The Big Book of Ghost Stories

by Otto Penzler

  At the same moment the two at the vault caught sight of us. With a shrill scream, the tall, gaunt thing loosed his hold of the corpse and launched himself forward. But the crucifix served us well, for the thing fell shuddering away from it. Father Burkhardt immediately pressed his advantage, and following his sharp command, Weatherbee and I rushed at Bentley, who had up to this moment remained beside the corpse, still keeping hold of one dead arm.

  But at our advance, Bentley wavered a moment, and then turned and took flight, dodging nimbly past us and running for the house. We were at his heels, and saw him when he vanished in the deep shadows of the tree near the library window.

  Father Burkhardt presently made his appearance, walking warily, for the thing was still at bay but eager to attack.

  “Find the bones,” directed the priest. “They’re in the tree, I suspect.”

  I bent obediently, and presently my searching hand encountered a scooped-out hollow in the trunk just above the opening at the base of the tree. In this lay the skeleton of Andrew Bentley, together with the weapon by which he had met his death, and here it had lain ever since the thing Bentley had summoned from the depths had removed the sorcerer’s body from the old vault. Small wonder that it had never been discovered!

  Father Burkhardt stood protectingly close while Weatherbee and I prepared a pyre to consume the remains of the sorcerer.

  “But what can we do about that?” I asked once, pointing to the familiar that now raged in baffled fury just beyond us.

  “We need not bother about that,” said the priest. “He is held to earth only by the body of the man who summoned him from below. When once that body is destroyed, he must return. That’s why they were after your uncle’s body. If the familiar could inhabit a body fresh from a new grave, he could walk by day as well as by night, and need have no fear of having to return.”

  Once or twice the thing did rush at us—but each time its charge was arrested by the power of that crucifix held unfalteringly aloft by Father Burkhardt, and each time the thing shrank away, wailing.

  It was over at last, but not without a short period of ghastly doubt. The remains of Andrew Bentley were reduced to ashes, utterly destroyed, and yet the thing Bentley had called from outside lingered beyond us, strangely quiet now, regarding us malevolently.

  “I don’t understand,” admitted Father Burkhardt at last. “Now that Bentley’s ashes alone remain, the thing should go back into the depths.”

  But if the priest did not understand, I did. Abruptly I ran to the library window, raised it as far as it would go, and scrambled into the room. In a moment I emerged, bearing the fragment of Bentley’s little finger which I had snatched from the skeletal hand the night before. I threw it into the flames already dying down in the shadow of the tree.

  In a moment it had caught fire, and at the same instant the thing hovering near gave a chilling scream of pain and fury, pushed madly toward us, and then abruptly shot into space and vanished like the last fragment of an unholy, ghastly nightmare.

  “Requiescat in pace,” said Father Burkhardt softly, looking at the ashes at our feet. But the dubious expression in his eyes conveyed his belief that for the now-released spirit of Andrew Bentley a greater and longer torture had just begun.

  THE FLOOR ABOVE

  M. L. Humphreys

  M. L. HUMPHREYS APPEARS to be one of the many obscure writers who worked briefly in the pulps. Or perhaps the name is a pseudonym, used once and discarded. I could find nothing about this author beyond the fact that this story, the only one I could locate with this byline, was selected by H. P. Lovecraft in 1929 and 1930, when he compiled a list of significant horror stories, incorporating both literary fiction and popular stories. The list was published as H. P. Lovecraft’s Favorite Weird Tales: The Roots of Modern Horror, and the criterion for being included was that the stories must have “the greatest amount of truly cosmic horror and macabre convincingness.”

  “The Floor Above” was originally published in the May 1923 issue of Weird Tales.

  The Floor Above

  M. L. HUMPHREYS

  SEPTEMBER 17, 1922.—I sat down to breakfast this morning with a good appetite. The heat seemed over, and a cool wind blew in from my garden, where chrysanthemums were already budding. The sunshine streamed into the room and fell pleasantly on Mrs. O’Brien’s broad face as she brought in the eggs and coffee. For a supposedly lonely old bachelor the world seemed to me a pretty good place. I was buttering my third set of waffles when the housekeeper again appeared, this time with the mail.

