 Section 5. The Beast with Five Fingers by W. F. Harvey When I was a little boy, I once went with my father to call on Adrian Bolsover. I played on the floor with a black spaniel while my father appealed for a subscription. Just before we left, my father said, Mr. Bolsover, may my son hear shake hands with you. It will be a thing to look back upon with pride when he grows to be a man. I came up to the bed on which the old man was lying, and put my hand in his, awed by the still beauty of his face. He spoke to me kindly, and hoped that I should always try to place my father. Then he placed his right hand on my head, and asked for a blessing to rest upon me. "'Amen,' said my father, and I followed him out of the room, feeling as if I wanted to cry. But my father was an excellent spirit. That old gentleman, Jim, said he, is the most wonderful man in the whole town. For ten years he has been quite blind. "'But I saw his eyes,' I said. They were ever so black and shiny. They weren't shut up like Norris Puppies. Can't he see at all?' And so I learned for the first time that a man might have eyes that looked dark and beautiful and shining without being able to see. "'Just like Mrs. Tomlinson has big ears,' I said, and can't hear at all except when Mr. Tomlinson shouts. "'Jim,' said my father, it's not right to talk about the ladies ears. Remember what Mr. Bolsover said about pleasing me and being a good boy. That was the only time I saw Adrian Bolsover. I soon forgot about him and the hand which he laid in blessing on my head. But for a week I prayed that those dark, tender eyes might see. His spaniel may have puppies,' I said in my prayers, and he will never be able to know how funny they look with their eyes all closed up. "'Please let old Mr. Bolsover see.' Adrian Bolsover, as my father had said, was a wonderful man. He came of an eccentric family. Bolsover's sons, for some reason, always seemed to marry very ordinary women, which perhaps accounted for the fact that no Bolsover had been a genius, and only one Bolsover had been mad. But they were great champions of little causes, generous patrons of old sciences, founders of careless sects, trustworthy guides to the bypass meadows of erudition. Adrian was an authority on the fertilization of orchids. He had held at one time the family living at Bolsover conures until the congenial weakness of the lungs obliged him to seek a less rigorous climate in the sunny south coast watering place where I had seen him. Occasionally he would relieve one or other of the local clergy. My father described him as a fine preacher who gave long and inspiring sermons from what many men would have considered unprofitable text. An excellent proof, he would add, of the truth of the doctrine of direct verbal inspiration. Adrian Bolsover was exceedingly clever with his hands. His penmanship was exquisite. He illustrated all his scientific papers, made his own woodcuts, and carved the rivetus that is at present the chief feature of interest in the church at Bolsover conures. He had an exceedingly clever knack in cutting silhouettes for young ladies, and paper pigs, and cows for little children, and made more than one complicated wind instrument of his own devising. When he was fifty years old, Adrian Bolsover lost his sight. In a wonderfully short time he had adapted himself to the new conditions of life. He quickly learned to read Braille. So marvelous indeed was his sense of touch that he was still able to maintain his interest in botany. The mere passing of his long supple fingers over a flower was sufficient means for its identification. Though occasionally he would use his lips, I have found several letters of his among my father's correspondence. In no case was there anything to show that he was afflicted with blindness, and this in spite of the fact that he exercised a new economy in the spacing of lines. Towards the close of his life the old man was credited with powers of touch that seemed almost uncanny. It has been said that he could tell at once the color of a ribbon placed between his fingers. My father would neither confirm nor deny the story. Part 1 Adrian Bolsover was a bachelor. His elder brother George had married late in life, leaving one son, Eustace, who lived in the gloomy Georgian mansion at Bolsover Conures, where he could work undisturbed in collecting material for his great book on heredity. Like his uncle, he was a remarkable man. The Bolsovers had always been born naturalists, but Eustace possessed in a special degree the power of systematizing his knowledge. He had received his university education in Germany, and then, after postgraduate work in Vienna and Naples, he had traveled for four years in South America and the East, getting together a huge store of material for a new study into the processes of variation. He lived alone at Bolsover Conures, which sounders his secretary, a man who bore a somewhat dubious reputation in the district, but whose powers as a mathematician, combined with his business abilities, were invaluable to Eustace. Uncle and nephew saw little of each other. The visits of Eustace were combined to a week in the summer or autumn, long weeks that dragged almost as slowly as the bath chair in which the old man was drawn along the sunny sea front. In their way, the two men were fond of each other, though their intimacy with doubtless have been greater had they shared the same religious views. Adrian held to the old-fashioned evangelical dogmas of his early manhood. His nephew, for many years, had been thinking of embracing Buddhism. Both men possessed, too, the reticence the Bolsovers had always shown in which their enemies sometimes called hypocrisy. With Adrian it was a reticence as to the things he had left undone, but with Eustace, it seemed that the curtain which he was so careful to leave undrawn hid something more than a half-empty chamber. Two years before his death, Adrian Bolsover developed, unknown to himself, the not uncommon power of automatic writing. Eustace made the discovery by accident. Adrian was sitting reading in bed, the forefinger of his left hand tracing the braille characters, when his nephew noticed that a pencil the old man held in his right hand was moving slowly along the opposite page. He left his seat in the window, and sat down beside the bed. The right hand continued to move, and now he could see plainly that there were letters and words which it was forming. Adrian Bolsover wrote the hand, Eustace Bolsover, George Bolsover, Francis Bolsover, Sigismund Bolsover, Adrian Bolsover, Eustace Bolsover, Savile Bolsover, B for Bolsover, honesty is the best policy, beautiful Belinda Bolsover. What curious nonsense said Eustace to himself. King George III descended the throne in 1760, wrote the hand, crowd, a noun of multitude, a collection of individuals. Adrian Bolsover, Eustace Bolsover? It seems to me, said his uncle, closing the book, that you had much better make the most of the afternoon sunshine and take your walk now. I think perhaps I will, Eustace answered as he picked up the volume. I won't go far, and when I come back I can read to you those articles in nature about which we were speaking. He went along the promenade, but stopped at the first shelter, and seating himself in the corner best protected from the wind, he examined the book at leisure. Nearly every page was scored with a meaningless jungle of pencil marks, rows of capital letters, short words, long words, complete sentences, copy book tags. The whole thing, in fact, had the appearance of a copy book, and on a more careful scrutiny Eustace thought that there was ample evidence to show that the handwriting at the beginning of the book, good though it was, was not nearly so good as the handwriting at the end. He left his uncle at the end of October, with a promise to return in early December. It seemed to him quite clear that the old man's power of automatic writing was developing rapidly, and for the first time he looked forward to a visit that combined duty with interest. But on his return he was at first disappointed. His uncle, he thought, looked older. He was listless too, preferring others to read to him and dictating nearly all his letters. Not until the day before he left had Eustace an opportunity of observing Adrian Balsov's newfound faculty. The old man, propped up in bed with pillows, had sunk into a light sleep. His two hands lay on the coverlet, his left hand tightly clasping his right. Eustace took an empty manuscript book and placed a pencil within reach of the fingers of the right hand. They snatched at it eagerly, then dropped the pencil to unloose the left hand from its restraining grasp. Perhaps to prevent interference, I had better hold that hand, said Eustace to himself, as he watched the pencil. Almost immediately it began to write. Blundering, Balsov's, unnecessarily unnatural, extraordinarily eccentric, culpably curious. Who are you, asked Eustace in a low voice? Never you mind, wrote the hand of Adrian. Is it my uncle who is writing? Oh, my prophetic soul, my uncle. Is it anyone I know? Silly Eustace, you'll see me very soon. When shall I see you? When poor old Adrian's dead. Where shall I see you? Where shall you not? Instead of speaking to his next question, Balsov wrote it. What is the time? The fingers dropped the pencil and moved three to four times across the paper. Then, picking up the pencil, they wrote. Ten minutes before four. Put your book away, Eustace. Adrian mustn't find us working at this sort of thing. He doesn't know what to make of it, and I won't have poor old Adrian disturbed. Adrian Balsov awoke with a start. I've been dreaming again, he said, such queer dreams of leagued cities and forgotten towns. You were mixed up in this one, Eustace, though I can't remember how. Eustace, I want to warn you. Don't walk in doubtful paths. Choose your friends well, your poor grandfather. And a fit of coughing put an end to what he was saying, but Eustace saw that the hand was still writing. He managed unnoticed to draw the book away. I'll light the gas, he said. It ringed for tea. On the other side of the bed-currented, he saw the last sentences that had been written. It's too late, Adrian, he read. We're friends already, aren't we, Eustace Balsov? On the following day Eustace Balsov left. He thought his uncle looked ill when he said goodbye, and the old man spoke despondently of the failure his life had been. Nonsense, uncle, said his nephew. You have got over your difficulties in a way not one in a hundred thousand would have done. Everyone marvels at your splendid perseverance in teaching your hand to take the place of your lost sight. To me it's been a revelation of the possibilities of education. Education, said his uncle dreamily, as if the word had started a new train of thought. Education is good so long as you know to whom and for what purpose you give it. But with the lower orders of men, the base and more sordid spirits, I have great doubts as to its results. Well, goodbye Eustace, I may not see you again. You are a true boss over, with all the boss over's faults. Merry Eustace, merry some good sensible girl, and if by any chance I don't see you again, my world is at my solicitors. I've not left you any legacy, because I know you're well provided for, but I thought you might like to have my books. Oh, and there's just one other thing. You know before the end, people often lose control over themselves and make absurd requests. Don't pay any attention to them, Eustace. Goodbye. And he held out his hand. Eustace took it. It remained in his a fraction of a second longer than he had expected, and gripped him with virility that was surprising. There was, too, in its touch a subtle sense of intimacy. Why, uncle, he said, I shall see