 Story Ten of Thirty Ghost Stories by Various Authors. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. How He Caught the Ghost Yes, the house is a good one, said the agent. It is in a good neighborhood, and you're getting it at almost nothing, but I think it right to tell you all about it. You are orphans, you say, and with a mother dependent on you. That makes it all the more necessary that you should know. The fact is, the house is said to be haunted. The agent could not help smiling as he said it, and he was relieved to see an answering smile on the two faces before him. Ah, you don't believe in ghosts, he went on. Nor do I, for that matter. But somehow the reputation of the house keeps me from having a tenant long at a time. The place ought to rent for twice as much as it does. If we succeed in driving out the ghost, you will not raise the rent, ask the boy, with a merry twinkle in his eye. Well, no, not this year, at any rate, laughed the agent. And so the house was rented, and the slip of a girl and the tall lad, her brother, went their way. Within a week the family had moved into the house and were delighted with it. It was large and cool, with wide halls and fine stairways, and with more room than they needed. But that did not matter in the least, for they had always been cramped in small houses, suffering many discomforts, and they never could have afforded such a place as this if it had not been haunted. Blessings on the ghost, cried Margaret Galey, as she ran about as merry as a child. Who would be without a ghost in the house when it brings one like this? And it is so near your school, said the mother, and I used to worry so over the long walk, and David can come home to lunch now, and you don't know what a pleasure that will be. It seems to me, David gravely explained, that if I should meet the ghost I would treat him with the greatest politeness and encourage him to stay. We shall not miss the room he takes, shall we? I think it would be very well to set aside that room over yours, Maggie, for his ghost-ship's own, for we shall not need that, you know. Besides the door doesn't shut, and he can go in and out without breaking the lock. And then they all laughed and had a great deal of fun over the ghost, which was a great joke to them. They were very tired that night and slept soundly all night long. When they met the next morning there was more laughter about the ghost which was shy about meeting strangers, probably, and had made no effort to introduce himself. For the next three days they were all hard at work, trying to bring chaos into something like order. And then it was time for the school to open, and Margaret was to begin teaching, and David inserted an advertisement in the city papers for a maid of all work, who might help their mother in their absence. For one whole day prospective-colored servants presented themselves and announced. Is this the house they want to work, lady? No, ma'am. I ain't going to work in this house. Catch me workin' in no haunted house." After which they each and all departed, and others came in their stead. One was secured after a while, but no sooner had she talked across the fence with a neighbor servant than she too departed. "'Never mind, children,' said Mrs. Craig wearily. I would much rather do the work than be troubled in this way.' So the maid of all work was dismissed, and the Craig family locked the doors and went to the rooms, worn out with the day's anxieties. They had been in the house for days, and there had been neither sight nor sound of the ghost. The very mention of it was enough to start them all to laughing, for they were thoroughly practical people, with a fondness for inquiring into anything that seemed mysterious to them and for understanding it thoroughly before they let it go. David was soon sleeping the sound sleep of healthy boyhood, and all was silent in the house, when Margaret stole softly into his room and laid her hand on his arm. He was not easy to waken, and several minutes had passed before he sat up in bed with an articulate murmur of surprise. "'Hush,' said Margaret, in a whisper, with her hand on his lips. I want you to come into my room and listen to a sound that I've been hearing for some time.' Door's creaking, suggested David, as he began to dress. Nothing of the kind was all she said. They walked up the stairway and along the upper hall to the door of the unused room. Something was wrong with the lock and the door would not stay fastened, as I have said. Something that was not fear thrilled their hearts as they pushed the door further ajar, and stood where they could see every foot of the vacant floor. One of their own boxes stood in the middle of the room. But aside from that, nothing was to be seen, and they looked at one another in silence. "'Hold the lamp a minute, Maggie,' David said at last, and then he went all over the room, and looked more particularly at its emptiness and even felt the walls. "'Secret panels, you know,' he said, with a smile. But it was a very puzzled smile, indeed. "'I can't see what it could have been,' Margaret said, as they went down the stairs. "'No, I can't see either, but I'm going to see,' said David. "'That was a chain, and chains don't drag around by themselves, you know. A ghost could not drag a chain if he were to try.' "'The conventional ghost very often drags chains,' said Margaret, as she closed the door of her room. And then she lay awake all night and listened for the conventional ghost that dragged a chain. But it seemed that the weight of the change must have worried him, for he was not hurt again. The mother had slept through it all, and next morning they gave her a vivid account of the night's adventure. "'Perhaps it was someone in the house,' she said in alarm. But there were no ghosts within the bounds of possibility, so far as she was concerned. But burglars were very possible, indeed. Then Margaret and David both laughed more than ever. "'What fun would it be,' said David, for a burglar to get into this house and try to find something worth carrying away. So they went on to the next night, all three fully determined to spend the night in listening for the ghost, and running him to earth if possible. But it was Margaret that heard the ghost after all. She had been sleeping and was suddenly startled the white awake, and there, overhead, was the sound of the chain dragging. And just as she was on the point of springing out of bed to call her brother, the chain seemed to go out of the upper room. She lay still and listened, and in a moment she heard it again. It was coming down the stairs. There was no carpet on the stairs, and she could hear the chain drop from step to step, until it had come down the whole way. There it was, almost at the door of her room, and something that was strangely like fear kept her lying still, listening in horrified silence. Then it went along the hall, dragging close to the door, and then further away, and back and forth for a while, and then it began dragging back up the stairs again. Step by step she could hear it drawn over the edge of every step, and by the time it had reached the top she remembered herself and called David. Again did the brother and sister make a tour of the upper room with the lamp. Not only that, but they looked into every nook and corner of the upper part of the house, and at last came back baffled. They had seen nothing extraordinary, and they had not heard a sound. I'm going to see that ghost to-night, David said to his sister the next evening. How? I'm going to sit up all night at the head of the stairs. Don't say anything about it to mother. It might make her uneasy. So after the household were all quiet, David slipped into his place at the head of the stairs, and sat down to his vigil. He had placed a screen at the head of the stairway so that it hid him from view, as if a ghost cared for a screen, and he established himself behind it and prepared to be as patient as he could. It seemed to him that hours so long had never been devised as those the town clocks told off that night. He bore it until midnight moderately well, because he argued with himself, if there were any ghosts about they would surely walk then. But they were not in a humor for walking, and still the hours rolled on without any developments. He took the fidgets and had nervous twitches all over him, and at last he could endure it no longer, and had leaned his head back against the wall and was going blissfully to sleep when. He heard a chain dragging just beyond the open door of that unused room. In spite of himself a shiver ran down his back. There was no mistaking it. It was a real chain, if he had ever heard one. More than that it had left the room and was coming straight towards the stairs. The hull was dark and it was impossible for him to see anything, although he strained his eyes in the direction of the sound. And even while he looked it had passed behind the screen and was going down the stairs, dropping from step to step with a clank. Halfway down a narrow strip of moonlight from a stair window lay directly across the steps. Whatever the thing was, it must pass through that patch of light, and David leaned forward and watched. Down it went from step to step, and presently it slipped through the light and was down. And a little later it came back again, through the light and up the stairs, and back into that unused room. And then David slept his knees jubilantly and ran down to his room and slept all the rest of the night. Next morning he was very mysterious about his discoveries of the night before. Oh yes, I saw the ghost, he said to Maggie. There, don't ask so many questions. I'll tell you more about it tomorrow, maybe. And that was all the information she could get from him. It was very provoking. That day David made a purchase downtown and brought home a bulky bundle, which he hid in his own room and would not let his sister even peep at it. I'm going to try to catch the ghost tonight, he said. And you know how it is. If I brag too much beforehand, I shall be sure to fail. He was working with something in the hall after the others had retired, but he did not sit up this time. He went to bed, and Margaret listened at his door and found that he was soon asleep. But away in the night they were all awakened by a squealing that brought them all into the hall in a great hurry, and there, at the head of the stairs, they found a huge rat trap that David had said a few hours before, and in the midst of the toils was a rat. Why, David, exclaimed the mother. I didn't know that there was a rat in the house. And then, all at once, she saw that there was a long chain hanging from a little iron collar round the creature's neck, and she and Margaret cried together. And this was the ghost. Such a funny ghost when they came to think of it. This poor rat, with a nest in some hole of the broken chimney. He had been someones pet once, perhaps. And now, the households he had broken up. The nights he had disturbed. The wild sensations he had created. It made his captors laugh to think that this innocent creature had been the cause of the whole trouble. I'll get a cage for him and take care of him for the rest of his life, said David. We owe him so much that we can't afford to be ungrateful. The next morning he took the ghost