Twenty-Five Ghost Stories
it; it was a real chain, if he had ever heard one. More than that, it
had left the room, and was coming straight towards the stairs. The hall
was dark, and it was impossible for him to see anything, although he
strained his eyes in the direction of the sound. And even while he
looked it had passed behind the screen, and was going down the stairs,
dropping from step to step with a clank.
Half way down a narrow strip of moonlight from a stair-window lay
directly across the steps. Whatever the thing was, it must pass through
that patch of light, and David leaned forward and watched.
Down it went from step to step, and presently it had slipped through the
light, and was down; and a little later it came back again, through the
light, and up the stairs, and back into that unused room.
And then David slapped his knees jubilantly, and ran down to his room,
and slept all the rest of the night.
Next morning he was very mysterious about his discoveries of the night
before.
“Oh, yes, I saw the ghost,” he said to Maggie. “There; don’t ask so many
questions; I’ll tell you more about it to-morrow, maybe.”
And that was all the information she could get from him. It was very
provoking.
That day David made a purchase down town and brought home a bulky
bundle, which he hid in his own room and would not let his sister even
peep at.
“I’m going to try to catch a ghost to-night,” he said, “and you know how
it is; if I brag too much beforehand, I shall be sure to fail.”
He was working with something in the hall after the others had retired;
but he did not sit up this time. He went to bed, and Margaret listened
at his door and found that he was soon asleep.
But away in the night they were all awakened by a squealing that brought
them all into the hall in a great hurry; and there, at the head of the
stairs, they found the huge rat-trap that David had set a few hours
before, and in the midst of the toils was a rat.
“Why, David,” exclaimed the mother, “I didn’t know that there was a rat
in the house.”
And then, all at once, she saw that there was a long chain hanging from
a little iron collar around the creature’s neck, and she and Margaret
cried together.
“And this was the ghost!”
Such a funny ghost when they came to think of it--this poor rat, with a
nest in some hole of the broken chimney. He had been someone’s pet,
once, perhaps; and now, the households he had broken up, the nights he
had disturbed, the wild sensations he had created--it made his captors
laugh to think that this innocent creature had been the cause of the
whole trouble.
“I’ll get a cage for him, and take care of him for the rest of his
life,” said David. “We owe him so much that we can’t afford to be
ungrateful.”
The next morning he took the ghost-in-a-cage and showed it to the agent,
and gave him a vivid account of the capture.
“So, you have a good house for about half price, all on account of that
rat,” exclaimed the agent, grimly. “Young man--but never mind, you
deserve it. What are you working for now? Six dollars a week? If you
ever want to change your place--suppose you come around here. I think
you need a business that will give you a chance to grow.”
And the agent and David shook hands warmly over the cage of the
“ghost.”
GRAND-DAME’S GHOST STORY.
BY C. D.
I don’t know whether you ever tell your children ghost stories or not;
some mothers don’t, but our mother, though of German descent, was
strong-minded on the ghost subject, and early taught all of her children
to be fearless mentally as well as physically, and, though dearly fond
of hearing ghost stories, especially if they were real true ghosts, we
were sadly skeptical as to their being anything of the kind that could
harm. We were quite learned in ghostly lore, knew all about
“doppeigangers,” “Will o’ the Wisp,” “blue lights,” etc., and we could
not have a greater treat for good behavior than for our mother to draw
on her store of supernatural tales for our entertainment. The story I am
about to relate she told us one stormy night, when, gathered round her
chair in her own cozy sanctum, before a cheerful fire, we ate nuts and
apples, and listened while she recited “an o’er true tale,” told her by
her grandmother, who herself witnessed the vision:
It was a fearful night, the wind sobbed and wailed round the house like
lost spirits mourning their doom; the rain beat upon the casements, and
the trees, writhing in the torture of the fierce blast, groaned and
swayed until their tops almost swept the earth; bright flashes of
lightning pierced even through the closed shutters and heavy curtains,
and the thunder had a sullen, threatening roar that made your blood
creep. It was a night to make one seek to shut out all sound, draw the
curtains close, stir the fire and nestle deep in the arm-chair before
it, with feet upon the fender, and have something cheerful to think or
talk about. But I was all alone; none in the house with me but the
servants, and the servants’ wing was detached from the main part of the
building, for I do not care to have menials near me, and I had no loved
ones near.
It was just such a night that Nancy Black died. “What a fearful night
for the soul to leave its earthly home and go out into the vast, unknown
future!” I spoke aloud, as, rousing from a train of thought, I drew my
heavy mantle closer round me, wheeled my arm-chair nearer the fire, and
cuddled down in it, burying my feet in the foot-cushion to warm them,
for I felt strangely cold. I was in the library; it was my usual
sitting-room, for I seldom used the parlors. What was the use? My books
were my friends, and I loved best to be with them. My children dead, or
married and away, the cold, grand parlors always seemed gloomy and sad;
the ghosts of departed pleasures haunted them, and I cared not to enter
them.
