The Second Ghost Story Megapack

by Various Writers

  The mayor had succeeded in filling his pipe, and now he began to put his tobacco pouch away.

  “The thirty-ninth skull,” he mumbled, holding the pipe stem between his defective teeth—“the thirty-ninth skull is no business of mine. I have told the Bannalec men to cease digging.”

  “But what is—whose is the missing skull?” I persisted curiously.

  The mayor was busy trying to strike a spark to his tinder. Presently he set it aglow, applied it to his pipe, took the prescribed four puffs, knocked the ashes out of the bowl, and gravely replaced the pipe in his pocket.

  “The missing skull?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said I, impatiently.

  The mayor slowly unrolled the scroll and began to read, translating from the Breton into French. And this is what he read:

  “On the Cliffs of St. Gildas,

  April 13, 1760.

  “On this day, by order of the Count of Soisic, general in chief of the Breton forces now lying in Kerselec Forest, the bodies of thirty-eight English soldiers of the 27th, 50th, and 72d regiments of Foot were buried in this spot, together with their arms and equipments.”

  The mayor paused and glanced at me reflectively.

  “Go on, Le Bihan,” I said.

  “With them,” continued the mayor, turning the scroll and reading on the other side, “was buried the body of that vile traitor who betrayed the fort to the English. The manner of his death was as follows: By order of the most noble Count of Soisic, the traitor was first branded upon the forehead with the brand of an arrowhead. The iron burned through the flesh and was pressed heavily so that the brand should even burn into the bone of the skull. The traitor was then led out and bidden to kneel. He admitted having guided the English from the island of Groix. Although a priest and a Frenchman, he had violated his priestly office to aid him in discovering the password to the fort. This password he extorted during confession from a young Breton girl who was in the habit of rowing across from the island of Groix to visit her husband in the fort. When the fort fell, this young girl, crazed by the death of her husband, sought the Count of Soisic and told how the priest had forced her to confess to him all she knew about the fort. The priest was arrested at St. Gildas as he was about to cross the river to Lorient. When arrested he cursed the girl, Marie Trevec—”

  “What!” I exclaimed, “Marie Trevec!”

  “Marie Trevec,” repeated Le Bihan; “the priest cursed Marie Trevec, and all her family and descendants. He was shot as he knelt, having a mask of leather over his face, because the Bretons who composed the squad of execution refused to fire at a priest unless his face was concealed. The priest was l’Abbé Sorgue, commonly known as the Black Priest on account of his dark face and swarthy eyebrows. He was buried with a stake through his heart.”

  Le Bihan paused, hesitated, looked at me, and handed the manuscript back to Durand. The gendarme took it and slipped it into the brass cylinder.

  “So,” said I, “the thirty-ninth skull is the skull of the Black Priest.”

  “Yes,” said Fortin. “I hope they won’t find it.”

  “I have forbidden them to proceed,” said the mayor querulously. “You heard me, Max Fortin.”

  I rose and picked up my gun. Môme came and pushed his head into my hand.

  “That’s a fine dog,” observed Durand, also rising.

  “Why don’t you wish to find his skull?” I asked Le Bihan. “It would be curious to see whether the arrow brand really burned into the bone.”

  “There is something in that scroll that I didn’t read to you,” said the mayor grimly. “Do you wish to know what it is?”

  “Of course,” I replied in surprise.

  “Give me the scroll again, Durand,” he said; then he read from the bottom: “I, l’Abbé Sorgue, forced to write the above by my executioners, have written it in my own blood; and with it I leave my curse. My curse on St. Gildas, on Marie Trevec, and on her descendants. I will come back to St. Gildas when my remains are disturbed. Woe to that Englishman whom my branded skull shall touch!”

  “What rot!” I said. “Do you believe it was really written in his own blood?”

  “I am going to test it,” said Fortin, “at the request of Monsieur le Maire. I am not anxious for the job, however.”

  “See,” said Le Bihan, holding out the scroll to me, “it is signed, ‘L’Abbé Sorgue.’”

  I glanced curiously over the paper.

  “It must be the Black Priest,” I said. “He was the only man who wrote in the Breton language. This is a wonderfully interesting discovery, for now, at last, the mystery of the Black Priest’s disappearance is cleared up. You will, of course, send this scroll to Paris, Le Bihan?”