in a cage and showed it to the agent, and gave him a vivid account of the capture. So you have a good house for about half the price, all on account of that rat, exclaimed the agent grimly. Young man, but never mind, you deserve it. What are you working for now? Six dollars a week? If you ever want to change your place, suppose you come around here. I think you need a business that will give you a chance to grow. And the agent and David shook hands warmly over the cage of the ghost. End of Story 10 Story 11 of 30 Ghost Stories by Various Authors This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Grand Dame's Ghost Story by C.D. I don't know whether you ever tell your children ghost stories or not. Some mothers don't. But our mother, though of German descent, was strong minded on the ghost subject, and early taught all our children to be fearless mentally as well as physically. And, though dearly fond of hearing ghost stories, especially if they were real true ghosts, we were sadly skeptical as to there being anything of the kind that could harm. We were quite learned in ghostly lore, knew all about doppelgangers, will of the wisp, blue lights, etc. And we could not have a greater treat for good behavior than for our mother to draw on her store of supernatural tales for our entertainment. The story I'm about to relate, she told us one stormy night, when gathered round her chair in her cozy sanctum, before a cheerful fire, we ate nuts and apples, and listened while she recited an odd true tale, told her by her grandmother, who herself witnessed the vision. It was a fearful night. The winds sobbed and wailed round the house like lost spirits mourning their doom. The rain beat upon the casements and the trees, writhing in torture of the fierce blast, groaned and swayed till their tops almost swept the earth. Bright flashes of lightning pierced even the most closed shutters and heavy curtains, and the thunder had a sullen, threatening roar that made your blood creep. It was a night to make one seek to shut out all sound, draw the curtains close, stir the fire and nestle deep in the armchair before it, with feet upon the fender, and have something cheerful to think or talk about. But I was all alone, none in the house with me but servants, and the servant's wing was detached from the main part of the building, for I do not care to have menials near me, and I had no loved ones near. It was just such a night that Nancy Black died. What a fearful night for the soul to leave its earthly home, and go out into the vast unknown future. I spoke aloud, as rousing from a train of thought. I drew my heavy mantle close around me, wheeled my armchair near the fire, and cuddled down in it, burying my feet in the foot cushion to warm them, for I felt strangely cold. I was in the library, it was my usual sitting-room, for I seldom used the parlours. What was the use? My books were my friends, and I loved best to be with them. My children dead or married and away, the cold, grand parlours always seemed gloomy and sad. The ghosts of the departed pleasures haunted them, and I cared not to enter them. It was a long wide room across the hall from the parlours, running the whole length of the house, and was lined with shelves from floor to ceiling. My husband's father had been a bibliomaniac, and my husband had had a leaning that way also, and the shelves held so many an old rare work that was worth its weight in gold. The fire, though burning brightly, did not allume half the room of which, sitting in the chimney corner, I commanded a full view, and had been looking at the shadows playing on the furniture and shelves as the flames shot up, and after flickering a moment would die out, leaving a gloom which would break away into fantastic shadows as the firelight would shoot up again. While watching the gleams of light and dark lean shades, unconsciously the wailing of the storm outside attracted my attention. There seemed to be odd noises of tapping on the windows and sobs in size, as though some one was in treating entrance from the fierce tumult. And as I sat there, again I thought of Nancy Black, the old school girlfriend who had loved me so dearly, and the night when she went forth to meet the doom appointed her, resting my head upon my hand, I sat gazing in the fire, thinking over her strange life, and still stranger death, and wondering what could have become of the money and jewels that I knew she had once possessed. While sitting thus, a queer sensation crept over me. It was not fear, but a feeling as though if I'd looked up I'd see something frightful. A shiver, not like that of cold, ran from my head to my feet, and a sensation as though some one was breathing ice-cold breath upon my forehead, the same feeling you would cause by holding a piece of ice to your cheek. It fluttered over my face and finally settled round my lips, as though the unseen one was caressing me, thrilling me with horror. But I am not fearful, nervous, nor imaginative, and resolutely throwing off the dread that fell upon me, I turned round and looked up, and there, so close by my side that my hand, involuntarily thrown out, passed through her seeming form, stood Nancy Black. It was Nancy Black, and yet not Nancy Black. Her whole body had a semi-transparent appearance, just as your hand looks when you hold it between yourself in a strong light. Her clothing, apparently the same as worn in life, had a wavy, seething, flickering look, like flames have, and yet did not seem to burn. In the name of God, Nancy Black, what brought you here, and whence came you, I exclaimed. A hollow whisper followed. Thank you, my old friend, for speaking to me, and oh, how deeply I thank you for thinking of me to-night. I shall have rest. Rest, I heard echoed, and a jeering laugh rang through the room that made her quiver at its sound. I have been near you often, but always failed to find you in a condition when you would be in rapport before to-night. What I came for, I will tell you. Whence I come, you need not know. Suffice it to say, that were I happy, I would not be here on such an errand, nor on such a night. It is only when the elements are in tumult, and the winds wail and mourn, that we come forth. When you hear these sounds it is souls of the lost you hear mourning their doom. Tis then they wander up and down, to and fro, their only release from their fearful home of torture and undying pain. I have come to tell you that you must go over to the old house, and in the back room I always kept locked. Have the carpet taken up from toward the fireplace. You will see a plank with a knot hole in it. Remove that, and you will find what caused me to lose my soul. Have prayer said for me, for it is well to pray for the dead. The money and jewels give in charity, bury in holy ground the others you find, and pray for them and me. Ah, Jeanette, you thought your old friend, though strange and odd, pure and innocent. It is a bitter part of my punishment that I must change your thought of me. Farewell, do not fail me, and I shall trouble you no more. But whenever you hear that wind howl and sweep round the house as it does to-night, know that the lost are near. It is their swift flight through space, fleeing before the scourge of memory and conscience that causes that sound. That to-morrow you may not think you are dreaming, here is a token. And she touched the palm of my hand with her fingertips. And as you see my child, to this day there are three crimson spots on the palm of my hand that nothing will eradicate. Do not fail me and pray for us, Jeanette, pray, and with a longing, wispful gaze, and a deep sobbing sigh, Nancy Black faded from my sight. Am I dreaming, I exclaimed, as I rose from my chair and rang the bell. When the servant entered, I bade him attend to the fire and light the lamps, and I went through the room to see if any unusual arrangement of furniture could have caused the appearance, but nothing was apparent. And I bade him send my maid to attend me in my chamber, for I could not help feeling unwilling to remain in the library any longer that evening. While making my toilet for the night my maid said, Have you burned your hand, madam? Glancing hastily down, I saw three dark crimson spots upon the palm of my left hand. They had an odd look, as it is though touched by a red-hot iron. Yet the flesh was soft, not burned and not painful. Making some excuse for it, I did not allude to it again, and dismissed her speedily, that I might reflect undisturbed over the singular occurrence. There were marks upon my hand, I could not remove them, and they did not fade. In fact, their deep red made the rest of the palm lose its pinkish hue and look pale from the strong contrast. Could I have been asleep and dreamed at all, and by any means have done this to myself? I thought, but finally concluded that on the morrow I'd go over to Nancy Black's old residence and settle the question, and with that conclusion had to content myself until the morrow came. Nancy Black was an old friend from my girlhood, who had owned a large property in the town, and lived all alone in a spacious stone house directly opposite my home, and who, when dying, had left me the sole legality of her property. When morning came I took the keys, and with my maid went over to Nancy's house. It had never been disturbed since her death, which was sudden and somewhat singular, and the furniture remained just as she left it when taken to her last resting place. She went into the room Nancy had directed. I bade Sarah take up the carpet, and sure enough there was a plank with a knot-hole in it. So I sent her from the room, and lifted the plank myself. And there, between the two joints, rested a long box, the lid not fastened. Opening it I was horrified to see two skeletons, those of an infant and of a woman, small in stature and delicate frame. In a moment it flashed before me that I saw all that remained of Nancy Black's younger sister, a girl of seventeen, who had left home somewhat mysteriously years ago, and had died while absent. At least that was the version Nancy had given of her absence, and no one had dreamed of doubting it. Her tale was so naturally told. Left orphan when Lucy was only two years and Nancy eighteen, she had devoted her life to the care of this young girl, and when she found her sister had fallen, she, in her pride of name and position, had destroyed mother and child, that her shame might not be known, and had lived all those dreary years in that house with her fearful secret. Round the box, heaped up on every side, were money and jewels, and a parchment scroll among them had written on it, Lucy's share of her father's estate. I carried out Nancy's wishes to the letter, for now I firmly believe that she had come to me herself that night. To avoid scandal resting on the dead, I took our clergyman into my confidence, and with his assistance had the remains buried quietly in consecrated ground. The money and jewels were given to the poor, and the old building I turned into a home for destitute females. One morning and night, as I kneel in prayer, I pray forgiveness to rest upon Nancy Black and peace to her troubled soul. End of Story XI. Story XII of thirty ghost stories by various authors. