The Big Book of Ghost Stories

by Otto Penzler

  The strange coincidence of the frog was a bond between us, and in the course of our amicable arguments we had become very friendly. I got into the way of dropping in quite often. In fact, I grew rather to rely on the sympathetic companionship of those two bright girls and became quite at my ease with them. I never forgot the impression made on me by the old man, and often questioned the girls about their poor caretaker, but they had nothing of much interest to tell me. They just described him as an “old dear” who had been in their father’s service as long as they could remember. No further light was thrown on his sale of the frog. Naturally, they didn’t like to question his widow.

  One evening, when I had been having tea in the inner room with the elder sister, I picked up an album of photographs. Turning over its pages, I came on a remarkably fine likeness of the old man. There, before me, was this strange, striking countenance; but, obviously, this photograph had been taken many years before I saw him. The face was much fuller and had not yet acquired the wearied, fragile look I so vividly remembered. But what magnificent eyes he had! Certainly there was something extraordinarily impressive about the man. I stared at the faded photograph.

  “What a splendid photograph of poor old Holmes!” I said.

  “Photograph of Holmes? I’d no idea there was one,” she answered. “Let’s see.”

  As I approached with the open book the younger sister looked in through the open door.

  “I’m off to the movies now,” she called out. “Father’s just rung up to say he’ll be round in about a quarter of an hour to have a look at that Sheraton sideboard.”

  “All right. I’ll be here, and very glad to have his opinion,” said Miss Wilton, taking the album from my hand. There were several photographs on the page at which I had opened the book.

  “I don’t see anything of old Holmes,” she said.

  I pointed out the photograph.

  “That!” she exclaimed. “Why, that’s my dear father!”

  “Your father?” I gasped.

  “Yes, I can’t imagine two people much more unlike. It must have been very dark in the shop when you saw Holmes!”

  “Yes, yes; it was very dark,” I quickly said to gain time in which to think; for I felt quite bewildered with surprise. No degree of darkness could account for any such mistake. I had no moment’s doubt as to the identity of him I had taken for the caretaker with the man whose photograph I now held in my hand. But what an amazing, unaccountable affair!

  Her father? Why on earth should he have been in the shop unknown to his daughters, and for what possible purpose had he concealed his sale of the frog? And when he heard of its fabulous value, why leave the girls under the impression that it was Holmes, the dead caretaker, who had sold it?

  Had he been ashamed to confess his own inadvertence? Or was it possible that the girls had never told him, wishing perhaps to keep their sudden wealth a secret? What strange family intrigue was this into which I had stumbled? If the father had determined thus to keep his actions in the dark, I had better not precipitate any exposure. Instinct bade me hold my tongue. The younger sister had announced his approaching visit. Would he recognise me?

  “It’s a splendid face,” I said, resolving on reserve.

  “Isn’t it?” she said with pleased eagerness. “Isn’t it clever and strong? Yes, I remember when that photograph was taken. It was just before he got religion.” The girl spoke as though she regarded “religion” as a regrettable indisposition.

  “Did he suddenly become very religious?”

  “Yes,” she said reluctantly. “Poor father! He made friends with a priest, and he became so changed. He was never the same again.”

  From the sort of break in the girl’s voice, I guessed she thought her father’s reason had been affected. Did not this explain the whole affair? On the two occasions when I saw him, was he not wandering in mind as well as in body?

  “Did his religion make him unhappy?” I ventured to ask, for I was anxious to get more light on the strange being before I re-encountered him.

  “Yes, dreadfully.” The girl’s eyes were full of tears. “You see … it was …” She hesitated, and after a glance at me went on: “There’s really no reason why I shouldn’t tell you. I’ve come to regard you as a real friend. Poor father got to think he had done very wrong. He couldn’t quiet his conscience. You remember my telling you of his extraordinary flare? Well, his fortune was really founded on three marvellous strokes of business. He had the same sort of luck you had here the other day—that’s why I’m telling you. It seems such an odd coincidence.” She paused.

  “Please go on,” I urged.

