The Fifth Ghost Story Megapack 25 Classic Haunts

by Wildside Press

  “I think I am,” the tramp said.

  “Oh! then I’ll come a bit of the way with you if you don’t walk too fast. It’s bit lonesome walking this time of day.”

  The tramp nodded his head, and the boy started limping along by his side.

  “I’m eighteen,” he said casually. “I bet you thought I was younger.”

  “Fifteen, I’d have said.”

  “You’d have backed a loser. Eighteen last August, and I’ve been on the road six years. I ran away from home five times when I was a little ’un, and the police took me back each time. Very good to me, the police was. Now I haven’t got a home to run away from.”

  “Nor have I,” the tramp said calmly.

  “Oh, I can see what you are,” the boy panted; “you’re a gentleman come down. It’s harder for you than for me.” The tramp glanced at the limping, feeble figure and lessened his pace.

  “I haven’t been at it as long as you have,” he admitted.

  “No, I could tell that by the way you walk. You haven’t got tired yet. Perhaps you expect something at the other end?”

  The tramp reflected for a moment. “I don’t know,” he said bitterly, “I’m always expecting things.”

  “You’ll grow out of that;” the boy commented. “It’s warmer in London, but it’s harder to come by grub. There isn’t much in it really.”

  “Still, there’s the chance of meeting somebody there who will understand—”

  “Country people are better,” the boy interrupted. “Last night I took a lease of a barn for nothing and slept with the cows, and this morning the farmer routed me out and gave me tea and toke because I was so little. Of course, I score there; but in London, soup on the Embankment at night, and all the rest of the time coppers moving you on.”

  “I dropped by the roadside last night and slept where I fell. It’s a wonder I didn’t die,” the tramp said. The boy looked at him sharply.

  “How did you know you didn’t?” he said.

  “I don’t see it,” the tramp said, after a pause.

  “I tell you,” the boy said hoarsely, “people like us can’t get away from this sort of thing if we want to. Always hungry and thirsty and dog-tired and walking all the while. And yet if anyone offers me a nice home and work my stomach feels sick. Do I look strong? I know I’m little for my age, but I’ve been knocking about like this for six years, and do you think I’m not dead? I was drowned bathing at Margate, and I was killed by a gypsy with a spike; he knocked my head and yet I’m walking along here now, walking to London to walk away from it again, because I can’t help it. Dead! I tell you we can’t get away if we want to.”

  The boy broke off in a fit of coughing, and the tramp paused while he recovered.

  “You’d better borrow my coat for a bit, Tommy,” he said, “your cough’s pretty bad.”

  “You go to hell!” the boy said fiercely, puffing at his cigarette; “I’m all right. I was telling you about the road. You haven’t got down to it yet, but you’ll find out presently. We’re all dead, all of us who’re on it, and we’re all tired, yet somehow we can’t leave it. There’s nice smells in the summer, dust and hay and the wind smack in your face on a hot day—and it’s nice waking up in the wet grass on a fine morning. I don’t know, I don’t know—” he lurched forward suddenly, and the tramp caught him in his arms.

  “I’m sick,” the boy whispered—“sick.”

  The tramp looked up and down the road, but he could see no houses or any sign of help. Yet even as he supported the boy doubtfully in the middle of the road a motor car suddenly flashed in the middle distance, and came smoothly through the snow.

  “What’s the trouble?” said the driver quietly as he pulled up. “I’m a doctor.” He looked at the boy keenly and listened to his strained breathing.

  “Pneumonia,” he commented. “I’ll give him a lift to the infirmary, and you, too, if you like.”

  The tramp thought of the workhouse and shook his head “I’d rather walk,” he said.

  The boy winked faintly as they lifted him into the car.

  “I’ll meet you beyond Reigate,” he murmured to the tramp. “You’ll see.” And the car vanished along the white road.

  All the morning the tramp splashed through the thawing snow, but at midday he begged some bread at a cottage door and crept into a lonely barn to eat it. It was warm in there, and after his meal he fell asleep among the hay. It was dark when he woke, and started trudging once more through the slushy roads.