  I glanced carelessly at the three or four letters beside my plate. One of them bore a strangely familiar handwriting. I gazed at it a minute, then seized it with a beating heart. Tears almost came into my eyes. There was no doubt about it—it was Arthur Barker’s handwriting! Shaky and changed, to be sure, but ten years have passed since I have seen Arthur, or, rather, since his mysterious disappearance.

  For ten years I have not had a word from him. His people know no more than I what has become of him, and long ago we gave him up for dead. He vanished without leaving a trace behind him. It seemed to me, too, that with him vanished the last shreds of my youth. For Arthur was my dearest friend in that happy time. We were boon companions, and many a mad prank we played together.

  And now, after ten years of silence, Arthur was writing to me!

  The envelope was postmarked Baltimore. Almost reluctantly—for I feared what it might contain—I passed my finger under the flap and opened it. It held a single sheet of paper torn from a pad. But it was Arthur’s writing:

  Dear Tom:

  Old man, can you run down to see me for a few days? I’m afraid I’m in a bad way.

  Arthur.

  Scrawled across the bottom was the address, 536 N. Marathon Street.

  I have often visited Baltimore, but I can not recall a street of that name.

  Of course I shall go … But what a strange letter after ten years! There is something almost uncanny about it.

  I shall go tomorrow evening. I can not possibly get off before then.

  September 18—I am leaving tonight. Mrs. O’Brien has packed my two suitcases, and everything is in readiness for my departure. Ten minutes ago I handed her the keys and she went off tearfully. She has been sniffling all day and I have been perplexed, for a curious thing occurred this morning.

  It was about Arthur’s letter. Yesterday, when I had finished reading it, I took it to my desk and placed it in a small compartment together with other personal papers. I remember distinctly that it was on top, with a lavender card from my sister directly underneath. This morning I went to get it. It was gone.

  There was the lavender card exactly where I had seen it, but Arthur’s letter had completely disappeared. I turned everything upside down, then called Mrs. O’Brien and we both searched, but in vain. Mrs. O’Brien, in spite of all I could say, took it upon herself to feel that I suspected her … But what could have become of it? Fortunately I remembered the address.

  September 19—I have arrived. I have seen Arthur. Even now he is in the next room and I am supposed to be preparing for bed. But something tells me I shall not sleep a wink this night. I am strangely wrought up, though there is not the shadow of an excuse for my excitement. I should be rejoicing to have found my friend again. And yet—

  I reached Baltimore this morning at eleven o’clock. The day was warm and beautiful, and I loitered outside the station a few minutes before calling a taxi. The driver seemed well acquainted with the street I gave him, and we rolled off across the bridge.

  As I drew near my destination, I began to feel anxious and afraid. But the ride lasted longer than I expected—Marathon Street seemed to be located in the suburbs of the city. At last we turned into a dusty street, paved only in patches and lined with linden and aspen trees. The fallen leaves crunched beneath the tires. The September sun beat down with a white intensity. The taxi drew up before a house in the middle of a block that boasted not more than six dwel
lings. On each side of the house was a vacant lot, and it was set far back at the end of a long narrow yard crowded with trees.

  I paid the driver, opened the gate, and went in. The trees were so thick that not until I was half-way up the path did I get a good view of the house. It was three stories high, built of brick, in fairly good repair, but lonely and deserted-looking. The blinds were closed in all of the windows with the exception of two, one on the first, one on the second floor. Not a sign of life anywhere, not a cat nor a milk-bottle to break the monotony of leaves that carpeted the porch.

  But, overcoming my feeling of uneasiness, I resolutely set my suitcases on the porch, caught at the old-fashioned bell, and gave an energetic jerk. A startling peal jangled through the silence. I waited, but there was no answer.