It was a long, wide room across the hall from the parlors, running the
whole length of the house, and was lined with shelves from floor to
ceiling. My husband’s father had been a bibliomaniac, and my husband had
had a leaning that way also, and the shelves held many an old rare work
that was worth its weight in gold. The fire, though burning brightly,
did not illume one-half the room of which, sitting in the chimney
corner, I commanded a full view, and had been looking at the shadows
playing on the furniture and shelves, as the flame shot up, and after
flickering a moment, would die out, leaving a gloom which would break
away into fantastic shadows as the firelight would again shoot up.
While watching the gleams of light and darkling shades, unconsciously
the wailing of the storm outside attracted my attention, there seemed to
be odd noises of tapping on the windows, and sobs and sighs, as though
someone was entreating entrance from the fierce tumult; and as I sat
there, again I thought of Nancy Black, the old schoolgirl friend who had
loved me so dearly, and the night when she went forth to meet the doom
appointed her; resting my head upon my hand, I sat gazing in the fire,
thinking over her strange life, and still stranger death, and wondering
what could have become of the money and jewels that I knew she had once
possessed.
While sitting thus, a queer sensation crept over me; it was not fear,
but a feeling as though if I’d look up I’d see something frightful; a
shiver, not like that of cold, ran from my head to my feet, and a
sensation as though someone was breathing icy cold breath upon my
forehead, the same feeling you would cause by holding a piece of ice to
your cheek; it fluttered over my face and finally settled round my lips,
as though the unseen one was caressing me, thrilling me with horror. But
I am not fearful, nervous nor imaginative, and resolutely throwing off
the dread that fell upon me, I turned round and looked up, and there, so
close by my side that my hand, involuntarily thrown out, passed through
her seeming form, stood Nancy Black. It was Nancy Black, and yet not
Nancy Black; her whole body had a semi-transparent appearance, just as
your hand looks when you hold it between yourself and a strong light;
her clothing, apparently the same as worn in life, had a wavy, seething,
flickering look, like flames have, and yet did not seem to burn.
“In the name of God, Nancy Black, what brought you here, and whence came
you?” I exclaimed.
A hollow whisper followed:
“Thank you, my old friend, for speaking to me, and, oh, how deeply I
thank you for thinking of me to-night--I shall have rest.”
Rest! I heard echoed, and a jeering laugh rang through the room that
made her quiver at its sound.
“I have been near you often; but always failed to find you in a
condition when you would be en rapport before to-night. What I came for
I will tell you; whence I come, you need not know; suffice it to say,
that were I happy I would not be here on such an errand, nor on such a
night--it is only when the elements are in a tumult, and the winds wail
and moan, that we come forth. When you hear these sounds it is souls of
the lost you hear mourning their doom--’tis then they wander up and
down, to and fro, their only release from their fearful home of torture
and undying pain.
“I have come to tell you that you must go over to the old house, and in
the back room I always kept locked, have the carpet taken up from toward
the fireplace. You will see a plank with a knot-hole in it. Remove that,
and you will find what caused me to lose my soul--have prayers said for
me, for ’tis well to pray for the dead. The money and jewels give in
charity; bury in holy ground the others you find, and pray for them and
me. Ah! Jeannette, you thought your old friend, though strange and odd,
pure and innocent. It is a bitter part of my punishment that I must
change your thought of me. Farewell! Do not fail me, and I shall trouble
you no more. But whenever you hear that wind howl and sweep round the
house as it does to-night, know that the lost are near. It is their
swift flight through space--fleeing before the scourge of memory and
conscience--that causes that sound.
“That to-morrow you may not think you are dreaming, here is a token,”
and she touched the palm of my hand with her finger-tips, and as you
see, my child, to this day, there are three crimson spots in the palm of
my hand that nothing will eradicate.
“Do not fail me, and pray for us, Jeannette, pray,” and with a longing,
wistful gaze, and a deep, sobbing sigh, Nancy Black faded from my sight.
“Am I dreaming?” I exclaimed, as I rose from my chair and rang the bell.
When the servant entered, I bade him attend to the fire and light the
lamps, and I went through the room to see if any unusual arrangement of
the furniture could have caused the appearance, but nothing was
apparent, and I bade him send my maid to attend me in my chamber, for I
could not help feeling unwilling to remain in the library any longer
that evening.
While making my toilet for the night my maid said:
“Have you burned your hand, madam?”
Glancing hastily down, I saw three dark crimson spots upon the palm of
my left hand. They had an odd look, seared as though touched by a
red-hot iron, yet the flesh was soft, not burned and not painful. Making
some excuse for it, I did not allude to it again, and dismissed her
speedily, that I might reflect undisturbed over the singular occurrence.
There were the marks upon my hand; I could not remove them, and they did
not fade. In fact, their deep red made the rest of the palm lose its
pinkish hue and look pale from the strong contrast. Could I have been
asleep and dreamed it all, and by any means have done this to myself? I
thought, but finally concluded that on the morrow I’d go over to Nancy
Black’s old residence and settle the question; and with that conclusion