  Two miles beyond Reigate a figure, a fragile figure, slipped out of the darkness to meet him.

  “On the road, guv’nor?” said a husky voice. “Then I’ll come a bit of the way with you if you don’t walk too fast. It’s a bit lonesome walking this time of day.”

  “But the pneumonia!” cried the tramp, aghast.

  “I died at Crawley this morning,” said the boy.

  THE NEW PASS, by Amelia B. Edwards

  Originally published in Monsieur Maurice: A New Novelette and Other Tales, 1873.

  The circumstances I am about to relate happened just four autumns ago, when I was travelling in Switzerland with my old school and college friend, Egerton Wolfe.

  Before going further, however, I wish to observe that this is no dressed-up narrative. I am a plain, prosaic man, by name Francis Legrice; by profession a barrister; and I think it would be difficult to find many persons less given to look upon life from a romantic or imaginative point of view. By my enemies, and sometimes, perhaps, by my friends, I am supposed to push my habit of incredulity to the verge of universal scepticism; and indeed I admit that I believe in very little that I do not hear and see for myself. But for these things that I am going to relate, I can vouch; and in so far as mine is a personal narrative, I am responsible for its truth. What I saw, I saw with my own eyes in the broad daylight. I offer nothing, therefore, in the shape of a story; but simply a plain statement of facts, as they happened to myself.

  I was travelling, then, in Switzerland with Egerton Wolfe. It was not our first joint long-vacation tour by a good many, but it promised to be our last; for Wolfe was engaged to be married the following Spring to a very beautiful and charming girl, the daughter of a north-country baronet.

  He was a handsome fellow, tall, graceful, dark-haired, dark-eyed; a poet, a dreamer, an artist—as thoroughly unlike myself, in short, as one man having arms, legs, and a head, can be unlike another. And yet we suited each other capitally, and were the fastest friends and best travelling companions in the world.

  We had begun our holiday on this occasion with a week’s idleness at a place which I will call Oberbrunn—a delightful place, wholly Swiss, consisting of one huge wooden building, half water-cure establishment, half hotel; two smaller buildings called Dependances; a tiny church with a bulbous steeple painted green; and a handful of village—all perched together on a breezy mountain-plateau some three thousand feet above the lake and valley. Here, far from the haunts of the British tourist and the Alpine Club-man, we read, smoked, climbed, rose with the dawn, rubbed up our rusty German, and got ourselves into training for the knapsack work to follow. At length, our week being up, we started—rather later on the whole than was prudent, for we had a thirty miles’ walk before us, and the sun was already high. It was a glorious morning, however; the sky flooded with light, and a cool breeze blowing. I see the bright scene now, just as it lay before us when we came down the hotel steps and found our guide waiting for us outside. There were the water-drinkers gathered round the fountain on the lawn; the usual crowd of itinerant vendors of stag-horn ornaments and carved toys in wood and ivory squatted in a semi-circle about the door; some half-dozen barefooted little mountain children running to and fro with wild raspberries for sale; the valley so far below, dotted with hamlets and traversed by a winding stream, like a thread of flashing s
ilver; the black pinewood half-way down the slope; the frosted peaks glittering on the horizon.

  “Bon voyage!” said our good host, Dr. Steigl, with a last hearty shake of the hand.

  “Bon voyage!” echoed the waiters and miscellaneous hangers-on.

  Some three or four of the water-drinkers at the fountain raised their hats—the ragged children pursued us with their wild fruits as far as the gate—and so we departed. For some distance our path lay along the mountainside, through pine woods and by cultivated slopes where the Indian corn was ripening to gold, and the late hay-harvest was waiting for the mower. Then the path wound gradually downwards—for the valley lay between us and the pass we had laid out for our day’s work—and then, through a succession of soft green slopes and ruddy apple-orchards, we came to a blue lake fringed with rushes, where we hired a boat with a striped awning, like the boats on Lago Maggiore, and were rowed across by a boatman who rested on his oars and sang a yodel-song when we were halfway across.

