The Fourth Ghost Story MEGAPACK: 25 Classic Haunts!

by Wildside Press

  Whether he meant murder or not, however, Mr. Augustus Raikes paid the full penalty of his crime, and was hanged at the Old Bailey, in the second week in January, 1857. Those who desire to make his further acquaintance may see him any day (admirably done in wax) in the Chamber of Horrors at Madame Tussaud’s exhibition, in Baker Street. He is there to be found in the midst of a select society of ladies and gentlemen of atrocious memory, dressed in the close-cut tweed suit which he wore on the evening of the murder, and holding in his hand the identical life-preserver with which he committed it.

  THREE SPANISH LADIES, by Walter E Marconette

  Originally published in Spaceways #1, November 1938

  A Tale Told by a Wraith....

  “Si, Si, Senor Saint Petair! It was at Irun that I lost my life. You wish to hear the story? Very well, but first you must understand that I have loved, or thought I loved, three women at the same time.”

  “Do not smile, senor Saint; it is not a frivilous matter. To love one woman, that is bad enough; but to love two, that is terrible. Just imagine my woes with three!”

  At this point the wraith with the very Spanish accent shifted his position on the cloud he occupied with St. Peter. Finally he settled back with a loud sigh, if ghosts may be said to sigh, and continued his narration.

  “The first was Juanita. She was tall and slim and lithe. The second was Carlotta. She eked out a bare existence by selling flowers on the street for a few coppers an ounce. Her figure was short and rather plump with skin as brown as a nut.

  “The third was quite different, senor Saint, a blonde. Delores, the daughter of old Don Hernandez, was half French. You see, her father met his wife on one of his annual visits to Paris.”

  “Well, senor Saint, I loved the three and became more miserable as the days slid by. I might still be in the dilemma, but then the revolution came.”

  “When France’s legions marched to attack Irun (that is my home city up on the French frontier), I joined the loyalist forces. They pounded us with heavy artillery for days, shelling, shelling ceaselessly until men began to go mad from it. Then, our vigilance relaxed, the rebels poured in. All that day we fought like demons, but ever we were pushed back.”

  “And then, by one of those weird coincidences which do occur at times to mystify us, I rounded a corner and found, crouched low in a doorway, my three loves. Not knowing each other, yet hiding together!”

  “I had hardly perceived the girls when suddenly I was struck. I felt the slug’s deadening impact, felt it tear its fiery way through my flesh, and heard a sickening crunch and splintering as my bones gave way.”

  “As I crumpled, I was glad. Yes, glad, for I knew my love problems were solved. Regardless of the seething hell about me, the one girl who really loved me would reach my side. And, senor Saint, would you believe it, I calmly wondered which of the three it would be as I lay there!”

  “A hand touched my shoulder; I heard someone call my name softly. With a mighty effort I opened my eyes…and peered into those of…Dios!…Jose, my sergeant!”

  “There and then I wished I might die. Si, those fascists were very, very obliging fellows, for they dropped a heavy shell almost on top of us.

  “By the way, Senor Saint Petair, is my friend Jose here? He isn’t? My, can it be that he is in…in…in…in the other place?”

  AT THE GATE, by Myla Jo Closser

  Originally published in The Century Magazine (March, 1917).

  A shaggy Airedale scented his way along the highroad. He had not been there before, but he was guided by the trail of his brethren who had preceded him. He had gone unwillingly upon this journey, yet with the perfect training of dogs he had accepted it without complaint. The path had been lonely, and his heart would have failed him, traveling as he must without his people, had not these traces of countless dogs before him promised companionship of a sort at the end of the road.

  The landscape had appeared arid at first, for the translation from recent agony into freedom from pain had been so numbing in its swiftness that it was some time before he could fully appreciate the pleasant dog-country through which he was passing. There were woods with leaves upon the ground through which to scurry, long grassy slopes for extended runs, and lakes into which he might plunge for sticks and bring them back to—But he did not complete his thought, for the boy was not with him. A little wave of homesickness possessed him.

  It made his mind easier to see far ahead a great gate as high as the heavens, wide enough for all. He understood that only man built such barriers and by straining his eyes he fancied he could discern humans passing through to whatever lay beyond. He broke into a run that he might the more quickly gain this inclosure made beautiful by men and women; but his thoughts outran his pace, and he remembered that he had left the family behind, and again this lovely new compound became not perfect, since it would lack the family.

  The scent of the dogs grew very strong now, and coming nearer, he discovered, to his astonishment that of the myriads of those who had arrived ahead of him thousands were still gathered on the outside of the portal. They sat in a wide circle spreading out on each side of the entrance, big, little, curly, handsome, mongrel, thoroughbred dogs of every age, complexion, and personality. All were apparently waiting for something, someone, and at the pad of the Airedale’s feet on the hard road they arose and looked in his direction.

  That the interest passed as soon as they discovered the new-comer to be a dog puzzled him. In his former dwelling-place a four-footed brother was greeted with enthusiasm when he was a friend, with suspicious diplomacy when a stranger, and with sharp reproof when an enemy; but never had he been utterly ignored.