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. A Fight with a Ghost by Q.E.D. No, I never believed much in ghosts, said the doctor, but I was always rather afraid of them. Have you ever seen one? Ask one of the other men. The doctor took his cigar out of his mouth and contemplated the ash for a moment or two before replying. I have had some rather startling experiences, he said, after a pause, during which the rest of us exchanged glances. For the doctor has seen many things, and is not averse to talking about them in congenial company. Would you care to hear about one of them? It gives me the cold shivers now to speak of it. We nodded and the doctor, taking a sip as an antidote to the shivers, began. You remember George Carson, who played for the varsity some years ago, big chap, with a light mustache? Well, I saw a good deal of him before he married, while he was reading for the bar in town. It was just after he became engaged to Miss Stoner, who is now Mrs. Carson, and he asked me to go down to a place which his people had taken in the country. Miss Stoner was to be there, and he wanted me to meet her. I could not go down for Christmas Day, as I had promised to be with my people. But as I had been working a bit too hard, and wanted a few days rest, I decided to run down for a few days about the new year. Woodcote was a pleasant enough place to look at. There were two packs of hounds within easy distance, and it was not far enough from the station to cut you off completely from the morning papers. The Carson's had been lucky, I thought, in coming across such a good house at such a moderate figure. For, as George told me, the owner had been obliged to go abroad for his health, and was anxious not to leave the place empty all the winter. It was an old house, with big gables and preposterous corners all over the place, and you couldn't walk and paces along any of the passages without tumbling up or downstairs. But it had been patched from time to time, and, among other improvements, a big billiard room had been built out at the back. A country house in the winter without a billiard room, when the frost stops hunting, is just, well, not even a gilded prison. The party was a small one. Besides George and his father and mother, there were only a couple of Mrs. Carson, who, being somewhere in the early teens, didn't count, and Ms. Stoner, who, of course, counted a good deal, and, lastly, myself. Ms. Stoner ought to have been happy, for George Carson, besides being an excellent fellow all around, was by no means a bad match, being an only son with considerable expectations. But somehow or other, she did not strike me as looking either very well or very happy. She gave me the impression of having something on her mind, which made her alternately nervous and listless. George, I fancied, noticed it, and was puzzled by it, for I caught him several times watching her with an anxious and inquiring look. But, as I was not there as a doctor, of course it was no business of mine, though I discovered the reason before I left Woodcote. The second night after my arrival, we had been playing, I remember, a family pool. The rest had gone upstairs to bed. George and I adjourned to a sort of study, which he had arranged upstairs, for a final smoke and a chat before turning in. The study was next to his bedroom, and parted off from it by a curtain. As we were settling down I missed my pipe, and remembered that I had laid it down in the billiard-room. On principle I never smoke another man's pipe, so I lit a candle, the house being in darkness, and started away in search of my own. The house looked awfully weird by the flickering light of a solitary candle, and the stairs creaked in a particularly gruesome way behind me, just for all the world as though someone were following at my heels. I found my pipe where I had expected in the billiard-room, and came back in perhaps a little more hurry than was absolutely necessary. Which perhaps explains why stumbled in the uncertain light over a couple of unforeseen stairs and dropped my candle. Of course it went out, but after little groping I found it. Having no matches with me I was obliged to feel my way along the bannisters, for it was so dark that I could not see my hand in front of me. And as I slowly advanced, sliding my hand along the broad ball-strait at my side, it suddenly slid over something cold and clammy, which was not a ball-strait at all. For stopping dead and closing my fingers round it for an instant, I felt that I was holding another hand, a skinny, bony hand, which rid itself slowly from my grasp. And though I could hear nothing and see nothing, I was yet conscious that something was brushing past me and going up the stairs. Hi, what's that? Who are you, I called? There was no answer. I admit that I was in a regular funk. I must have shown it in my face. What's the matter, asked George, as I blundered into his study. Oh, nothing, I answered, dropped my candle and lost the way. But who were you talking to? I was only swearing at the candle, I replied. Oh, I thought perhaps you had seen somebody, replied George. Somehow I did not like to tell him the truth, for fear he would laugh at my nervousness. But I determined to keep an eye on my liver, and take a couple of weeks' complete rest. That night I woke up several times with the feeling of that confounded hand under my own, a clammy hand which ridd as my fingers closed upon it. The next morning after breakfast I was in the billiard room practicing strokes while Carson was over at the stables. Presently the door opened, and Miss Stoner looked in. Come in, I said. George will be back from the stables in a few minutes. Meanwhile we can fifty up. I wanted to speak to you, she said. She was looking very tired and ill, and I began to think I should not have an interrupted holiday after all. Do you believe in ghosts, she asked, having closed the door and come up to the table, where she stood leaning with both her hands upon it. No, I replied, missing an easy caroom as I remembered my experience of last night, but I believe in fancy. And, supposing then that a person fancied he saw things, is there any remedy? What do you mean, Miss Stoner? I replied, looking at her in some surprise. Do you mean that you fancy? I stopped, for Miss Stoner turned away, sat down on one of the easy chairs by the wall, and burst into tears. Oh, please help me, she sobbed. I believe I'm going mad. I laid down my cue and went over to her. Look here, Miss Stoner, I said, taking her hand, which was hot and feverish. I am a doctor and a friend of George. Now tell me all about it, and I'll do my best to set it right. She was in a more or less hysterical condition, and her words were freely punctuated by sobs. But gradually I managed to elicit from her that nearly every night since she came to woodcoat she had been awakened in some mysterious way, and had seen a horrible face looking at her from over the top of a screen which stood by the door of her bedroom. As soon as she moved the face disappeared, which convinced her that the apparition existed only in her imagination. That seemed to distress her even more than if she had believed it to be a genuine ghost, for she thought her brain was giving way. I told her that she was only suffering from a very common symptom of nervous disorder, as indeed it was, and promised to send a groom into the village to get a prescription made up for her. And, having made me promise to breathe no word to any one on the subject, more especially to George, she went away relieved. Nevertheless, I was not quite certain that I had made a correct diagnosis of the case. You see, I had been rather upset myself not many hours before. George was longer than I expected at the stable, and I was just going to find him when at the door I met Mrs. Carson. Can you spare me a moment, she said, as I held open the door for her. I wanted to find you alone. Certainly Mrs. Carson, with pleasure, an hour, if you wish, I replied. It is so convenient, you know, to have a doctor in the house, she said, with a nervous laugh. Now I want you to prescribe me a sleeping drought. My nerves are rather out of order, and I don't sleep as I should. Ah, I said, do you see faces and such like things when you wake? How do you know, she asked quickly. Oh, I inferred from the other symptoms. We doctors have to observe all kinds of little things. Well, of course, I know it's only a fancy, but it is just as bad as if it were real. I assure you it is making me quite ill, and I didn't like to mention it to Mr. Carson or to George. They would think I was losing my head. I gave Mrs. Carson the same prescription as I had written for Miss Stoner, though by that time the conviction had grown upon me that there was something wrong which could not be cured by medicine. However, I decided to say nothing to George about the matter at present, for I could hardly utilize the confidence which had been placed in me by Miss Stoner and Mrs. Carson, and my own experience of the night before would scarcely have appeared convincing to him. But I determined that on the next day, which was Sunday, I would invent an excuse for staying at home from church and make some explorations in the house. There was obviously some mystery at work which wanted clearing up. We all sat up rather late that night. There seemed to be a general disinclination to go to bed. We stayed all together in the billiard room until nearly midnight, and then loitered about in the hall, talking in an aimless sort of fashion. But at last Mrs. Carson said good night, with a confidential nod to me, and Miss Stoner murmured, so many thanks, I've got it, and they both went upstairs. George and I parted in the corridor above. Our rooms were opposite each other. I did not begin undressing at once, but sat down and tried to piece together some theory to account for the uncanniness of things. But the more I thought, the more perplexing it became. There was no doubt whatever that I had put my hand on something extremely alive, and extremely unpleasant the night before. The bare recollection of it made me shudder. What living thing could possibly be creeping about the house in the dark? It was a man's hand, of that I was certain, from the size of it. George Carson was out of the question, for he was in his room all the time. Nor was it likely that Mr. Carson Sr. would steal about his own house in his socks and refuse to answer when spoken to. The only other man in the house was an eminently respectable-looking butler, and his hand, as I had noted particularly when he poured out my wine at dinner, was plump and soft, whereas the mysterious hand on the ball-stread was thin and bony. And then, what was the real explanation of the face which had appeared to the two ladies? Indigestion might have explained either singly. Extraordinary coincidence do sometimes occur, but it seemed too extraordinary that a couple of ladies, one old and one young, should suffer from the same indigestion in the same house, at the same time, and with the same symptoms. On the whole I did not feel at all comfortable, and looked carefully in all the covers and recesses, as well as under the bed, before starting to undress. Then I went to the door, intending to lock it. Just as my hand was upon the key, I heard a soft step in the corridor outside, accompanied by a sound which was something between a sigh and