wish and had been allowed to gratify it had suffered such terrors as had made their afterlives miserable. The last of these guests was a clergyman who received such a fright that his sprang from his bed at midnight, had descended, gone into the stable, and, saddling his horse, had ridden away at full speed. Those things had caused them to refuse, and that firmly any fresh experiment of the kind. The spirit visitation was described to be generally this. At midnight the stranger sleeping in that room would hear the latch of the door raised and would in the dark perceive a light step-enter and, as with a stealthy tread, cross the room and approach the foot of the bed. The curtains would be agitated and something would be perceived mounted on the bed and proceeding up it just upon the body of the person in it. The supernatural visitant would then stretch itself full length on the person of the agitated guest and the next moment he would feel an oppression at his chest of a nightmare and something extremely cold would touch his face. At this crisis the terrified guest would usually utter a fearful shriek and often go into a swoon. The whole family would be roused from their beds by the alarm but on no occasion had any traces of the cause of terror been found, though the house, on such occasions, had been diligently and thoroughly searched. The annoying visit was described as being by no means uniform. Sometimes it would not take place for a very long time so that they would begin to hope that there would be no more of it but it would, when least expected, occur again. Few people of late years, however, had ventured to sleep in that room and never since their forementioned clergyman was so terribly alarmed about two years ago had it once been occupied. Then, said John Bassford, it is probable that the annoyance is done with forever. If the troublesome visitant was still occasionally present it would, no doubt, take care to manifest itself in some mode or place. It was necessary to test the matter to see whether this particular room was still subject to so strange a phenomenon. This seemed to have an effect on the farmer and his wife. The old man urged his suit all the more earnestly and, after further show of extreme reluctance on the part of his entertainers, finally prevailed. The consent once being given the farmer's wife retired to make the necessary arrangements. Our friend heard sundry goings to and fro but at length it was announced to him that all was ready. The farmer and his wife both repeating that they will be much better pleased if Mr. Bassford would be pleased to sleep in some other room. The old man, however, remained firm to his purpose. He was shown to his chamber and the maid who led the way stood at some distance from the denoted door and, pointing to it, had him good night and hurried away. Mr. Bassford found himself alone in the haunted room. He looked round and discovered nothing that should make it differ from any other good and comfortable chamber that should give to some invisible agent so singular a propensity to disturb any innocent mortal that nocturnated in it. Whether he felt any nervous terrors, we know not. But as he was come to see all that would or could occur there, he kept himself most vigilantly awake. He lay down in a very good feather bed, extinguished his light and waited in patience. Time and tide, as they will wait for a no-man, went on, all sounds of life ceased in the house. Nothing could be heard but the rushing wind without and the bark of the yard-dog occasionally amid the laughing blast. Midnight came and found John Bassford wide awake and watchfully expectant. Nothing stirred, but he lay still on the watch. At length, was it so? Did he hear a rustling movement, as it were, near his door or was it his excited fancy? He raised his head from his pillow and listened intensely. Hush! There is something. No, it was his contagious mind ready to hear and see. What? There was an actual sound of the latch. He could hear it raised. He could not be mistaken. There was a sound as if his door was cautiously opened. List! It was true. There were soft, stealthy footsteps on the carpet. They came directly toward the bed. They paused at its foot. The curtains were agitated. There were steps on the bed. Something crept. Did not the heart and the very flesh of the rash old man now creep, too? And upon him sank a palpable form, palpable from its pressure, for the night was dark as an oven. There was a heavy weight on his chest, and in the same instant something almost icy cold touched his face. With a sudden convulsive action, the old man suddenly flung up his arms, clutched at the terrible object which thus oppressed him and shouted with a loud cry, I have got him! I have got him! There was a sound as of a deep growl, a vehement struggle, but John Bassford held fast his hold and felt that he had something within it huge, shaggy and powerful. Once more he raised his voice loud enough to have roused the whole house, but it seemed no voice of terror but one of triumph and satisfaction. In the next instant the farmer rushed into the room with a light in his hand and revealed to John Bassford that he held in his arms the struggling form of a huge newfoundland dog. Let him go, sir, in God's name, exclaimed the farmer, on whose brow drops of real anguish stood and glistened in the light of the candle. Downstairs, Caesar, and the dog, released from the hold of the Quaker, departed as if much ashamed. In the same instant the farmer and his wife, who now also came in dressed, and evidently never having been to bed, were on their knees by the bedside. You know it all, sir, said the farmer. You see through it. You were too deep and strong-minded to be imposed on. We were, therefore, afraid of this when you asked to sleep in this room. Promise us now that while we live you will never reveal what you know. They then related to him that this house and chamber had never been haunted by any other than this dog which had been trained to play the part, that for generations their family had lived on this farm. But some years ago their landlord, having suddenly raised their rent to an amount that they felt they could not give, they were compelled to think of quitting the farm. This was to them an insuperable source of grief. It was the place that all their lives and memories were bound up with. They were extremely cast down. Suddenly it occurred to them to give an ill name to the house. They hit on this scheme, and, having practised it well, did not long want an opportunity of trying it. It had succeeded beyond their expectations. The fears of their guests were found to be of a force which completely blinded them to any discovery of the truth. There had been occasions where they thought some clumsy accident must have stripped away the delusion. But no, there seemed a thick veil of blindness, a fascination of terror cast over the strongest minds which nothing could pierce through. Case after case occurred, and the house and farm acquired such a character that no money or consideration of any kind would have induced a fresh tenant to live there. The old tenants continued at their old rent, and the comfortable ghost stretched himself every night in a capacious kennel without any need of disturbing his slumbers by calls to disturb those of the guests of the haunted chamber. Having made this revelation, the farmer and his wife again implored their guest to preserve their secret. He hesitated. Nay, said he, I think it would not be right to do that. That would be to make myself a party to a public deception. It would be a kind of fraud on the world and the landlord. It would serve to keep up those superstitious terrors which should be as speedily as possible dissipated. The farmer was in agony. He rose and strode to and fro in the room. His countenance grew red and ruffle. He cast dark glances at his guest, whom his wife continued to implore, and who sat silent and, as it were, lost in reflection. And do you think it a right thing, sir? said the farmer, thus to force yourself into a stranger's house and family, and, in spite of the strongest wishes expressed to the contrary, into his very chambers, and that only to do him a mischief. Is that your religion, sir? I thought you had something better in you than that. Am I now to think your mildness and piety were only so much hypocrisy put on to ruin me? Nay, friend, I don't want to ruin thee, said the Quaker. But ruin me you will, though, if you publish this discovery. Out I must turn and be the laughingstock of the whole country to boot. Now, if that is what you mean, say so, and I shall know what sort of a man you are. Let me know at once whether you are an honest man or a cockatrice. My friend, said the Quaker, canst thou call thyself an honest man in practising this deception for all these years and depriving thy landlord of the rent he would otherwise have got from another, and dost thou think it would be honest in me to assist in the continuance of this fraud? I robbed the landlord of nothing, replied the farmer. I pay a good, fair rent, but I don't want to quit the old spot, and if you had not thrust yourself into this affair, you would have had nothing to lay on your conscience concerning it. I must, let me tell you, look on it as a piece of unwarrantable impertinence to come thus to my house and be kindly treated only to turn Judas against me. The word, Judas, seemed to hit the friend a great blow. A Judas? Yes, a Judas, a real Judas, exclaimed the wife. Who could have thought it? Nay, nay, said the old man. I am no Judas. It is true, I have forced myself into it, and if you pay the landlord