  “Well, you see, on three separate occasions he bought, for a few shillings, objects that were of immense value. Only—unlike you—he knew what he was about. The money he realised on their sale came as no surprise to him.… Unlike you, he did not then see any obligation to make it up to the ignorant people who had thrown away fortunes. After all, most dealers wouldn’t, would they?” she almost angrily asked.

  “Well, father grew richer and richer. Years after, he met this priest, and then he seemed to go all sort of morbid. He came to think that our wealth was founded on what was really no better than theft. Bitterly he reproached himself for having taken advantage of those three men’s ignorance and allowing them to chuck away their fortunes. Unfortunately, in each case he succeeded in discovering what had ultimately happened to those he called his ‘victims.’ Most unfortunately, all three men had died in destitution. This discovery made him incurably miserable. Two of these men had died without leaving any children, and no relations could be found.

  “He traced the son of the third to America; but there he had died, leaving no family. So poor father could find no means of making reparation. That was what he longed for—to make reparation. This preyed and preyed on him, until—in my opinion—his poor dear mind became unhinged. As religion took stronger and stronger hold on him, he got a queer sort of notion into his head—a regular obsession—a ‘complex’ they would call it now. ‘The next best thing to doing a good action,’ he would say, ‘is to provide someone else with the opportunity for doing one. To give him his cue, so to speak. “In our sins Christ is crucified afresh.” I must be the cause of three good actions corresponding to my own bad ones. In no other way can I expiate my crimes against Christ, for crimes they were——’ In vain we argued with him, saying he had only done as nearly all men would have done. It had no effect. ‘Other men must judge for themselves. I have done what I know to be wrong,’ he would mournfully repeat. He got more and more fixed in his idea. Real religious mania it became!

  “Being determined to find three human beings who would, by their good actions, as it were, cancel the pain caused to Divinity by what he considered his three crimes, he now busied himself in finding insignificant-looking treasures which he would offer to the public for a few shillings. Poor old father! Never shall I forget his joy when one day a man returned a piece of porcelain he had bought for five shillings and discovered to be worth £500, saying: ‘I think you must have made a mistake.’ Just as you did, bless you!

  “Five years later a similar thing occurred, and he was, oh, so radiant! ‘Two of Humanity’s crimes cancelled,’ he felt. Then came years and years of weary disappointment. ‘I shall never rest until I find the third,’ was what he always said.” Here the girl began to cry, hiding her face behind her hands and murmuring something about “Too late, too late!”

  I heard the door-bell ring.

  “How he must have suffered!” I said. “I’m so glad I had the luck to be the third.”

  She withdrew her hands from her face and stared at me.

  “And I’m so glad I’m going to meet him again,” I said, as I heard footsteps approaching.

  “Meet him!” she echoed in amazement, as the footsteps drew near.

  “Yes, I may stay, mayn’t I? I heard your sister say he was coming round now.”

  “Oh, I see!” she ejaculated. “Her father!
We are only step sisters. My dear father died seven years ago.”

  THE TERRIBLE OLD MAN

  H. P. Lovecraft

  THE MOST IMPORTANT AMERICAN writer of supernatural and occult fiction during the first half of the twentieth century, H(oward) P(hillips) Lovecraft (1890–1937) was born in Providence, Rhode Island, where he lived virtually all his life. Always frail, he was reclusive and had little formal education, but read extensively, with particular emphasis on the sciences. He wrote monthly articles on astronomy for the Providence Tribune at the age of sixteen, then attempted fiction; his first published story, “The Alchemist,” was written in 1908 but was not published until 1916. He wrote fiction for other small magazines, living in near poverty, earning his living by ghostwriting and editing the work of others until in 1923 he finally sold “Dagon” to Weird Tales, the top fantasy pulp magazine in America. He became a regular contributor to that magazine until his death, with only a handful of his modest sixty stories appearing in other pulps.