  Being landed on the opposite bank, we found our road at once begin to trend upwards; and here, as the guide informed us, the ascent of the Hobenhorn might be said to begin.

  “This, however, meine Herren,” said he, “is only part of the old pass. It is ill-kept; for none but country folks and travellers from Oberbrunn come this way now. But we shall strike the New Pass higher up. A grand road, meine Herren—as fine a road as the Simplon, and good for carriages all the way. It has only been open since the Spring.”

  “The old pass is good enough for me, anyhow!” said Egerton, crowding a handful of wild forget-me-nots under the ribbon of his hat. “It’s like a stray fragment of Arcadia.” And in truth it was wonderfully lovely and secluded—a mere rugged path winding steeply upwards in a soft green shade, among large forest trees and moss-grown rocks covered with patches of velvety lichen. A little streamlet ran singing beside it all the way—now gurgling deep in ferns and grasses; now feeding a rude trough made of a hollow trunk; now crossing our road like a broken flash of sunlight; now breaking away in a tiny fall and foaming out of sight, only to reappear a few steps further on. Then overhead, through the close roof of leaves, we saw patches of blue sky and golden shafts of sunshine, and small brown squirrels leaping from bough to bough; and in the deep rich grass on either hand, thick ferns, and red and golden mosses, and blue campanulas, and now and then a little wild strawberry, ruby red. By-and-by, when we had been following this path for nearly an hour, we came upon a patch of clearing, in the midst of which stood a rough upright monolith, antique, weather-stained, covered with rude carvings like a Runic monument—the primitive boundary-stone between the Cantons of Uri and Unterwalden.

  “Let us rest here!” cries Egerton, flinging himself at full length on the grass. “Eheu, fugaces!—and the hours are shorter than the years. Why not enjoy them?” But the guide, whose name is Peter Kauffmann, interposes after the manner of guides in general, and will by no means let us have our own way. There is a mountain inn, he urges, now only five minutes distant—“an excellent little inn, where they sell good red wine.” So we yield to fate and Peter Kauffmann and pursue our upward way, coming presently, as he promised and predicted, upon a bright open space and a brown chalet on a shelf of plateau overhanging a giddy precipice. Here, sitting under a vine-covered trellis built out on the very brink of the cliff, we find three mountaineers discussing a flask of the good red wine aforesaid.

  In this picturesque eyrie we made our mid-day halt. A smiling Mädchen brought us coffee, brown bread, and goats’-milk cheese; while our guide, pulling out a huge lump of the dry black bread from his wallet, fraternized with the mountaineers over a half-flask of his favourite vintage.

  The men chattered merrily in their half-intelligible patois. We sat silent, looking down into the deep misty valley and across to the great amethyst mountains, streaked here and there with faint blue threads of slender waterfalls.

  “There must surely be moments,” said Egerton Wolfe after a while, “when even such men as you, Frank—men of the world, and lovers of it—feel within them some stirrings of the primitive Adam; some vague longing for that idyllic life of the woods and fields that we dreamers are still, in our inmost souls, insane enough to sigh after as the highest good.”

  “You mean, don’t I sometimes wish to be a Swiss peasant-farmer, with sabots; a goîter; a wife without form as regards her person, and void as regards her head; and a crétin grandfather a hundred and three years old? Why, no. I prefer myself as I am.”

  My friend smiled, and shook his head. “Why take it for granted,” said he, “that no man can cultivate his brains and his paternal acres at the same time? Horace, with none of the adjuncts you name, loved a country life and turned it to immortal poetry.”

  “The world has gone round once or twice since then, my dear fellow,” I replied, philosophically. “The best poetry comes out of cities nowadays.”

  “And the worst. Do you see those avalanches over yonder?”

  Following the direction of his eyes, I saw something like a tiny puff of white smoke gliding over the shoulder of a huge mountain on the opposite side of the valley. It was followed by another and another. We could see neither whence they came nor whither they went. We were too far away to hear the sullen thunder of their fall. Silently they flashed into sight, and as silently they vanished. Wolfe sighed heavily.