you alive and well for many long years to come. Two months later, Adrian Bolsover died. Part 2 Eustace Bolsover was in Naples at the time. He read the obituary notice in the morning post on the day announced for the funeral. Poor old fellow, he said. I wonder where I shall find room for all his books. The question occurred to him again with greater force, when three days later he found himself standing in the library at Bolsover Conyards, a huge room built for use, and not for beauty, in the year of Waterloo, by a Bolsover who was an ardent admirer of the great Napoleon. It was arranged on the plan of many college libraries with tall, projecting bookcases, forming deep recesses of dusty silence. Fit graves for the old hates of forgotten controversy, the dead passions of forgotten lives. At the end of the room, behind the bust of some unknown 18th-century divine, an ugly iron corkscrew stair led to a shelf-line gallery. Nearly every shelf was full. I must talk to sounders about it, said Eustace. I suppose that it would be necessary to have the billard room fitted up with bookcases. The two men met for the first time, after many weeks in the dining-room that evening. Houlou said Eustace, standing before the fire with his hands in his pockets. How goes the world, sounders? Why these dress-talks? He himself was wearing an old shooting-jacket. He did not believe in mourning, as he had told his uncle on his last visit. And though he usually went in for quiet-colored ties, he wore this evening one of an ugly red, in order to shock Morton the butler, and to make them thrash out the whole question of mourning for themselves in the servant's hall. Eustace was a true bull-server. The world, said sounders, goes the same as usual, confoundedly slow. The dress-talks are accounted for by an invitation from Captain Lockwood to Bridge. How are you getting there? I've told your coachmen to drive me in your carriage. Any objection? Oh, dear me, no. We've had all things in common for far too many years for me to raise objections at this hour of the day. You'll find your correspondents in the library went on sounders. Most of it I've seen too. There are a few private letters I haven't opened. There's also a box with a rat, or something, inside it that came by the evening post. Very likely it's the six-tailed albino. I didn't look because I didn't want to mess up my things, but I should gather from the way it's jumping about that it's pretty hungry. Oh, I'll see to it, said Eustace. Well, you and the Captain earn an honest penny. Diner over, and sounders gone, Eustace went into the library. Though the fire had been lit, the room was by no means cheerful. We'll have all the lights on, at any rate, he said, as he turned the switches. And more ten, he added, when the butler brought the coffee. Get me a screwdriver or something to undo this box. Whatever the animal is, he's kicking up the juice of a row. What is it? Why are you dawdling? If you please, sir. When the postman brought it, he told me that they'd bored the holes in the lid at the post office. There were no breathing holes in the lid, sir, and they didn't want the animal to die. That is all, sir. It's culpably careless of the man, whoever he was, said Eustace, as he removed the screws, packing an animal like this in a wooden box with no means of getting air. Confound it all. I mean to ask Morton to bring me a cage to put it in. Now I suppose I shall have to get one myself. He placed a heavy book on the lid from which the screws had been removed, and went into the billet room. As he came back into the library, with an empty cage in his hand, he heard the sound of something falling, and then of something scuttling along the floor. Bother it, the beast got out. How in the world am I to find it again in this library? To search for it did indeed seem hopeless. He tried to follow the sound of the scuttling in one of the recesses where the animal seemed to be running behind the books in the shelves, but it was impossible to locate it. Eustace resolved to go on quietly reading. Very likely the animal might gain confidence and show itself. Sounder seemed to have dealt in his usual methodical manner with most of the correspondence. There were still the private letters. What was that? Two sharp clicks, and the lights in the hideous candelabra that hung from the ceiling suddenly went out. I wonder if something has gone wrong with the fuse, said Eustace, as he went to the switches by the door. Then he stopped. There was a noise at the other end of the room, as if something was crawling up the iron cockscrew's stair. If it's gone into the gallery, he said, well and good. He hastily turned on the lights, crossed the room, and climbed up the stair. But he could see nothing. His grandfather had placed a little gate at the top of the stair so that children could run and romp in the gallery without fear of accident. This Eustace closed, and having considerably narrowed the circle of his church, returned to his desk by the fire. How gloomy the library was! There was no sense of intimacy about the room. The few busts that an 18th-century bullserver had brought back from the grand tour might have been in keeping in the old library. Here they seemed out of place. They made the room feel cold, in spite of the heavy red curtains, and great gilt cornices. With a crash, two heavy books fell from the gallery to the floor. Then, as bullserver looked, another, and yet another. Very well, you'll start for this, my beauty, he said. We'll do some little experiments on the metabolism of rats deprived of water. Go on, chuck them down. I think I've got the upper hand. He turned once again to his correspondence. The letter was from the family solicitor. It spoke of his uncle's death and of the valuable collection of books that had been left to him in the will. There was one request, he said, which certainly came as a surprise to me. As you know, Mr. Adrian Bullserver had left instructions that his body was to be buried in as simple a manner as possible at Eastbourne. He expressed a desire that there should be neither rats nor flowers of any kind, and hoped that his friends and relatives would not consider it necessary to wear mourning. The day before his death, we received a letter cancelling these instructions. He wished his body to be embalmed. He gave us the address of the man we were to employ, Penifer Ludgate Hill, with orders that his right hand was to be sent to you, stating that it was at your special request. The other arrangements, as to the funeral, remained unaltered. Good Lord, said Eustace, what in the world was the old boy driving at, and what in the name of all that's holy is that? Someone was in the gallery. Someone had pulled the cord attached to one of the blinds, and it had rolled up with a snap. Someone must be in the gallery, for a second blind did the same. Someone must be walking round the gallery, from one after the other the blind sprang up, letting in the moonlight. I haven't got to the bottom of this yet, said Eustace, but I will do before the night is very much older, and he hurried up the corkscrews there. He had just got to the top, when the lights went out a second time, and he heard again the scuttling along the floor. Quickly he stole on tiptoe in the dim moonshine in the direction of the noise, feeling as he went for one of the switches. His fingers touched the metal knob at last. He turned on the electric light. About ten yards in front of him, crawling along the floor, was a man's hand. Eustace stared at it in utter astonishment. It was moving quickly in the manner of a geometric caterpillar. The fingers humped up. One moment flattened out the next, the thumb appeared to give a crab-like motion to the hole. While he was looking, too surprised to stir, the hand disappeared round the corner. Eustace ran forward. He no longer saw it, but he could hear it as it squeezed its way behind the books on one of the shelves. A heavy volume had been displaced. There was a gap in the row of books where it had gone in. In his sphere-listed should escape him again, he seized the first book that came to his hand and plied it into the hole. Then, emptying two shelves of their contents, he took the wooden boards and propped them up in front to make his barrier doubly sure. I wish Sounders was back, he said. One can't tackle this sort of thing alone. It was after eleven, and there seemed little likelihood of Sounders returning before twelve. He did not dare to leave the shelf unwatched, even to run downstairs to ring the bell. Morton the Butler often used to come round about eleven to see that the windows were fastened, but he might not come. Eustace was thoroughly unstrung. At least he heard steps down below. Morton, he shouted, Morton. Sir? Has Mr. Sounders got back yet? Not yet, sir. Well, bring me some brandy and hurry up about it. I'm up here in the gallery, you duffer. Thanks, said Eustace, as he emptied the glass. Don't go to bed yet, Morton. There are a lot of books that have fallen down by accident. Bring them up and put them back in their shelves. Morton had never seen Boilserver so talkative and mood as on that night. Here, said Eustace, when the books had been put back and dusted, you might hold up these boards for me, Morton. That beast in the box got out, and I've been chasing it all over the place. I think I can hear it drawing at the books, sir. They're not valuable, I hope. I think that's the carriage, sir. I'll go and call Mr. Sounders. It seemed to Eustace that he was away for five minutes, but it could hardly have been more than one when he returned with Sounders. All right, Morton, you can go now. I'm up here, Sounders. What's all the row? asked Sounders, as he launched forward with his hands in his pockets. The lock had been with him all the evening. He was completely satisfied, both with himself and with Captain Lockwood's taste in wines. What's the matter? You look to me to be in an absolute blue funk. That old devil of an uncle of mine began Eustace. Oh, I can't explain it all. It's his hands that's been playing old Harry all the evening. But I've got it cornered behind these books. You've got to help me catch it. What's up with you, Eustace? What's the game? It's no game, you silly idiot. If you don't believe me, take out one of those books and put your hand in and feel. All right, said Sounders. But wait till I roll up my sleeve. The accumulated dust of centuries, eh? He took off his coat, knelt down, and thrust his arm along the shelf. There's something there right enough, he said. It's got a funny stumpy end to it, whatever it is, and nips like a crab. Oh, no you don't. He pulled his hand out in a flash. Shoved in a book quickly. Now it can't get out. What was it, asked Eustace. It was something that wasn't very much to get hold of me. I felt what seemed like a thumb and forefinger. Give me some branding. How are we to get it out of there? What about the lending net? No good. It would be too smart for us. I tell you, Sounders, it can cover the ground far faster than I can walk. But I think I see how we can manage it. The two books at the end of the shelf are big ones that'll go right back against the wall. The others are very thin. I'll take out one at a time, and you slide the rest along until we have it squashed between the end two. It certainly seemed to be the best plan. One by one, as they took out the books, the space behind grew smaller and smaller. There was something in it that was certainly very much alive. Once they caught sight of fingers pressing outward for a way of escape. At last they had it pressed between the two big books. There's muscle there, if there isn't flesh and blood, said Sounders, as he held them together. It seems to be a hand bright enough, too. I suppose this is a sort of infectious hallucination. I've read about such cases before. Infectious fiddle sticks, said Eustace, his face white with anger. Bring the thing downstairs. We'll get it back into the box. It was not altogether easy, but they were successful at last. Driving the screws, said Eustace. We won't run any risks. Put the box in this old desk of mine. There's nothing in it that I want. Here's the key. Thank goodness, there's nothing wrong with the lock. Quite a lively thing, said Sounders. Now let's hear more about your uncle. They sat up together until early morning. Sounders had no desire for sleep. Eustace was trying to explain and to forget. To conceal from himself a fear that he had never felt before. The fear of walking alone down the long corridor to his bedroom. And of the first file of Part 5, The Beast with Five Fingers. Second file of Section 5 of Famous Modern Ghost Stories. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by J. C. Guan. Famous Modern Ghost Stories. Compiled by Dorothea Scarborough. Section 5, File Number 2. The Beast with Five Fingers. By W. F. Harvey. Part 3. Whatever it was, said Eustace to Sounders on the following morning. I propose that we drop the subject. There's nothing to keep us here for the next 10 days. We'll motor up to the lakes and get some climbing. And see nobody all day and sit bored to death with each other every night? Not for me, thanks. Why not run up to town? Runs the exact word in this case, isn't it? We're both in such a blessed funk. Pull yourself together, Eustace, and let's have another look at the hand. As you like, said Eustace. There's the key. They went into the library and opened the desk. The box was as they had left it on the previous night. What are you waiting for, asked Eustace? I am waiting for you to volunteer to open the lid. However, since you seem to funk it, allow me. There doesn't seem to be the likelihood of any rumpus this morning. At all events, he opened the lid and picked out the hand. Cold, asked Eustace? Tepid. A bit below blood heat by the field. Soft and supple, too. If it's the embalming, it's a sort of embalming I've never seen before. Is it your uncle's hand? Oh, yes, it's his, all right, said Eustace. I should know those long, thin fingers anywhere. Put it back in the box, sounders. Never mind about the screws. I'll lock the desk so that there'll be no chance of its getting out. We'll compromise by motoring up to town for a week. If we get off soon after lunch, we ought to be at Grandham or Stamford by night. Right, said sounders. And tomorrow? Oh, well, by tomorrow we shall have forgotten all about this beastly thing. If when the morrow came they had not forgotten, it was certainly true that at the end of the week they were able to tell a very vivid ghost story at the little supper Eustace gave on Halloween. You don't want us to believe that's true, Mr. Borsover. How perfectly awful. I'll take my oath on it. And so would sounders here, wouldn't you, old chap? Any number of oaths, said sounders. It was a long, thin hand, you know, and it gripped me just like that. Don't, Mr. Sounders, don't. How perfectly horrid. Now tell us another one, do. Only a really creepy one, please. Here's a pretty mess, said Eustace on the following day as he threw a letter across the table to sounders. It's your affair, though. Mrs. Merritt, if I understand it, gives a month's notice. Oh, that's quite absurd on Mrs. Merritt's part, sounders replied. She doesn't know what she's talking about. Let's see what she says. Dear sir, he read, this is to let you know that I must give you a month's notice as from Tuesday the 13th. For a long time I felt the place too big for me. But when Jane Parfit and Emma Laidlaw go off with scarcely as much as an if-you-please after frightening the wits out of the other girls, so that they can't turn out a room by themselves or walk alone down the stairs for fear of treading on half-frozen toes or hearing it run along the passages at night, all I can say is that it's no place for me. So I must ask you, Mr. Bolsover sir, to find a new housekeeper that has no objection to large and lonely houses, which some people do say, not that I believe them for a minute, my poor mother always having been at Wasteley Inn, are hounded. You are faithfully Elizabeth Merritt. P.S., I should be obliged if you would give my respects to Mr. Sounders. I hope that he won't run no risks with his cold. Sounders, said Eustace, you've always had a wonderful way with you in dealing with servants. You mustn't let poor old Merritt go. Of course she shan't go, said Sounders. She's probably only angling for a rise in salary. I'll write to her this morning. No, there's nothing like a personal interview. We've had enough of town. We'll go back tomorrow. And you must work your cold for all it's worth. Don't forget that it's got on to the chest, and we'll require weeks of feeding up and nursing. All right, I think I can manage Mrs. Merritt. But Mrs. Merritt was more obstinate than he had thought. She was very sorry to hear of Mr. Sounders' cold, and how he lay awake all night in London coughing. Very sorry indeed. She'd change his room for him gladly, and get the south room aired, and wouldn't he have a basin of hot bread and milk lasting at night? But she was afraid that she would have to leave at the end of the month. Try her with an increase of salary was the advice of Eustace. It was no use. Mrs. Merritt was obdurate. Though she knew of a Mrs. Handyside, who had been housekeeper to Lord Gargrave, who might be glad to come at the salary mention. What's the matter with the servants, Morton? asked Eustace that evening, when he brought the coffee into the library. What's all this about Mrs. Merritt wanting to leave? If you please, sir, I was going to mention it myself. I have a confession to make, sir. When I found your note asking me to open that desk and take out the box with the rat, I broke the lock as you told me, and was glad to do it, because I could hear the animal in the box making a great noise, and I thought it wanted food. So I took out the box, sir, and got the cage, and was going to transfer it when the animal got away. What in the world are you talking about? I never wrote any such note. Excuse me, sir. It was the note I picked up here on the floor on the day you and Mr. Sounders left. I have it in my pocket now. It certainly seemed to be in Eustace's handwriting. It was written in pencil, and began somewhat abruptly. Get a hammer, Morton, he read, or some other tool, and break open the lock and the old desk in the library. Take out the box that is inside. You need not do anything else. The lid is already open. Use the spores over. And you opened the desk? Yes, sir, and as I was getting the cage ready, the animal hopped out. What animal? The animal inside the box, sir. What did it look like? Well, sir, I couldn't tell you, said Morton nervously. My back was turned, and it was halfway down the room when I looked up. What was its color, asked Sounders, black? Oh, no, sir, a grayish white. It crept along in a very funny way, sir. I don't think it had a tail. What did you do then? I tried to catch it, but it was no use. So I set the rat traps and kept the library shut. Then that girl Emma Laidlaw left the door open when she was cleaning, and I think it must have escaped. And you think it was the animal that's been frightening the maids? Well, no, sir, not quite. They said it was, you'll excuse me, sir, a hand that they saw. Emma trod on it once at the bottom of the stairs. She thought then it was a half-frozen toad, only white. And then Parfit was washing up the dishes in the scullery. She wasn't thinking about anything in particular. It was close on dusk. She took her hands out of the water, and was drying them, absent-minded like, on the roller-towel, when she found that she was drying someone else's hand as well, only colder than hers. What nonsense, exclaimed Sounders. Exactly, sir. That's what I told her, but we couldn't get her to stop. You don't believe all this, said Eustace, turning suddenly towards the butler? May, sir? Oh, no, sir. I've not seen anything. Nor heard anything. Well, sir, if you must know, the bells do ring at odd times, and there's nobody there when we go, and when we go round to draw the blinds of a night, as often as not, somebody's been there before us. But as I says to Mrs. Merritt, a young monkey might do wonderful things, and we all know that Mr. Borsover has had some strange animals about the place. Very well, Martin, that will do. What do you make of it? asked Sounders when they were alone. I mean of the letter, he said you wrote. Oh, that simple enough, said Eustace. See the paper it's written on? I stopped using that years ago, but there were a few odd sheets and envelop left in the old desk. We never fastened up the lid of the box before locking it in. The hand got out, found the pencil, wrote this note, and shoved it through a crack onto the floor where Martin found it. That's plain as daylight. But the hand couldn't write. Couldn't it? You've not seen it do the things I've seen. And he told Sounders more of what had happened at Eastbourne. Well, said Sounders, in that case we have at least an explanation of the legacy. It was the hand which wrote unknown to your uncle that letter to your solicitor, bequeathing itself to you. Your uncle had no more to do with that request than I. In fact, it would seem that he had some idea of this automatic writing, and feared it. Then if it's not my uncle, what is it? I suppose some people might say that it doesn't body spirit had got your uncle to educate and prepare a little body for it. Now it's got into that little body, and it's off on its own. Well, what are we to do? We'll keep our eyes open, said Sounders, and try to catch it. If we can't do that, we shall have to wait till the bawley clockwork runs down. After all, if it's flesh and blood, it can't live forever. For two days nothing happened. Then Sounders saw it sliding down the banister in the hall. He was taken on a wares, and lost a full second before he started in pursuit, only to find that the thing had escaped him. Three days later, Eustace, writing alone in the library at night, saw it sitting on an open book at the other end of the room. The fingers crept over the page, feeling the print as if it were reading. But before he had time to get up from his seat, it had taken the alarm and was pulling itself up the curtains. Eustace watched it grimly, as it hung on the corners with three fingers, flicking the thumb and forefinger at him in an expression of scorn for the reason. I know what I'll do, he said. If I only get it into the open, I'll set the dogs onto it. He spoke to Sounders of the suggestion. It's a truly good idea, he said. Only we won't wait till we find it out of doors. We'll get the dogs. They are the two terriers and the underkeepers Irish Mongrel that's on to rats like a flash. Your spaniel has not got spirits enough for this sort of game. They brought the dogs into the house, and the keepers Irish Mongrel chewed up the slippers, and the terriers tripped up Morton as he waited at the table. But all three were welcome. Even false security is better than no security at all. For a fortnight nothing happened. Then the hand was caught, not by the dogs, but by Mrs. Merritt's gray parrot. The bird was in the habit of periodically removing the pins that kept its seat and water tins in place, and of escaping through the holes on the side of the cage. When once at liberty Peter would show no inclination to return, and would often be about the house for days. Now, after six consecutive weeks of captivity, Peter had again discovered a new means of unloosing his bolts, and was at large, exploring the tapestry