an honest rent, why, I don't know that it is any business of mine, at least while you live. That is all we want," replied the farmer, his countenance changing, and again flinging himself by his wife on his knees by the bed, promised us never to reveal it while we live, and we shall be quite satisfied. We have no children, and when we go those may come to the old spot who will. Promise me never to practice this trick again," said John Bassford. We promised faithfully, rejoined both farmer and wife. Then I promised, too, said the friend, that not a whisper of what has passed here shall pass my lips during your lifetime. With warmest expressions of thanks the farmer and his wife withdrew, and John Bassford, having cleared the chamber of its mystery, lay down and passed one of the sweetest nights he ever enjoyed. The farmer and his wife lived a good many years after this, but they both died before Mr. Bassford, and after their death he related to his friends the facts which are here detailed. He, too, has passed years ago to his longer night in the grave, and to the clearing up of greater mysteries than that of The Haunted House of Charnwood Forest. End of The Haunted House in Charnwood Forest. In a Haunted House by Joseph B. Bowles From the Water Valley Progress, Mississippi, January 14th 1905 Read by Rob Marland This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org In a Haunted House by Joseph B. Bowles A New Yorker's experience with a strange old colonial mansion, a nerve-wracking night, some startling incidents which seemed impossible of rational explanation. By T. D. Sullivan, congressman-elect from New York City. This is, I think, the strangest experience in a career that has not been monotonous. It is true, and at one time I had some trouble keeping it out of the papers. Now there's no more reason for keeping quiet about it, so I may as well tell the whole story for the first time. The reason why I need not keep the secret any longer is because a big old-fashioned red brick building was torn down this year. It was once a private residence, then an office building, and now its site is the site of a steel skyscraper. That is the way New York grows. But at the time this narrative deals with, the house was a residence, a big, rambling, roomy old residence at that. Remodeled from a colonial mansion. There was a young fellow whose father had been a dear friend of mine. He had recently married. His bride had taken a fancy to the house, and her husband, being rich and eager to gratify any whim of hers, had bought it in at a sheriff's sale of Uptown property. The purchaser is now a United States congressman. I have not permission to use his name, so I will call him Clark. His chief opponent at the sale was a real estate dealer. O. Gorman is near enough to his real name to suit present purposes. This O. Gorman was a shrewd, shifty, unscrupulous chap who had visions of the great future of the Upper West Side, visions that later came true. If you ever get dissatisfied with the old place, I'll take it off your hands at the figure of my best bid to-day," he said to Clark after the sale. Clark laughed at him, gave orders for the house's renovation, and sailed with his bride for Europe on a six-months trip. The trouble begins. I was sitting in my office one day about half a year later when Clark sauntered in. I saw from his face he was bothered about something. After our first meeting he came to the point. I've made a bad investment in that old Bartolf house," he said. The colonial builder's name had been Jan Bartolf, and the house was still referred to in the neighbourhood by his name. Doesn't Mrs. Clark like the place as much as she expected to? I asked him. She hasn't had a chance to judge of it, he said, and I don't mean that she shall. The house is haunted. Haunted? What nonsense! That's what I thought when I came home last week from Europe and found that not a single day's work had been done on the repairs I ordered," answered Clark. I went to the contractor, and he calmly informed me he wouldn't touch the job, and that I could have my money back. He said that ghosts had frightened his workmen half to death, that he'd seen and heard things there that couldn't be explained, and that every man in his employ would strike if he ordered them to work there. And you believed all that rot, I laughed. No," replied Clark seriously. I didn't. I thought he was lying. I went over the house myself, and—well, what he said was true. You can guide me if you like, old man, but the house is haunted, and I'm going to get rid of it. I suppose white monsters clattered their chains at you, I hazarded, and you ran a block before you identified the hideous spectres as a pack of mice scampering in the loose plastering of the walls. If you take it that way," he said, offended at my guying, there's no use inviting any more of your jokes by telling you what really happened to me there. I'm going to hunt up, oh Gorman, tell him the truth about the place, and see if his offer to buy it still holds good. He may be willing to pay something for it as a land speculation. He never could get a tenant to stay there. Now Clark's absolute sincerity began to make an impression on me. I saw that he was terribly in earnest, that he believed he was telling the truth, and that he was really ready to sell the valuable property for a song. Look here, Clark," I said. I'm sorry I guide you, but it all seems so absurd. You know as well as I do that there are no such things as ghosts. Don't be foolish and give up the place till you've made sure. What are you going to do this evening? Nothing a special. Why? Come and dine with me. Then we'll take a box of cigars, a bundle of candles, and a light lunch along, and go together to this haunted house of yours for the night. I've always wanted to see a ghost. Maybe I can find some explanation for it all. My first idea on hearing his story had been that oh Gorman, in order to gain possession of the property he coveted, had bribed the contractor to spring that ghost yarn, but when Clark himself had apparently seen or heard something to verify the crazy belief, the affair began to take on a more serious aspect. A night investigation. I took a long nap that afternoon to obviate the chance of going to sleep during the vigil, and promptly at ten that evening I started with Clark for the Bartholph mansion. It was, as I said, a rambling old brick dwelling, and built in colonial days by an eccentric Dutchman concerning whom some odd story still survived. The neighbours, it seemed, had regarded him as a sort of wizard or magician. As we walked up the uneven path to the front porch, the old pile of brick looked in the moonlight like the regular dime-novel haunted house, and as Clark led us in through the great blackened oak doors, the darkness of the huge hall seemed to rush forward to meet us. We set about our preparations in a business-like way. We established our headquarters for the night in the big drawing-room to the right of the hall. We lighted a half-dozen candles, stuck them in the rusty iron sconces about the wall, and set about examining the room. The walls were lined with faded tapestry, one or two old half-defaced pictures hung here and there, notably one of old Jan Bartholph himself, which was directly above the mantle. Several pieces of furniture occupied the bare floor, whose hardwood boards were warped by dampness and neglect. We made sure that no hiding-place for lurking mischief-makers existed within the four walls of the apartment. Then, candle in hand, we made a systematic detour of the whole dusty, creaking house. Well, said Clark, as we reached the top of the wide staircase on our return toward the ground floor. If there had been a man or even a mouse concealed anywhere, we'd have found him. Let's go back to the drawing-room and—why, it's dark down there. We were half-way downstairs as he spoke. On our way up, the light of the candles in the drawing-room sconces had cast a glow across the hall. Now, except where illuminated by the two candles in our hands, the whole lower floor was in dense blackness. Ghostly mystery. What do you think now? asked Clark. I made no reply, but ran down the remaining steps into the drawing-room. The smell of extinguished candles filled the room. All was dark save where a broad patch of moonlight from the one unshuttered window fell on the floor. In the very centre of that patch was an old mahogany rocking-chair. It was rocking with a quiet, regular motion, as if some invisible guest were taking his ease and swaying himself to sleep. Do you see that? whispered Clark over my shoulder. That's what I saw when I came up here in broad daylight. It's a current of air, I explained. But even as I said it, I knew that no real draft could enter that closed-room with force enough to blow out six candles and start a heavy chair into motion. Moreover, the air in the room was dead and motionless. I never used to believe in this sort of thing any more than you do, said Clark. But who can doubt it now? I can doubt it, I answered. Help me light these candles in the sconces, and we'll make another inspection of the room. We lighted the candles. As we set foot in the room, the chair had ceased rocking. We once more made the rounds of the apartment, patting the tapestry against the walls with our hands, looking under each bit of furniture, sounding the bricked-up fireplace, and in other ways making sure no trick was played on us by human agency. If anybody is putting up this line of practical joking, I said, he can't do anything while we're in here, if it's a ghost. The sound as if someone sobbing and panting for breath came