  He was neglected as a serious writer throughout his life, with only one volume being published while he was alive: The Shadow over Innsmouth (1936). After his early death, two friends, August Derleth and Donald Wandrei, attempted to sell his work to commercial publishers. When they were unsuccessful, they created their own firm, Arkham House, for the sole purpose of collecting and publishing Lovecraft’s stories, poems, and letters, beginning with the cornerstone work, The Outsider and Others (1939), and continuing with Beyond the Wall of Sleep (1943).

  “The Terrible Old Man” was originally published in the July 1921 issue of The Tryout.

  THE TERRIBLE OLD MAN

  H. P. LOVECRAFT

  IT WAS THE DESIGN of Angelo Ricci and Joe Czanek and Manuel Silva to call on the Terrible Old Man. This old man dwells all alone in a very ancient house on Water Street near the sea, and is reputed to be both exceedingly rich and exceedingly feeble, which forms a situation very attractive to men of the profession of Messrs. Ricci, Czanek, and Silva, for that profession was nothing less dignified than robbery.

  The inhabitants of Kingsport say and think many things about the Terrible Old Man which generally keep him safe from the attention of gentlemen like Mr. Ricci and his colleagues, despite the almost certain fact that he hides a fortune of indefinite magnitude somewhere about his musty and venerable abode. He is, in truth, a very strange person, believed to have been a captain of East India clipper ships in his day; so old that no one can remember when he was young, and so taciturn that few know his real name. Among the gnarled trees in the front yard of his aged and neglected place he maintains a strange collection of large stones, oddly grouped and painted so that they resemble the idols in some obscure Eastern temple. This collection frightens away most of the small boys who love to taunt the Terrible Old Man about his long white hair and beard, or to break the small-paned windows of his dwelling with wicked missiles; but there are other things which frighten the older and more curious folk who sometimes steal up to the house to peer in through the dusty panes. These folk say that on a table in a bare room on the ground floor are many peculiar bottles, in each a small piece of lead suspended pendulum-wise from a string. And they say that the Terrible Old Man talks to these bottles, addressing them by such names as Jack, Scar-Face, Long Tom, Spanish Joe, Peters, and Mate Ellis, and that whenever he speaks to a bottle the little lead pendulum within makes certain definite vibrations as if in answer.

  Those who have watched the tall, lean, Terrible Old Man in these peculiar conversations do not watch him again. But Angelo Ricci and Joe Czanek and Manuel Silva were not of Kingsport blood; they were of that new and heterogeneous alien stock which lies outside the charmed circle of New England life and traditions, and they saw in the Terrible Old Man merely a tottering, almost helpless grey-beard, who could not walk without the aid of his knotted cane, and whose thin, weak hands shook pitifully. They were really quite sorry in their way for the lonely, unpopular old fellow, whom everybody shunned, and at whom all the dogs barked singularly. But business is business, and to a robber whose soul is in his profession, there is a lure and a challenge about a very old and very feeble man who has no account at the bank, and who pays for his few necessities at the village store with Spanish gold and silver minted two centuries ago.

  Messrs. Ricci, Czanek, and Silva selected the night of April 11th for their call. Mr. Ricci and Mr. Silva were to interview the poor old gentleman, whilst Mr. Czanek waited for them and their presumable metallic burden with a covered motor-car in Ship Street, by the gate in the tall rear wall of their host’s grounds. Desire to avoid needless explanations in case of unexpected police intrusions prompted these plans for a quiet and unostentatious departure.

  As prearranged, the three adventurers started out separately in order to prevent any evil-minded suspicions afterward. Messrs. Ricci and Silva met in Water Street by the old man’s front gate, and although they did not like the way the moon shone down upon the painted stones through the budding branches of the gnarled trees, they had more important things to think about than mere idle superstition. They feared it might be unpleasant work making the Terrible Old Man loquacious concerning his hoarded gold and silver, for aged sea-captains are notably stubborn and perverse. Still, he was very old and very feeble, and there were two visitors. Messrs. Ricci and Silva were experienced in the art of making unwilling persons voluble, and the screams of a weak and exceptionally venerable man can be easily muffled. So they moved up to the one lighted window and heard the Terrible Old Man talking childishly to his bottles with pendulums. Then they donned masks and knocked politely at the weather-stained oaken door.