forests of the curtains, and singing songs in praise of liberty from cornice and picture rail. It's no use you're trying to catch him, said Eustace to Mrs. Merritt, as she came into the study one afternoon towards dusk with a step ladder. You'd much better leave Peter alone. Starve him into surrender, Mrs. Merritt, and don't leave bananas and seeds about for him to peck at when he fancies his hungry. You're far too soft-hearted. Well, sir, I see he's right out of reach now on that picture rail, so if you wouldn't mind closing the door, sir, when you leave the room, I'll bring his cage in tonight and put some meat inside it. He's that fond of meat, though it does make him pull out his feathers to suck the quills. They do say that if you cook, never mind Mrs. Merritt, said Eustace, who was busy writing. That will do. I'll keep an eye on the bird. There was silence in the room, unbroken, but for the continuous whisper of his pen. Scratch poor Peter, said the bird. Scratch poor old Peter. Be quiet, you beastly bird. Poor old Peter. Scratch poor Peter. I'm more likely to wring your neck if I get hold of you. He looked up at the picture rail, and there was the hand holding on to a hook with three fingers and slowly scratching the head of the parrot with the force. Eustace ran to the bell and pressed it hard, then across to the window, which he closed with a bang. Frightened by the noise, the parrot shook its wings preparatory to flight, and as it did so the fingers of the hand got hold of it by the throat. There was a shrill scream from Peter, as he flattered across the room, wheeling round in circles that ever descended, born down under the weight that clung to him. The bird dropped at last quite suddenly, and Eustace saw fingers and feathers rolled into an inextricable mass on the floor. The struggle abruptly seized, as finger and thumb squeezed in the neck. The bird's eyes rolled up to show the whites, and there was a faint, half choked gurgle. But before the fingers had time to lose their hold, Eustace had them in his own. Said Mr. Sounders here at once, he said to the maid who came in answer to the bell, tell him I want him immediately. Then he went with the hand to the fire. There was a ragged gash across the back where the bird's beak had torn it, but no blood oozed from the wound. He noticed with disgust that the nails had grown long and discolored. I'll burn the beastly thing, he said, but he could not burn it. He tried to throw it into the flames, but his own hand, as if restrained by some old primitive feeling, would not let him. And so Sounders found him pale and irresolute, with the hand still clasped tightly in his fingers. I've got it at last, he said in a tone of triumph. Good, let's have a look at it. Not when it's loose, get me some nails and a hammer and a board of some sort. Can you hold it all right? Yes, the thing's quite limp, tired out with throttling poor old Peter, I should say. And now said Sounders, when he returned with the things, what are we going to do? Drive a nail through it first, so that it can't get away, then we can take our time over examining it. Do it yourself, said Sounders. I don't mind helping you with guinea pigs occasionally, when there's something to be learned, partly because I don't fear a guinea pig's revenge. This thing's different. All right, you miserable skunk, I won't forget the way you've stood by me. He took up a nail, and before Sounders had realized what he was doing, had driven it through the hand, deep into the board. Oh, my aunt, he giggled hysterically. Look at it now. For the hand was writhing in agonized contortions, squirming and wriggling upon the nail, like a worm upon the hook. Well, said Sounders, you've done it now. I'll leave you to examine it. Don't go in Heaven's name, cover it up, man, cover it up. Shove a cloth over it, here, and he pulled off the intimate chaser from the back of a chair and wrapped the board in it. Now get the keys from my pocket and open the safe. Tuck the other things out. Oh, Lord, it's getting itself into frightful knots. And open it quick. He threw the thing in and banged the door. We'll keep it there till it dies, he said. May I burn in hell if I ever open the door of that safe again? Mrs. Merritt departed at the end of the month. Her successor certainly was more successful in the management of the servants. Early in her rule she declared that she would stand no nonsense and gossip soon withered and died. Use this ball-sover once back to his old way of life. Old habits crept over and covered his new experience. He was, if anything, less morose and showed a greater inclination to take his natural part in country society. I shouldn't be surprised if he marries one of these days, said Sounders. Well, I'm in no hurry for such an event. I know Eustace far too well for the future, Mrs. Ball-sover, to like me. It will be the same old story again. A long friendship slowly made, marriage, and a long friendship quickly forgotten. Part 4 But Eustace Ball-sover did not follow the advice of his uncle and Mary. He was too fond of old slippers and tobacco. The cooking, too, under Mrs. Handyside's management, was excellent, and she seemed, too, to have a heaven-sent faculty in knowing when to stop dusting. Little by little the old life resumed its old power. Then came the burglary. The man, it was said, broke into the house by way of the conservatory. It was really little more than an attempt, for they only succeeded in carrying away a few pieces of plate from the pantry. The safe in the study was certainly found open and empty, but, as Mr. Ball-sover informed the police inspector, he had kept nothing of value in it during the last six months. Then you're lucky in getting off so easily, sir, the man replied. By the way, they have gone about their business. I should say they were experienced cracksmen. They must have called the alarm when they were just beginning their evening's work. Yes, said Eustace. I suppose I am lucky. I've no doubt, said the inspector, that we shall be able to trace the man. I've said that they must have been old hands at the game. The way they got in and opened the safe shows that. But there is one little thing that puzzles me. One of them was careless enough not to wear gloves and unbuttered if I know what he was trying to do. I've traced his finger marks on the new varnish on the window sashes in every one of the downstairs rooms. They're very distinct ones, too. Right hand or left were both, asked Eustace. Oh, right every time. That's the funny thing. He must have been a full-hardy fellow, and I rather think it was him that wrote that. He took out a slip of paper from his pocket. That's what he wrote, sir. I've got out, Eustace Ball-sover, but I'll be back before long. Some gale bird just escaped, I suppose. It will make it all the easier for us to trace him. Do you know the writing, sir? No, said Eustace. It's not the writing of anyone I know. I'm not going to stay here any longer, said Eustace, to sounders at luncheon. I've got on far better during the last six months than ever I expected, but I'm not going to run the risk of seeing that thing again. I shall go up to town this afternoon, get Morton to put my things together, and join me with the car at Brighton on the day after tomorrow, and bring the proofs of those two papers with you. We'll run over them together. How long are you going to be away? I can't say for certain, but be prepared to stay for some time. We've stuck to work pretty closely through the summer, and I for one need a holiday. I'll engage the rooms at Brighton. You'll find it best to break the journey at Hitchin. I'll wire you to you there at the crown to tell you the Brighton address. The house he chose at Brighton was in a terrace. He had been there before. It was kept by his old college jeep, a man of discreet silence who was admirably partnered by an excellent cook. The rooms were on the first floor. The two bedrooms were at the back, and opened out of each other. Sounders can have the smaller one, though it is the only one with a fireplace, he said. I'll stick to the larger of the two, since it's got a bathroom adjoining. I wonder what time he'll arrive with the car. Sounders came about seven, cold and cross and dirty. We'll light the fire in the dining room, said Eustace, and get Prince to unpack some of the things while we are at dinner. What were the robes like? Rotten, swimming with mud, and a beastly cold wind against us all day. And this is July, dear old England. Yes, said Eustace, I think we might do worse than leave dear old England for a few months. They turned in soon after twelve. You hadn't to feel cold, Sounders, said Eustace, when you can't afford to sport a great catskin-lined coat like this. You do yourself very well, all things considered. Look at those gloves, for instance, who could possibly feel cold when wearing them. They are far too clumsy, though, for driving. Try them on and see. And he tossed them through the door, on to Eustace's bed, and went on with his unpacking. A minute later he heard a shrill cry of terror. Oh Lord, he heard! It's in the glove! Quick, Sounders, quick! Then came a smacking thud. Eustace had thrown it from him. I've chucked it into the bathroom, he gasped. It's hit the wall and fallen into the bath. Come now if you want to help. Sounders, with a lighted candle in his hand, looked over the edge of the bath. There it was, old and maimed, dumb and blind, with a ragged hole in the middle, crawling, staggering, trying to creep up the slippery sides, only to fall black helpless. Stay there, said Sounders. I'll empty a collar-box or something, and we'll jam it in. It can't get out while I'm away. Yes, it can. Shouted Eustace. It's getting out now. It's climbing up the plug-chain. No, you brute, you filthy brute, you don't. Come back, Sounders. It's getting away from me. I can't hold it. It's all slippery. Curse its claw. Shut the window, you idiot. The top two, as well as the bottom. You utter idiot. It's got out. There was the sound of something dropping onto the hard black stones below, and Eustace fell back fainting. For a fortnight he was ill. I don't know what to make of it, the doctors said to Sounders. I can only suppose that Mr. Boilsover has suffered some great emotional shock. You had better let me send someone to help you nurse him. And by all means, indulge that whim of his never to be left alone in the dark. I would keep a light burning all night if I were you. But he must have more for share. It's perfectly absurd, this hatred of open windows. Eustace, however, would have no one with him but Sounders. I don't want the other men, he said. They'd smuggle it in somehow. I know they would. Don't worry about it, old chap. This sort of thing can't go on indefinitely. You know I saw it this time as well as you. It wasn't half so active. It won't go on living much longer, especially after that fall. I heard it hit the flags myself. As soon as you're a bit stronger, we'll leave this place. Not bag and baggage, but with only the clothes on our backs, so that it won't be able to hide anywhere. We'll escape it that way. We won't give any address, and we won't have any parcel sent after us. Cheer up, Eustace. You'll be well enough to leave in a day or two. The doctor says I can take you out in a chair tomorrow. What have I done, asked Eustace. What has it come after me? I'm no worse than other men. I'm no worse than you, Sounders. You know I'm not. It was you who were at the bottom of that dirty business in San Diego, and that was fifteen years ago. It's not that, of course, that Sounders. We are in the twentieth century, and even the Parsons have dropped the idea of your old sins finding you out. Before you caught the hand in the library, it was spelled with