  “No,” said the mayor obstinately, “it shall be buried in the pit below where the rest of the Black Priest lies.”

  I looked at him and recognized that argument would be useless. But still I said, “It will be a loss to history, Monsieur Le Bihan.”

  “All the worse for history, then,” said the enlightened Mayor of St. Gildas.

  We had sauntered back to the gravel pit while speaking. The men of Bannalec were carrying the bones of the English soldiers toward the St. Gildas cemetery, on the cliffs to the east, where already a knot of white-coiffed women stood in attitudes of prayer; and I saw the somber robe of a priest among the crosses of the little graveyard.

  “They were thieves and assassins; they are dead now,” muttered Max Fortin.

  “Respect the dead,” repeated the Mayor of St. Gildas, looking after the Bannalec men.

  “It was written in that scroll that Marie Trevec, of Groix Island, was cursed by the priest—she and her descendants,” I said, touching Le Bihan on the arm. “There was a Marie Trevec who married an Yves Trevec of St. Gildas—”

  “It is the same,” said Le Bihan, looking at me obliquely.

  “Oh!” said I; “then they were ancestors of my wife.”

  “Do you fear the curse?” asked Le Bihan.

  “What?” I laughed.

  “There was the case of the Purple Emperor,” said Max Fortin timidly.

  Startled for a moment, I faced him, then shrugged my shoulders and kicked at a smooth bit of rock which lay near the edge of the pit, almost embedded in gravel.

  “Do you suppose the Purple-Emperor drank himself crazy because he was descended from Marie Trevec?” I asked contemptuously.

  “Of course not,” said Max Fortin hastily.

  “Of course not,” piped the mayor. “I only—Hellow! what’s that you’re kicking?”

  “What?” said I, glancing down, at the same time involuntarily giving another kick. The smooth bit of rock dislodged itself and rolled out of the loosened gravel at my feet.

  “The thirty-ninth skull!” I exclaimed. “By jingo, it’s the noddle of the Black Priest! See! there is the arrowhead branded on the front!”

  The mayor stepped back. Max Fortin also retreated. There was a pause, during which I looked at them, and they looked anywhere but at me.

  “I don’t like it,” said the mayor at last, in a husky, high voice. “I don’t like it! The scroll says he will come back to St. Gildas when his remains are disturbed. I—I don’t like it, Monsieur Darrel—”

  “Bosh!” said I; “the poor wicked devil is where he can’t get out. For Heaven’s sake, Le Bihan, what is this stuff you are talking in the year of grace 1896?”

  The mayor gave me a look.

  “And he says ‘Englishman.’ You are an Englishman, Monsieur Darrel,” he announced.

  “You know better. You know I’m an American.”

  “It’s all the same,” said the Mayor of St. Gildas, obstinately.

  “No, it isn’t!” I answered, much exasperated, and deliberately pushed the skull till it rolled into the bottom of the gravel pit below.

  “Cover it up,” said I; “bury the scroll with it too, if you insist, but I think you ought to send it to Paris. Don’t look so gloomy, Fortin, unless you believe in werewolves a
nd ghosts. Hey! what the—what the devil’s the matter with you, anyway? What are you staring at, Le Bihan?”

  “Come, come,” muttered the mayor in a low, tremulous voice, “it’s time we got out of this. Did you see? Did you see, Fortin?”

  “I saw,” whispered Max Fortin, pallid with fright.

  The two men were almost running across the sunny pasture now, and I hastened after them, demanding to know what was the matter.

  “Matter!” chattered the mayor, gasping with exasperation and terror. “The skull is rolling up hill again,” and he burst into a terrified gallop, Max Fortin followed close behind.

  I watched them stampeding across the pasture, then turned toward the gravel pit, mystified, incredulous. The skull was lying on the edge of the pit, exactly where it had been before I pushed it over the edge. For a second I stared at it; a singular chilly feeling crept up my spinal column, and I turned and walked away, sweat starting from the root of every hair on my head. Before I had gone twenty paces the absurdity of the whole thing struck me. I halted, hot with shame and annoyance, and retraced my steps.

