The Sixth Ghost Story Megapack

by Shawn M Garrett (ed)

  Alexis never came home again.

  An hour after, I was sent for to the little woodcutter’s hut, outside Paris gates, where he lay dying.

  Anastasius had judged clearly; my noble generous husband had in him but one thing lacking—his passions were “not in his hand.” When Colonel Hart, on the clear testimony of his wife, impugned his wife’s honour, Alexis challenged him—fought and fell.

  It all happened in an hour or two, when their blood was fiery hot. By daylight the Colonel stood, cold as death, pale as a shadow, by Alexis’ bedside. He had killed him, his old friend whom he loved.

  No one thought of me. They let me weep near my husband—unconscious as he was—doubtless believing mine the last contrite tears of an adulteress. I did not heed nor deny that horrible name—Alexis was dying.

  Towards evening he revived a little, and his senses returned. He opened his eyes and saw me—they closed with a shudder.

  “Alexis-Alexis!”

  “Isbel, I am dying. You know the cause. In the name of God—are you—”

  “In the name of God, I am your pure wife, who never loved any man but you.”

  “I am satisfied. I thought it was so.”

  He looked at Colonel Hart, faintly smiling; then opened his arms and took me into them, as if to protect me with his last breath.

  “Now,” he said, still holding me, “My friends, we must make all clear. Nothing must harm her when I am gone. Hart, fetch your wife here.”

  Mrs. Hart came, trembling violently. My husband addressed her.

  “I sent for you—to ask you a question. Answer, as to a dying person, who tomorrow will know all secrets. Who was the man you saw in my wife’s chamber?”

  “He was a stranger to me. I never met him before, anywhere. He lay on the sofa, wrapped in a fur cloak.”

  “Did you see his face?”

  “Not the first time. The second time I did.”

  “What was he like? Be accurate, for the sake of more than life—honour.”

  My husband’s voice sank. There was terror in his eyes, but not that terror—he held me to his bosom still.

  “What was he like, Eliza?” repeated Colonel Hart.

  “He was middle-aged; of a pale, grave countenance, with keen, large eyes, high forehead, and a pointed beard.”

  “Heaven save us! I have seen him too,” cried the Colonel, horror-struck. “It was no living man.”

  “It was M. Anastasius!”

  My husband died that night. He died, his lips on mine, murmuring how dearly he loved me, and how happy he had been.

  For many months after then I was quite happy, too; for my wits wandered, and I thought I was again a little West Indian girl, picking gowans in the meadows about Dumfries.

  The Colonel and Mrs. Hart were, I believe, very kind to me. I always took her for a little playfellow I had, who was called Eliza. It is only lately, as the year has circled round again to the spring, that my head has become clear, and I have found out who she is, and—ah, me!—who I am.

  This coming to my right senses does not give me so much pain as they thought it would; because great weakness of body has balanced and soothed my mind.

  I have but one desire: to go to my own Alexis—and before the twenty-fifth of May.

  Now I have been able nearly to complete our story; which is well. My friend, judge between us—and him. Farewell.

  ISBEL SALTRAM

  POSTSCRIPT

  I think it necessary that I, Eliza Hart, should relate, as simply as veraciously, the circumstances of Mrs. Saltram’s death, which happened on the night of the twenty-fifth of May.

  She was living with us at our house, some miles out of London. She had been very ill and weak during May, but towards the end of the month she revived. We thought if she could live till June she might even recover. My husband desired that on no account might she be told the day of the month—she was indeed purposely deceived on the subject. When the twenty-fifth came she thought it was only the twenty-second. For some weeks she had kept her bed, and Fanchon never left her. Fanchon, who knew the whole history, and was strictly charged, whatever delusions might occur to take no notice whatever of the subject to her mistress. For my husband and myself were again persuaded that it must be some delusion. So was the physician, who nevertheless determined to visit us himself on the night of the twenty-fifth of May.