to us while I was speaking. It seemed to be in the room, within arm's length of us. That's easily explained, I said, as Clark grabbed my arm. The wind in the empty passages of the house and the chimney makes, it's growing dark, interrupted my companion. I looked up. Only two of the six candles were burning. Even as I looked, first one and then another of those remaining two lights went out. It was as though someone had passed along that side of the room and extinguished them. We were in total darkness, for I had closed that one open window-shutter. In the dense blackness, as I groped for a match, I could hear that great rocking chair slowly begin to creak back and forth. I found a match at last and struck it. We relighted the candles. Then I turned to look at the rocker. It was standing motionless. We stared hopelessly into each other's faces. I hoped mine wasn't as scared and white as Clark's. And this is the sort of house you advise me to bring my bride to. You tell at last. We've seen enough. I'm going home. You're going to spend the night here as you promised, I answered. This ghost seems to be a harmless sort of creature. As long as he contents himself with puffing out candles and making chairs rock, he can't bother us greatly. Let's have a smoke and talk it over. I sat down in the ghostly rocker and lighted a cigar. I kept a keen eye on the candles, resolved to get some clue, if possible, to the way they were extinguished. Clark threw himself on a sofa at the other side of the room. It's no use, he said. I'll get rid of the house as soon as I can and at any terms. I'm sorry because my wife had set her heart on living here. With a little repair this would be an ideal home. Except for the ghost. What are you doing? The ghost. I had risen to my feet and come to the middle of the room. The rocker in which I'd been sitting was in the shadow. The candles, as we had rearranged them, were all at the lower end of the room, near the big mantelpiece. As I had sat idly listening to Clark's complaint, my gaze had chance to fall on old Jan Bartolf's picture. I could have sworn that I saw the eyes in the tarnished face close and then open. I'm just strolling around for exercise," I said carelessly. It makes one so nervous to sit still in here and— As I got to this point my steps had carried me in a circuitous route to the mantel. With a sudden motion and exerting all my strength I seized the big picture and wrenched it from its fastenings. It fell to the floor with a crash and there, in a great hole in the wall which the canvas had covered, crouched a human body. With a second sweep of the arm I seized it as it was about to vanish into the dark passage behind the opening and pulled it into the room where it tumbled headlong on the floor. There's your ghost, Clark," I said, brushing the dust off my clothes and watching the figure scramble to its feet. You're a clever chap, O Gorman, but you're not clever enough. That's all the trouble with you. Now, Clark, if you'll keep your hands on this worthy house-haunter, I'm going on an exploring expedition. Clark had the struggling fellow by the throat and I lighted an extra candle and clumbered up into the hole above the mantel. I'll be back in a minute," I said. The picture led to a passageway nearly three feet wide that ran the entire length of the house, being depressed to a height of about three feet at places where the windows intervened. This explained the unusually deep window-seats I'd noticed. The inner walls of the passage, those nearest the rooms, were honeycombed with auger holes, whose aspect showed them to have been bored many years before. Secret Passages Through these apertures it had been a simple matter for O Gorman to detect the whereabouts of the candles in the sconces and, by a sudden puff, to blow them out. The thread-bear tapestry did not obstruct the air and one could see dimly through it. The passage ran clear around the house between outer and inner walls, connecting by ladders with a similar secret passage on the floor above. A ladder descended from the ground floor passage to a space between the drawing room flooring and the cellar ceiling. This space was quite large enough to admit the body of a man. As I glanced into it, I could see the drawing room candle-light filtering through the cracks in the flooring. A slender bladed knife thrust through the cracks at the right place would readily account for the rocking of the chair. One light push of the knife-point would set it in motion. Old Jan Bartolf must have had odd theories on the subject of building. What may have been the original object of these passages, peep-holes, et cetera, no one can tell. Whether he sought to spy on his family or guests, or whether he feared he might one day need shelter from justice or from Indians, I don't know. Perhaps to foist the popular belief in his magic powers. But the secret chambers were there, and Ogorman had made clever use of them. But for his folly in using the cut-out eye-holes in the portrait in order to watch us from a better point of view he would assuredly have gained his point and bought the house of Clark for a song. Ogorman confessed to us that while wandering over the house with a view to buying it, just before Clark had outbid him he had blundered on the secret passage behind Bartolf's picture. The idea of scaring Clark into selling cheap had occurred to him soon after. On Ogorman giving us a written confession, Clark, greatly against my advice, let the fellow go. He was so much relieved to find the house was not really haunted, he said, that he hadn't the heart to drag the whole story into the public prints by prosecuting the swindler. End of In A Haunted House Recording by a Newgate novelist I sat looking at her, wondering if a more appropriate name could have been found for that figure among the anemones and selendines, primulas, pansies, and pinks. The thousand and one blossoms, which, glowing against their groundwork of forget-me-not, formed a jewel mosaic right to the foot of the snows above us. Flowerful life! Truly that was hers. She had a great bunch of scarlet-rode dendrons stuck behind her ear, matching the cloth cap perched gentily on her head, and as she sat herding her buffaloes on the upland, she had threaded chaplet on chaplet of oxide daisies, and hung them about her wherever they could be hung. The result was distinctly flowerful. Her face also was distinctly pretty, distinctly clean for a Kashmiri girls. But coquette, flirt, minx was written in every line of it, and accounted for a most unusual neatness and brightness. She caught my eye and smiled again, broadly, innocently. The Huzoor would like to paint my picture, wouldn't he? She went on in a tone of certainty. The Saib who came last year gave me five rupees. I will take six this year. Food is dear, and those base-born contractors of the Maharaja sees everything. One walnut in ten, one chicken in ten. But I was not going to be beguiled into the old complaints I could hear any, and every day, from the hags of the village. Up here on the murg, within a stone's throw of the first patch of snow, picketing the outskirts of the great glacier of Gwashbrari, I liked, if possible, to forget how vile man could be, in the little shingle huts clustering below by the river. I will not describe the place. To begin with, it defies description, and next, could I even hint at its surpassing beauty, the globetrotter would come and defile it. It is sufficient to say that a murg is an upland meadow or alp, and that this one, with its forget-me-nots and sparkling glaciers, was like a turquoise set in diamonds. I had seated myself on a projecting spur, once I could sketch a frowning defile northwards, down which the emerald green river was dashing madly, among huge rocks crowned by pine trees. I will give five rupees also, that is plenty. I remarked swolvly, and fully Jan smiled again. It must do, for I like being painted. Only a few scybes come, very few, but whenever they see me they want to paint me in the flowers, and it makes the other girls in the village angry. Then Golu and Chochu. Here she went off into a perfect cascade of smiles, and began to pull the eyelashes off the daisies deliberately. There seems a peculiar temptation in girlhood for cruelty towards flowers all over the world, and fully Jan was preeminently girlish. She looked eighteen, but I doubt if she was really more than sixteen. Even so, it was odd to find her unappropriated, so I inquired if Golu or Chochu was the happy man. My mother is a widow. She replied without the least hesitation. It depends which will pay the most, for we are poor. There are others too, so there is no hurry. They are at my beck and call. She crooked her forefinger and nodded her head as if beckoning to someone. For sheer, light-hearted, innocent enjoyment of her own attraction, I never saw the equal of that face. I should have made my fortune if I could have painted it there in the blazing sunlight, framed in flowers, but it was too much for me. Therefore I asked her to move to the right, further along the promontory, so that I could put her in the foreground of the picture I had already begun. There, by that first clump of iris, I said, pointing to a patch of green sword-leaves, where the white and lilac blossoms were beginning to show. She gave a perceptible shudder. What! Sit on a grave, not I. Does not the Huzoor know that those are graves? It is true. All our people are buried here. We plant the iris over them always. If you ask why, I know not. It is the flower of death. A sudden determination to paint her, the flowerful life against the flowerful death, completely obliterated