  There lay the skull.

  “I rolled a stone down instead of the skull,” I muttered to myself. Then with the butt of my gun I pushed the skull over the edge of the pit and watched it roll to the bottom; and as it struck the bottom of the pit, Môme, my dog, suddenly whipped his tail between his legs, whimpered, and made off across the moor.

  “Môme!” I shouted, angry and astonished; but the dog only fled the faster, and I ceased calling from sheer surprise.

  “What the mischief is the matter with that dog!” I thought. He had never before played me such a trick.

  Mechanically I glanced into the pit, but I could not see the skull. I looked down. The skull lay at my feet again, touching them.

  “Good heavens!” I stammered, and struck at it blindly with my gunstock. The ghastly thing flew into the air, whirling over and over, and rolled again down the sides of the pit to the bottom. Breathlessly I stared at it, then, confused and scarcely comprehending, I stepped back from the pit, still facing it, one, ten, twenty paces, my eyes almost starting from my head, as though I expected to see the thing roll up from the bottom of the pit under my very gaze. At last I turned my back to the pit and strode out across the gorse-covered moorland toward my home. As I reached the road that winds from St. Gildas to St. Julien I gave one hasty glance at the pit over my shoulder. The sun shone hot on the sod about the excavation. There was something white and bare and round on the turf at the edge of the pit. It might have been a stone; there were plenty of them lying about.

  II

  When I entered my garden I saw Môme sprawling on the stone doorstep. He eyed me sideways and flopped his tail.

  “Are you not mortified, you idiot dog?” I said, looking about the upper windows for Lys.

  Môme rolled over on his back and raised one deprecating forepaw, as though to ward off calamity.

  “Don’t act as though I was in the habit of beating you to death,” I said, disgusted. I had never in my life raised whip to the brute. “But you are a fool dog,” I continued. “No, you needn’t come to be babied and wept over; Lys can do that, if she insists, but I am ashamed of you, and you can go to the devil.”

  Môme slunk off into the house, and I followed, mounting directly to my wife’s boudoir. It was empty.

  “Where has she gone?” I said, looking hard at Môme, who had followed me. “Oh! I see you don’t know. Don’t pretend you do. Come off that lounge! Do you think Lys wants tan-colored hairs all over her lounge?”

  I rang the bell for Catherine and Fine, but they didn’t know where “madame” had gone; so I went into my room, bathed, exchanged my somewhat grimy shooting clothes for a suit of warm, soft knickerbockers, and, after lingering some extra moments over my toilet—for I was particular, now that I had married Lys—I went down to the garden and took a chair out under the fig-trees.

  “Where can she be?” I wondered, Môme came sneaking out to be comforted, and I forgave him for Lys’s sake, whereupon he frisked.

  “You bounding cur,” said I, “now what on earth started you off across the moor? If you do it again I’ll push you along with a charge of dust shot.”

  As yet I had scarcely dared think about the ghastly hallucination of which I had been a victim, but now I faced it squarely, flushing a little with mortification at the thought of my hasty retreat from the gravel pit.

  “To think,” I said aloud, “that those old woman’s tales of Max Fortin and Le Bihan should have actually made me see what didn’t exist at all! I lost my nerve like a schoolboy in a dark bedroom.” For I knew now that I had mistaken a round stone for a skull each time, and had pushed a couple of big pebbles into the pit instead of the skull itself.

  “By jingo!” said I, “I’m nervous; my liver must be in a devil of a condition if I see such things when I’m awake! Lys will know what to give me.”

  I felt mortified and irritated and sulky, and thought disgustedly of Le Bihan and Max Fortin.

  But after a while I ceased speculating, dismissed the mayor, the chemist, and the skull from my mind, and smoked pensively, watching the sun low dipping in the western ocean. As the twilight fell for a moment over ocean and moorland, a wistful, restless happiness filled my heart, the happiness that all men know—all men who have loved.

  Slowly the purple mist crept out over the sea; the cliffs darkened; the forest was shrouded.

  Suddenly the sky above burned with the afterglow, and the world was alight again.