  Waiting seemed very long to Mr. Czanek as he fidgeted restlessly in the covered motor-car by the Terrible Old Man’s back gate in Ship Street. He was more than ordinarily tenderhearted, and he did not like the hideous screams he had heard in the ancient house just after the hour appointed for the deed. Had he not told his colleagues to be as gentle as possible with the pathetic old sea-captain? Very nervously he watched that narrow oaken gate in the high and ivy-clad stone wall. Frequently he consulted his watch, and wondered at the delay. Had the old man died before revealing where his treasure was hidden, and had a thorough search become necessary? Mr. Czanek did not like to wait so long in the dark in such a place. Then he sensed a soft tread or tapping on the walk inside the gate, heard a gentle fumbling at the rusty latch, and saw the narrow, heavy door swing inward. And in the pallid glow of the single dim street-lamp he strained his eyes to see what his colleagues had brought out of that sinister house which loomed so close behind. But when he looked, he did not see what he had expected; for his colleagues were not there at all, but only the Terrible Old Man leaning quietly on his knotted cane and smiling hideously. Mr. Czanek had never before noticed the colour of that man’s eyes; now he saw that they were yellow.

  Little things make considerable excitement in little towns, which is the reason that Kingsport people talked all that spring and summer about the three unidentifiable bodies, horribly slashed as with many cutlasses, and horribly mangled as by the tread of many cruel boot-heels, which the tide washed in. And some people even spoke of things as trivial as the deserted motor-car found in Ship Street, or certain especially inhuman cries, probably of a stray animal or migratory bird, heard in the night by wakeful citizens. But in this idle village gossip the Terrible Old Man took no interest at all. He was by nature reserved, and when one is aged and feeble, one’s reserve is doubly strong. Besides, so ancient a sea-captain must have witnessed scores of things much more stirring in the far-off days of his un-remembered youth.

  THE MURDERER’S VIOLIN

  Erckmann-Chatrian

  A LONG, SUCCESSFUL, and loving relationship came to a sad and somewhat bizarre close when one of these two friends and collaborators decided that the copyright for all their works should rest with him. Emile Erckmann (1822–1899) and Alexandre Chatrian (1826–1890) met as students and began to write collaboratively in 1849. Their coauthorship me
thodology was probably unique in that Erckmann, clearly the creative genius behind the numerous works of fiction, wrote everything, while Chatrian took care of editing and polishing, as well as handling the messy business of publishing and dramatizations. Surviving manuscripts and papers provide evidence of their productive system. Both men were natives of Alsace-Lorraine and, while Erckmann remained there, Chatrian moved to Paris to handle their business affairs. Although their major works are unread today, their Alsatian novels provide valuable and accurate information about the events, ideas, and folklore of the time and region. Written in clear and direct prose aimed at the general reader, eschewing literary movements, styles, and fads, they were enormously popular while being largely ignored by critics. Often featuring military backgrounds, the novels were appealing to readers for their republican slant and their repudiation of imperialism and Germany. They produced many supernatural stories that were influenced by Poe and Hoffman, and it is these tales for which they are remembered today. Chatrian became ill in 1887 and ended the collaboration. Three years later, as he lay dying, he brought a lawsuit claiming full credit and ownership of all their works. He lost the suit and, although a disappointed and newly pessimistic Erckmann continued to write for several years, it was without distinction.

  “The Murderer’s Violin” (which has also been published as “The Spectre’s Violin” and “The Violin of the Man That Was Hanged”) was first published in Histoires et Contes Fantastiques (1849); its first appearance in English translation was in the September 1876 issue of the Dublin University Magazine.

  The Murderer’s Violin

  ERCKMANN-CHATRIAN

  KARL HFITZ HAD SPENT six years in mastering counterpoint. He had studied Haydn, Glück, Mozart, Beethoven, and Rossini; he enjoyed capital health, and was possessed of ample means which permitted him to indulge his artistic tastes—in a word, he possessed all that goes to make up the grand and beautiful in music, except that insignificant but very necessary thing—inspiration!