The Sixth Ghost Story Megapack

by Shawn M Garrett (ed)

  Who in the world was he, and what was his errand? He might have been a figure out of one of Hoffman’s tales. Was he vision or a reality—an inmate of the house, or a familiar, friendly visitor? What had been the meaning, in either case, of his mystic genuflexions, and how did he propose to proceed, in that inner darkness? I emerged from my retirement, and observed narrowly, several of the windows. In each of them, at an interval, a ray of light became visible in the chink between the two leaves of the shutters. Evidently, he was lighting up; was he going to give a party—a ghostly revel? My curiosity grew intense, but I was quite at a loss how to satisfy it. For a moment I thought of rapping peremptorily at the door; but I dismissed this idea as unmannerly, and calculated to break the spell, if spell there was. I walked round the house and tried, without violence, to open one of the lower windows. It resisted, but I had better fortune, in a moment, with another. There was a risk, certainly, in the trick I was playing—a risk of being seen from within, or (worse) seeing, myself, something that I should repent of seeing. But curiosity, as I say, had become an inspiration, and the risk was highly agreeable. Through the parting of the shutters I looked into a lighted room—a room lighted by two candles in old brass flambeaux, placed upon the mantel-shelf. It was apparently a sort of back parlor, and it had retained all its furniture. This was of a homely, old-fashioned pattern, and consisted of hair-cloth chairs and sofas, spare mahogany tables, and framed samplers hung upon the walls. But although the room was furnished, it had a strangely uninhabited look; the tables and chairs were in rigid positions, and no small, familiar objects were visible. I could not see everything, and I could only guess at the existence, on my right, of a large folding-door. It was apparently open, and the light of the neighboring room passed through it. I waited for some time, but the room remained empty. At last I became conscious that a large shadow was projected upon the wall opposite the folding-door—the shadow, evidently, of a figure in the adjoining room. It was tall and grotesque, and seemed to represent a person sitting perfectly motionless, in profile. I thought I recognized the perpendicular bristles and far-arching nose of my little old man. There was a strange fixedness in his posture; he appeared to be seated, and looking intently at something. I watched the shadow a long time, but it never stirred. At last, however, just as my patience began to ebb, it moved slowly, rose to the ceiling, and became indistinct. I don’t know what I should have seen next, but by an irresistible impulse, I closed the shutter. Was it delicacy?—was it pusillanimity? I can hardly say. I lingered, nevertheless, near the house, hoping that my friend would re-appear. I was not disappointed; for he at last emerged, looking just as when he had gone in, and taking his leave in the same ceremonious fashion. (The lights, I had already observed, had disappeared from the crevice of each of the windows.) He faced about before the door, took off his hat, and made an obsequious bow. As he turned away I had a hundred minds to speak to him, but I let him depart in peace. This, I may say, was pure delicacy; you will answer, perhaps, that it came too late. It seemed to me that he had a right to resent my observation; though my own right to exercise it (if ghosts were in the question) struck me as equally positive. I continued to watch him as he hobbled softly down the bank, and along the lonely road. Then I musingly retreated in the opposite direction. I was tempted to follow him, at a distance, to see what became of him; but this, too, seemed indelicate; and I confess, moreover, that I felt the inclination to coquet a little, as it were, with my discovery—to pull apart the petals of the flower one by one.

  I continued to smell the flower, from time to time, for its oddity of perfume had fascinated me. I passed by the house on the cross-road again, but never encountered the old man in the cloak, or any other wayfarer. It seemed to keep observers at a distance, and I was careful not to gossip about it: one inquirer, I said to myself, may edge his way into the secret, but there is no room for two. At the same time, of course, I would have been thankful for any chance side-light that might fall across the matter—though I could not well see whence it was to come. I hoped to meet the old man in the cloak elsewhere, but as the days passed by without his re-appearing, I ceased to expect it. And yet I reflected that he probably lived in that neighborhood, much as he had made his pilgrimage to the vacant house on foot. If he had come from a distance, he would have been sure to arrive in some old deep-hooded gig with yellow wheels—a vehicle as venerably grotesque as himself. One day I took a stroll in Mount Auburn cemetery—an institution at that period in its infancy, and full of a sylvan charm which it has now completely forfeited. It contained more maple and birch than willow and cypress, and the sleepers had ample elbow room. It was not a city of the dead, but at the most a village, and a meditative pedestrian might stroll there without too importunate reminder of the grotesque side of our claims to posthumous consideration. I had come out to enjoy the first foretaste of Spring—one of those mild days of late winter, when the torpid earth seems to draw the first long breath that marks the rupture of the spell of sleep. The sun was veiled in haze, and yet warm, and the frost was oozing from its deepest lurking-places. I had been treading for half an hour the winding ways of the cemetery, when suddenly I perceived a familiar figure seated on a bench against a southward-facing evergreen hedge. I call the figure familiar, because I had seen it often in memory and in fancy; in fact, I had beheld it but once. Its back was turned to me, but it wore a voluminous cloak, which there was no mistaking. Here, at last, was my fellow-visitor at the haunted house, and here was my chance, if I wished to approach him! I made a circuit, and came toward him from in front. He saw me, at the end of the alley, and sat motionless, with his hands on the head of his stick, watching me from under his black eyebrows as I drew near. At a distance these black eyebrows looked formidable; they were the only thing I saw in his face. But on a closer view I was re-assured, simply because I immediately felt that no man could really be as fantastically fierce as this poor old gentleman looked. His face was a kind of caricature of martial truculence. I stopped in front of him, and respectfully asked leave to sit and rest upon his bench. He granted it with a silent gesture, of much dignity, and I placed myself beside him. In this position I was able, covertly, to observe him. He was quite as much an oddity in the morning sunshine, as he had been in the dubious twilight. The lines in his face were as rigid as if they had been hacked out of a block by a clumsy woodcarver. His eyes were flamboyant, his nose terrific, his mouth implacable. And yet, after awhile, when he slowly turned and looked at me, fixedly, I perceived that in spite of this portentous mask, he was a very mild old man. I was sure he even would have been glad to smile, but, evidently, his facial muscles were too stiff—they had taken a different fold, once for all. I wondered whether he was demented, but I dismissed the idea; the fixed glitter in his eye was not that of insanity. What his face really expressed was deep and simple sadness; his heart perhaps was broken, but his brain was intact. His dress was shabby but neat, and his old blue cloak had known half a century’s brushing.