pure malevolence. To you and all mankind. After you spiked it through with that nail, it's naturally forgot about other people, and concentrated its attention on you. It was shut up in the safe, you know, for nearly six months. That gives plenty of time for thinking of revenge. Eustace Bolesover would not leave his room, but he thought that there might be something in Sounders' suggestion to leave Brighton without notice. He began rapidly to regain his strength. We'll go on the first of September, he said. The evening of August 31st was oppressively warm. Though at midday the windows had been wide open, they had been shut an hour or so before dusk. Mrs. Prince had long since ceased to wander at the strange habits of the gentlemen on the first floor. Soon after their arrival, she had been told to take down the heavy window curtains in the two bedrooms, and day by day the rooms had never seemed to grow more bare. Nothing was left lying about. Mr. Bolesover doesn't like to have any place where dirt can collect, Sounders had said, as an excuse. He likes to see into all the corners of the room. Couldn't I open the window just a little? He said to Eustace that evening. We're simply roasting in here, you know. No, leave well alone. We're not a couple of boarding school misses fresh from the course of hygiene lectures. Get the chessboard out. They sat down and played. At ten o'clock Mrs. Prince came to the door with a note. I am sorry I didn't bring it before, she said, but it was left in the letterbox. Open it, Sounders, and see if it wants answering. It was very brief. There was neither address nor signature. Will eleven o'clock tonight be suitable for our last appointment? Who is it from? asked Bolesover. It was meant for me, said Sounders. There's no answer, Mrs. Prince, and he put the paper into his pocket. A stunning letter from a tailor. I suppose he must have got wind of our leaving. It was a clever lie, and Eustace asked no more questions. They went on with their game. On the landing outside, Sounders could hear the grandfather clocks whispering the seconds, blurting out the quarter hours. Check, said Eustace. The clocks struck eleven. At the same time there was a gentle knocking on the door. It seemed to come from the bottom panel. Who's there? asked Eustace. There was no answer. Mrs. Prince, is that you? She is up above, said Sounders. I can hear her walking about the room. Then locked the door, bolted to. Your move, Sounders. While Sounders sat with his eyes on the chessboard, Eustace walked over to the window and examined the fastenings. He did the same in Sounders' room and the bathroom. There were no doors between the three rooms, or he would have shot and locked them too. Now, Sounders, he said, don't stay all night over your move. I've had time to smoke one cigarette already. It's bad to keep an invalid waiting. There's only one possible thing for you to do. What was that? The ivy blowing against the window. There, it's your move now, Eustace. It wasn't the ivy you idiot. It was someone tapping at the window, and he pulled up the blind. On the outer side of the window, clinging to the sash, was the hand. What is it that it's holding? It's a pocket knife. It's going to try to open the window by pushing back the fastener with the blade. Well, let it try, said Eustace. Those fasteners screw down. They can't be opened that way. Anyhow, we'll close the shutters. It's your move, Sounders. I've played. But Sounders found it impossible to fix his attention on the game. He could not understand Eustace, who seemed all at once to have lost his fear. What do you say to some wine, he asked? You seem to be taking things coolly, but I don't mind confessing that I'm in a blessed funk. You've no need to be. There's nothing supernatural about that, Hand Sounders. I mean, it seems to be governed by the laws of time and space. It's not the sort of thing that vanishes into thin air or slides through oaken doors. And since that's so, I defy it to get in here. We'll leave the place in the morning. I, for one, have bottomed the depths of fear. Fill your glass, man. The windows are all shuttered. The door is locked and bolted. Pledge me, my Uncle Adrian. Drink, man. What are you waiting for? Sounders was standing, but his glass half-raised. It can't get in, he said hoarsely. It can't get in. We've forgotten. There's the fireplace in my bedroom. It will come down the chimney. Quick said Eustace, as he rushed into the other room. We haven't a minute to lose. What can we do? Let the fire Sounders. Give me a match. Quick. They must be all in the other room. I'll get them. Hurry, man, for goodness sake. Look in the bookcase. Look in the bathroom. Here. Come and stand here. I'll look. Be quick, shouted Sounders. I can hear something. Then plug a sheet from your bed up the chimney. No, here's a match. He had found one at last that had slipped into a crack in the floor. Is the fire laid? Good. But it may not burn. I know. The oil from that old reading lamp and this cotton wool. Now the match quick. Pull the sheet away, you fool. We don't want it now. There was a great war from the great as the flames shut up. Sounders had been a fraction of a second too late with the sheet. The oil had fallen on to it. It, too, was burning. The whole place will be on fire, cried Eustace, as he tried to beat out the flames with a blanket. It's no good. I can't manage it. You must open the door, Sounders, and get help. Sounders ran to the door and fumbled with the bolts. The key was stiff in the lock. Hurry, shouted Eustace, the whole place ablaze. The key turned in the lock at last. For half a second Sounders stopped to look back. Afterwards he could never be sure as to what he had seen. But at the time he thought that something black and charred was creeping slowly, very slowly, from the mass of flames towards Eustace's boil-sober. For a moment he thought of returning to his friend. But the noise and the smell of the burning sent him running down the passage crying fire, fire. He rushed to the telephone to summon help, and then back to the bathroom. He should have thought of that before, for water. As he burst open the bedroom door, there came a scream of terror which ended suddenly, and then the sound of a heavy fall. End of the Beast with Five Fingers. End of Six and Five of Famous Modern Ghost Stories. Section Six of Famous Modern Ghost Stories. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Sage Turtle. Famous Modern Ghost Stories, compiled by Dorothy Scarborough. Section Six, The Mass of Shadows, by Anatole France. This tale, the sacristan of the Church of St. Yulali at Nouvelle-Dumont, told me as we sat under the arbor of the white horse, one fine summer evening, drinking a bottle of old wine to the health of the dead man. Now very much at his ease, whom that very morning he had borne to the grave with full honors, beneath a pall powdered with smart silver tears. My poor father, who is dead, it is the sacristan who is speaking, was in his lifetime a grave digger. He was of an agreeable disposition, the result no doubt of the calling he followed, for it has often been pointed out that people who work in cemeteries are of a jovial turn. Death has no terrors for them, they never give it a thought. I, for instance, monsieur, enter a cemetery at night as little perturbed as though it were the arbor of the white horse. And if by chance I meet with a ghost, I don't disturb myself in the least about it, for I reflect that he may just as likely have business of his own to attend to as I. I know the habits of the dead, and I know their character. Indeed, so far as that goes, I know things of which the priests themselves are ignorant. If I were to tell you all I have seen, you would be astounded. But his still tongue makes a wise head. And my father, who, all the same, delighted in spinning a yarn, did not disclose a twentieth part of what he knew. To make up for this he often repeated the same stories, and to my knowledge he told the story of Catherine Fontaine at least a hundred times. Catherine Fontaine was an old maid whom he well remembered having seen when he was a mere child. I should not be surprised if there were still perhaps three old fellows in the district who could remember having heard folks speak of her, for she was very well known, and of excellent reputation, though poor enough. She lived at the corner of the Rue Autonon in the turret which is still to be seen there, and which formed part of an old half-ruined mansion looking on to the garden of the Ursuline nuns. On that turret can still be traced certain figures and half obliterated inscriptions. The late Curé of Saint Eulalie, Monsieur Levesur, asserted that there are the words in Latin, love is stronger than death, which is to be understood, so he would add, of divine love. Catherine Fontaine lived by herself in this tiny apartment. She was a lace maker. You know, of course, that the lace made in our part of the world was formerly held in high esteem. No one knew anything of her relatives or friends. It was reported that when she was eighteen years of age she had loved the young Chevalier de Montclairie, and had been secretly affianced to him. But decent folk didn't believe a word of it, and said that it was nothing but a tale concocted, because Catherine Fontaine's demeanor was that of a lady, rather than that of a working woman, and because moreover she possessed, beneath her white locks, the remains of a great beauty. Her expression was sorrowful, and on one finger she wore one of those rings fashioned by the goldsmith into the semblance of two tiny hands clasped together. In former days, folks were accustomed to exchange such rings at their betrothal ceremony. I am sure you know the sort of thing I mean. Catherine Fontaine lived a saintly life. She spent a great deal of time in churches, and every morning, whatever might be the weather, she went to assist at the six o'clock mass at St. Ululi. Now, one December night, whilst she was in her little chamber, she was awakened by the sound of bells, and nothing doubting that they were ringing for the first mass, the pious woman dressed herself and came downstairs and out into the street. The night was so obscure that not even the walls of the houses were visible, and not a ray of light shown from the murky sky, and such was the silence amid this black darkness that there was not even the sound of a distant dog barking, and a feeling of aloofness from every living creature was perceptible. By Catherine Fontaine knew well every single stone she stepped on, and as she could have found her way to the church with her eyes shut, she reached, without difficulty, the corner of the Rue Onon and the Rue de la Parasse, where the timbered house stands with the tree of Jesse carved on one of its massive beams. When she reached this spot, she perceived that the church doors were open, and that a great light was streaming out from the wax tapers. She resumed her journey, and when she had passed through the porch, she found herself in the midst of a vast congregation which entirely filled the church. But she did not recognize any of the worshippers, and was surprised to observe that all of these people were dressed in velvets and brocades with feathers in their hats, and that they wore swords in the fashion of days gone by. Here were gentlemen who carried tall canes with gold knobs, and ladies with lace caps fastened with cornet-shaped combs. Chevaliers of the Order of St. Louis extended their hands to these ladies who concealed behind their fans painted faces, of which only the powdered brow and the patch at the corner of the eye were visible. All of them proceeded to take their places without the slightest sound, and as they moved, neither the sound of their