a groan. Very faint but quite unmistakable, and under the circumstances, discomposing. It might, of course, be George. Anyhow, I decided to look and see. I turned the handle gently and opened the door. There was nothing to be seen in the corridor. But on the opposite side I could see a door open, and George's head peeping round the corner. Hello, he said. Hello, I replied. Was that you walking up the passage, he asked? No, I answered. I thought it might be you. Then who the devil was it, he said? I'll swear I heard someone. There was silence for a few moments. I was wondering whether I'd still better tell him of the fright I had already had, when he spoke again. I say, just come in here for a bit, old fellow. I want to speak to you. I stepped across the passage, and we went together into the little study which adjoined his bedroom. Look here, he said, poking up the fire, which was burning low. Doesn't it strike you that there's something very odd about this house? You mean? Well, I wouldn't say anything about it to the master or Miss Stoner for fear of frightening them. All the same, scarcely a night passes but I hear curious footsteps on the stairs. You've heard them yourself, haven't you? Now you mention it, I said. I confess I have. And what is more, he continued. I was sitting here two nights ago half asleep, and it seems ridiculous, I know, but it's a fact. I suddenly saw a horrible face glaring at me from between those curtains behind you. It was gone in a moment, but I saw it as plainly as I see you. I moved my seat uneasily. Did you look in your bedroom or in the passage, I asked. Yes, at once, he replied. There was nothing to be seen. But twice again that night I heard footsteps passing. Good God! He started up in his chair, staring straight over my shoulder. I turned quickly and saw the curtains which parted off the bedroom swing together. What is it? I asked breathlessly. I saw it again, the same face, between the curtains. I tore the curtains aside and rushed into the next room. It was empty. The lamp was burning upon a side table and the door was open, just as George had left it. In the passage outside all was quiet. I came back into the study and found George running his fingers through his hair in perplexity. There is clearly one person too many in the house, I said. I think we ought to draw the place and find out who it is. All right, he said, picking up the poker from the fireplace. If it's anything made of flesh and blood, this will be useful. And if not... He stopped short, for at that instant the most awful shriek of horror rang through the house, a shriek of wild, uncontrollable terror, such as I had never heard before, and I never hoped to hear again. One moment we stood staring at each other, dumbfounded. The next George Carson had dashed out of the room and down the corridor to the stairs. I followed close behind him, for we both knew that none but a woman in mortal fear would shriek like that, and that that woman was Miss Stoner. Down the stairs we tumbled at Pelmel in the darkness. But before I reached the landing below, where Miss Stoner's room was, I felt, as I had felt that evening before, something brushed swiftly past me. As I ran I turned and caught at it in the dark, but my hand gripped only empty air. I was just about to turn back and follow it, when a cry from George arrested me, and, looking down, I saw him standing over the prostate form of Miss Stoner. The door of her room was open, and by the moonlight which streamed into the room, I could see her lying in her white night dress across the threshold. What followed in the next few minutes I can scarcely recall with accuracy. The whole house was aroused by the poor girl's awful shriek. She was quite unconscious when we came upon her, but she revived more or less as soon as Mrs. Carson and one of the terrified servants had lifted her into bed again. Nothing intelligible could be gathered from her, however, as to the cause of her fright. She only repeated hysterically again and again. Oh, the face! The face! When I saw I could do her no further good for the present. I took George by the arm and let him out of the room. Look here, George, I said. We must find out the reason of this at once. I am certain I felt something go by me as I came downstairs. Now does that staircase lead anywhere but to our rooms? George considered for a moment. Yes, he replied. There is a door at the end of the passage which leads up into a sort of lumber-room. Then we'll explore it, I said. For my part I can't go to sleep until I've got to the bottom of this. Get the man to bring a lantern along. The butler looked as though he didn't laugh like the Enterprise, and to tell the truth no more did I. It was the uncannyest job I ever undertook. However we started, the three of us. First of all we searched the rooms on the floor above, where George and I slept. Everything was just as we had left it. Then I pushed open the door at the end of the corridor. A crazy-looking staircase led up into the darkness. We went cautiously up. I first with a candle, then George, and last of all the butler with a lantern. At the top we stepped into a big rather low room, with beams across the ceiling, and a rough uneven floor. Our lights threw strange shadows into the corners, and more than once I stared at what looked like a crouching human figure. We searched every corner. There was nothing to be seen but a few old boxes, a roll or two of matting, and some broken chairs. But in the far corner George pointed out to me a rickety ladder which ended in a closed-trap door. Just then I distinctly heard the curious, half-growning, half-sign sound which had already puzzled me in the corridor below. We stood still and looked at one another. We all heard the sound. Whatever it is, it's up there, I said. The question is, who's going up? George put his candle down upon the floor and stepped upon the ladder. It cracked beneath his weight. He stopped. Come down, it won't bear you, I said. I shall have to go. I don't know that I was ever in such a queer funk as I was while I slowly mounted that ladder, and pushed open the trap door. I had formed no clear idea of what I expected to find there. Certainly I was not prepared for what happened. For no sinner was the trap door fully open, then there fell, literally fell, upon me from the darkness above, a thing in human shape, which kicked and spat and tore at me as I stood clinging to the ladder. It lasted but a moment or so, but in that moment I lived a lifetime of terror. The ladder swayed and cracked beneath me, and I fell to the floor with the thing gripping my throat like a vice. The next instant George had stunned it with a blow from the poker and dragged it off me. It lay upon its back on the floor, a ragged, hideous, loatham shape. And the mystery was solved. "'But you haven't told us what it really was,' said one of the listeners. The doctor smiled. It was the owner of the house,' he replied. He had not gone abroad. He had gone to a private lunatic asylum with homicidal mania upon him. About a fortnight before this he had managed to escape, and having made his way to his former home, had concealed himself with a cunning often shown by lunatics in the loft. I suppose he had found enough to eat in his nightly rambles about the house. The only wonder is he didn't kill someone before he was caught. End of Story 12 Story 13 of 30 Ghost Stories by various authors. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Ghost of the Count Not far from the Alameda, in the city of Mexico, there is a great old stone building, in which once lived a very wealthy and wicked Spanish Count. The house has about four floors and ninety rooms, or less. The entire fourth floor is rented and occupied by a big American firm, and their bookkeeper, an American girl, has given us the following true account of the Ghost that for years haunted the building. The second floor is unoccupied, as no one cares to live there for obvious reasons. And the bottom floor is also unoccupied, save for lumber-rooms, empty boxes, and crates and barrels. And last of all is the great patio with its tiled floor, where secretly in the night a duel was fought to the death by the wicked Count and a famous Austrian prince, who was one of Maximilian's men. The count was killed. No one knows why the duel was fought. Some say it was because of a beautiful Spanish woman. Some say it was because of a treasure that the two jointly conveyed, and which the Count refused to divide with his princely socio. And more people, Mexicans, shrug their shoulders if you ask about it, and say, Quinceabe. I saw a ghost here last night, Miss James, announces our cash here with much ecla and evident pride. So great is the shock that I gasp, and my pen drops, splattering ink on my nice fresh cuffs, and worse luck, on the ledger page I had just totted up. It is ruined, and I will have to erase it, or something, wretched man. I wish to goodness it had taken you off, I cry, wrathfully, and I look at the bespattered work. Now will you just look here and see what you have done? I wish you and your ghosts were in. Gehenna, he inquires sweetly. I'll fix that. It won't take half a minute. And don't look so stern. Else I won't tell you about the Espanto, and you will be sorry if you don't hear about it. It would make such a good story. Then go ahead with it. Well, last night I was waiting for West. He was to meet me here, after which it was our intention to hit the—that is, I mean we were going out together. I nod scornfully. And it seems that while I was patiently waiting here, in my usual sweet-tempered way, the blank idiot had his supper and then lay down to rest himself for a while. You know how delicate he is. Another contemptuous nod. Unfortunately he forgot the engagement and slept on. He says he never awoke until three o'clock, and so didn't come, thinking I wouldn't be there. Meantime I also went to sleep and might have snoozed on until three likewise, but for the fact that the ghost woke me. Well, do go on, I urge. The ghost woke me, as I said, precedes the simpleton slowly. It was passing its cold fingers over my face and moaning. Really, it was most extraordinary. At first I didn't know what it was. Then, as I felt the icy finger stroking my face and heard blood-curdling groans issuing from the darkness, I knew what it was. And I remembered the story of the prince and his little duel down in the patio, and knew it was the ghost of the prince's victim. By the way, you don't know what a funny sensation it is to have a ghost pat your face, Miss James. Pat nothing, I retort indignantly. I wonder you are not ashamed to tell me such fibs. Such a tire-a-diddle! And as for the man that the prince killed downstairs, you know as well as I do that he was taken home to Spain and buried there. Why, then, should he come back here, into our offices and pat your face? Ah, that I can't say, with a supercilious drawl. I can only account for it by thinking that the ghost has good taste, better than that of some people I know. But honestly, I swear I'm telling you the truth. Cross my heart and hope to die if I'm not. And you don't know how brave I was. I never screamed. In fact, never made a sound. Oh, I was brave. Then what did you do, sternly? I ran. Portios, how I ran. You remember with what a