  I hastened to make some observation upon the exceptional softness of the day, and he answered me in a gentle, mellow voice, which it was almost startling to hear proceed from such bellicose lips.

  “This is a very comfortable place,” he presently added.

  “I am fond of walking in graveyards,” I rejoined deliberately; flattering myself that I had struck a vein that might lead to something.

  I was encouraged; he turned and fixed me with his duskily glowing eyes. Then very gravely,—“Walking, yes. Take all your exercise now. Some day you will have to settle down in a graveyard in a fixed position.”

  “Very true,” said I. “But you know there are some people who are said to take exercise even after that day.”

  He had been looking at me still; at this he looked away.

  “You don’t understand?” I said, gently.

  He continued to gaze straight before him.

  “Some people, you know, walk about aft
er death,” I went on.

  At last he turned, and looked at me more portentously than ever. “You don’t believe that,” he said simply.

  “How do you know I don’t?”

  “Because you are young and foolish.”

  This was said without acerbity—even kindly; but in the tone of an old man whose consciousness of his own heavy experience made everything else seem light.

  “I am certainly young,” I answered; “but I don’t think that, on the whole, I am foolish. But say I don’t believe in ghosts—most people would be on my side.”

  “Most people are fools!” said the old man.

  I let the question rest, and talked of other things. My companion seemed his guard, he eyed me defiantly, and made brief answers to my remarks; but I nevertheless gathered an impression that our meeting was an agreeable thing to him, and even a social incident of some importance. He was evidently a lonely creature, and his opportunities for gossip were rare. He had had troubles, and they had detached him from the world, and driven him back upon himself; but the social chord in his antiquated soul was not entirely broken, and I was sure he was gratified to find that it could still feebly resound. At last, he began to ask questions himself; he inquired whether I was a student.

  “I am a student of divinity,” I answered.

  “Of divinity?”

  “Of theology. I am studying for the ministry.”

  At this he eyed me with peculiar intensity—after which his gaze wandered away again. “There are certain things you ought to know, then,” he said at last.

  “I have a great desire for knowledge,” I answered. “What things do you mean?”

  He looked at me again awhile, but without heeding my question.

  “I like your appearance,” he said. “You seem to me a sober lad.”

  “Oh, I am perfectly sober!” I exclaimed—yet departing for a moment from my soberness.

  “I think you are fair-minded,” he went on.

  “I don’t any longer strike you as foolish, then?” I asked.

  “I stick to what I said about people who deny the power of departed spirits to return. They are fools!” And he rapped fiercely with his staff on the earth. I hesitated a moment, and then, abruptly, “You have seen a ghost!” I said. He appeared not at all startled.

  “You are right, sir!” he answered with great dignity. “With me it’s not a matter of cold theory—I have not had to pry into old books to learn what to believe. I know! With these eyes I have beheld the departed spirit standing before me as near as you are!” And his eyes, as he spoke, certainly looked as if they had rested upon strange things. I was irresistibly impressed—I was touched with credulity.

  “And was it very terrible?” I asked.

  “I am an old soldier—I am not afraid!”

  “When was it?—where was it?” I asked.

  He looked at me mistrustfully, and I saw that I was going too fast.

  “Excuse me from going into particulars,” he said. “I am not at liberty to speak more fully. I have told you so much, because I cannot bear to hear this subject spoken of lightly. Remember in future, that you have seen a very honest old man who told you—on his honor—that he had seen a ghost!” And he got up, as if he thought he had said enough. Reserve, shyness, pride, the fear of being laughed at, the memory, possibly, of former strokes of sarcasm—all this, on one side, had its weight with him; but I suspected that on the other, his tongue was loosened by the garrulity of old age, the sense of solitude, and the need of sympathy—and perhaps, also, by the friendliness which he had been so good as to express toward myself. Evidently it would be unwise to press him, but I hoped to see him again.