  “Poor Lawrence!” said he. “Switzerland was his dream. He longed for the Alps as ardently as other men long for money or power.”

  Lawrence was a younger brother of his whom I had never seen—a lad of great promise whose health had broken down at Addiscombe some ten or twelve years before, and who had soon after died of rapid consumption at Torquay. “And he never had that longing gratified?”

  “Ah, no—he was never out of England. They prescribe bracing climates now, I am told, for lung disease; but not so then. Poor dear fellow! I sometimes fancy he might have lived, if only he had had his heart’s desire.”

  “I would not let such a painful thought enter my head, if I were you,” said I, hastily.

  “But I can’t help it! My mind has been running on poor Lawrence all the morning; and, somehow, the grander the scenery gets, the more I keep thinking how he would have exulted in it. Do you remember those lines by Coleridge, written in the Valley of Chamouni? He knew them by heart. ’Twas the sight of yonder avalanches that reminded me… Well! I will try not to think of these things. Let us change the subject.”

  Just at this moment, the landlord of the chalet came out—a bright-eyed, voluble young mountaineer about five or six-and-twenty, with a sprig of Edelweiss in his hat.

  “Good day, meine Herren,” he said, including all alike in his salute, but addressing himself especially to Wolfe and myself. “Fine weather for travelling—fine weather for the grapes. These Herren are going on by the New Pass? Ach, Herr Gott! a grand work! a wonderful work!—and all begun and completed in less than three years. These Herren see it today for the first time? Good. They have probably been over the Tête Noire? No! Over the Splugen? Good—good. If these Herren have been over the Splugen, they can form an idea of the New Pass. The New Pass is very like the Splugen. It has a gallery tunnelled in the solid rock, just like the gallery on the Via Mala, with this difference that the gallery in the New Pass is much longer, and lighted by loop-holes at regular intervals. These Herren will please to observe the view looking both up and down the pass, before entering the mouth of the tunnel—there is not a finer view in all Switzerland.”

  “It must be a great advantage to the people hereabouts, having so good a road carried from valley to valley,” said I, smiling at his enthusiasm.

  “Oh, it is a fine thing for us, mein Herr!” he replied. “And a fine thing for all this part of the Canton. It will bring visitors—floods of visitors! By the way, these Herren must not omit to look out for the waterfall above the gallery. Holy St. Nichol
as! The way in which that waterfall has been arranged!”

  “Arranged!” echoed Wolfe, who was as much amused as myself. “Diavolo! Do you arrange the waterfalls in your country?”

  “It was the Herr Becker,” said the landlord, unconscious of banter; “the eminent engineer who planned the New Pass. The waterfall, you see, meine Herren, could not be suffered to follow its old course down the face of the rock through which the gallery is tunnelled, or it would have flowed in at the loopholes and flooded the road. What, therefore, did the Herr Becker do?”

  “Turned the course of the fall, and brought it down a hundred yards further on,” said I somewhat impatiently.

  “Not so, mein Herr—not so! The Herr Becker attempts nothing so expensive. He permits the fall to keep its old couloir and come down its old way—but instead of letting it wash the outside of the gallery, he pierces the rock in another direction—vertically—behind the tunnel; constructs an artificial shoot, or conduit in the heart of the rock, and brings the fall out below the gallery, just where the cliff overhangs the valley. Now what do the English Herren say to that?”

  “That it must certainly be a clever piece of engineering,” replied Wolfe.

  “And that having rested long enough, we will push on and see it,” added I, glad to cut short the thread of our host’s native eloquence.

  So we paid our reckoning; took a last look at the view; and, plunging back into the woods, went on our way refreshed.

  The path still continued to ascend, till we suddenly came upon a burst of daylight and found ourselves on a magnificent high road some thirty feet in breadth, with the forest and the telegraph wires on the one hand, and the precipice on the other. Massive granite posts at close intervals protected the edge of the road, and the cantonniers were still at work here and there, breaking and laying fresh stones, and clearing debris. We did not need to be informed that this was the New Pass.