clarity we got down the stairs during the November earthquake? I remember only two distinctly. Well, last night's run wasn't a run, in comparison. It was a disappearance, a flight, a sprint. I went down the four flights of stairs like a streak of blue lightning, and the ghost flew with me. I heard the pattering of its steps and its groans cleaned down to the patio door, and I assure you I quite thought I had made such an impression that it was actually going home with me. And the thought made me feel so weak that I felt perforce obliged to take a, have a, that is, strengthen myself with a cocktail. After which I felt stronger and went home peacefully. But it was an uncanny experience, wasn't it? Was it before or after taking that cocktail, I asked incredulously. And did you take one only or eleven? I am hard on the man, but he really deserves it. Ghosts, spirits. Perhaps, but not ghosts, where at his feelings are quite hurted, so much so that he vows he will never tell me anything again. I had better read about doubting Thomas. He never has seen such an unbelieving woman in all his life, and if I were only a man he would be tempted to pray that I might see the ghost. It would serve me right. Then, wrathfully departs to notice me no more that day. Not believing the least bit in ghosts I gave the matter no more thought. In fact, when you fell heir to a set of books that haven't been posted for nineteen days, and you have to do it all, and get up your trial balance too, or else give up your Christmas holidays, you haven't much time to think about ghosts or anything else, except entries. And though I had been working fourteen hours per day, the twenty-fourth of December, noon hour, found me with a difference of thirteen dollars and eighty-nine cents. The which I, of course, must locate and straighten out before departing next morning on my week's holiday. For supuesto, it meant night work. Nothing else would do, and besides, our plans had all been made to leave on the eight o'clock train next morning. So I would just sit up all night, if need be, and find the richet balance and be done with it. Behold me, settled for work, that night at seven o'clock in my own office, with three lamps burning to keep it from looking dismal and lonely, and books and ledgers and journals piled up two feet high around me. If hard work would locate that nasty, hateful, thirteen dollars and eighty-nine cents, it would surely be found. I had told the portero downstairs on the ground floor to try and keep me awake for a time, but if I didn't soon finish the work, I would come down and call him when I was ready to go home. He lived in a little room, all shut off from the rest of the building, so that it was rather difficult to get at him. Besides, he was the very laziest and sleepiest peon possible, and though he was supposed to take care of the building at night, patrolling it so as to keep off the Landronis, he in reality slept so soundly that the last trumpet, much less Mexican robbers, would not have aroused him. And for this very reason, before settling to my work I was careful to go round and look to locks and bolts myself. Everything was secure, and the door safely fastened, so that if Landronis did break through they would have to be in shape to pass through keyholes or possess false keys. With never thought of spirits or poteros, or anything else, beyond the thirteen dollars and eighty-nine cents, I worked and added and re-added and footed up. And at eleven o'clock, grat the ideals, I had the thirteen dollars all safe, and would have hooped for joy had I the time. However, I wasn't out of the wood yet, the sum of eighty-nine dollars being often more easy of location than eighty-nine cents. The latter must be found also, before I could have the pleasure of shouting in celebration thereof. Added I went again, after brain kudgeling and more adding and prayerful thought, I at last had under my thumb that abominable eighty cents. Eureka! Only nine cents out! I could get it all straight and have some sleep, after all. Inspired by which thought I smothered my yawns, and again began to add. I looked at my watch, ten minutes to twelve. Perhaps I could get it fixed before one. I suppose I had worked at the nine cents for about twenty minutes. One of the cash entries looked to me to be an error. I compared it with the voucher. Yes, that was just where the trouble lay. Eleven cents. Ten. Nine. Sht! Out went the lights in the twinkling of an eye. As I sat, gaping in my astonishment, out from the pitchy darkness of the room came the most dreary, horrible, blood-curdling groan imaginable. As I sat paralyzed, not daring to breathe, doubting my senses for a moment, and then thinking indignantly that it was some trick of that wretched cashier, I felt long, thin, icy fingers passing gently over my face. Malgami deals! What a sensation! At first I was afraid to move, then I nervously tried to brush the icy, bony things away. As fast as I brushed, with my heart beating like a steam hammer, and gasping with deadly fear, the fingers would come back again. A cold wind was blowing over me. Again came that dreadful groan, and too frightened to move or scream. I tumbled in a heap on the floor, among the books and ledgers. Then I suppose I fainted. When I regained my senses I was still in a heap with the ledgers. It was still dark and I still felt the cold fingers caressing my face. At which I became thoroughly desperate. No ghost should own me. I had laughed at the poor cashier and hinted darkly at cocktails. Pray, what better was I? I scrambled to my feet, the fingers still stroking my face. I must address them. What language did they understand? English or Spanish, I wondered. Spanish would doubtless be most suitable, if indeed it was the ghost of the murdered count. Will you do me the favour, senior ghost? I started out bravely, in my best Spanish, but with a very trembling voice. To inform me what it is you desire. Is there anything I can do for you? Because, if not, I would like very much to be allowed to finish my work, which I cannot do, if you will pardon my abruptness, if I am not alone. Being the ghost of a gentleman and a diplomat, surely he would take the hint and vanish. Oh, hala! Perhaps the ghost did not understand my Spanish. At any rate there was no articulate reply. There was another groan. Again the fingers touched me, and then there was such a mournful sigh that I felt sorry for the poor thing. What could be the matter with it? With my pity, all fear was lost for a moment, and I said to the darkness all about me. What is it that you wish, pobre senior? Can I not aid you? I am not afraid. Let me help you. The fingers moved uncertainly for a moment. Then the ledgers all fell down, with a loud bang. A cold hand caught mine, very gently. I tried not to feel frightened, but it was difficult, and I was let off blindly through the offices. I could not see a thing, not a glimmer of light showed, not a sound was heard except my own footsteps, and the faint sound of the invisible something that was leading me along. There were no more groans, thank goodness, else I should have shrieked and fainted without a doubt. Only the pattering footsteps and the cold hand that led me on and on. We, the fingers and I, were somehow in the great hall, then on the second floor, and at last on the stairs, going down flight after flight. I knew that I was being led about by the fingers on the tiled floor of the patio, and close to the potterral's lodge. Simple than that he was, sleeping like a log, no doubt, while I was being led about in the black darkness by an invisible hand, and no one to save me. I would have yelled, of course, but for one fact. I found it utterly impossible to speak or move my tongue, being a rare and uncomfortable sensation. But where were we going? Back into the unused lumber-rooms, joining into the patio? Nothing there except barrels and slabs and empty boxes. What could the ghost mean? He must be utterly demented, surely. In the middle of the first room we paused. I had an idea of rushing out and screaming for the potterro, but abandoned it when I found that my feet wouldn't go. I heard steps passing to and fro about the floor, and waited, cold and trembling. They approached me, again my hand was taken, and I was led over near the corner of the room. Obedient to the unseen will, I bent down and groped about the floor, guided by the cold fingers holding mine, until I felt something like a tiny ring, set firmly in the floor. I pulled at it faintly, but it did not move, at which the ghost gave a faint sigh. For a second the cold fingers pressed mine, quite affectionately, then released me, and I heard steps passing slowly into the patio, then dying away. Where was it going, and what on earth did it all mean? But I was so tired and wrought up, I tried to find the door, but couldn't. The cashier would have been revenged, could he have seen me stupidly fumbling at a barrel thinking it was the door. And at last, too fatigued and sleepy to stand, I dropped down on the cold stone floor and went to sleep. I must have slept for some hours, for when I awoke the light of dawn was coming in at the window, and I sat up and wondered if I had taken leave of my senses during the night. What on earth could I be doing here in the lumber room? Then, like a flash, I remembered, and half unconsciously crept about on the floor seeking the small ring. There it was. I caught it and jerked at it hard. Hey, presto change! For it seemed to me that the entire floor was giving way. There was a sliding, crashing sound, and I found myself hanging on for dear life to a barrel that, unfortunately, retained its equilibrium, and with my feet dangling into space. Down below me was a small stone-floored room, with big boxes and small ones ranged about the walls. Treasure! Like a flash the thought struck me, and with one leap I was down in the secret room gazing about at the boxes. But alas, upon investigation the biggest chests proved empty. The bad wicked count. No wonder he couldn't rest in his Spanish grave, but must come back to the scene of his wickedness and deceit to make reparation. But the smaller chests were literally cramped with all sorts of things. Big, heavy Spanish coins, in gold and silver. Gold and silver dinner services, with the crest of the unfortunate emperor. Magnificent pieces of jeweled armor and weapons. Beautiful jewelry and loose precious stones. I deliberately selected handfuls of the latter, giving my preference to the diamonds and pearls. I had always had a taste for them, which I had never been before able to gratify, and packed them in a wooden box that I found in the lumber-room. The gold and dinner services and armor, etc. I left as they were, being rather cumbersome, and carried off, rejoicing, my big box of diamonds and pearls and other jewelry. Needless to say, we didn't go away for the holidays on the eight o'clock train. But I did come down to the office and proceed to locate my missing nine cents, after which I unfolded the tale of the ghost and treasure, only keeping quiet the matter of my private loot, of which I was hardly glad afterwards. For when the government learned of the find, what do you suppose they offered me for going about with the ghost and discovering that secret room and treasure? Ten thousand dollars. When I refused, stating that I would take merely as my reward one of the gold dinner services, the greedy things objected at first, but I finally had my way. And to this very day they have no idea that I, even I, have all the beautiful jewels. Wouldn't they be furious if they knew it? But they aren't apt to, unless they learn English and read this story, which isn't likely. End of Story 13 Story 14 of thirty ghost stories by various authors. