Three Ghost Stories
“Where?”
He pointed to the red light he had looked at.
“There?” I said.
Intently watchful of me, he replied (but without sound), “Yes.”
“My good fellow, what should I do there? However, be that as it may, I
never was there, you may swear.”
“I think I may,” he rejoined. “Yes; I am sure I may.”
His manner cleared, like my own. He replied to my remarks with
readiness, and in well-chosen words. Had he much to do there? Yes; that
was to say, he had enough responsibility to bear; but exactness and
watchfulness were what was required of him, and of actual work—manual
labour—he had next to none. To change that signal, to trim those lights,
and to turn this iron handle now and then, was all he had to do under
that head. Regarding those many long and lonely hours of which I seemed
to make so much, he could only say that the routine of his life had
shaped itself into that form, and he had grown used to it. He had taught
himself a language down here,—if only to know it by sight, and to have
formed his own crude ideas of its pronunciation, could be called learning
it. He had also worked at fractions and decimals, and tried a little
algebra; but he was, and had been as a boy, a poor hand at figures. Was
it necessary for him when on duty always to remain in that channel of
damp air, and could he never rise into the sunshine from between those
high stone walls? Why, that depended upon times and circumstances.
Under some conditions there would be less upon the Line than under
others, and the same held good as to certain hours of the day and night.
In bright weather, he did choose occasions for getting a little above
these lower shadows; but, being at all times liable to be called by his
electric bell, and at such times listening for it with redoubled anxiety,
the relief was less than I would suppose.
He took me into his box, where there was a fire, a desk for an official
book in which he had to make certain entries, a telegraphic instrument
with its dial, face, and needles, and the little bell of which he had
spoken. On my trusting that he would excuse the remark that he had been
well educated, and (I hoped I might say without offence) perhaps educated
above that station, he observed that instances of slight incongruity in
such wise would rarely be found wanting among large bodies of men; that
he had heard it was so in workhouses, in the police force, even in that
last desperate resource, the army; and that he knew it was so, more or
less, in any great railway staff. He had been, when young (if I could
believe it, sitting in that hut,—he scarcely could), a student of natural
philosophy, and had attended lectures; but he had run wild, misused his
opportunities, gone down, and never risen again. He had no complaint to
offer about that. He had made his bed, and he lay upon it. It was far
too late to make another.
[Picture: The signal-man]
All that I have here condensed he said in a quiet manner, with his grave,
dark regards divided between me and the fire. He threw in the word,
“Sir,” from time to time, and especially when he referred to his
youth,—as though to request me to understand that he claimed to be
nothing but what I found him. He was several times interrupted by the
little bell, and had to read off messages, and send replies. Once he had
to stand without the door, and display a flag as a train passed, and make
some verbal communication to the driver. In the discharge of his duties,
I observed him to be remarkably exact and vigilant, breaking off his
discourse at a syllable, and remaining silent until what he had to do was
done.
In a word, I should have set this man down as one of the safest of men to
be employed in that capacity, but for the circumstance that while he was
speaking to me he twice broke off with a fallen colour, turned his face
towards the little bell when it did NOT ring, opened the door of the hut
(which was kept shut to exclude the unhealthy damp), and looked out
towards the red light near the mouth of the tunnel. On both of those
occasions, he came back to the fire with the inexplicable air upon him
which I had remarked, without being able to define, when we were so far
asunder.
Said I, when I rose to leave him, “You almost make me think that I have
met with a contented man.”
(I am afraid I must acknowledge that I said it to lead him on.)
“I believe I used to be so,” he rejoined, in the low voice in which he
had first spoken; “but I am troubled, sir, I am troubled.”
He would have recalled the words if he could. He had said them, however,
and I took them up quickly.
“With what? What is your trouble?”
“It is very difficult to impart, sir. It is very, very difficult to
speak of. If ever you make me another visit, I will try to tell you.”
“But I expressly intend to make you another visit. Say, when shall it
be?”
“I go off early in the morning, and I shall be on again at ten to-morrow
night, sir.”
“I will come at eleven.”
He thanked me, and went out at the door with me. “I’ll show my white
light, sir,” he said, in his peculiar low voice, “till you have found the
way up. When you have found it, don’t call out! And when you are at the
top, don’t call out!”
His manner seemed to make the place strike colder to me, but I said no
more than, “Very well.”
“And when you come down to-morrow night, don’t call out! Let me ask you
a parting question. What made you cry, ‘Halloa! Below there!’
to-night?”
“Heaven knows,” said I. “I cried something to that effect—”
“Not to that effect, sir. Those were the very words. I know them well.”
“Admit those were the very words. I said them, no doubt, because I saw
you below.”
“For no other reason?”
“What other reason could I possibly have?”
“You had no feeling that they were conveyed to you in any supernatural
way?”
“No.”
He wished me good-night, and held up his light. I walked by the side of
the down Line of rails (with a very disagreeable sensation of a train
coming behind me) until I found the path. It was easier to mount than to
descend, and I got back to my inn without any adventure.