  He remembered something that he had read many times on great buildings with lofty entrances. “Dogs not admitted,” the signs had said, and he feared this might be the reason for the waiting circle outside the gate. It might be that this noble portal stood as the dividing-line between mere dogs and humans. But he had been a member of the family, romping with them in the living-room, sitting at meals with them in the dining-room, going upstairs at night with them, and the thought that he was to be “kept out” would be unendurable.

  He despised the passive dogs. They should be treating a barrier after the fashion of their old country, leaping against it, barking, and scratching the nicely painted door. He bounded up the last little hill to set them an example, for he was still full of the rebellion of the world; but he found no door to leap against. He could see beyond the entrance dear masses of people, yet no dog crossed the threshold. They continued in their patient ring, their gaze upon the winding road.

  He now advanced cautiously to examine the gate. It occurred to him that it must be fly-time in this region, and he did not wish to make himself ridiculous before all these strangers by trying to bolt through an invisible mesh like the one that had baffled him when he was a little chap. Yet there were no screens, and despair entered his soul. What bitter punishment these poor beasts must have suffered before they learned to stay on this side the arch that led to human beings! What had they done on earth to merit this? Stolen bones troubled his conscience, runaway days, sleeping in the best chair until the key clicked in the lock. These were sins.

  At that moment an English bull-terrier, white, with liver-colored spots and a jaunty manner, approached him, snuffling in a friendly way. No sooner had the bull-terrier smelt his collar than he fell to expressing his joy at meeting him. The Airedale’s reserve was quite thawed by this welcome, though he did not know just what to make of it.

  “I know you! I know you!” exclaimed the bull-terrier, adding inconsequently, “What’s your name?”

  “Tam o’Shanter. They call me Tammy,” was the answer, with a pardonable break in the voice.

  “I know them,” said the bull-terrier. “Nice folks.”

  “Best ever,” said the Airedale, trying to b
e nonchalant, and scratching a flea which was not there. “I don’t remember you. When did you know them?”

  “About fourteen tags ago, when they were first married. We keep track of time here by the license-tags. I had four.”

  “This is my first and only one. You were before my time, I guess.” He felt young and shy.

  “Come for a walk, and tell me all about them,” was his new friend’s invitation.

  “Aren’t we allowed in there?” asked Tam, looking toward the gate.

  “Sure. You can go in whenever you want to. Some of us do at first, but we don’t stay.”

  “Like it better outside?”

  “No, no; it isn’t that.”

  “Then why are all you fellows hanging around here? Any old dog can see it’s better beyond the arch.”

  “You see, we’re waiting for our folks to come.”

  The Airedale grasped it at once, and nodded understandingly.

  “I felt that way when I came along the road. It wouldn’t be what it’s supposed to be without them. It wouldn’t be the perfect place.”

  “Not to us,” said the bull-terrier.

  “Fine! I’ve stolen bones, but it must be that I have been forgiven, if I’m to see them here again. It’s the great good place all right. But look here,” he added as a new thought struck him, “do they wait for us?”

  The older inhabitant coughed in slight embarrassment.

  “The humans couldn’t do that very well. It wouldn’t be the thing to have them hang around outside for just a dog—not dignified.”

  “Quite right,” agreed Tam. “I’m glad they go straight to their mansions. I’d—I’d hate to have them missing me as I am missing them.” He sighed. “But, then, they wouldn’t have to wait so long.”

  “Oh, well, they’re getting on. Don’t be discouraged,” comforted the terrier. “And in the meantime it’s like a big hotel in summer—watching the new arrivals. See, there is something doing now.”

  All the dogs were aroused to excitement by a little figure making its way uncertainly up the last slope. Half of them started to meet it, crowding about in a loving, eager pack.

  “Look out; don’t scare it,” cautioned the older animals, while word was passed to those farthest from the gate: “Quick! Quick! A baby’s come!”

  Before they had entirely assembled, however, a gaunt yellow hound pushed through the crowd, gave one sniff at the small child, and with a yelp of joy crouched at its feet. The baby embraced the hound in recognition, and the two moved toward the gate. Just outside the hound stopped to speak to an aristocratic St. Bernard who had been friendly:

  “Sorry to leave you, old fellow,” he said, “but I’m going in to watch over the kid. You see, I’m all she has up here.”

  The bull-terrier looked at the Airedale for appreciation.

  “That’s the way we do it,” he said proudly.

  “Yes, but—” the Airedale put his head on one side in perplexity.

  “Yes, but what?” asked the guide.

  “The dogs that don’t have any people—the nobodies’ dogs?”

  “That’s the best of all. Oh, everything is thought out here. Crouch down,—you must be tired,—and watch,” said the bull-terrier.

  Soon they spied another small form making the turn in the road. He wore a Boy Scout’s uniform, but he was a little fearful, for all that, so new was this adventure. The dogs rose again and snuffled, but the better groomed of the circle held back, and in their place a pack of odds and ends of the company ran down to meet him. The Boy Scout was reassured by their friendly attitude, and after petting them impartially, he chose an old-fashioned black and tan, and the two passed in.

  Tam looked questioningly.