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Old Mansion Down on Long Beach, that narrow strip of sand which stretches along the New Jersey coast, from Barnaget Inlet to the north to Little Egg Harbor, Inlet on the south. The summer sojourner at some one of the numerous resorts, which of late years have sprung up every few miles, may in wandering over the sand dunes just across the bay from the village of Manahakan, stumble over some charred timbers or vestiges of tumbling chimneys, showing that once, years back, a human habitation has stood there. If the find rouses the jaded curiosity of the visitor sufficiently to impel him to question the weather-beaten Old Bayman who sails him on his fishing trips, he will learn that these relics mark the side of one of the first summer hotels erected on the New Jersey coast. That's where the Old Mansion stood. He will be informed by Captain Nate or Captain Sam, or whatever particular captain it may chance to be, and if by good fortune it chances to be Captain Jim, he will hear a story that will pleasantly pass away the long wait for a sheep's head bite. It was my good luck to have secured Captain Jim for a preceptor in the angler's ark during my vacation last summer, and his stories and reminiscences of Long Beach were not the least enjoyable features of the two-week sojourn. Captain Jim was not garrulous. Few of the Baymen are. They are a sturdy, self-reliant, and self-controlled people, full of strong common sense, but still within that firm belief in the supernatural, which seems inherent in the dwellers by the sea. The Old Mansion, said Captain Jim, or the Mansion of Health, for that was its full name, was built way back in 1822, so I've heard my father say. There had been a tavern close by years before that was kept by a man named Kramer, and people used to come from Philadelphia by stage, sixty miles through the pines to Hawken, and then cross here by boat. Some would stop at Kramer's and others went down to the beach to Homer's, which was cleared down at the end of the inlet. Finally some of the wealthy people concluded that they wanted better accommodations than Kramer gave, so they formed the Great Swamp Long Beach Company and built the Mansion of Health. I've heard that when it was built it was the biggest hotel on the coast, and was considered a wonder. It was one hundred and twenty feet long, three stories high, and had a porch running all the way around it, with a balcony on top. It was certainly a big thing for those days. I've heard father tell many a time of the stageloads of gay people that used to come rattling into Hawken, each stage drawn by four horses, and sometimes four or five of them a day in the summer. A good many people, too, used to come in their own carriages, and leave them over on the mainland until they were ready to go home. There were gay times at the Old Mansion then, and it made good times for the people along the shore, too. How long did the Old Mansion flourish, Captain? I asked. Well, for twenty-five or thirty years people came there summer after summer. Then they built a railroad to Cape May, and that, with the ghosts, settled the Mansion of Health. What do you mean by the ghosts, I demanded. Well, you see, said Captain Jim, cutting off a mouthful of Navy plug. The story got around that the old house was haunted. Some people said there were queer things seen there, and strange noises were heard that nobody could account for. And pretty soon the place got a bad name, and visitors were so few that it didn't pay to keep it open any more. But how did it get the name of being haunted, Captain Jim? I persisted. Why, it was this way, continued the Mariner. Maybe you've heard of the time early in the fifties, when the Palatine was wrecked on the beach here, and every soul on board was lost. She was an immigrant ship, and there were over four hundred people aboard, passengers and crew. She came ashore here during the equinoxial storm in September. There wasn't any life-saving stations in them days, and every one was drowned. You can see the long graves now over in the Hawken churchyard, where the bodies were buried after they came ashore. They put them in three long trenches that were dug from one end of the bearing-ground to the other. The only people on the beach that night was the man who took care of the old mansion. He lived there with his family, and his son-in-law lived with him. He was the wreckmaster for this part of the coast, too. It wasn't till the second day that people from Hawken could get over to the beach, and by that time the bodies all had come ashore, and the wreckmaster had them all piled up on the sand. I was a youngster then, and came over with my father, and I tell you, it was the awfulest sight I ever saw. Them long rows of drowned people, all lying there with their white, still faces turned up to the sky. Some were women with their dead babies clasped tight in their arms, and some were husbands and wives, whose bodies came ashore, locked together in a death-embrace. I'll never forget that sight as long as I live. Well, when the coroner came and took charge, he began to inquire whether any money or valuables had been found, but the wreckmaster declared that not a solitary coin had been washed ashore. People thought this was rather singular, as the immigrants were, most of them, well-to-do Germans, and were known to have brought a good deal of money with them, but it was concluded that it had gone down with the ship. Well, the poor immigrants were given popper burial, and the people had begun to forget their suspicions until three or four months later there came another storm, and the sea broke clear over the beach, just below the old mansion, and washed away the sand. Next morning early two men from Hawken sailed across the bay and landed on the beach. They walked across on the hard bottom where the sea had washed across, and, when about half-way from the bay, one of the men saw something curious close up against the stump of an old cedar tree. He called the other man's attention to it, and they went over to the stump. What they found was a pile of leather-money belts that would have filled a wheel-barrow. Every one was cut open and empty. They had been buried in the sound close by the old stump, and the sea had washed away the covering. The men didn't go any further. They carried the belts to their bolts and sailed back to Hawken as fast as the wind would take them. Of course, it made a big sensation, and everybody was satisfied that the wreckmaster had robbed the bodies, if he hadn't done anything worse, but there was no way to prove it, and so nothing was done. The wreckmaster didn't stay around here long after that, though. The people made it too hot for him, and he and his family went away south, where it was said he bought a big plantation and a lot of slaves. Years afterward the story came to Hawken somehow that he was killed in a barroom brawl, and that his son-in-law was drowned by his boat upsetten while he was out fishing. I don't furnish any affidavits with that part of the story, though. However, after that nobody lived in the old mansion for long at a time. People would go there, stay a week or two, and leave, and at last it was given up entirely to beach parties in the daytime and ghosts at night. But, Captain, you don't really believe the ghost part, do you? I asked. Captain Jim looked down the bay, expectorated gravely over the side of the boat, and answered slowly. Well, I don't know as I would have believed in him if I hadn't seen the ghost. What! I exclaimed. You saw it? Tell me about it. I've always wanted to see a ghost, or next best thing, a man who has seen one. It was one August about 1861, said the Captain. I was a young feller then, and with a half-dozen more was over on the beach cutting salt hay. We didn't go home at nights, but did our own cooking in the old mansion kitchen, and at night slept on the piles of fey upstairs. We were a reckless lot of scamps, and reckoned that no ghosts could scare us. There was a big full moon that night, and it was as light as day. The mosquitoes was pretty bad too, and it was easier to stay awake than go to sleep. Along toward midnight me and two other fellers went out on the old balcony, and began to race around the house. We hollered and yelled, and chased each other for half an hour or so, and then we concluded we had better go to sleep, so we started for the window of the room where the rest were. This window was near one end on the ocean side, and as I came around the corner I stopped as if I'd been shot, and my hair raced straight up on the top of my head. Right there in front of that window stood a woman looking out over the sea, and in her arms she held a little child. I saw her as plain as I see you now. It seemed to me like an hour she stood there, but I don't suppose it was a second, then she was gone. When I could move I looked around for the other boys, and they were standing there paralyzed. They had seen the woman too. They didn't say much, and we didn't sleep much that night, and the next night we bunked out on the beach. The rest of the crowd made all manner of fun of us, but we had had all the ghosts we wanted, and I never set foot inside that old house after that. When did it burn down, Captain? I asked as Jim relapsed into silence. Somewhere about twenty-five years ago a beach party had been roasting clams in the old oven, and in some way the fire got to the woodwork. It was as dry as tender, and I hoped the ghosts were all burned up with it. End of Story 14 Story 15 of Thirty Ghost Stories by Various Authors This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. An Unbidden Guest My Cousins, Kate and Tom Howard, married at Trinity, at Easter time, concluded to commence housekeeping by taking one of those delightfully, expensively furnished, unfurnished cottages, with which the fashionable watering place of W abounds, from whose rear windows one night almost take a plunge into the surf, the beach beginning at the back door. They went down quite early in May, being in a great hurry to try their domestic experiment, and as the evenings were still cold, they spent them about the open fire spooning. It was upon one of those nights, about eleven o'clock, that they were startled by a noise, as of some small object falling, soon followed by the sound of heavy footsteps, and then quiet again rain supreme. At once, Tom, poker in hand, boldly started in search of the burglar, followed by Kate, wildly clutching at his coattail, and in a state of tremor. They looked upstairs, under the various beds, Kate suggesting that in novels they were always to be found there. The dining-room was next explored, where all seemed well, and lastly the kitchen, where they found what was evidently a solution of the mystery. The burglar had entered by the back door, which was found