Punctual to my appointment, I placed my foot on the first notch of the
zigzag next night, as the distant clocks were striking eleven. He was
waiting for me at the bottom, with his white light on. “I have not
called out,” I said, when we came close together; “may I speak now?” “By
all means, sir.” “Good-night, then, and here’s my hand.” “Good-night,
sir, and here’s mine.” With that we walked side by side to his box,
entered it, closed the door, and sat down by the fire.
“I have made up my mind, sir,” he began, bending forward as soon as we
were seated, and speaking in a tone but a little above a whisper, “that
you shall not have to ask me twice what troubles me. I took you for some
one else yesterday evening. That troubles me.”
“That mistake?”
“No. That some one else.”
“Who is it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Like me?”
“I don’t know. I never saw the face. The left arm is across the face,
and the right arm is waved,—violently waved. This way.”
I followed his action with my eyes, and it was the action of an arm
gesticulating, with the utmost passion and vehemence, “For God’s sake,
clear the way!”
“One moonlight night,” said the man, “I was sitting here, when I heard a
voice cry, ‘Halloa! Below there!’ I started up, looked from that door,
and saw this Some one else standing by the red light near the tunnel,
waving as I just now showed you. The voice seemed hoarse with shouting,
and it cried, ‘Look out! Look out!’ And then again, ‘Halloa! Below
there! Look out!’ I caught up my lamp, turned it on red, and ran
towards the figure, calling, ‘What’s wrong? What has happened? Where?’
It stood just outside the blackness of the tunnel. I advanced so close
upon it that I wondered at its keeping the sleeve across its eyes. I ran
right up at it, and had my hand stretched out to pull the sleeve away,
when it was gone.”
“Into the tunnel?” said I.
“No. I ran on into the tunnel, five hundred yards. I stopped, and held
my lamp above my head, and saw the figures of the measured distance, and
saw the wet stains stealing down the walls and trickling through the
arch. I ran out again faster than I had run in (for I had a mortal
abhorrence of the place upon me), and I looked all round the red light
with my own red light, and I went up the iron ladder to the gallery atop
of it, and I came down again, and ran back here. I telegraphed both
ways, ‘An alarm has been given. Is anything wrong?’ The answer came
back, both ways, ‘All well.’”
Resisting the slow touch of a frozen finger tracing out my spine, I
showed him how that this figure must be a deception of his sense of
sight; and how that figures, originating in disease of the delicate
nerves that minister to the functions of the eye, were known to have
often troubled patients, some of whom had become conscious of the nature
of their affliction, and had even proved it by experiments upon
themselves. “As to an imaginary cry,” said I, “do but listen for a
moment to the wind in this unnatural valley while we speak so low, and to
the wild harp it makes of the telegraph wires.”
That was all very well, he returned, after we had sat listening for a
while, and he ought to know something of the wind and the wires,—he who
so often passed long winter nights there, alone and watching. But he
would beg to remark that he had not finished.
I asked his pardon, and he slowly added these words, touching my arm,—
“Within six hours after the Appearance, the memorable accident on this
Line happened, and within ten hours the dead and wounded were brought
along through the tunnel over the spot where the figure had stood.”
A disagreeable shudder crept over me, but I did my best against it. It
was not to be denied, I rejoined, that this was a remarkable coincidence,
calculated deeply to impress his mind. But it was unquestionable that
remarkable coincidences did continually occur, and they must be taken
into account in dealing with such a subject. Though to be sure I must
admit, I added (for I thought I saw that he was going to bring the
objection to bear upon me), men of common sense did not allow much for
coincidences in making the ordinary calculations of life.
He again begged to remark that he had not finished.
I again begged his pardon for being betrayed into interruptions.
“This,” he said, again laying his hand upon my arm, and glancing over his
shoulder with hollow eyes, “was just a year ago. Six or seven months
passed, and I had recovered from the surprise and shock, when one
morning, as the day was breaking, I, standing at the door, looked towards
the red light, and saw the spectre again.” He stopped, with a fixed look
at me.
“Did it cry out?”
“No. It was silent.”
“Did it wave its arm?”
“No. It leaned against the shaft of the light, with both hands before
the face. Like this.”
Once more I followed his action with my eyes. It was an action of
mourning. I have seen such an attitude in stone figures on tombs.
“Did you go up to it?”
“I came in and sat down, partly to collect my thoughts, partly because it
had turned me faint. When I went to the door again, daylight was above
me, and the ghost was gone.”
“But nothing followed? Nothing came of this?”
He touched me on the arm with his forefinger twice or thrice giving a
ghastly nod each time:—
“That very day, as a train came out of the tunnel, I noticed, at a
carriage window on my side, what looked like a confusion of hands and
heads, and something waved. I saw it just in time to signal the driver,
Stop! He shut off, and put his brake on, but the train drifted past here