footsteps on the pavement nor the rustle of their garments could be heard. The lower places were filled with a crowd of young artisans in brown jackets, dimity breeches, and blue stockings, with their arms around the waist of pretty blushing girls who lowered their eyes. Near the holy waters stooped peasant women in scarlet petticoats and laced bodices sat upon the ground as immovable as domestic animals, whilst young lads standing up behind them stared out from wide open eyes and twirled their hats round and round on their fingers, and all these sorrowful countenances seemed centered irremovably on one and the same thought, at once sweet and sorrowful. On her knees, in her accustomed place, Catherine Fontaine saw the priest advance toward the altar, preceded by two servers. She recognized neither priest nor clerks. Then the mass began. It was a silent mass, during which neither the sound of the moving lips nor the tinkle of the bell was audible. Catherine Fontaine felt that she was under the observation and the influence also of her mysterious neighbor, and when, scarcely turning her head, she stole a glance at him. She recognized the young Chevalier de Montclairis who had once loved her, and who had been dead for five and forty years. She recognized him by a small mark which he had over the left ear, and above all by the shadow which his long black eyelashes cast upon his cheeks. He was dressed in his hunting clothes, scarlet with gold lice, the very clothes he wore that day when he met her in St. Leonard's wood, begged of her drink, and stole a kiss. He preserved his youth and good looks. When he smiled, he still displayed magnificent teeth. Catherine said to him in an undertone, Monsignor, you who were my friend, and to whom in days gone by I gave all that a girl holds most dear. May God keep you in his grace. Oh, that he would at length inspire me with regret for the sin I committed in yielding to you, for it is a fact that though my hair is white and I approach my end, I have not yet repented of having loved you, but dear dead friend and noble senior tell me, who are these folk habited after the antique fashion who are here assisting at this silent mass? The Chevalier de Montclairis replied in a voice feebler than a breath, but nonetheless crystal clear. Catherine, these men and women are souls from purgatory who have grieved God by sinning as we ourselves sin through love of the creature, but who are not on that account cast off by God and as much as their sin like ours was not deliberate. While separated from those whom they loved upon earth, they are purified in the cleansing fires of purgatory. They suffer the pangs of absence, which is for them the most cruel of tortures. They are so unhappy that an angel from heaven takes pity upon their love torment by the permission of the most high for one hour in the night. He reunites each year, lover to loved in their parish church, where they are permitted to assist at the mass of shadows, hand clasped in hand. These are the facts. If it has been granted to me to see thee before thy death, Catherine, it is a boon which is bestowed by God's special permission. And Catherine Fontaine answered him, I would die gladly enough, dear Lord, if I might recover the beauty that was mine when I gave you to drink in the forest. Whilst they thus conversed under their breath, a very old canon was taking the collection and proffering to the worshippers a great copper dish wherein they let fall each in his turn ancient coins which have long since ceased to pass current, ecous of six leaf, florins, ducats, ducatoons, jabbuses, and rose nobles, and the pieces fell silently into the dish. When at length it was placed before the Chevalier he dropped into it a louis which made no more sound than had the other pieces of gold and silver. Then the old canon stopped before Catherine Fontaine, who fumbled in her pocket without being able to find a farthing. Then, being unwilling to allow the dish to pass without an offering from herself, she slipped from her finger the ring which the Chevalier had given her the day before his death and cast it into the copper bowl. As the golden ring fell, a sound like the heavy clang of a bell rang out, and on the stroke of this reverberation, the Chevalier, the canon, the celebrant, the servers, the ladies, and their cavaliers, the whole assembly vanished utterly. The candles guttered out, and Catherine Fontaine was left alone in the darkness. Having concluded his narrative after this fashion, the sacristan drank a long draft of wine, remained pensive for a moment, and then resumed his talk in these words. I have told you this tale exactly as my father has told it me over and over again, and I believe that it is authentic because it agrees in all respects with what I have observed of the manners and customs peculiar to those who have passed away. I have associated a good deal with the dead ever since my childhood, and I know that they are accustomed to return to what they have loved. It is on this account that the miserly dead wander at night in the neighborhood of the treasures they conceal during their lifetime, they keep a strict watch over their gold. But the trouble they give themselves, far from being of service to them, turns to their disadvantage, and it is not a rare thing at all to come upon money buried in the ground on digging and in place haunted by a ghost, in the same way deceased husbands come by night to harass their wives who have made a second matrimonial venture, and I could easily name several who have kept a better watch over their wives since death than they ever did while living. That sort of thing is blameworthy, for in all fairness the dead have no business to stir up jealousies. Still, I do but tell you what I have observed myself. It is a matter to take into account if one marries a widow, besides the tale I have told you is vouchsafed for in the manner following. The morning after that extraordinary night Catherine Fontaine was discovered dead in her chamber, and the beetle attached to St. Ulily found in the copper bowl used for the collection a gold ring with two clasped hands. Besides, I'm not the kind of man to make jokes. Suppose we order another bottle of wine? End of section six of The Mass of Shadows, recording by Sage Turtle of Quirkinomads.com. Oh, seven. What was it by Fitz James O'Brien? Section seven of famous modern ghost stories. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Igor T. Fouret. Famous modern ghost stories, compiled by Dorothy Scarborough. Section seven. What was it by Fitz James O'Brien? It is, I confess with considerable diffidence, that I approach the strange narrative which I'm about to relate. The events which I propose detailing are of so extraordinary a character that I'm quite prepared to meet with an unusual amount of incredulity and scorn. I accept all such beforehand. I have, I trust the literary courage to face unbelief. I have, after mature consideration, resolved to narrate, in a simple and straightforward manner as I can compass some facts that passed under my observation in the month of July last, and which, in the annals of the mysteries of physical science, are wholly unparalleled. I live at number 26th Street in New York. The house is, in some respects, a curious one. It has enjoyed for the last two years the reputation of being haunted. It is a large and stately residence, surrounded by what once was a garden, but which is now only a green enclosure used for bleaching clothes. The dry basin of what has been a fountain, and a few fruit trees, ragged and unpruned, indicate that this spot in past days was a pleasant shady retreat, filled with fruits and flowers and a sweet murmur of waters. The house is very spacious. A hall of noble size leads to a large spiral staircase winding through its center, while the various apartments are of imposing dimensions. It was built some fifteen or twenty years since by Mr. A. the well-known New York merchant, who five years ago threw the commercial world into convulsions by stupendious bank fraud. Mr. A, as everyone knows, escaped to Europe, and died not long after of a broken heart. Almost immediately, after the news of his disease reached this country and was verified, the report spread in 26th street that number was haunted. Legal measures had dispossessed the widow of its former owner, and it was inhabited merely by a caretaker and his wife, placed there by the house agent into whose hands it had passed for the purposes of renting or sale. These people declared that they were troubled with unnatural noises. Doors were opened without any visible agency. The remnants of furniture scattered through the various rooms were, during the night, piled one upon the other by unknown hands. Invisible feet passed up and down the stairs and broad daylight, accompanied by the rustle of unseen silk dresses and the gliding of fuelless hands along the massive balusters. The caretaker and his wife declared they would live there no longer. The house agent left, dismissed them, and put others in their place. The noises and the supernatural manifestations continued. The neighborhood caught up the story and the house remained untenanted for three years. Several persons negotiated for it, but somehow always before the bargain was closed, they heard the unpleasant rumors and declined to treat any further. It was in this state of things that my landlady, who at that time kept the boarding house in Bleaker Street and who wished to move further uptown, conceived the bold idea of renting number 26th street. Happening to have in her house rather a plucky and philosophical set of borders, she laid her scheme before us, stating candidly everything she had heard, respecting the ghostly qualities of the establishment, to which she wished to remove us. With the exception of two timid persons, a sea captain and a returned Californian, who immediately gave notice that they would leave, all of Mrs. Moffitt's guests declared that they would accompany her in her chivalric incursion into the abode of spirits. Our removal was effected in the month of May and we were charmed with our new residents. The portion of 26th street where our house is situated between 7th and 8th avenues is one of the pleasantest localities in New York. The gardens, back of the houses, running down nearly to the Hudson form in the summertime, a perfect avenue of verger. The air is pure and invigorating, sweeping as it does, straight across the river, from the Weehawken Heights and even a ragged garden, which surrounded the house, although displaying on washing-days rather too much clothesline, still gave us a piece of greenswore to look at, under cool retreat in the summer evenings, where we smoked our cigars in the dusk and watched the fireflies, fleshing their dark lanterns in a long grass. Of course, we had no sooner established ourselves at number N. Then we began to expect ghosts. We absolutely awaited their event with eagerness. Our dinner conversations were supernatural. One of the boarders who had purchased Mr. Crow's Night Sight of Nature for his own private delectation was regarded a public enemy by the entire household for not having bought twenty copies. The man led a life of supreme wretchedness while he was reading this volume. A system of espionage was established, of which he was the victim. If he unconsciously laid the book down for an instant and left the room, it was immediately seized and read aloud in secret places to a select few. I found myself a person of immense importance, it having leaked out that I was tolerably well versed in the history of supernaturalism and had once written a story, the foundation of which was a ghost. If a table or a windskid panel happened to warp when we were assembled in