to be unlocked and slightly ajar. The first excitement subsiding, they returned again to the dining-room, where Tom, upon closer inspection, then discovered that one of a pair of quaint little pepper-pots, wedding-gifts, was missing, and other small articles on the side-board had been slightly disturbed. The next morning, when Kate mildly remonstrated with the queen of the kitchen for her carelessness, she received a shock by being told that it was her usual custom to leave the door open, so that it would be acy, convenient, like for the milkmaid. They parted with her, and a new maid was engaged, whose chief qualification for the place that she was most faithful in the discharge of her duties, especially in walking up. While they mourned the loss of the pepper pot, still it seemed so trifling when they thought of that lovely reposé salad bowl sent by Aunt Julia, which stood nearby, that nothing was said of the loss outside of the family, and the little household settled into its normal state once more of billing and cooing. About a fortnight later, Tom started out one night with an old fisherman, one of the natives, and a local character, to indulge in that delightful pastime so dear to the heart of man known as Elin. And as the night was dark, the eels were particularly sporty, so that it was well on towards the wee small hours when Tom at last returned to the cottage. He found all excitement within. Kate was in hysterics, and the new maid, also weeping, was industriously applying the camper-bottle to her mistress's nose. The burglar or ghost as they had now decided, the windows and doors being found to be securely locked this time, had been abroad again, but had succeeded in purloining nothing. His royal ghost ship had amused himself apparently by simply walking about. Oh, Tom, he had on such heavy boots, and was so dreadfully bold about it, said Kate tearfully. From that time Kate became nervous and refused to be left alone. Tom started whenever a door creaked, and the treasure departed hurriedly, sane. Faith the house has haunted, sure. After that Kate spent her days in girl-hunting, and her nights in answering shadowy advertisements that never materialized. They tried Irish, English, Dutch, and a heathen Chinese, with a sprinkling of colored ladies to vary the monotony. They seemed about to become famous throughout the length and breadth of the land as the family that changes help once a week when they landed treasure number two. Shortly after her advent we were all asked down to W., to help celebrate their happiness, and, incidentally, to christen the new dinner-set. We were not a little surprised of finding Kate so pale and Tom rather distraight. However, after a delightful dinner, that should have filled with pleasure the most exacting bride, we adjourned to the piazza, leaving the men to the contemplation of their cigars. We were enthusiastic in our praise of the house, and congratulated Kate in securing such a prize, when to our horror she burst into tears and said, Oh, girls, it's a dreadful place, it's haunted, and then tearfully proceeded with the details, until we all felt creepy and suggested the parlor and lights. It was not long afterwards that Kate discovered that Tom had also related the ghost story to the men that evening, to which Ned Harris had said, leconically, rats, and Bob Shaw laughingly remark, Tom, old chap, you really shouldn't take your nightcap so strong. About the first of July the climax came. The ghost walked again, this time taking not only the remaining pepper pot, but also a silver salt-cellar. Evidently he had a penchant for small articles, but unlike former times, everything on the sideboard was in the greatest disorder. Aunt Julia's salad bowl was found on the floor, and not far away, the cheese-dish, with its contents scattered about. This time one of the windows was found half open. A week later a note came to me from Kate, saying that she and Tom had gone to Saratoga to spend the remainder of the season with her mother. The following spring Tom received a note and parcel from Mr. B., the owner of the house at W., which read as follows, Dear Mr. Howard, I send you by express three articles of silver, which my wife suggests may belong to you, as they are marked with your initials. Namely, two silver pepper-pots and a salt-cellar. They were found the other day, during the process of spring-house cleaning in a rat-hole, behind the sideboard. I forgot to have the hole stopped up last spring, or to caution you against the water-rats. The great fellows will get in, you know. Kind regards to Mrs. Howard. Very truly, John B. The next season the ghost club was organized, the badge being a small silver rat, bearing proudly aloft a tiny pepper-pot. We thoughtfully offered Tom the presidency, but he declined, with offended dignity, from the effects of which I think he will never fully recover. End of Story 15 Story 16 of 30 ghost stories by various authors. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. THE DEAD WOMAN'S PHOTOGRAPH Virgil Hoyt is a photographer's assistant up at St. Paul, and a man of a good deal of taste. He has been in search of the picturesque all over the West, and hundreds of miles to the north in Canada, and can speak three or four Indian dialects, and put a canoe through the rapids. That is to say, he is a man of an adventurous sort and no dreamer. He can fight well and shoot well and swim well enough to put up a winning race with the Indian boys, and he can sit all day in the saddle and not dream about it at night. Wherever he goes he uses his camera. The world, Hoyt is in the habit of saying to those who sit with him when he smokes his pipe, was created in six days to be photographed. Man, and especially woman, was made for the same purpose. Clouds are not made to give moisture, nor trees to cast shade. They were created for the photographer. In short, Virgil Hoyt's view of the world is whimsical, and he doesn't like to be bothered with anything disagreeable. That is the reason he loathes and he tests going to a house of mourning to photograph a corpse. The horribly bad taste of it offends him partly, and partly he is annoyed at having to shoulder, even for a few moments, a part of someone's burden of sorrow. He doesn't like sorrow, and would willingly canoe five hundred miles up the cold Canadian rivers to get rid of it. Nevertheless, as assistant photographer, it is often his duty to do this very kind of thing. Not long ago he was sent for by a rich Jewish family at St. Paul to photograph the mother, who had just died. He was very much put out, but he went. He was taken to the front parlor where the dead woman lay in her coffin. It was evident that there was some excitement in the household and that a discussion was going on, but Hoyt wasn't concerned, and so he paid no attention to the matter. The daughter wanted the coffin turned on and, in order that the corpse might face the camera properly, but Hoyt said he could overcome the recumbent attitude and make it appear that the face was taken in the position it would naturally hold in life, and so they went out and left him alone with the dead. The face was a strong and positive one, such as may often be seen among Jewish matrons. Hoyt regarded it with some admiration, thinking to himself that she was a woman who had been used to having her own way. There was a strand of hair out of place. He pushed it back from her brow. A bud lifted its head too high from among the roses on her breast and spoiled the contour of the chin, so he broke it off. He remembered these things later very distinctly, and that his hand touched her bare face two or three times. Then he took the photographs and left the house. He was very busy at the time and several days elapsed before he was able to develop the plates. He took them from the bath, in which they had lain with a number of others, and went to work upon them. There were three plates. He hadn't taken that number merely as a precaution against any accident. They came up well, but as they developed he became aware of the existence of something in the photograph which had not been apparent to his eye. The mysterious always came under the head of the disagreeable with him, and was therefore to be banished, so he made only a few prints and put the things away out of sight. He hoped that something would intervene to save him from attempting an explanation. But it is a part of the general perplexity of life that things do not intervene as they ought, when they ought. So one day his employer asked him what had become of those photographs. He tried to evade him, but it was futile, and he got out the finished photographs and showed them to him. The older man sat staring at them a long time. Hoyt, said he at length, you're a young man, and I suppose you've never seen anything like this before. But I have. Not exactly the same thing, but similar phenomena have come my way a number of times since I went into the business, and I want to tell you there are things in heaven and earth not dreamt of. Oh, I know all that Tommy wrought, cried Hoyt angrily, but when anything happens I want to know the reason why, and how it is done. All right, said his employer, then you mind explain why and how the sun rises. But he humored the younger man sufficiently to examine with him the bath in which the plates were submerged, and the plates themselves. All was as it should be, but the mystery was there and could not be done away with. Hoyt hoped against hope that the friends of the dead woman would somehow forget about the photographs, but of course the wish was unreasonable, and one day the daughter appeared and asked to see the photographs of her mother. Well, to tell the truth, stammered Hoyt. Those didn't come out as well as we could wish. But let me see them, persisted the lady. I'd like to look at them anyway. Well now, said Hoyt, trying to be soothing, as he believed it was always best to be with women. To tell the truth, he was an ignoramus where women were concerned. I think it would be better if you didn't see them. There are reasons why. He ambled on like this, stupid man that he was, and of course the Jewess said she would see those pictures without any further delay. So poor Hoyt brought them out and placed them in her hand, and then ran for the water picture, and had to be at the bother of bathing her forehead to keep her from fainting. For what the lady saw was this. Over his face and flowers in the head of the coffin fell a thick veil, the edges of which touched the floor in some places. It covered the features so well that not a hint of them was visible. There was nothing over mother's face, cried the lady at length. Not a thing, acquiesced Hoyt. I know because I had occasion to touch her face just before I took the picture. I put some of her hair back from her brow. What does it mean, then? asked the lady. You know better than I. There's no explanation in science. Perhaps there's some in psychology. Well, said the lady, stammering a little in coloring. Mother was a good woman, but she always wanted her own way, and she always had it too. Yes? And she never would have her picture taken. She didn't admire herself. She said no one should ever see a picture of hers. So, said Hoyt meditatively. Well, she's kept her word, hasn't she? The two stood looking