the knowledge of my own incompetence, but I urged and bribed in vain. Fulijan would not stir. She would not even let me pick a handful of the flowers for her to hold. It was unlucky. Besides, one never knew what one might find in the thickets of leaves, bones and horrid things. Had I never heard that dead people got tired of their graves and tried to get out, even if they only wanted something in their graves, they would stretch forth a hand to get it. That was one reason why people covered them up with flowers, just to make them more contented. The idea of stooping to cull a flower and shaking hands with a corpse was distinctly unpleasant, even in the sunlight. So I gave up the point and began to sketch the girl as she sat. Rather a difficult task, for she chattered incessantly. Did I see that thin blue thread of smoke in the dark pole of pine trees covering the bottom of the valley? That was Golus' fire. He was drying Oris' root for the Maharaja. There, on the opposite murg, where the buffaloes showed dark among the flowers, was Chachu's hut. Undoubtedly Chachu was the richer, but Golu could climb like an Ibex. It was he whom the Hazor was going to take as a guide to the peak. He could dance, too. The Hazor should see him dance the circle dance round the fire. No one turned so slowly as Golu. He would not frighten a young lamb except when he was angry. Well, jealous, if the Hazor thought that a better word. By the time she had done chattering there was not a petal left on the oxide daisies, and I was divided between pity and envy towards Golu and Chachu. That evening, as usual, I set my painting to dry on the easel at the door of the tent. As I lounged by the campfire, smoking my pipe, a big young man coming in with a jar of buffalo milk on his shoulder, and a big bunch of red rhododendron behind his ear, stopped and grinned at my caricature of Fuli Jan. Five minutes after, down by the servants' encampment, I heard a free fight going on, and strolled over to see what was the matter. After the manner of Kashmiri quarrels, it had ended almost as it began, for the race loved peace. That it had so ended was not, however, I saw at a glance, the fault of the smaller of the antagonists who was being forcibly held back by my shikari. Chachu, that man there, wanted to charge Golu this man here, the same price for milk as he does your honour, explained the shikari elaborately. That was extortionate, even though Golu, being the Huzoor's guide for tomorrow, may be said to be your honour's servant for the time. I have settled the matter justly. The Huzoor need not give fault to it. I looked at the two recipients of Fuli Jan's favour with interest, for that the bunches of Rhododendron they both wore were her gift, I did not doubt. They were both fine young men, but Golu was distinctly the better looking of the two, if a trifle sinister. Despite the recommendation of my shikari to cast thought aside, the incident lingered in my memory, and I mentioned it to Fuli Jan when, on returning to finish my sketch, I found her waiting for me among the flowers. Her smile was more brilliant than ever. They will not hurt each other, she said. Chachu knows that Golu is more active, and Golu knows that Chachu is stronger. It is like the dogs in our village. I was not thinking of them, I replied. I was thinking of you. Supposing they were to quarrel with you. She laughed. They will not quarrel. In summer time there are plenty of flowers for everybody. I thought of those Rhododendrons and could not repress a smile at her bare-faced wisdom of the serpent. And in the winter time, then I will marry one of them, or some one. I have only to choose. That is all. They are at my beck and call. Three years passed before recurring leave enabled me to pay another visit to the Merg. The Rhododendrons were once more on the uplands, and as I turned the last corner of the pineset path, which threaded its way through the defile, I saw the meadow before me, with its mosaic of flowers bright as ever. The memory of Fuli-jan came back to me as she had sat in the sunshine, nodding and beckoning. Fuli-jan echoed the old patriarch who came out to welcome me as I crossed the plank bridge to the village. Fuli-jan, the hoed girl. Huzor, she is dead. She died from picking flowers. A vain thing. It was at the turn beyond the Merg, Huzor, half-way between Chuchu's hut and Golu's drying-stage. There is a big Rhododendron tree hanging over the cliff, and she must have fallen down. It is three years gone. Three years. Then it must have happened almost immediately after I left the valley. The idea upset me. I knew not why. The Merg without that flowerful life, nodding and beckoning, felt empty, and I found myself wondering if indeed the girl had fallen down, or if she had played with flowers too recklessly and one of her lovers, perhaps both. It was an idea which dimmed the sunshine, and I was glad that I had arranged not to remain for the night, but to push on to another meadow, some six miles further up the river. To do so, however, I required a fresh relay of coolies, and while my shikari was arranging for this in the village, I made my way by a cross-cut to the promontory with its patches of iris. Deaths are rare in these small communities, and there were but two or three new graves, all but one too recent to be poor, foolish hands. That, then, must be hers, with its still clearly defined oblong a virus, already a mass of pale, purple and white. I sat down on a rock and began, unromantically, to eat my lunch, finishing up with a pull at my flask, and thus providentially fortified, I stooped, ear-leaving, to pick one or two of the blossoms from the grave, intending to paint them round the sketch of the girl's head which I had with me. Great heavens! What was that? I turned positively sick with horror and doubt. Was it a hand? It was some time before I could force myself to set aside the sheaving-leaves and settle the point. Something it was, something which, even as I parted the stems, fell to pieces as the skeleton of a beckoning hand might have done. I did not stay to see more. I let the flowers close over it, whatever it was, and made my way back to the village. My baggage, having changed shoulders, was streaming out over the plank bridge again, and in the two first-bearers, carrying my cookroom pots and pans, I recognized Golu and Chuchu. They had both grown stouter and wore huge bunches of red rhododendron behind their ears. I found out, on inquiry, that they were both married and had become bosom friends. I have not seen the turquoise set in diamond sense, but I often think of it, and wonder what it was I saw among the iris. And then I seem to see Fuli-chan sitting among the flowers, nodding her head and saying, They are at my beck and call. If I were Golu or Chuchu, I would be buried somewhere else. End of At Her Beck and Call By Flora Annie Steele In a Cup of Tea by Lafcadio Hearn Have you ever attempted to mount some old tower stairway, spiring up through darkness, and in the heart of that darkness found yourself at the cobwebbed edge of nothing, or have you followed some coast path cut along the face of a cliff, only to discover yourself at a turn on the jagged verge of a break? The emotional worth of such experience, from a literary point of view, is proved by the force of the sensations aroused, and by the vividness with which they are remembered. Now there have been curiously preserved, in old Japanese story books, certain fragments of fiction that produce an almost similar emotional experience. Perhaps the writer was lazy, perhaps he had a quarrel with the publisher, perhaps he was suddenly called away from his little table, and never came back. Perhaps death stopped the writing brush in the very middle of a sentence, but no mortal man can ever tell us exactly why these things were left unfinished. I select a typical example. On the fourth day of the first month of the Third Tenwa, that is to say about 220 years ago, the Lord Nakagawa Sedo, while on his way to make a New Year's visit, halted with his train at a tea house in Hakusan, in the Hongo district of Yedo. While the party were resting there, one of the Lord's attendants, Awakato, named Sekinai, feeling very thirsty, filled for himself a large water cup with tea. He was raised in the cup to his lips, when he suddenly perceived, in the transparent yellow infusion, the image or reflection of a face that was not his own. Startled he looked around, but could see no one near him. The face in the tea appeared, from the coiffure, to be the face of a young samurai. It was strangely distinct, and very handsome, delicate as the face of a girl. And it seemed the reflection of a living face, for the eyes and the lips were moving. Bewildered by this mysterious apparition, Sekinai threw away the tea, and carefully examined the cup. It proved to be a very cheap water cup, with no artistic devices of any sort. He found and filled another cup, and again the face appeared in the tea. He then ordered fresh tea and refilled the cup, and once more the strange face appeared, this time with a mocking smile. But Sekinai did not allow himself to be frightened. Whoever you are, he muttered, you shall delude me no further. Then he swallowed the tea, face and all, and went on his way, wondering whether he had swallowed a ghost. Late in the evening of the same day, while on watch in the palace of the Lord Nakagawa, Sekinai was surprised by the soundless coming of a stranger into the apartment. This stranger, a richly dressed young samurai, seated himself directly in front of Sekinai, and, saluting the Wakato with a slight bow, observed, I am Shikibu