a large drawing room, there was an instant silence and everyone was prepared for an immediate tanking of chains and a spectral form. After a month, our psychological excitement, it was with the utmost dissatisfaction that we were forced to acknowledge that nothing in the remotest degree approaching the supernatural had manifested itself. Once the Black Butler overrated that his candle had been blown out by some invisible agency while he was undressing himself for the night. But as I had more than once discovered this colored gentleman in a condition when one candle must have appeared to him like two, thought it possible that, by going a step further in his potations, he might have reversed this phenomenon and seen no candle at all, where he ought to have beheld one. Things were in this state when an accident took place so awful and inexplicable in its character that my reason fairly reels at the bare memory of the occurrence. It was the 10th of July after dinner was over I repaired with my friend Dr. Hammond to the garden to smoke my evening pipe. Independent of certain mental sympathies which existed between the doctor and myself, we were linked together by a vice. We both smoked opium. We knew each other's secret and respected it. We enjoyed together that wonderful expansion of thought that marvelous intensifying of the perceptive faculties that boundless feeling of existence when we seem to have points of contact with the whole universe in short that unimaginable spiritual bliss which I would not surrender for throne and which I hope you, reader, will never, never taste. Those hours of opium happiness which the doctor and I spent together in secret were regulated with a scientific accuracy. We did not blindly smoke the drug of paradise and leave our dreams to chance. While smoking, we carefully steered our conversation through the brightest and calmest channels of thought. We talked of the East and endeavored to recall the magical panorama of its glowing scenery. We criticized the most sensuous poets, those who painted life ready with health, brimming with passion, happy in the possession of youth and strength and beauty. If we talked of Shakespeare's tempest, we lingered over Ariel and avoided Caliban. Like the gubers, we turned our faces to the East and saw only the sunny side of the world. The skillful coloring of our train of thought produced in our subsequent visions a corresponding tone. The splendors of Arabian fairer land died our dreams. We paced at the narrow strip of grass, with the tread and port of kings. The song of the Rana Arboria, while he clung to the bark of the ragged plum tree, sounded like the strains of divine musicians. Houses, walls and streets, melted like rain clouds, and vistas of unimaginable glory stretched away before us. It was a rapturous companionship. We enjoyed the vast delight, more perfectly because, even in our most ecstatic moments, we were conscious of each other's presence. Our pleasures, while individual, were still twin, vibrating and moving in musical accord. On the evening in question, the 10th of July, the doctrine myself drifted into an unusually metaphysical mood. We lit our large mirshams filled with fine Turkish tobacco, in a quart of which burned a little black nut of opium that, like the nut in a fairy tale, held within its narrow limits, wanders beyond the reach of kings. We paced to enthrow, conversing. A strange perversity dominated the currents of our thought. They would not flow through the sunlit channels into which we strove to divert them. For some unaccountable reason, they constantly diverged into dark and lonesome beds, where a continual gloom brooded. It was in vain that, after our old fashion, we flung ourselves on the shores of the east and talked of its gay bazaars, of the splendours of the time of Haroun, of harems and golden palaces. Black aphids continually arose from the depth of our talk and expanded, like the one the fisherman released from the copper vessel, until they blotted everything right from our vision. Insensibly, we yielded to the occult force that swayed us and indulged in gloomy speculation. We had talked some time upon the proneness of the human mind to mysticism and the almost universal love of the terrible, when Hammond suddenly said to me, What do you consider to be the greatest element of terror? The question puzzled me that many things were terrible and you, stumbling over a corpse in the dark, beholding, as I once did a woman, floating down a deep and rapid river with wildly lifted arms and awful upturned face, uttering as she drifted shrieks that went once hard while we, spectators, stood frozen at a window which overhung the river at the height of 60 feet, unable to make the slightest effort to save her, but dumbly watching her last supreme agony and her disappearance. A shattered wreck, with no life visible, encountered, floating listlessly on the ocean, is a terrible object for, it suggests, a huge terror, the proportions of which are veiled. But it now struck me for the first time, that there must be one great ruling embodiment of fear, a king of terrors, to which all others must succumb. What might it be? To what train of circumstances would its o' its existence? I confess, Hammond, I replied to my friend. I never considered the subject before, that there must be one something more terrible than any other thing I feel I cannot attempt, however, even the most vague definition. I'm somewhat like you, Harry, he answered. I feel my capacity to experience a terror greater than anything yet conceived by the human mind, something combining in fearful and unnatural amalgamation hitherto supposed incompatible elements. The calling of the voices in Brockton Browne's novel of Wheeland is awful, shows the picture of the dweller, the threshold, in bowlers than only but, he added, shaking his head gloomily. There's something more horrible still than those. Look here, Hammond, I rejoined. Let us drop this kind of talk, for heaven's sake, we shall suffer for it, depend on it. I don't know what's the matter with me tonight, he replied, but my brain is running upon all sorts of weird and awful thoughts. I feel as if I could write a story like Hoffman, tonight, if I were only master of a literary style. Well, if we are going to be Hoffman-esque in our talk, I'm off to bed. Opium and nightmares should never be brought together, how sultry it is. Good night, Hammond. Good night, Harry, pleasant dreams to you. To you, gloomy wretch, affreets, ghouls, and enchantress. We parted, and each sought his respective chamber. I undressed quickly and got into bed, taking with me, according to my usual custom, a book over which I generally read myself to sleep. I opened the volume as soon as I laid my head upon the pillow, and instantly flung it to the other side of the room. It was Goudon's history of monsters, a curious French work, which I had lately imported from Paris, but which, in a state of mind, I had then reached with anything but an agreeable companion. I resolved to go to sleep at once, so, turning down my gas until nothing, but a little blue point of light glimmered on the top of the tube, I composed myself to rest. The room was in total darkness, the atom of gas that still remained alight did not illuminate a distance of three inches round the burner. I desperately drew my arm across my eyes, as if to shed out even the darkness and tried to think of nothing. It was in vain. The confounded themes, touched on by Hammond in the garden, kept uptrooting themselves on my brain. I battled against them. I erected ramparts of would-be blackness of intellect to keep them out. They still crowded upon me. While I was lying, still as a corpse, hoping that by a perfect physical inaction I should hasten mental repose, an awful incident occurred. A something dropped, as it seemed, from the ceiling, plum upon my chest, and the next instant I felt two bony hands encircling my throat, endeavoring to choke me. I'm no coward, and I'm possessed of considerable physical strength. The suddenness of the attack, instead of stunning me, strung every nerve to its highest tension. My body acted from instinct, before my brain had time to realize the terrors of my position. In an instant I wound two muscular arms around the creature, and squeezed it with all the strength of despair against my chest. In a few seconds the bony hands that had fastened on my throat loosened their hold, and I was free to breathe once more. Immersed in the most profound darkness, totally ignorant of the nature of the thing by which I was so suddenly attacked, finding my grasp slipping every moment by reason, it seemed to me, of the entire nakedness of my assailant, bitten with sharp teeth in the shoulder, neck, and chest, having every moment to protect my throat against a pair of sinew, agile hands, which my utmost efforts could not confine. These were a combination of circumstances to combat, which required all the strength, skill, and courage that I possessed. At last, after a silent, deadly, exhausting struggle, I got my assailant under by series of incredible efforts of strength. Once pinned with my knee on what I made out to be its chest, I knew that I was the victor. I rested for a moment to breathe. I heard the creature beneath me panting in the darkness, and felt the violent throbbing of a heart. It was apparently as exhausted as I was. That was one comfort. At this moment I remembered that I usually placed under my pillow a large yellow silk pocket handkerchief. I felt for it instantly. It was there. In a few seconds more, I had, after a fashion, pinioned the creature's arms. I now felt tolerably secure. There was nothing more to be done but to turn on the gas, and, having first seen what my midnight assailant was like, around the household. I will confess to being actuated by a certain pride and not giving the alarm before. I wished to make the capture alone and unaided. Never losing my hold for an instant, I slipped from the bed to the floor, dragging my captive with me. I had but a few steps to make to reach the gas burner. These I made, with the greatest caution, holding the creature in the grip like a vice. At last, I got within arm's length of the tiny speck of blue light, which told me where the gas burner lay. Quick as lightning I released my grasp with one hand, and that on the full flood of light. Then I turned to look at my captive. I cannot even attempt to give any definition of my sensations the instant after I turned on the gas. I supposed I must have freaked with terror. For less than a minute afterward my room was crowded with inmates of the house. I shudder now as I think of that awful moment. I saw nothing. Yes, I had one arm firmly clasped round, a breathing, panting, corporeal shape. My other hand gripped with all its strength, a throat as warm, as apparently fleshy as my own. And yet, with this living substance in my grasp, with its body pressed against my own, and all in the bright glare of a large jet of gas, I absolutely beheld nothing. Not even an outline, a vapor. I do not, even at this hour, realize the situation in which I found myself. I cannot recall the astounding incident thoroughly. Imagination in vain tries to compass the awful paradox. It breathed. I felt its warm breath upon my cheek. It struggled fiercely. It had hands. They clutched me. Its skin was smooth, like my own. There it lay, pressed close up against me, solid as stone. And yet, utterly invisible. I wonder that I did not faint or go mad on the instant. Some wonderful instinct must have sustained me for, absolutely in place of loosening my hold on the terrible enigma, I seemed to gain an additional strength in my moment of horror, and tighten my grasp with such wonderful force that I felt the