  It happened that the Colonel was unwell, and I could not remain constantly in Mrs. Saltram’s room. It was a large but very simple suburban bedchamber, with white curtains and modern furniture, all of which I myself arranged in such a manner that there should be no dark corners, no shadows thrown by hanging draperies, or anything of the kind.

  About ten o’clock at night Fanchon accidentally quitted her mistress for a few minutes, sending in her place a nursemaid who had lately come into our family.

  This girl tells me that she entered the room quickly, but stopped, seeing, as she believed, the physician sitting by the bed, on the further side, at Mrs. Saltram’s right hand. She thought Mrs. Saltram did not see him, for she turned and asked her, the nursemaid—“Susan, what o’clock is it?”

  The gentleman did not speak. She says, he appeared sitting with his elbows on his knees, and his face partly concealed in his hands. He wore a long coat or cloak—she could not distinguish which, for the room was rather dark, but she could plainly see on his little finger the sparkle of a diamond ring.

  She is quite certain that Mrs. Saltram did not see the gentleman at all, which rather surprised her, for the poor lady moved from time to time, and spoke complainingly of its being “very cold.” At length she called Susan to sit by her side, and chafe her hands.

  Susan acquiesced—“But did not Mrs. Saltram see the gentleman?”

  “What gentleman?”

  “He was sitting beside you, not a minute since. I thought he was the doctor, or the clergyman. He is gone now.”

  And the girl, much terrified, saw that there was no one in the room.

  She says, Mrs. Saltram did not seem terrified at all. She only pressed her hands on her forehead; her lips slightly moving—then whispered: “Go, call Fanchon and them all, tell them what you saw.”

  “But I must leave you. Are you not afraid?”

  “No. Not now—not now.”

  She covered her eyes, and again her lips began moving.

  Fanchon entered, and I too, immediately.

  I do not expect to be credited. I can only state on my honour, what we both then beheld.

  Mrs. Saltram lay, her eyes open, her face quite calm, as that of a dying person; her hands spread out on the counterpane. Beside her sat erect the same figure I had seen lying on the sofa in Paris, exactly a year ago. It appeared more life-like than she. Neither looked at each other. When we brought a bright lamp into the room, the appearance vanished.

  Isbel said to me, “Eliza, he is come.”

  “Impossible! You have not seen him?”

  “No, but you have?” She looked me steadily in the face. “I knew it. Take the light away, and you will see him again. He is here, I want to speak to him. Quick, take the light away.”

  Alarmed as I was, I could not refuse, for I saw by her features that her last hour was at hand.

  As surely as I write this, I, Eliza Hart, saw, when the candles were removed, that figure grow again, as out of air, and become plainly distinguishable, sitting by her bedside.

  She turned herself with difficulty, and faced it. “Eliza, is he there? I see nothing but the empty chair. Is he there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does he look angry or terrible?”

  “No.”

  “Anastasius!” She extended her hand towards the vacant chair. “Cousin Anastasius!”

  Her voice was sweet, tho
ugh the cold drops stood on her brow. “Cousin Anastasius, I do not see you, but you can see and hear me. I am not afraid of you now. You know, once, I loved you very much.” Here—overcome with terror, I stole back towards the lighted staircase. Thence I still heard Isbel speaking.

  “We erred, both of us, Cousin. You were too hard upon me—I had too great love first, too great terror afterwards, of you. Why should I be afraid of a man that shall die, and of the son of man, whose breath is in his nostrils? I should have worshipped, have feared, not you, but only God.”

  She paused—drawing twice or thrice, heavily, the breath that could not last.

  “I forgive you—forgive me also! I loved you. Have you anything to say to me, Anastasius?”

  Silence.

  “Shall we ever meet in the boundless spheres of heaven?”

  Silence—a long silence. We brought in candles, for she was evidently dying.

  “Eliza—thank you for all! Your hand. It is so dark—and”—shivering—“I am afraid of going into the dark. I might meet Anastasius there. I wish my husband would come.”

  She was wandering in her mind, I saw. Her eyes turned to the vacant chair.