Henae, met you today for the first time. You do not seem to recognize me. He spoke in a very low but penetrating voice, and Sekinai was astonished to find before him the same sinister, handsome face of which he had seen and swallowed, the apparition in a cup of tea. It was smiling now, as the phantom had smiled, but the steady gaze of the eyes above the smiling lips was at once a challenge and an insult. No, I do not recognize you. Return, Sekinai, angry but cool, and perhaps you will now be good enough to inform me how you obtained admission to this house? In feudal times the residence of a Lord was strictly guarded at all hours, and no one could enter unannounced except through some unpardonable negligence on the part of the armed watch. Ah, you do not recognize me, exclaimed the visitor in a tone of irony, drawing a little nearer as he spoke. No, you do not recognize me. Yet you took upon yourself this morning to do me a deadly injury. Sekinai instantly seized the tanto at his girdle and made a fierce thrust at the throat of the man, but the blade seemed to touch no substance. Simultaneously and soundlessly the intruder leaped sideward to the chamber wall and threw it. The wall showed no trace of his exit. He had traversed it only as the light of a candle passes through lantern-paper. When Sekinai made report of the incident his recital astonished and puzzled the retainers. No stranger had been seen either to enter or leave the palace at the hour of the occurrence, and no one in the service of the Lord Nakagawa had ever heard of the name Shikibu Henae. On the following night Sekinai was off duty and remained at home with his parents. At a rather late hour he was informed that some strangers had called at the house and desired to speak with him for a moment. Taking his sword he went to the entrance and there found three armed men, apparently retainers, waiting in front of the doorstep. The three bowed respectfully to Sekinai and one of them said, Our names are Matsuoka Bungo, Tsuchibashi Bungo and Okamura Heiroko. We are retainers of the noble Shikibu Henae. When our master last night dained to pay you a visit you struck him with a sword. He was much will hurt and has been obliged to go to the hot springs where his wound is now being treated. But on the sixteenth day of the coming month he will return and he will then fitly repay you for the injury done him. Without waiting to hear more Sekinai leaped out sword in hand and slashed right and left at the strangers, but the three men sprang to the wall of the adjoining building and flitted up the wall like shadows and… Here the old narrative breaks off. The rest of the story existed only in some brain that has been dust for a century. I am able to imagine several possible endings, but none of them would satisfy an occidental imagination. I prefer to let the reader attempt to decide for himself the probable consequence of swallowing a soul. End of In a Cup of Tea. Things are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read for LibriVox by Dale Grossman. Last Scene of All by Lord Dunsenay. After John Caloran was hit he carried on in kind of twilight of the mind. Things grew dimmer and calmer. Harsh outlines of events became blurred. Memories came to him. There was singing in his ears like far-off bells. Things seemed more beautiful than they had a while ago. To him it was for all the world like an evening after some quiet sunset, when lawns and shrubs and woods and some old spire looked lovely in the late light, and one reflects on past days. Thus he carried on, seeing things dimly, and what was sometimes called the roar of battle, those aerial voices that snarl and moan and whine and rage at soldiers, had grown dimmer too. It all seemed further away and littler as far things are. He still heard the bullets. There was something so violently and intensely sharp in the snap of passing bullets at short range that you hear them in deepest thought and even in dreams. He heard them tearing by, above all things else. The rest seemed fainter and dimmer and smaller and further away. He did not think he was very badly hit, but nothing seemed to matter as he did a while ago. Yet he carried on. And then he opened his eyes very wide and found he was back in London again, in the underground train. He knew it at once by the look of it. He had made hundreds of journeys long ago by those trains. He knew by the dark outside that it had not yet left London, but what was odder than that, if one stopped to think of it, was that he knew exactly where it was going. It was the train that went away out into the country where he used to live as a boy. He was sure of that without thinking. When he began to think how he came to be there, he remembered the war as a very far-off thing. He supposed he had been unconscious a very long time. He was all right now. Other people were sitting beside him on the same seat. They all seemed like people he remembered a very long time ago. In the darkness opposite, beyond the windows of the train, he could see their reflections clearly. He looked at the reflections, but could not quite remember. A woman was sitting on his left. She was quite young. She was like someone that he most deeply remembered than all the others were. He gazed at her and tried to clear his mind. He did not turn and stare at her, but he quietly watched her reflection before him in the dark. Every detail of her dress, her young face, her hat, the little ornaments she wore, were minutely clear before him, looking out of the dark. So contented she looked that she would say she was untouched by war. As he gazed at the clear, calm face, and the dress that seemed neat, though old, and, like all things so far away, his mind grew clearer and clearer. It seemed to him certain that it was the face of his mother, but from thirty years ago, out of old memories and one picture. He felt sure it was his mother as she had been when he was very small. And yet, after thirty years, how could he know? He puzzled and tried to be quite sure. But how she came to be there, looking like that, out of those oldest memories, he did not even think of at all. He seemed to be hugely tired by many things and did not want to think. Yet he was very happy, more happy even than tired men just come home, all new to comfort. He gazed and gazed at the face in the dark. And then he felt quite sure. He was about to speak. Was she looking at him? Was she watching him, he wondered? He glanced up for the first time to his own reflection in the clear row of faces. His own reflection was not there, and blank dark showed between his two neighbors. And then he knew he was dead. THE END OF LAST SCENE OF ALL by Lord Dunsonay All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Louise J. Bell Man Overboard by Winston Spencer Churchill It was a little after half-past nine when the man fell overboard. The male steamer was hurrying through the Red Sea in the hope of making up the time which the currents of the Indian Ocean had stolen. The night was clear, though the moon was hidden behind clouds. The warm air was laden with moisture. The still surface of the waters was only broken by the movement of the Great Ship from whose quarter the long, slanting undulations struck out the feathers from an arrow shaft, and in whose wake the froth and air bubbles churned up by the propeller trailed in a narrowing line to the darkness of the horizon. There was a concert on board. All the passengers were glad to break the monotony of the voyage and gathered around the piano in the companion house. The decks were deserted. The man had been listening to the music and joining in the songs, but the room was hot and he came out to smoke a cigarette and enjoy a breath of the wind which the speedy passage of the liner created. It was the only wind in the Red Sea that night. The accommodation ladder had not been unshipped since leaving Aden, and the man walked out onto the platform as onto a balcony. He leaned his back against the rail and blew a puff of smoke into the air reflectively. The piano struck up a lively tune and a voice began to sing the first verse of the rowdy-dowdy boys. The measured pulsations of the screw were a subdued but additional accompaniment. The man knew the song. It had been the rage at all the music halls when he had started for India seven years before. It reminded him of the brilliant and busy streets he had not seen for so long, but was soon to see again. He was just going to join in the chorus when the railing which had been insecurely fastened gave way suddenly with a snap and he fell backwards into the warm water of the sea amid a great splash. For a moment he was physically too much astonished to think. Then he realized that he must shout. He began to do this even before he rose to the surface. He achieved a horse inarticulate, half choked scream. A startled brain suggested the word help and he bawled this out lustily and with frantic effort six or seven times without stopping. Then he listened. High, high, clear the way for the rowdy-dowdy boys. The chorus floated back to him across the smooth water for the ship had already passed completely by and as he heard the music a long stab of terror drove through his heart. The possibility that he would not be picked up dawned for the first time on his consciousness. The chorus started again. Then I say, boys, who's for a jolly spree? Rum tum tiddlyum, who'll have a drink with me? Help, help, help, shrieked the man in desperate fear. Fond of a glass now and then, fond of a row or noise. High, high, clear the way for the rowdy-dowdy boys. The last words drawled out faint and fainter. The vessel was steaming