  “To give greater weight to my words,” he added, “let me mention my name—Captain Diamond, sir. I have seen service.”

  “I hope I may have the pleasure of meeting you again,” I said.

  “The same to you, sir!” And brandishing his stick portentously—though with the friendliest intentions—he marched stiffly away.

  I asked two or three persons—selected with discretion—whether they knew anything about Captain Diamond, but they were quite unable to enlighten me. At last, suddenly, I smote my forehead, and, dubbing myself a dolt, remembered that I was neglecting a source of information to which I had never applied in vain. The excellent person at whose table I habitually dined, and who dispensed hospitality to students at so much a week, had a sister as good as herself, and of conversational powers more varied. This sister, who was known as Miss Deborah, was an old maid in all the force of the term. She was deformed, and she never went out of the house; she sat all day at the window, between a bird-cage and a flower-pot, stitching small linen articles—mysterious bands and frills. She wielded, I was assured, an exquisite needle, and her work was highly prized. In spite of her deformity and her confinement, she had a little, fresh, round face, and an imperturbable serenity of spirit. She had also a very quick little wit of her own, she was extremely observant, and she had a high relish for a friendly chat. Nothing pleased her so much as to have you—especially, I think, if you were a young divinity student—move your chair near her sunny window, and settle yourself for twenty minutes’ ‘talk.’ “Well, sir,” she used always to say, “what is the latest monstrosity in Biblical criticism?”—for she used to pretend to be horrified at the rationalistic tendency of the age. But she was an inexorable little philosopher, and I am convinced that she was a keener rationalist than any of us, and that, if she had chosen, she could have propounded questions that would have made the boldest of us wince. Her window commanded the whole town—or rather, the whole country. Knowledge came to her as she sat singing, with her little, cracked voice, in her low rocking-chair. She was the first to learn everything, and the last to forget it. She had the town gossip at her fingers’ ends, and she knew everything about people she had never seen. When I asked her how she had acquired her learning, she said simply—“Oh, I observe!” “Observe closely enough,” she once said, “and it doesn’t matter where you are. You may be in a pitch-dark closet. All you want is something to start with; one thing leads to another, and all things are mixed up. Shut me up in a dark closet and I will observe after a while, that some places in it are darker than others. After that (give me time), and I will tell you what the President of the United States is going to have for dinner.” Once I paid her a compliment. “Your observation,” I said, “is as fine as your needle, and your statements are as true as your stitches.”

  Of course Miss Deborah had heard of Captain Diamond. He had been much talked about many years before, but he had survived the scandal that attached to his name.

  “What was the scandal?” I asked.

  “He killed his daughter.”

  “Killed her?” I cried; “how so?”

  “Oh, not with a pistol, or a dagger, or a dose of arsenic! With his tongue. Talk of women’s tongues! He cursed her—with some horrible oath—and she died!”

  “What had she done?”

  “She had received a visit from a young man who loved her, and whom he had forbidden the house.”

  “The house,” I said—“ah yes! The house is out in the country, two or three miles from here, on a lonely cross-road.”

  Miss Deborah looked sharply at me, as she bit her thread.

  “Ah, you know about the house?” she said.

  “A little,” I answered; I have seen it. But I want you to tell me more.”

  But here Miss Deborah betrayed an incommunicativeness which was most unusual.

  “You wouldn’t call me superstitious, would you?” she asked.

  “You?—you are the quintessence of pure reason.”

  “Well, every thread has its rotten place, and every needle its grain of rust. I would rather not talk about that house.”

  “You have no idea how you ex
cite my curiosity! I said.

  “I can feel for you. But it would make me very nervous.”

  “What harm can come to you?” I asked.

  “Some harm came to a friend of mine.” And Miss Deborah gave a very positive nod.

  “What had your friend done?”

  “She had told me Captain Diamond’s secret, which he had told her with a mighty mystery. She had been an old flame of his, and he took her into his confidence. He bade her tell no one, and assured her that if she did, something dreadful would happen to her.”

  “And what happened to her?”

  “She died.”

  “Oh, we are all mortal!” I said. Had she given him a promise?”

  “She had not taken it seriously, she had not believed him. She repeated the story to me, and three days afterward, she was taken with inflammation of the lungs. A month afterward, here where I sit now, I was stitching her grave-clothes. Since then, I have never mentioned what she told me.”

  “Was it very strange?”

  “It was strange, but it was ridiculous too. It is a thing to make you shudder and to make you laugh, both. But you can’t worry it out of me. I am sure that if I were to tell you, I should immediately break a needle in my finger, and die the next week of lock-jaw.”

  “I retired, and urged Miss Deborah no further; but every two or three days, after dinner, I came and sat down by her rocking-chair. I made no further allusion to Captain Diamond; I sat silent, clipping tape with her scissors. At last, one day, she told me I was looking poorly. I was pale.

  “I am dying of curiosity,” I said. “I have lost my appetite. I have eaten no dinner.”

  “Remember Bluebeard’s wife!” said Miss Deborah.

  “One may as well perish by the sword as by famine!” I answered.