  “Is there anyone sitting by me?”

  “No. Dear Isbel; can you see anyone?”

  “No one—yes”—and with preternatural strength she started right up in bed, extending her arms. “Yes! There—close behind you—I see—my husband. I am quite safe—now!”

  So, with a smile upon her face, she died.

  THE DOOMED MAN, by Dick Donovan

  Originally published in Tales of Terror (1899).

  It was in the year 1847, as our family business and trade were spreading, that I opened a branch of our London house in Cuba, and placed a trusted and experienced manager in charge. Unfortunately this gentleman died in 1850 of yellow fever, and it became necessary that I should proceed at once to Cuba to look into matters, and appoint a successor to the deceased manager. A City friend recommended me to take passage in a sailing vessel called the Pride of the Ocean, belonging to a Liverpool firm, and then loading in the Liverpool docks, being chartered to proceed direct to Cuba. I thereupon applied to the owners, and engaged my passage in her. She was a full-rigged ship of about a thousand tons, and was reputed to be able to sail with a fair wind seventeen knots, being clipper built.

  I arrived in Liverpool on the very day that the ship was advertised to sail. I was informed that she would leave the dock at midnight, when it would be high-water, and that two tugs would tow her beyond Holyhead. I did not reach Liverpool until the evening, and drove at once from the railway station to the vessel and got on board the ship as the dock gates were being opened. Being very tired I went straight to bed, and the next morning, as the sea was very rough, I could not get up, as I am a poor sailor, and generally ill for three or four days at the commencement of a voyage. On this occasion it was a full week before I found my sea legs and sea stomach, and one morning I took my place at the breakfast table for the first time, and was welcomed and greeted by the captain, whom I had not seen before. We were a very small party, as there were only three passengers beside myself, one being a Spanish lady who had been transacting some business in England on behalf of her husband, who was a Cuban planter.

  The captain’s name was Jubal Tredegar, a native of Cornwall. He was about fifty and; had been at sea for over thirty years. He had a swarthy sunburnt face, very dark hair, and black eyes, with a full, rounded beard, but clean-shaven upper lip.

  In every respect he was a typical sailor, save in one thing—he was the most melancholy seaman I have ever come across. It is proverbial of sailors that they are a rollicking, jovial set; but this man was the exception to the rule, and he at once gave me the impression that he had something, on his mind. My sympathies were in consequence of this aroused, and I mentally resolved that I would endeavour to win his confidence, in the hope that I might be of use to him.

  At first, however, I found that he was inclined to be taciturn, and resent any attempt to draw him out; but I learnt from the mate that Tredegar had commanded the ship for three voyages, and was highly respected by the owners. He was a thoroughly experienced navigator, and studied his owners’ interests. There was one thing I could not fail to note; he showed a disposition to talk more to me than to any one else, and discovering that he played a good game of cribbage—a game I was particularly partial to—I got into closer touch with him, as one evening he accepted my invitation to a game, and after that we played whenever opportunity offered. But still he became neither Communicative nor talkative, and no subject I could start appeared to have any interest for him.

  We were playing one night in the cuddy after supper, when I noticed that he seemed more than usually depressed, and kept examining the barometer and casting an anxious eye up through the skylight.

  “What does the glass say, captain?” I asked at last.

  “Well,” he answered, “I think we are going to have a blow. There is dirty weather about somewhere.’

  When four bells (ten o’clock) struck we finished our game and he went into his cabin, while I mounted the companion-way to the poop, intending to smoke my usual cigar before turning in. I had run short of cigars, and the captain had promised to let me have a box of good Havanas, but not until I reached the deck did I remember that I had not a single weed in my case, so I went below again, and to the skipper’s room, intending to ask him for the cigars. Getting no response to my knock I pushed the door open and was surprised to see him seated at his table, so absorbed in gazing at the photograph of a lady that he had not heard my knock. On perceiving me, he hastily thrust the photograph into a drawer and jumped up. I noticed him pass his hands over his eyes and turn away as if ashamed, pretending to search for something on the top of a chest of drawers. I thought it was an opportunity not to be lost so I said to him:

  “Pray excuse my intrusion; I knocked but you didn’t hear me. I would also take the liberty of saying I respect your emotion. A man need not be ashamed of moist eyes when he gazes on the face of some loved one who is far away. It’s human. It shows a kindly heart, an impressionable mind!”