fast. The beginning of the second verse was confused and broken by the ever-growing distance. The dark outline of the great hull was getting blurred. The stern light dwindled. Then he set out to swim after it with furious energy, pausing every dozen strokes to shout long, wild shouts. The disturbed waters of the sea began to settle again to their rest. The widening undulations became ripples. The air-rated confusion of the screw fizzed itself upwards and out. The noise of motion and the sounds of life and music died away. The liner was but a single fading light on the blackness of the waters and a dark shadow against the pale or sky. At length, full realization came to the man and he stopped swimming. He was alone, abandoned. With the understanding his brain reeled. He began again to swim, only now, instead of shouting, he prayed. Mad, incoherent prayers, the words stumbling into one another. Suddenly a distant light seemed to flicker and brighten. A surge of joy and hope rushed through his mind. They were going to stop, to turn the ship and come back. And with the hope came gratitude. His prayer was answered. Broken words of thanksgiving rose to his lips. He stopped and stared after the light, his soul in his eyes. As he watched it, it grew gradually but steadily smaller. Then the man knew that his fate was certain. Despair succeeded hope. Gratitude gave place to curses. Beating the water with his arms he raved impotently. Foul oaths burst from him as broken as his prayers and as unheeded. The fit of passion passed, hurried by increasing fatigue. He became silent. Silent as was the sea, for even the ripples were subsiding into the glassy smoothness of the surface. He swam on mechanically along the track of the ship, sobbing quietly to himself in the misery of fear. And the stern light became a tiny speck, yellower but scarcely bigger than some of the stars which here and there are shown between the clouds. Nearly twenty minutes passed and the man's fatigue began to change to exhaustion. The overpowering sense of the inevitable pressed upon him. With the weariness came a strange comfort. He need not swim all the long way to Suez. There was another course. He would die. He would resign his existence since he was thus abandoned. He threw up his hands impulsively and sank. Down, down he went through the warm water. The physical death took hold of him and he began to drown. The pain of that savage grip recalled his anger. He fought with it furiously. Striking out with arms and legs he sought to get back to the air. It was a hard struggle, but he escaped victorious and gasping to the surface. Despair awaited him. Feebly splashing with his hands he moaned in bitter misery. I can't. I must. Oh God, let me die. The moon, then in her third quarter, pushed out from behind the concealing clouds and shed a pale, soft glitter upon the sea. Upright in the water, fifty yards away, was a black, triangular object. It was a fin. It approached him slowly. His last appeal had been heard. End of Man Overboard Recording by Louise J. Bell Sebastopol, California The Man with the Gash by Jack London This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org The Man with the Gash by Jack London Jacob Kent had suffered from cupidity all the days of his life. This, in turn, had engendered a chronic distrustfulness, and his mind and character had become so warped that he was a very disagreeable man to deal with. He was also a victim to some nambolic propensities and very set in his ideas. He had been a weaver of cloth from the cradle until the fever of Klondike had entered his blood and torn him away from his loom. His cabin stood midway between Sixty Mile Post and the Stewart River, and men who made it accustomed to travel the trail to Dawson, likened him to a robber baron, perched in his fortress an exacting toll from the caravans that used his ill-kept roads. Since a certain amount of history was required in the construction of this figure, the less-cultured wayfarers from Stewart River were prone to describe him after a still more primordial fashion, in which command of strong adjectives was to be chiefly noted. This cabin was not his, by the way, having been built several years previously by a couple of miners who had got out a raft of logs at that point for a grub steak. They had been most hospitable lads, and, after they abandoned it, travelers who knew the route made it an object to arrive there at nightfall. It was very handy, saving them all the time and toil of pitching camp, and it was an unwritten rule that the last man left a neat pile of firewood for the next comer. Rarely a night passed, but from half a dozen to a score of men crowded into its shelter. Jacob Kent noted these things, exercised squatter sovereignty, and moved in. Thenceforth, the weary travelers were mulked at a dollar per head for the privilege of sleeping on the floor, Jacob Kent weighing the dust and never failing to steal the downweight. Besides, he so contrived that his transient guests chopped his wood for him and carried his water. This was rank piracy, but his victims were an easygoing breed, and while they detested him, they yet permitted him to flourish in his sins. One afternoon in April he sat by his door, for all the world like a predatory spider, marveling at the heat of the returning sun, and keeping an eye on the trail for prospective flies. The Yukon lay at his feet, a sea of ice disappearing around two great bends to the north and south, and stretching an honest two miles from bank to bank. Over its rough breast ran the sled trail, a slender sunken line, 18 inches wide and 2,000 miles in length, with more curses distributed to the linear foot than any other road in or out of all Christendom. Jacob Kent was feeling particularly good that afternoon. The record had been broken the previous night, and he had sold his hospitality to no less than 28 visitors. True, it had been quite uncomfortable, and four had snored beneath his bunk all night. But then it had added appreciable weight to the sack in which he kept his gold dust. That sack, with its glittering yellow treasure, was at once the chief delight and the chief bane of his existence. Heaven and hell lay within its slender mouth. In the nature of things there being no privacy to his one-roomed dwelling, he was tortured by a constant fear of theft. It would be very easy for these bearded, desperate-looking strangers to make away with it. Often he dreamed that such was the case, and awoke in the grip of nightmare. A select number of these robbers haunted him through his dreams, and he came to know them quite well, especially the bronzed leader with the gash on his right cheek. This fellow was the most persistent of the lot, and because of him, he had, in his waking moments, constructed several score of hiding places in and about the cabin. After a concealment, he would breathe freely again, perhaps for several nights, only to collar the man with the gash in the very act of unearthing the sack. Then, on awakening in the midst of the usual struggle, he would at once get up and transfer the bag to a new and more ingenious crypt. It was not that he was the direct victim of these phantasms, but he believed in omens and thought-transference, and he deemed these dream robbers to be the astral projection of real personages who happened at those particular moments, no matter where they were in the flesh, to be harboring designs in the spirit upon his wealth. So he continued to bleed the unfortunates who crossed his threshold, and at the same time to add to his trouble with every ounce that went into the sack. As he sat sunning himself, a thought came to Jacob Kent that brought him to his feet with a jerk. The pleasures of life had culminated in the continual weighing and re-weighing of his dust, but a shadow had been thrown upon this pleasant avocation which he had hitherto failed to brush aside. His gold scales were quite small. In fact, their maximum was a pound and a half, 18 ounces, while his hoard amounted up to something like three and a third times that. He had never been able to weigh it all at one operation, and hence considered himself to have been shut out from a new and most edifying coin of contemplation. Being denied this, half the pleasure of possession had been lost. Nay, he felt that this miserable obstacle actually minimized the fact, as it did the strength of possession. It was the solution of this problem flashing across his mind that had just brought him to his feet. He searched the trail carefully in either direction. There was nothing in sight, so he went inside. In a few seconds he had the table cleared away and the scales set up. On one side he placed the stamped discs to the equivalent of 15 ounces and balanced it with dust on the other. Replacing the weights with dust, he then had 30 ounces precisely balanced. These, in turn, he placed together on one side and again balanced with more dust. By this time the gold was exhausted and he was sweating liberally. He trembled with ecstasy, ravished beyond measure. Nevertheless he dusted the sack thoroughly to the last least grain till the balance was overcome and one side of the scales sank to the table. Equilibrium, however, was restored by the addition of a pennyweight and five grains to the opposite side. He stood, head thrown back, transfixed. The sack was empty, but the potentiality of the scales had become immeasurable. Upon them he could weigh any amount from the tiniest grain to pounds upon pounds. Mammon laid hot fingers on his heart. The sun swung on its westering way till it flashed through the open doorway full upon the yellow-burdened scales. The