  After a minute I rang again. Then from the interior I heard a queer dragging sound, as if some one was coming slowly down the hall. The knob was turned and the door opened. I saw before me an old woman, wrinkled, withered, and filmy-eyed, who leaned on a crutch.

  “Does Mr. Barker live here?” I asked.

  She nodded, staring at me in a curious way, but made no move to invite me in.

  “Well, I’ve come to see him,” I said. “I’m a friend of his. He sent for me.”

  At that she drew slightly aside.

  “He’s upstairs,” she said in a cracked voice that was little more than a whisper. “I can’t show you up. Hain’t been up a stair now in ten years.”

  “That’s all right,” I replied, and, seizing my suitcases, I strode down the long hall.

  “At the head of the steps,” came the whispering voice behind me. “The door at the end of the hall.”

  I climbed the cold dark stairway, passed along the short hall at the top, and stood before a closed door. I knocked.

  “Come in.” It was Arthur’s voice, and yet—not his.

  I opened the door and saw Arthur sitting on a couch, his shoulders hunched over, his eyes raised to mine.

  After all, ten years had not changed him so much. As I remembered him, he was of medium height, inclined to be stout, and ruddy-faced, with keen gray eyes. He was still stout, but had lost his color and his eyes had dulled.

  “And where have you been all this time?” I demanded, when the first greetings were over.

  “Here,” he answered.

  “In this house?” “Yes.”

  “But why didn’t you let us hear from you?”

  He seemed to be making an effort to speak.

  “What did it matter? I didn’t suppose any one cared.”

  Perhaps it was my imagination, but I could not get rid of the thought that Arthur’s pale eyes, fixed tenaciously upon my face, were trying to tell me something, something quite different from what his lips said.

  I felt chilled. Although the blinds were open, the room was almost darkened by the branches of the trees that pressed against the window. Arthur had not given me his hand, had seemed troubled to know how to make me welcome. Yet of one thing I was certain: He needed me and he wanted me to know he needed me.

  As I took a chair I glanced about the room. It was a typical lodging-house room, medium-sized, with flowered wallpaper, worn matting, nondescript rugs, a wash-stand in one corner, a chiffonier in another, a table in the center, two or three chairs, and the couch which evidently served Arthur as a bed. But it was cold, strangely cold for such a warm day.

  Arthur’s eyes had wandered uneasily to my suitcases. He made an effort to drag himself to his feet.

  “Your room is back here,” he said, with a motion of his thumb.

  “No, wait,” I protested. “Let’s talk about yourself first. What’s wrong?”

  “I’ve been sick.”

  “Haven’t you a doctor? If not, I’ll get one.”

  At this he started up with the first sign of animation he had shown.

  “No, Tom, don’t do it. Doctors can’t help me now. Besides, I hate them. I’m afraid of them.”

  His voice trailed away, and I took pity on his agitation. I decided to let the question of doctors drop for the moment.

  “As you say,” I assented carelessly.

  Without more ado, I followed him into my room, which adjoined his and was furnished in much the same fashion. But there were two windows, one on each side, looking out on the vacant lots. Consequently there was more light, for which I was thankful. In a far corner I noticed a door, heavily bolted.

  “There’s one more room,” said Arthur, as I deposited my belongings, “one that you’ll like. But we’ll have to go through the bathroom.”

  Groping our way through the musty bathroom, in which a tiny jet of gas was flickering, we stepped into a large, almost luxurious chamber. It was a library, well-furnished, carpeted, and surrounded by shelves fairly bulging with books. But for the chilliness and bad light, it was perfect. As I moved about, Arthur followed me with his eyes.

  “There are some rare works on botany—” I had already discovered them, a set of books that I would have given much to own. I could not contain my joy.

  “You won’t be so bored browsing around in here—”

  In spite of my preoccupation, I pricked up my ears. In that monotonous voice there was no sympathy with my joy. It was cold and tired.

  When I had satisfied my curiosity we returned to the front room, and Arthur flung himself, or rather fell, upon the couch. It was nearly five o’clock and quite dark. As I lighted the gas, I heard a sound below as of somebody thumping on the wall.