at the pictures for a time. Then Hoyt pointed to the open blaze in the grate. Throw them in, he commanded. Don't let your father see them. Don't keep them yourself. They wouldn't be good things to keep. That's true enough, said the lady slowly. And she threw them in the fire. Then Virgil Hoyt brought out the plates and broke them before her eyes. And that was the end of it, except that Hoyt sometimes tells a story to those who sit beside him when his pipe is lighted. End of Story 16 Story 17 of 30 Ghost Stories by Various Authors This Librivox recording is in the public domain. The Ghost of a Live Man We were in the South Atlantic Ocean, in the latitude of the island of Fernando Norana. About 40 degrees 12 minutes south, on board the bark H. G. Johnson, homeward bound from Australia. I was the only passenger, and we had safely rounded Cape Horn, with the barometer at 28 degrees 18 minutes, and yet had somehow miraculously escaped any extremely heavy gale, had had light northerly and easterly winds till we reached 20 degrees, and thence the southeast raids were sending us fast on our way to the equator. I sat on deck smoking my pipe, with a glorious full moon shedding its bright pathway across the blue waters, and chatting with the first mate, a man of some 58 years of age, who had followed the sea since he was a boy. For twenty years or more he had been a mate or captain, and many and varied were the experiences he could relayed. A thorough sailor and a skillful navigator, he was as honest as the day is long, had a heart as big as an ox, and was an all-around good fellow and genial companion. Some of his yarns might be taken, cum grano salis, yet he always positively assured me that he was telling me the truth. An account of a voyage that he made in a whaler from the southern ocean to New Bedford seemed to me worthy to be repeated. He had rounded Cape Horn six times in the Cape of Good Hope twenty-six times, besides making many trips across the western ocean and to South American ports. I give his account as near as possible in his own words. It was in seventy-one that I commanded the whaler Mary Jane. We had been out from home for over three years, and had on board a full cargo of whale oil, besides two thousand pounds of whale bone, which was then worth five dollars per pound. I had also been fortunate enough to find in a dead whale which we came across a large quantity of amber grease, and our hearts for all very light as we began our homeward voyage, and our thoughts all tended to the hearty welcome which we should receive from wives and sweethearts when we reached our journey's end. Many a night I lay at my birth I had thought with great pleasure of the amount of money that would be coming to me from the proceeds of our voyage when we arrived in New Bedford. I calculated that I had made twelve thousand dollars as my share of the proceeds of the whale bone and oil, to say nothing of the amber grease, which I well knew would bring at least twenty thousand dollars, and one half of which belonged to me. You can therefore imagine that I was well pleased with myself as we went bounding along through the southeast trades. We crossed the equator in Longitude thirty-six, and soon after took strong northeast trades, and all was going well as I could wish. We had put the ship in perfect order, painted her inside and out, and you would never have recognized her as the old whaling ship that had for three years been implying the southern ocean for whales. Never shall I forget the old bullwhale that we tackled about two degrees to the south of Cape Horn, but that is another story, which I will give you another time. We had just lost the northeast trades and were entering the Gulf Stream. I sat in my cabin with my chart on the table before me rolled up. I had just picked our location on it and was thinking that in a week or more I should be at home, surrounded by those near and dear to me, and relating to them the story of my great good fortune. It was always my custom to work up my latitude and longitude about four o'clock in the afternoon, and then after supper pick off her position on the chart, have a smoke, and perhaps just before retiring a nip of grog, and then at eight-thirty o'clock, as regular as o'clock, I would turn in. I am a great smoker, and this day I had been smoking all the afternoon, besides having had two or three nips. We had a dog on board whom we called Bolson, who had been out with us all the voyage, and who was afraid of nothing. He had endeared himself to every man on board, and when Bolson took water, something very serious was in the wind. This night as I sat in the cabin I heard a most dismal howl from Bolson, and called out to the mate to know what was the matter with the dog. He replied that he reckoned some of the men had been teasing him, and the occurrence soon passed from my mind. Suddenly I saw someone coming down the after-companion way into the cabin. I supposed at first it was the mate, and wondered that he had not first spoken to me, but then I noticed that he wore clothes I had never seen on the mate, and as he advanced into the cabin I saw his face. It was the face of a man I had never seen in my life. He was thin and pale and haggard, and as he advanced he looked about the cabin and at the rolled-up chart on the table. There seemed to be an appeal in his eyes, and then there swept over his face a look of intense disappointment, and before I could move or speak he had vanished from my sight. Now I am a very practical man, and I had once straightened myself in my chair and said to myself, Well, old man, you smoke one too many pipes today, or else you've had one drink too much, for you have been asleep in your chair and seen a ghost. I was quite satisfied that I had had a dream, especially as I called to the mate and asked him if he had seen any one come below. He said no, that he had not left the deck for the last hour, and the man at the wheel, directly in front of the door, was sure no one had entered the cabin, so I convinced myself that I had had a very vivid dream, though I could not help thinking of the matter all through the next day. At eight o'clock the next evening I sat in the same place with my work just finished, and the chart rolled up on the table before me, when suddenly the dog's dismal howl rang through the ship, and looking up I saw those same legs coming down the after-companion. My hair fairly stood on end, and yet today, surely I was wide awake. I had only smoked one pipe all day, and had not touched a drop of liquor. The same one, a maciated figure walked into the cabin, glanced inquiringly and appealing at me, and again there spread over his face that look of utter disappointment, as if he had sought something and failed to find it, and again he disappeared. I rushed on deck to the mate and told him all I had seen the last two nights, but he made light of it, and assured me I had been asleep or smoking too much. He did not like to suggest that I had been drinking. Still, I could see that the thought that came into his mind was, the old man had seen him again. I gave up trying to convince him, but requested that the next night, from eight to eight thirty, he should sit with me in the cabin. How the next day passed I cannot tell. I only know that my thoughts never left that ghostly visitant, and somehow I felt that the evening would reveal something to me and the spell be broken. I made up my mind I would speak to the thing, whatever it was, and I felt a sort of security in the presence of the mate, who was a daring fellow and feared neither man nor the devil. Neither rum nor tobacco passed my lips during the next day, and eight o'clock found the mate and I sitting in the cabin, and this time the chart lay open on the table beside us. Just as eight bells struck the dog's premonatory wail sounded, and looking up we both saw the figure descending the cabin stairs. We both seemed frozen to our seats, and the strange weirdness of the whole proceeding cast the same spell over the mate and me alike, and we were both unable to move or speak. Slowly the figure proceeded into the cabin and glanced around without a word, but with the same expectant look on his face. His form was even more wasted, his cheeks sunken and his eyes seemed almost out of sight so deeply were they said in their sockets. As his eye fell on the open chart a look of supreme joy fairly irradiated his features, and advancing to the table he placed one long bony finger on the chart, held it for a moment and then again disappeared from our sight. For five minutes after he had left us we sat speechless. Then I managed to say, What do you think of that, Mr. Morris? My God, sir, I don't know, it's beyond me. Then my eyes fell on the open chart, and there where the finger had been was a tiny spot of blood, exactly on the point of longitude sixty-three degrees west and latitude thirty-seven degrees north. We were then only about fifty miles distant from that position, and immediately there came to me the determination to steer the ship there, so I laid her course accordingly and posted a look out in the crow's nest. At five o'clock in the morning, just as the east began to grow gray, the lookout called out, boat on the lee-bow, and as we came up to it we found four men in it, three dead and one with just a remnant of life left in him. We sewed the three bodies in canvas and buried them in the ocean, and then gave all her attention to restoring life to the poor, emaciated frame, which I then recognized, was the very man who for three successive nights had visited me in my cabin. By judicious and careful nursing, life gradually came back to him, and in four days' time he was able to sit up and talk with me in the cabin. It seems he commanded the ship promise, and she had taken fire and been destroyed, and all hands had to take to the boats. Ten were in the boats at first, but their food had given out, and one by one he had seen them die, and one by one he had cast the bodies overboard. Finally he lost consciousness and knew not whether his three remaining companions were dead or alive. Then he said he seemed in a dream to see a ship and tried to go to her for help, but just as he would be going on board of her, something would seem to keep him back. Three times in his dreams he tried to visit this ship, and the last time there seemed to come to him a certain satisfaction, and he felt that he had succeeded in his object. Turning to my table, he said, Let me take your chart. I'll show you just where we were. Stop, said I. Don't take that chart. It is an old one and all marked over. Mark your position on this new one. He took my pencil and knife, and carefully sharpened his pencil. Then, taking my dividers, he measured his latitude and longitude and placed a pencil dot at a point on the clean chart. As he lifted his hand he said, Oh, excuse me, Captain, I cut my finger in sharpening the pencil and left a drop of blood on the chart. Never mind, said I, leave it there. And then I produced the old chart and there, in an exactly corresponding place, was the drop of blood left by my ghostly visitor. Then, looking steadily into my face, the mate solemnly added, I can't explain this, sir, perhaps you can, but I can tell you on my honor it's God's own truth that I have told you. End of Story 17