precious heaps, like the golden breasts of a bronze Cleopatra, flung back the light in a mellow glow. Time and space were not. God, blimey, but you have the making of several quid there, haven't you? Jacob Kent wheeled about, at the same time reaching for his double-barreled shotgun, which stood handy. But when his eyes lit on the intruder's face he staggered back dizzily. It was the face of the man with the gash. The man looked at him curiously. Oh, that's all right! he said, waving his hand deprecatingly. You needn't think as all arm you or your blasted dust. You're a rum and you are. He added reflectively as he watched the sweat pouring from off Kent's face and the quavering of his knees. Why don't you pipe up and say something? He went on as the other struggled for breath. What's gone wrong, ya guff? Any think the matter? W-w-where'd you get it? Kent at last managed to articulate, raising a shaking forefinger to the ghastly scar which seemed the other's cheek. Shipmates stole me down with a marlin spike from the main royal. And now, as ya have your figure red and trim, what I want to know is what it's a you. That's what I want to know. What it's a you, go blimey, do it at you. Ain't it smug enough for the likes of you? That's what I want to know. No, no, Kent answered, sinking upon a stool with a sickly grin. I was just wondering, Did you ever see the like? The other went on treculently. No. Ain't it a bute? Yes. Kent nodded his head approvingly, intent on humoring this strange visitor, but wholly unprepared for the outburst which was to follow his effort to be agreeable. You blasted bloom in burgu-eaten son of a sea swab. What do you mean, a sayin' the most unsightly thing God almighty ever put on the face of man is a bute? What do you mean you? And there at this fiery son of a sea broke off into a string of oriental profanity, mingling gods and devils, lineages and men, metaphors and monsters, with so savage a virility that Jacob Kent was paralyzed. He shrank back, his arms lifted as though to ward off physical violence. So utterly unnerved was he that the other paused in the mid-swing of a gorgeous peroration and bust into thunderous laughter. The sons knocked the bottom out of the trail, said the man with the gash, between departing paroxysms of mirth, and I only hope as you'll appreciate the opportunity of consortin' with a man of my mug. Get steam up in that firebox a yarn, go and un-rig the dogs and grub them, and don't be shy of the wood, my lad. There's plenty more where that come from, and it's you've got the time to sling an axe, and tow up a bucket of water while you're about it. Lively, or I'll run you down, so help me. Such a thing was unheard of. Jacob Kent was making the fire, chopping wood, packing water, doing menial tasks for a guest. When Jim Cardege left Dawson, it was with his head filled with the iniquities of this roadside shylock, and all along the trail his numerous victims had added to the sum of his crimes. Now Jim Cardege, with the sailor's love for a sailor's joke, had determined, when he pulled into the cabin, to bring its inmate down a peg or so, that he had succeeded beyond expectation he could not help but remark, though he was in the dark as to the part the gash on his cheek had played in it. But while he could not understand, he saw the terror it created, and resolved to exploit it as remorselessly as would any modern trader a choice bit of merchandise. Strike me blind, but you're a usla, he said admiringly, his head cocked to one side as his host bustled about. You never ought to have gone clondiking. It's the keeper of a pub you was laid out for, and it's often as I have heard the lads up and down the river speak of you, but I hadn't no idea you was so jolly nice. Jacob Kent experienced a tremendous yearning to try his shotgun on him, but the fascination of the gash was too potent. This was the real man with the gash, the man who had so often robbed him in the spirit. This, then, was the embodied entity of the being whose astral form had been projected into his dreams, the man who had so frequently harbored designs against his horde. Hence, there could be no other conclusion. This man with the gash had now come into the flesh to dispossess him, and that gash he could no more keep his eyes from it than stop the beating of his heart. Try as he would. They wandered back to that one point as inevitably as the needle to the pole. Do it, aren't you? Jim Cartagy thundered suddenly, looking up from the spreading of his blankets and encountering the wrapped gaze of the other. It strikes me as I would it be the proper thing for you to draw your jib, douse the glim, and turn in, seein' as I would words you. Just lay to that, you swab, or so help me, I'll take a pull on your peak purchases. Kent was so nervous that it took three puffs to blow out the slush lamp, and he crawled into his blankets without even removing his moccasins. The sailor was soon snoring lustily from his hard bed on the floor, but Kent lay staring up into the blackness. One hand on the shotgun resolved not to close his eyes the whole night. He had not had an opportunity to secrete his five pounds of gold, and it lay in the ammunition box at the head of his bunk. But, try as he would, he at last dozed off with the weight of his dust heavy on his soul. Had he not inadvertently fallen asleep with his mind in such condition, the somnambolic demon would not have been invoked, nor would Jim Cardege have gone mining next day with a dishpan. The fire fought a losing battle, and at last died away, while the frost penetrated the mossy chinks between the logs and chilled the inner atmosphere. The dogs outside ceased their howling, and, curled up in the snow, dreamed of salmon-stocked heavens, where dog-drivers and kindred taskmasters were not. Within, a sailor lay like a log, while his host tossed restlessly about, the victim of strange fantasies. As midnight drew near, he suddenly threw off the blankets and got up. It was remarkable that he could do what he then did without ever striking a light. Perhaps it was because of the darkness that he kept his eyes shut, and perhaps it was for fear he would see the terrible gash on the cheek of his visitor. But, be this as it may, it is a fact that, unseen, his ammunition box put a heavy charge into the muzzle of the shotgun without spilling a particle, rammed it down with double wads, and then put everything away and got back into bed. Just as daylight laid its steel-grey fingers on the parchment window, Jacob Kent awoke. Turning on his elbow, he raised the lid and peered into the ammunition box. Whatever he saw, or whatever he did not see, exercised a very peculiar effect upon him, considering his neurotic temperament. He glanced at the sleeping man on the floor, let the lid down gently, and rolled over on his back. It was an unwanted calm that rested on his face, not a muscle quivered. There was not the least sign of excitement or perturbation. He lay there a long while, thinking, and when he got up and began to move about, it was in a cool, collected manner, without noise and without hurry. It happened that a heavy wooden peg had been driven into the ridge pole just above Jim Cartagy's head. Jacob Kent, working softly, ran a piece of half-inch manilla over it, bringing both ends to the ground. One end he tied about his waist, and in the other he rove a running noose. Then he cocked his shotgun and laid it within reach by the side of numerous moose-hide thongs. By an effort of will, he bore the sight of the scar, slipped the noose over the sleeper's head, and drew it taut by throwing back on his weight at the same time, seizing the gun and bringing it to bear. Jim Cartagy awoke, choking, bewildered, staring down the twin wells of steel. Where is it? Kent asked, at the same time slacking on the rope. You blasted! Kent merely threw back his weight, shutting off the other's wind. Bloomin' burr! Where is it? Kent repeated. What? Cartagy asked, as soon as he had caught his breath. The gold dust. What gold dust? The perplexed sailor demanded. You know well enough. Mine ain't seen nothin' of it. What do you take me for, a safe deposit? What have I got to do with it anyhow? Maybe you know, and maybe you don't. But anyway, I'm going to stop your breath, till you do know. And if you lift a hand, I'll blow your head off! Fast even! Cartagy roared as the rope tightened. Kent eased away a moment, and the sailor, wriggling his neck as though from the pressure, managed to loosen the noose a bit and work it up so the point of contact was just under the chin. Well, Kent questioned, expecting the disclosure, but Cartagy grinned. Go ahead with your angin'. You bloomin' ol' pop wallabah! Then, as the sailor had anticipated, the tragedy became a farce. Cartagy, being the heavier of the two, Kent, throwing his body backward and down, could not lift him clear of the ground. Strain and strive to the utter most. The sailor's feet still stuck to the floor and sustained a part of his weight. The remaining portion was supported by the point of contact just under his chin. Failing to swing him clear, Kent clung on, resolved to slowly throttle him or force him to tell what he had done with the horde. But the man with the gash would not throttle. Five, ten, fifteen minutes passed, and at the end of that time, in despair, Kent let his prisoner down. Well, he remarked, wiping away the sweat, if you won't hang, you'll shoot. Some men wasn't born to be hanged anyway. And it's a pretty mess as you'll make all this eared cabin floor. Cartagy was fighting for time. Now look here, I'll tell you what we do. We'll lay our heads long side and reason