The Second Ghost Story Megapack

by Various Writers

  “Pretty arms,” she sighed, and then, as if those words had broken something in her heart, there came a great sob bursting from her lips. To hear it drove me mad. I reached to drag her away, but she was too quick, sir; she cringed from me and slipped out from between my hands. It was like she faded away, sir, and went down in a bundle, nursing her poor arms and mourning over them with those terrible, broken sobs.

  The sound of them took the manhood out of me—you’d have been the same, sir. I knelt down beside her on the floor and covered my face.

  “Please!” I moaned. “Please! Please!” That’s all I could say. I wanted her to forgive me. I reached out a hand, blind, for forgiveness, and I couldn’t find her anywhere. I had hurt her so, and she was afraid of me, of me, sir, who loved her so deep it drove me crazy.

  I could see her down the stair, though it was dim and my eyes were filled with tears. I stumbled after her, crying, “Please! Please!” The little wicks I’d lit were blowing in the wind from the door and smoking the glass beside them black. One went out. I pleaded with them, the same as I would plead with a human being. I said I’d be back in a second. I promised. And I went on down the stair, crying like a baby because I’d hurt her, and she was afraid of me—of me, sir.

  She had gone into her room. The door was closed against me and I could hear her sobbing beyond it, broken-hearted. My heart was broken too. I beat on the door with my palms. I begged her to forgive me. I told her I loved her. And all the answer was that sobbing in the dark.

  And then I lifted the latch and went in, groping, pleading. “Dearest—please! Because I love you!”

  I heard her speak down near the floor. There wasn’t any anger in her voice; nothing but sadness and despair.

  “No,” said she. “You don’t love me, Ray. You never have.”

  “I do! I have!”

  “No, no,” said she, as if she was tired out.

  “Where are you?” I was groping for her. I thought, and lit a match. She had got to the door and was standing there as if ready to fly. I went toward her, and she made me stop. She took my breath away. “I hurt your arms,” said I, in a dream.

  “No,” said she, hardly moving her lips. She held them out to the match’s light for me to look and there was never a scar on them—not even that soft, golden down was singed, sir. “You can’t hurt my body,” said she, sad as anything. “Only my heart, Ray; my poor heart.”

  I tell you again, she took my breath away. I lit another match. “How can you be so beautiful?” I wondered.

  She answered in riddles—but oh, the sadness of her, sir.

  “Because,” said she, “I’ve always so wanted to be.”

  “How come your eyes so heavy?” said I.

  “Because I’ve seen so many things I never dreamed of,” said she.

  “How come your hair so thick?”

  “It’s the seaweed makes it thick,” said she smiling queer, queer.

  “How come seaweed there?”

  “Out of the bottom of the sea.”

  She talked in riddles, but it was like poetry to hear her, or a song.

  “How come your lips so red?” said I.

  “Because they’ve wanted so long to be kissed.”

  Fire was on me, sir. I reached out to catch her, but she was gone, out of the door and down the stair. I followed, stumbling. I must have tripped on the turn, for I remember going through the air and fetching up with a crash, and I didn’t know anything for a spell—how long I can’t say. When I came to, she was there, somewhere, bending over me, crooning, “My love—my love—” under her breath like, a song.

  But then when I got up, she was not where my arms went; she was down the stair again, just ahead of me. I followed her. I was tottering and dizzy and full of pain. I tried to catch up with her in the dark of the store-room, but she was too quick for me, sir, always a little too quick for me. Oh, she was cruel to me, sir. I kept bumping against things, hurting myself still worse, and it was cold and wet and a horrible noise all the while, sir; and then, sir, I found the door was open, and a sea had parted the hinges.

  I don’t know how it all went, sir. I’d tell you if I could, but it’s all so blurred—sometimes it seems more like a dream. I couldn’t find her any more; I couldn’t hear her; I went all over, everywhere. Once, I remember, I found myself hanging out of that door between the davits, looking down into those big black seas and crying like a baby. It’s all riddles and blur. I can’t seem to tell you much, sir. It was all—all—I don’t know.

  I was talking to somebody else—not her. It was the Inspector. I hardly knew it was the Inspector. His face was as gray as a blanket, and his eyes were bloodshot, and his lips were twisted. His left wrist hung down, awkward. It was broken coming aboard the Light in that sea. Yes, we were in the living-room. Yes, sir, it was daylight—gray daylight. I tell you, sir, the man looked crazy to me. He was waving his good arm toward the weather windows, and what he was saying, over and over, was this:

  “Look what you done, damn you! Look what you done!”

  And what I was saying was this:

  “I’ve lost her!”

  I didn’t pay any attention to him, nor him to me. By and by he did, though. He stopped his talking all of a sudden, and his eyes looked like the devil’s eyes. He put them up close to mine. He grabbed my arm with his good hand, and I cried, I was so weak.

  “Johnson,” said he, “is that it? By the living God—if you got a woman out here, Johnson!”

  “No,” said I. “I’ve lost her.”

  “What do you mean—lost her?”

  “It was dark,” said I—and it’s funny how my head was clearing up—“and the door was open—the store-room door—and I was after her—and I guess she stumbled, maybe—and I lost her.”

  “Johnson,” said he, “what do you mean? You sound crazy—downright crazy. Who?”

  “Her,” said I. “Fedderson’s wife.”

  “Who?”

  “Her,” said I. And with that he gave my arm another jerk.

  “Listen,” said he, like a tiger. “Don’t try that on me. It won’t do any good—that kind of lies—not where you’re going to. Fedderson and his wife, too—the both of ’em’s drowned deader ’n a door-nail.”

  “I know,” said I, nodding my head. I was so calm it made him wild.

  “You’re crazy! Crazy as a loon, Johnson!” And he was chewing his lip red. “I know, because it was me that found the old man laying on Back Water Flats yesterday morning—me! And she’d been with him in the boat, too, because he had a piece of her jacket tore off, tangled in his arm.”

  “I know,” said I, nodding again, like that.

  “You know what, you crazy, murdering fool?” Those were his words to me, sir.

  “I know,” said I, “what I know.”

  “And I know,” said he, “what I know.”

  And there you are, sir. He’s Inspector. I’m—nobody.

  AT THE GATE, by Myla Jo Closser

  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 t
he 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 be 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?”