  Cloud after cloud caught the rose dye; the cliffs were tinted with it; moor and pasture, heather and forest burned and pulsated with the gentle flush. I saw the gulls turning and tossing above the sand bar, their snowy wings tipped with pink; I saw the sea swallows sheering the surface of the still river, stained to its placid depths with warm reflections of the clouds. The twitter of drowsy hedge birds broke out in the stillness; a salmon rolled its shining side above tidewater.

  The interminable monotone of the ocean intensified the silence. I sat motionless, holding my breath as one who listens to the first low rumor of an organ. All at once the pure whistle of a nightingale cut the silence, and the first moonbeam silvered the wastes of mist-hung waters.

  I raised my head.

  Lys stood before me in the garden.

  When we had kissed each other, we linked arms and moved up and down the gravel walks, watching the moonbeams sparkle on the sand bar as the tide ebbed and ebbed. The broad beds of white pinks about us were atremble with hovering white moths; the October roses hung all abloom, perfuming the salt wind.

  “Sweetheart,” I said, “where is Yvonne? Has she promised to spend Christmas with us?”

  “Yes, Dick; she drove me down from Plougat this afternoon. She sent her love to you. I am not jealous. What did you shoot?”

  “A hare and four partridges. They are in the gun room. I told Catherine not to touch them until you had seen them.”

  Now I suppose I knew that Lys could not be particularly enthusiastic over game or guns; but she pretended she was, and always scornfully denied that it was for my sake and not for the pure love of sport. So she dragged me off to inspect the rather meager game bag, and she paid me pretty compliments, and gave a little cry of delight and pity as I lifted the enormous hare out of the sack by his ears.

  “He’ll eat no more of our lettuce,” I said attempting to justify the assassination.

  “Unhappy little bunny—and what a beauty! O Dick, you are a splendid shot, are you not?”

  I evaded the question and hauled out a partridge.

  “Poor little dead things’” said Lys in a whisper; “it seems a pity—doesn’t it, Dick? But then you are so clever—”

  “We’ll have them broiled,” I said guardedly, “tell Catherine.”

  Catherine came in to take away the game, and presently ’Fine Lelocard, Lys’s maid, announced dinner, and Lys tripped away to her boudoir.

  I stood an instant co
ntemplating her blissfully, thinking, “My boy, you’re the happiest fellow in the world—you’re in love with your wife’”

  I walked into the dining-room, beamed at the plates, walked out again; met Tregunc in the hallway, beamed on him; glanced into the kitchen, beamed at Catherine, and went up stairs, still beaming.

  Before I could knock at Lys’s door it opened, and Lys came hastily out. When she saw me she gave a little cry of relief, and nestled close to my breast.

  “There is something peering in at my window,” she said.

  “What!” I cried angrily.

  “A man, I think, disguised as a priest, and he has a mask on. He must have climbed up by the bay tree.”

  I was down the stairs and out of doors in no time. The moonlit garden was absolutely deserted. Tregunc came up, and together we searched the hedge and shrubbery around the house and out to the road.

  “Jean Marie,” said I at length, “loose my bulldog—he knows you—and take your supper on the porch where you can watch. My wife says the fellow is disguised as a priest, and wears a mask.”

  Tregunc showed his white teeth in a smile. “He will not care to venture in here again, I think, Monsieur Darrel.”

  I went back and found Lys seated quietly at the table.

  “The soup is ready, dear,” she said. “Don’t worry; it was only some foolish lout from Bannalec. No one in St. Gildas or St. Julien would do such a thing.”

  I was too much exasperated to reply at first, but Lys treated it as a stupid joke, and after a while I began to look at it in that light.

  Lys told me about Yvonne, and reminded me of my promise to have Herbert Stuart down to meet her.

  “You wicked diplomat!” I protested. “Herbert is in Paris, and hard at work for the Salon.”

  “Don’t you think he might spare a week to flirt with the prettiest girl in Finistere?” inquired Lys innocently.

  “Prettiest girl! Not much!” I said.

  “Who is, then?” urged Lys.

  I laughed a trifle sheepishly.

  “I suppose you mean me, Dick,” said Lys, coloring up.

  “Now I bore you, don’t I?”

  “Bore me? Ah, no, Dick.”

  After coffee and cigarettes were served I spoke about Tregunc, and Lys approved.