Twenty-Five Ghost Stories
All draped with blue denim--the seaside cottage of my friend, Sara Pyne.
She asked me to go there with her when she opened it to have it set in
order for the summer. She confessed that she felt a trifle nervous at
the idea of entering it alone. And I am always ready for an excursion.
So much blue denim rather surprised me, because blue is not
complimentary to Sara’s complexion--she always wears some shade of red,
by preference. She perceived my wonder; she is very near-sighted, and
therefore sees everything by some sort of sixth sense.
“You do not like my portieres and curtains and table-covers,” said she.
“Neither do I. But I did it to accommodate. And now he rests well in his
grave, I hope.”
“Whose grave, for pity’s sake?”
“Mr. J. Billington Price’s.”
“And who is he? He doesn’t sound interesting.”
“Then I will tell you about him,” said Sara, taking a seat directly in
front of one of those curtains. “Last autumn I was leaving this place
for New York, traveling on the fast express train known as the Flying
Yankee. Of course, I thought of the Flying Dutchman and Wagner’s musical
setting of the uncanny legend, and how different things are in these
days of steam, etc. Then I looked out of the window at the landscape,
the horizon that seemed to wheel in a great curve as the train sped on.
Every now and then I had an impression at the ‘tail of the eye’ that a
man was sitting in a chair three or four numbers in front of me on the
opposite side of the car. Each time that I saw this shape I looked at
the chair and ascertained that it was unoccupied. But it was an odd
trick of vision. I raised my lorgnette, and the chair showed emptier
than before. There was nobody in it, certainly. But the more I knew that
it was vacant the more plainly I saw the man. Always with the corner of
my eye. It made me nervous. When passengers entered the car I dreaded
lest they might take that seat. What would happen if they should? A bag
was put in the chair--that made me uncomfortable. The bag was removed at
the next station. Then a baby was placed in the seat. It began to laugh
as though someone had gently tickled it. There was something odd about
that chair--thirteen was its number. When I looked away from it the
impression was strong upon me that some person sitting there was
watching me.
“Really, it would not do to humor such fancies. So I touched the
electric button, asked the porter to bring me a table, and taking from
my bag a pack of cards, proceeded to divert myself with a game of
patience. I was puzzling where to put a seven of spades. ‘Where can it
go?’ I murmured to myself. A voice behind me prompted: ‘Play the four of
diamonds on the five, and you can do it.’ I started. The only occupants
of the car, besides me, were a bridal couple, a mother with three little
children, and a typical preacher of one of the straitest sects. Who had
spoken? ‘Play up the four, madam,’ repeated this voice.
“I looked fearfully over my shoulder. At first I saw a bluish cloud,
like cigar smoke, but inodorous. Then the vision cleared, and I saw a
young man whom I knew by a subtle intuition to be the occupant, seen and
not seen, of chair number thirteen. Evidently he was a traveling
salesman--and a ghost. Of course, a drummer’s ghost sounds
ridiculous--they’re so extremely alive! Or else you would expect a dead
drummer to be particularly dead and not ‘walk.’ This was a most
commonplace-looking ghost, cordial, pushing, businesslike. At the same
time, his face had an expression of utter despair and horror which made
him still more preposterous. Of course it is not nice to let a stranger
speak to one, even on so impersonal a topic as a four of diamonds. But a
ghost--there can’t be any rule of etiquette about talking with a ghost!
My dear, it was dreadful! That forward creature showed me how to play
all the cards, and then begged me to lay them out again, in order that
he might give me some clever points. I was too much amazed and disturbed
to speak. I could only place the cards at his suggestion. This I did so
as not to appear to be listening to the empty air, and be supposed to be
a crazy woman. Presently the ghost spoke again, and told me his story.
“‘Madam,’ he said, ‘I have been riding back and forth on this car ever
since February 22, 189--. Seven months and eleven days. All this time I
have not exchanged a word with anyone. For a drummer, that is pretty
hard, you may believe! You know the story of the Flying Dutchman? Well,
that is very nearly my case. A curse is upon me and will not be removed
until some kind soul----. But I’m getting ahead of my text. That day
there were four of us, traveling for different houses. One of the boys
was in wool, one in baking powder, one in boots and shoes, and myself in
cotton goods. We met on the road, took seats together and fell into
talking shop.
“‘Those fellows told big lies about their sales, Washington’s Birthday
though it was. The baking powder man raised the amount of the bills of
goods which he had sold better than a whole can of his stuff could have
done. I admitted the straight truth, that I had not yet been able to
make a sale. And then I swore--not in a light-minded, chipper style of
verbal trimmings, but a great, round, heaven-defying oath--that I would
sell a case of blue denims on that trip if it took me forever. We became
dry with talk, and when the train stopped at Rivermouth, we went out to
have some beer. It is good there, you know--pardon me, I forgot that I
was speaking to a lady. Well, we had to run to get aboard. I missed my
footing, fell under the wheels, and the next thing that I knew they were
holding an inquest over my remains; while I, disemboweled, was sitting
on a corner of the undertaker’s table, wondering which of the coroner’s
jury was likely to want a case of blue denims.