together. You've lost some dust. You say is how I know, and I say is how I don't. Let's get a observation and shape a course. Vast heave-in, Kent dashed in, maliciously imitating the other's enunciation. I'm going to shape all the courses of this shebang, and you observe. And if you do anything more, I'll bore you as sure as Moses. For the sake of my mother, whom God have mercy upon if she loves you. Ah, would you? He frustrated a hostile move on the part of the other by pressing the cold muzzle against his forehead. Lay quiet now. If you lift as much as a hair, you'll get it. It was rather an awkward task, with the trigger of the gun always within pulling distance of the finger. But Kent was a weaver, and in a few minutes had the sailor tied hand and foot. Then he dragged him without and laid him by the side of the cabin, where he could overlook the river and watch the sun climb to the meridian. Now I'll give you till noon, and then what? You'll be hitting the brimstone trail, but if you speak up, I'll keep you till the next bunch of mounted police come by. Well, God, blind me if this ain't a go. Here I be, innocent as a lamb, and here you be, lost all of your top amper and out of your reckoning. Run me foul and going to rake me into Elfire. You blooming old pirate, you... Jim Cartagy loosed the strings of his profanity and fairly outdid himself. Jacob Kent brought out a stool that he might enjoy it in comfort. Having exhausted all the possible combinations of his vocabulary, the sailor quieted down to hard thinking, his eyes constantly gauging the progress of the sun, which tore up the eastern slope of the heavens with unseemly haste. His dogs, surprised that they had not long since been put to harness, crowded around him. His helplessness appealed to the brutes. They felt that something was wrong, though they knew not what, without howling their mournful sympathy. Chook, mush on your swashes! He cried, attempting in a vermicular way to kick at them and discovering himself to be tottering on the edge of a declivity. As soon as the animals had scattered, he devoted himself to the significance of that declivity, which he felt to be there but could not see. Nor was he long in arriving at a correct conclusion. In the nature of things, he figured, man is lazy. He was no more than he has to. When he builds a cabin, he must put dirt on the roof. From these premises, it was logical that he should carry that dirt no further than was absolutely necessary. Therefore, he lay upon the edge of the hole from which the dirt had been taken to roof Jacob Kent's cabin. This knowledge, properly utilized, might prolong things, he thought, and he then turned his attention to the moose-hide thongs which bound him. The thongs were tied behind him, and pressing against the snow, they were wet with the contact. This moistening of the raw hide he knew would tend to make it stretch, and, without apparent effort, he endeavored to stretch it more and more. He watched the trail hungrily, and when in the direction of 60 mile a dark speck appeared for a moment against the white background of an ice-jam, he cast an anxious eye at the sun. It had climbed nearly to the zenith. Now and again he caught the black speck clearing the hills of ice and sinking into the intervening hollows. But he dared not permit himself more than the most cursory glances for fear of rousing his enemies' suspicion. Once, when Jacob Kent rose to his feet and searched the trail with care, Cardigy was frightened, but the dog sled had struck a piece of trail running parallel with a jam and remained out of sight till the danger was passed. I'll see you ung for this! Cardigy threatened, attempting to draw the other's attention. And you're rotten, El. Just you see if you don't. I say! He cried after another pause. Do you believe in ghosts? Kent's sudden start made him sure of his ground and he went on. Now a ghost has the right to haunt a man. What don't do what he says? And you can't shuffle me off till eight bells. What I mean is 12 o'clock. Can you? Because if you do, it'll happen as how I'll haunt you. The ear! A minute, a second too quick. And I'll haunt you so help me I will. Jacob Kent looked dubious but declined to talk. How's your chronometer? What's your longitude? How do you know as your time's correct? Cardigy persisted, vainly hoping to beat his executioner out of a few minutes. Is it barracks time, you have? Or is it the company time? Because if you do it before the stroke of the bell, I'll not rest. I give you fair warning. I'll come back. And if you haven't the time, I will you know. That's what I want. I will you tell. I'll send you off all right. Kent replied. Got a sundial here. No good. 32 degrees variation of needle. Steaks are all set. How did you get them? Compass? No, lined them up with the north star. Sure? Sure. Cardigy groaned, then stole a glance at the trail. The sled was just clearing a rise, barely a mile away, and the dogs were in full lope running lightly. How close is the shadows to the line? Kent walked to the primitive timepiece and studied it. Three inches, he announced after a careful survey. Say, just sing out eight bells, of four you pull the gun, will ya? Kent agreed, and they lapsed into silence. The thongs about Cardigy's wrists were slowly stretching, and he had begun to work them over his hands. Say, how close is the shadows? One inch. The sailor wriggered slightly to assure himself that he would topple over at the right moment and slipped the first turn over his hands. How close? Half an inch. Just then Kent heard the jarring churn of the runners and turned his eyes to the trail. The driver was lying flat on the sled and the dogs swinging down the straight stretch to the cabin. Kent whirled back, bringing his rifle to shoulder. It ain't eight bells yet, you sure? Jacob Kent faltered. He was standing by the sundial, perhaps ten paces from his victim. The man on the sled must have seen that something unusual was taking place, for he had risen to his knees, his whip singing viciously among the dogs. The shadows swept into line. Kent looked along the sights. Make ready! He commanded solemnly. Eight but just a fraction of a second too soon, Kent held his fire and ran to the edge. Bang! The gun exploded full in the sailor's face as he rose to his feet. But no smoke came from the muzzle. Instead, a sheet of flame burst from the side of the barrel near its butt and Jacob Kent went down. The dogs dashed up the bank, dragging the sled over his body and the driver sprang off as Jim Cardege freed his hands and drew himself from the hole. Jim, the newcomer recognized him. What's the matter? What's the matter? Oh, nothing at all. It just happens as I do little things like this for my health. What's the matter, you bloomin' idiot? What's the matter, eh? Cast me loose or I'll show you what. Hurry up or I'll only stone the decks with you. He added as the other went to work with his sheath knife. What's the matter? I want to know. Just tell me that, will ya? What's the matter, hey? Kent was quite dead when they rolled him over. The gun, an old-fashioned heavy-weighted muzzleloader, lay near him. Steel and wood had parted company. Near the butt of the right-hand barrel with lips pressed outward gaped a fissure several inches in length. The sailor picked it up curiously. A glittering stream flowed dust ran through the crack. The facts of the case donned upon Jim Cartagy. Strike me standin', he roared. Here's ya go. Here's his bloomin' dust. God, blimey, and you too, Charlie, if you don't run and get the dishpan. End of The Man with the Gash. Memory by H.P. Lovecraft. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read for LibriVox by Dale Grossman. In the valley of Nis the accursed waning moon shines thinly, tearing a path for its light with feeble horns through the lethal foliage of the great upas tree. And within the depths of the valley, where the light reaches not, move forms, not meet to be held. Rank is the erbiage on each slope, where evil vines and creeping plants crawl amidst the stones of the ruined palaces, twining tightly about the broken columns, and strange monoliths, and heaving up moral pavements laid by forgotten hands. And in the trees that grow gigantic in crumbling courtyards leap little apes, while in and out of deep treasure-folds writhe poisonous serpents and scaly things without a name. Vast are the stones which sleep beneath coverlets of dank moss, and mighty were the walls from which they fell. For all time did their builders erect them, and in sooth they have yet served nobly, for beneath them the gray toad makes his habitation. At the very bottom of the valley lies the river Than, whose waters are slimy and filled with weeds. From hidden springs it rises, and to subterranean grottoes it flows, so that the daemon of the valley knows not why its waters are red, nor whither they are bound. The genie that haunts the moon-beams spake to the daemon of the valley, saying, I am old and forget much. Tell me the deeds and aspect and name of them about these things of stone. And the daemon replied, I am memory and am wise in lore of the past, but I too am old. These beings were like the waters of the river Than, not to be understood. Their deeds I recall not, for they were but of the moment. Their aspect I recall dimly, for it was like that of the little apes in the trees. Their name I recall clearly, for it rhymed with that of the river. These beings of yesterday were called man. So the genie flew back to the thin, horned moon, and the daemon looked intently at the little apes in the tree that grew in the crumbling courtyard. End of Memory by H.P. Lovecraft