  He turned suddenly and, putting out his hand to me, said: “Thank you, thank you, Mr. Gibling! You are a good sort. A little sympathy sometimes is not a bad thing, and, hardened old shellback as I am, I suppose I’ve got a soft spot somewhere. But, excuse me, I must go on deck.”

  I made known my errand, and having procured the box of cigars for me from his locker, I carried them to my cabin, and he went on deck, and when I had opened the box and taken two or three cigars out I followed him. The night was very dark. Nearly all the sails were set. There was an unpleasant, lumpy sea, and the wind was blowing in fitful gusts.

  The captain ordered the watch to shorten sail, but before the order was entirely carried out a squall struck us, and the vessel heeled over tremendously and commenced to fly through the water, churning the sea around her into white, flashing, phosphorescent froth. Anyone who has ever made a voyage in a sailing ship knows the apparent, and often real, confusion that ensues when a sudden squall strikes the vessel. At such times the wind will frequently blow for a few minutes with hurricane force, and it is no unusual thing for sails to be split to ribbons—even for spars to be carried away. Given a dark night, a heavy squall, a rough sea, rent sails, and the land lubber who is unmoved must be made of very stern stuff. The rifle-like report and cracking of the long shreds of the torn sail are alarming enough to the inexperienced; but when you add to this the rattling of the ropes, the banging of blocks, the groaning of the ship’s timbers, the harsh creaking of the spars, the roar, swish and hiss of the waves, the great masses of boiling white foam that spread around, and the hoarse voices of men on deck to unseen men up above on the yard-arms in the mysterious darkness, there is at once a scene which tests the nerves of the landsman to a very considerable extent.

/>   The squall that struck the Pride of the Ocean was very heavy, and the main topsail went to ribbons. The skipper, who was a perfect seaman, issued his orders rapidly, but with judgment and a display of self-possession, while his officers ably seconded him. Three or four times he came close to me as he shifted his position on the poop, the better to make his voice heard above the howling of the wind. I did not attempt to address him, knowing full well that at such a moment he required to concentrate all his attention on his duties. Once, when he came near me, I heard him mutter—“My God, my God, have pity on me!” It may be imagined to what an extent I was affected by this utterance. Had he said, “Have pity on us,” I should at once have jumped to the conclusion that we were all in danger, but the cry for pity was for himself alone. It set me pondering, and connecting it with his usual melancholy, and the sad and distressful expression of his face, I was not only puzzled but anxious. A few minutes later, as the ship did not pay off as rapidly as she should have done, Captain Tredegar ran to the wheel to help the helmsman to jam the rudder harder over, and as he glanced at the binnacle and his features were illumined by the light from the lamp, I was perfectly startled by his ghastly pallor. To such an extent was I moved that I rushed to him and asked if he was ill. With a powerful sweep of his right arm he moved me from before him, and in tones of terror exclaimed—“There it is again! There, out there on the crest of that wave!” I peered into the darkness, but could see nothing save the phosphorescent gleam of the tumbling sea.

  By this time I was quite unnerved, for a dreadful thought took possession of me. I thought that the skipper was suffering from incipient madness.

  In a few minutes, having got the wheel well over, he called one of the watch aft to assist the steersman, and he himself went forward to the break of the poop, and continued to give his orders. By this time the men had got the flying ropes and flapping sails under control, and, the dark scud in the heavens driving to leeward before the hurricane blast, the moon peeped through the ragged film and threw a weird, ghostly gleam of shimmering light over the swirling waters, while the track of the squall could be followed as it drove down the heavens.