  “That’s the old woman,” Arthur explained. “She cooks my meals, but she’s too lame to bring them up.”

  He made a feeble attempt at rising, but I saw he was worn out.

  “Don’t stir,” I warned him. “I’ll bring up your food tonight.”

  To my surprise, I found the dinner appetizing and well-cooked, and, in spite of the fact that I did not like the looks of the old woman, I ate with relish. Arthur barely touched a few spoonfuls of soup to his lips and absently crumbled some bread in his plate.

  Directly I had carried off the dishes, he wrapped his reddish-brown dressing gown about him, stretched out at full length on the couch, and asked me to turn out the gas. When I had complied with his request, I again heard his weak voice asking if I had everything I needed.

  “Everything,” I assured him, and then there was unbroken silence.

  I went to my room, finally, closed the door, and here I am sitting restlessly between the two back windows that look out on the vacant lots.

  I have unpacked my clothes and turned down the bed, but I can not make up my mind to retire. If the truth be told, I hate to put out the light.… There is something disturbing in the way the dry leaves tap on the panes. And my heart is sad when I think of Arthur.

  I have found my old friend, but he is no longer my old friend. Why does he fix his pale eyes so strangely on my face? What does he wish to tell me?

  But these are morbid thoughts. I will put them out of my head. I will go to bed and get a good night’s rest. And tomorrow I will wake up finding everything right and as it should be.

  September 26—I have been here a week today, and have settled down to this queer existence as if I had never known another. The day after my arrival I discovered that the third volume of the botanical series was done in Latin, which I have set myself the task of translating. It is absorbing work, and when I have buried myself in one of the deep chairs by the library table, the hours fly fast.

  For health’s sake I force myself to walk a few miles every day. I have tried to prevail on Arthur to do likewise, but he, who used to be so active, now refuses to budge from the house. No wonder he is literally blue! For it is a fact that his complexion, and the shadows about his eyes and temples, are decidedly blue.

  What does he do with himself all day? Whenever I enter his room, he is lying on the couch, a book beside him, which he never reads. He does not seem to suffer pain, for he never complains. After several ineffectual attempts to get medical aid for him, I have
given up mentioning the subject of doctor. I feel that his trouble is more mental than physical.

  September 28—A rainy day. It has been coming down in floods since dawn. And I got a queer turn this afternoon.

  As I could not get out for my walk, I spent the morning staging a general house-cleaning. It was time! Dust and dirt everywhere. The bathroom, which has no window and is lighted by gas, was fairly overrun with water-bugs and roaches. Of course I did not penetrate to Arthur’s room, but I heard no sound from him as I swept and dusted.

  I made a good dinner and settled down in the library, feeling quite cozy. The rain came down steadily and it had grown so cold I decided to make a fire later on. But once I had gathered my tablets and notebooks about me I forgot the cold.

  I remember I was on the subject of the Aster trifolium, a rare variety seldom found in this country. Turning a page, I came upon a specimen of this very variety, dried, pressed flat, and pasted to the margin. Above it, in Arthur’s handwriting, I read: September 27, 1912.

  I was bending close to examine it, when I felt a vague fear. It seemed to me that some one was in the room and was watching me. Yet I had not heard the door open, nor seen any one enter. I turned sharply and saw Arthur, wrapped in his reddish-brown dressing-gown, standing at my very elbow.

  He was smiling—smiling for the first time since my arrival, and his dull eyes were bright. But I did not like that smile. In spite of myself I jerked away from him. He pointed at the aster.

  “It grew in the front yard under a linden tree. I found it yesterday.”

  “Yesterday!” I shouted, my nerves on edge. “Good Lord, man! Look! It was ten years ago!”

  The smile faded from his face.

  “Ten years ago,” he repeated thickly. “Ten years ago?”

  . . .

  Five o’clock. Dusk is falling. O God! What has come over me? Am I the same man that went out of this house three hours ago? And what has happened?…