“‘Then I remembered my wicked oath, and understood that I was a soul
doomed to wander until I could succeed in selling that bill of goods. I
spoke once or twice, offering the denims under value, but nobody noticed
me. Verdict: accidental death; negligence of deceased; railroad
corporation not to blame; deceased got out for beer at his own risk. The
other drummers took charge of the remains, and wrote a beautiful letter
to my relatives about my social qualities and my impressive
conversation. I wish it had been less impressive that time! I might have
lied about my sales, or I might have said that I hoped for better luck.
But after that oath there was nothing for it. Back and forth, back and
forth, on this road, in chair number thirteen, to all eternity. Nobody
suspects my presence. They sit on my knees--I’m playing in luck when it
is a nice baby as it was this afternoon! They pile wraps, bags, even
railway literature on me. They play cards under my nose--and what
duffers some of them are! You, madam, are the first person who has
perceived me; and therefore I ventured to speak to you, meaning no
offense. I can see that you are sorry for me. Now, if you recall the
story of the Flying Dutchman, he was saved by the charity of a good
woman. In fact, Senta married him. Now I’m not asking anything of that
size. I see that you wear a wedding ring, and no doubt you make some
man’s happiness. I wasn’t a marrying man myself, and, naturally, am not
a marrying ghost. And that has nothing to do with the matter anyway. But
if you could--I don’t suppose you would have any use for them--but if
you were disposed to do a turn of good, solid, Christian charity--I
should be everlastingly grateful, and you may have that case of denims
at $72.50. And that quality is quoted to-day at $80. Does it go, madam?’
“The speech of the poor ghost was not very eloquent, but his eyes had an
intense, eager glare, which was terrible. Something--pity, fear, I do
not know what--compelled me. I decided to do without that white and gold
evening cloak. Instead, I gave $72.50 to the ghost and took from him a
receipt for the sum, signed J. Billington Price. Then he smiled
contentedly, thanked me with emotion, and returned to chair number
thirteen. Several times on the journey, although I did not perceive him
again, I felt dazed. When the train arrived at New York, and I, with the
other passengers, dismounted, it seemed to me that a strong hand passed
under my elbow, steadying me down the steps. As I walked the length of
the station my bag--not heavy at any time--appeared to become
weightless. I believe that the parlor-car ghost walked beside me,
carrying the bag, whose handle still remained in my other hand. Indeed,
once or twice I thought I felt the touch of cold fingers against mine.
Since then I have no reason to suppose that the poor ghost is not at
rest. I hope he is.
“But I never expected nor wished for the blue denims. The next day,
however, a dray belonging to a great wholesale house backed up to our
door and delivered a case of denims, with a receipted bill for the same.
What was I to do? I could not go about selling blue denims; I could not
give them away without exciting comment. So I furnished the cottage with
them--and you know the effect on my complexion. Pity me, dear! And
credit me, frivolous woman as I am, with having saved a soul at the
expense of my own vanity. My story is told. What do you think about
it?”
GHOST OF BUCKSTOWN INN.
BY ARNOLD M. ANDERSON.
Several travel-worn drummers sat in the lobby exchanging yarns. It was
Rodney Green’s turn, and he looked wise and began his tale.
“I don’t claim, by any means, that the belief in ghosts is a general
thing in Arkansas, but I do say that I had an experience out there a few
years ago.
“It was late in the fall, and I happened to be in the village of
Buckstown, which desecrates a very limited portion of the State. The
town is about as small and dirty a place as ever I saw, and the
Buckstown Inn is not much above the general character of the place. The
region is inhabited by natives who still cling to all sorts of foolish
superstitions. The inn, in the ante-bellum days, was kept by one who was
said to be the meanest and most crabbed of mortals. The old demon was as
miserly as he was mean, and all his narrow life he hoarded his filthy
lucre with fiendish greed. Report had it also that he had even murdered
his patrons in their beds for their money. What the facts actually were
I don’t know, but even to this day the old inn is held in suspicion. A
lingering effect of former horrors still clouds its memory.
“The present proprietor, Bunk Watson--his real name is Bunker, I
believe--is an altogether different sort of chap--a Southern type, in
fact--one of those shiftless, heedless, happy-go-lucky mortals who loves
strong whiskey and who chews an enormous quid of black tobacco and
smokes a corncob pipe at the same time.
“When the former keeper ‘shuffled off,’ his property fell to a distant
relative, the present keeper, who, with his family, immediately moved in
from a neighboring hamlet and took possession. It was well known that
the old proprietor had accumulated considerable wealth during his
sojourn among the living, but all efforts to discover any treasure upon
the premises had failed, and now the idea of ever finding it was
practically given up. As far as Bunk was concerned, the matter troubled
him little. He had a hard-working wife who ran things the best she could
under the circumstances, and saw that his meals were forthcoming at
their respective intervals. What more could he wish? Why should he care
if there was a treasure buried upon his place? Indeed, it would have
been a sore puzzle for him to know what to do with a fortune unless
perhaps his wife came to his aid.
“Among the stories that hovered in the history of the Buckstown Inn was
one which involved a ghost. In the room where the former keeper had died