  “They didn’t know each other!” he exclaimed.

  “But they’ve always wanted to. That’s one of the boys who used to beg for a dog, but his father wouldn’t let him have one. So all our strays wait for just such little fellows to come along. Every boy gets a dog, and every dog gets a master.”

  “I expect the boy’s father would like to know that now,” commented the Airedale. “No doubt he thinks quite often, ‘I wish I’d let him have a dog.’”

  The bull-terrier laughed.

  “You’re pretty near the earth yet, aren’t you?”

  Tam admitted it.

  “I’ve a lot of sympathy with fathers and with boys, having them both in the family, and a mother as well.”

  The bull-terrier leaped up in astonishment.

  “You don’t mean to say they keep a boy?”

  “Sure; greatest boy on earth. Ten this year.”

  “Well, well, this is news! I wish they’d kept a boy when I was there.”

  The Airedale looked at his new friend intently.

  “See here, who are you?” he demanded.

  But the other hurried on:

  “I used to run away from them just to play with a boy. They’d punish me, and I always wanted to tell them it was their fault for not getting one.”

  “Who are you, anyway?” repeated Tam. “Talking all this interest in me, too. Whose dog were you?”

  “You’ve already guessed. I see it in your quivering snout. I’m the old dog that had to leave them about ten years ago.”

  “Their old dog Bully?”

  “Yes, I’m Bully.” They nosed each other with deeper affection, then strolled about the glades shoulder to shoulder. Bully the more eagerly pressed for news. “Tell me, how are they getting along?”

  “Very well indeed; they’ve paid for the house.”

  “I—I suppose you occupy the kennel?”

  “No. They said they couldn’t stand it to see another dog in your old place.”

  Bully stopped to howl gently.

  “That touches me. It’s generous in you to tell it. To think they missed me!”

  For a little while they went on in silence, but as evening fell, and the light from the golden streets inside of the city gave the only glow to the scene, Bully grew nervous and suggested that they go back.

  “We can’t see so well at night, and I like to be pretty close to the path, especially toward morning.”

  Tam assented.

  “And I will point them out. You might not know them just at first.”

  “Oh, we know them. Sometimes the babies have so grown up they’re rather hazy in their recollection of how we look. They think we’re bigger than we are; but you can’t fool us dogs.”

  “It’s understood,” Tam cunningly arranged, “that when he or she arrives you’ll sort of make them feel at home while I wait for the boy?”

  “That’s the best plan,” assented Bully, kindly. “And if by any chance the little fellow should come first,—there’s been a lot of them this summer—of course you’ll introduce me?”

  “I shall be proud to do it.”

  And so with muzzles sunk between their paws, and with their eyes straining down the pilgrims’ road, they wait outside the gate.

  THE SHELL OF SENSE, by Olivia Howard Dunbar

  It was intolerably unchanged, the dim, dark-toned room. In an agony of recognition my glance ran from one to another of the comfortable, familiar things that my earthly life had been passed among. Incredibly distant from it all as I essentially was. I noted sharply that the very gaps that I myself had left in my bookshelves still stood unfilled; that the delicate fingers of the ferns that I had tended were still stretched futilely toward the light; that the soft agreeable chuckle of my own little clock, like some elderly woman with whom conversation has become automatic, was undiminished.

  Unchanged—or so it seemed at first. But there were certain trivial differences that shortly smote me. The windows were closed too tightly; for I had always kept the house very cool, although I had k
nown that Theresa preferred warm rooms. And my work-basket was in disorder; it was preposterous that so small a thing should hurt me so. Then, for this was my first experience of the shadow-folded transition, the odd alteration of my emotions bewildered me. For at one moment the place seemed so humanly familiar, so distinctly my own proper envelope, that for love of it I could have laid my cheek against the wall; while in the next I was miserably conscious of strange new shrillnesses. How could they be endured—and had I ever endured them?—those harsh influences that I now perceived at the window; light and color so blinding that they obscured the form of the wind, tumult so discordant that one could scarcely hear the roses open in the garden below?

  But Theresa did not seem to mind any of these things. Disorder, it is true, the dear child had never minded. She was sitting all this time at my desk—at my desk—occupied, I could only too easily surmise how. In the light of my own habits of precision it was plain that that sombre correspondence should have been attended to before; but I believe that I did not really reproach Theresa, for I knew that her notes, when she did write them, were perhaps less perfunctory than mine. She finished the last one as I watched her, and added it to the heap of black-bordered envelopes that lay on the desk. Poor girl! I saw now that they had cost her tears. Yet, living beside her day after day, year after year, I had never discovered what deep tenderness my sister possessed. Toward each other it had been our habit to display only a temperate affection, and I remember having always thought it distinctly fortunate for Theresa, since she was denied my happiness, that she could live so easily and pleasantly without emotions of the devastating sort.... And now, for the first time, I was really to behold her.... Could it be Theresa, after all, this tangle of subdued turbulences? Let no one suppose that it is an easy thing to bear, the relentlessly lucid understanding that I then first exercised; or that, in its first enfranchisement, the timid vision does not yearn for its old screens and mists.