creature shivering with agony. Just then Hammond entered my room at the head of the household. As soon as he beheld my face, which I suppose must have been an awful sight to look at, he hastened forward, crying, Great Heaven, Harry, what has happened? Hammond, Hammond, I cried. Come here. Oh, this is awful. I have been attacked in bed by something or other, which I have hold of, but I can't see it. I can't see it. Hammond, doubtless struck by the unfaithful horror expressed in my countenance, made one or two steps forward with an anxious yet puzzled expression. A very audible titter burst from the remainder of my visitors. This suppressed laughter made me furious. To laugh at the human being and my position, it was the worst species of cruelty. Now, I can understand why the appearance of a man's drunken violently, as it would seem with an eerie nothing and calling for assistance against the vision, should have appeared ludicrous. Then, so great was my rage against the mocking crowd, that had I the power, I would have stricken them dead where they stood. Hammond, Hammond, I cried again, desperately. For God's sake, come to me. I can hold the thing by the short while longer. It is overpowering me. Help me, help me. Harry, whispered Hammond, approaching me. You have been smoking too much opium. I swear to you, Hammond, that this is no vision. I answered, in the same low tone. Don't you see how it shakes? My whole frame with its struggles? If you don't believe me, convince yourself. Feel it, touch it. Hammond advanced and laid his hand in the spot I indicated. A wild cry of horror burst from him. He had failed it. In a moment, he had discovered somewhere in my room a long piece of cord, and was the next instant winding it and nodding it about the body of the unseen being that I clasped in my arms. Harry, he said, and a horse agitated voice for, though he preserved his presence of mind, he was deeply moved. Harry, it's all safe now. You may let go, old fellow. If you're tired, the thing can't move. I was utterly exhausted, and I gladly lost my hold. Hammond stood holding the ends of the cord that bound the invisible twisted round his hand, while before him, self-supporting as it were, he beheld a rope laced and interlaced and stretching tightly around a vacant space. I never saw a man look so thoroughly stricken with awe. Nevertheless, his face expressed all the courage and determination which I knew him to possess. His lips, although white, were set firmly, and one could perceive at a glance that, although stricken with fear, he was not daunted. The confusion that ensued among the guests of the house who were witnesses of this extraordinary scene between Hammond and myself, who beheld the pantomime of binding this struggling something who beheld me almost sinking from physical exhaustion when my task of jailer was over, the confusion and terror that took possession of my bystanders when they saw all this was beyond description. The weaker ones fled from the apartment. The few who remained clustered near the door and could not be induced to approach Hammond and his charge. Still, incredulity broke out through their terror. They had not the courage to satisfy themselves, and yet they doubted. It was in vain that I begged of some of the men to come near and convince themselves by touch of the existence in that room of a living being which was invisible. They were incredulous, but did not dare to un-deceive themselves. How could a solid living breathing body be invisible, they asked. My reply was this. I gave a sign to Hammond and both of us, conquering our fearful, repugnant to touch the invisible creature, lifted it from the ground, manacled as it was, and took it to my bed. Its weight was about that of a boy of fourteen. Now my friends, I said, as Hammond and myself held the creature suspended over the bed, I can give you self-evident proof that here is a solid ponderable body, which nevertheless you cannot see. Be good enough to watch the surface of the bed attentively. I was astonished at my own courage in treating this strange event so calmly, but I had recovered from our first terror and felt a sort of scientific pride in the affair, which dominated every other feeling. The eyes of the bystanders were immediately fixed on my bed. At a given signal Hammond and I let the creature fall. There was a dull sound of a heavy body alightening on a soft mass. The timbers of the bed creaked. A deep impression marked itself distinctly on the pillow and on the bed itself. The crowd who witnessed this gave a low cry and rushed from the room. Hammond and I were left alone with our mystery. We remained silent for some time, listening to the low, irregular breathing of the creature on the bed and watching the rustle of the bedclothes as it importantly struggled to free itself from confinement. Then Hammond spoke, Harry, this is awful. I, awful, but not unaccountable. What do you mean such a thing has never occurred since the birth of the world? I know not what to think, Hammond. God grant that I am not mad and that this is not an insane fantasy. Let us reason a little, Harry. Here is a solid body, which we touch, but which we cannot see. The fact is so unusual that it strikes us with terror. Is there no parallel though for such a phenomenon? Take a piece of pure glass. It is tangible and transparent. A certain chemical coarseness is all that prevents its being so entirely transparent as to be totally invisible. It is not theoretically impossible, mind you, to make a glass which shall not reflect a single ray of light, a glass so pure and homogeneous in its atoms that the rays from the sun will pass through it as they do through the air, refract it, but not reflect it. We do not see the air and yet we feel it. That's all very well, Hammond, but these are inanimate substances. Glass does not breathe, air does not breathe. This thing has a heart that palpitates, a will that moves it, lungs that play and inspire and respire. You forget the phenomena of which we have so often heard of late, answered the Dr. Gravely. At the meetings called spirit circles, invisible hands have been thrust into the hands of those persons round the table, warm, fleshly hands that seem to pulsate with mortal life. What do you think then, that this thing is? I don't know what it is, was a solemn reply, but please, the gods, I will, with your assistance, thoroughly investigate it. We watch together, smoking many pipes all night long by the bedside of the unearthly being that tossed and panted until it was apparently wearied out. Then we learned by the low regular breathing that it slept. The next morning the house was still stir, the borders congregated on the landing outside my room, and Hammond and myself wore lines. We had to answer a thousand questions as to the state of our extraordinary prisoner, for as yet not one person in the house, except ourselves, could be, I induced to set foot in the apartment. The creature was awake. This was evidenced by the convulsive manner in which the bedclothes were moved in its efforts to escape. There was something truly terrible in beholding, as it were, those second hand indications of the terrible writhings and agonized struggles for liberty, which themselves were invisible. Hammond and myself had wrecked our brains during the long night to discover some means by which we might realize the shape and general appearance of the enigma, as well as we could make out by passing our hands over the creature's form. Its outlines and liniments were human. There was a mouth around smooth head, without hair, a nose which however was little elevated above the cheeks, and its hands and feet felt like those of a boy. At first we thought of placing the being on a smooth surface and tracing its outlines with chalk. As shoemakers traced the outline of the foot, this plan was given up as being of no value. Such an outline would not give the slightest idea of its confirmation. A happy thought struck me. We would take a cast of it in plaster of Paris. This would give us a solid figure and satisfy all our wishes. But how to do it? The movements of the creature would disturb the setting of the plastic covering and distort the mold. Another thought. Why not give it chloroform? It had respiratory organs. That was evident by its breathing. Once reduced to a state of insensibility, we could do with it what we would. Dr. X was sent for, and after the worthy physician had recovered from the first shock of amazement, he proceeded to administer the chloroform. In three minutes afterward, we were enabled to remove the fetters from the creature's body, and the modeler was busily engaged in covering the invisible form with the moist clay. In five minutes more, we had a mold, and before evening, a rough facsimile of the mystery. It was shaped like a man, distorted, uncouth and horrible, but still a man. It was small, not over four feet and some inches in height, and its limbs revealed a muscular development that was unparalleled. Its face surpassed in hideousness anything I had ever seen. Gustav Dorey, or Callet, or Tony Johannotte, never conceived anything so horrible. There is a face in one of the letters illustrations to En Voyage ou il vous plaira, which somewhat approaches the countenance of this creature, but does not equal it. It was the physiognomy of what I should fancy a ghoul, might be. It looked as if it was capable of feeding on human flesh. Having satisfied our curiosity and bound everyone in the house to secrecy, it became a question what was to be done with our enigma. It was impossible that we should keep such a horror in our house. It was equally impossible that such an awful being should be let loose upon the world. I confess that I would have gladly voted for the creature's destruction, but who would shoulder the responsibility? Who would undertake the execution of this horrible semblance of a human being? Day after day, this question was deliberated gravely. The borders all left the house. Mrs. Moffat was in despair and threatened Hammond and myself with all sorts of legal penalties if we did not remove the horror. Our answer was we will go if you like, but we declined taking this creature with us. Remove it yourself if you please. It appeared in your house, on you the responsibility rests. To this there was of course no answer. Mrs. Moffat could not obtain for love or money a person who would even approach the mystery. The most singular part of the affair was that we were entirely ignorant of what the creature habitually fed on. Everything in the way of nutriment that we could think of was placed before it but never touched. It was awful to stand by day after day and see the clothes toss and hear the heart breathing and know that it was starving. Ten, twelve days, a fortnight passed and it still lived. The pulsations of the heart, however, were daily growing fainter and had now nearly seized. It was evident that the creature was dying for want of sustenance. While this terrible life struggle was going on, I felt miserable. I could not sleep. Horrible as the creature was, it was pitiful to think of the pangs it was suffering. At last it died. Hammond and I found it cold and stiff one morning in the bed. The heart had ceased to beat, the lungs to inspire. We hastened to bury it in the garden. It was a strange funeral, the dropping of that viewless corpse into the damp hole. The cast of its form I gave to Dr. Axe, who keeps it, in his museum in Tenth Street. As I am on the eve of a long journey from which I may not return, I have drawn up this narrative of an event, the most singular that has ever come to my knowledge. End of What Was It? End of Section 7 of Famous Modern Ghost Stories, Recording by Igor Tiforey in Magdeburg, Germany, October 27th, 2007