Humorous Ghost Stories by Dorothy Scarborough (best historical fiction books of all time txt) 📕
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“He who rules these towers to-day is of stern mind but loving heart,” said the ghost. “Patience. By the Star that redeems the world, love should not be won to-night by stealth, but by—love.”
He raised his hands toward the tower, his countenance radiant with an undying passion.
“She called to me and died,” he said, “and her little ghost comes not to earth again for any winter moon or any summer wind.”
“But you—you come often?” my voice was saying.
“No,” said the ghost, “only on Christmas Eve. Yule is the tide of specters; for then the thoughts of the world are so beautiful that they enter our dreams and call us back.”
He turned to go, and a boyish, friendly smile rested a moment on his pale face.
“Farewell, Sir Geoffray de Pierrepont,” he called to me.
Into the misty moonlight the ghost floated to that portion of the wall directly opposite the haunted room. From where I stood I could not see this chamber. After a moment I shook my numb senses to life. My first instinct was one of strong human curiosity, which impelled me to follow far enough to see the effect of the apparition on old Hobson, who must be watching at the window.
I tiptoed a hundred feet along the wall and peered around a turret up to a room above, where Hobson's head could easily be seen in a patch of light. The ghost, at that moment, was walking just below, and the effect on the old man, appalling though it was, was ludicrous as well. He was leaning far out of the window, his mouth wide open; and the entire disk of his fat, hairless head was as pallid as the moon itself. The specter, who was now rounding the curve of the wall near the tower, swerved suddenly, and as suddenly seemed to totter headlong into the abyss below. As he dropped, a wild laugh broke through the frosty air. It wasn't from the ghost. It came from above—yes, it emanated from Thaddeus Hobson, who had, apparently, fallen back, leaving the window empty. Lights began breaking out all over the castle. In another moment I should be caught in my foolish disguise. With the courage of a coward, I turned and ran full tilt along the dizzy ledge and back to my window, where I lost no seconds scrambling up the rope that led to my room.
With all possible haste I threw aside my sheet and helmet and started downstairs. I had just wrestled with a ghost; I would now have it out with the old man. The castle seemed ablaze below. I saw the flash of a light skirt in the picture gallery, and Anita, pale as the vision I had so lately beheld, came running toward me.
“Father—saw it!” she panted. “He had some sort of sinking spell—he's better now—isn't it awful!” She clung to me, sobbing hysterically.
Before I realized what I had done, I was holding her close in my arms.
“Don't!” I cried. “It was a good ghost—he had a finer spirit than mine. He came to-night for you, dear, and for me. It was a foolish thing we planned.”
“Yes, but I wanted, I wanted to go!” she sobbed now crying frankly on my shoulder.
“You are going with me,” I said fiercely, raising her head. “But not over any ghost-ridden breakneck wall. We're going this time through the big front door of this old castle, American fashion, and there'll be an automobile waiting outside and a parson at the other end of the line.”
We found Thaddeus Hobson alone, in the vast hall looking blankly at the fire.
“Jeff,” he said solemnly, “you sure brought me luck to-night if you can call it such being scared into a human icicle. Br-r-r! Shall I ever get the cold out of my backbone? But somehow, somehow that foggy feller outside sort of changed my look on things. It made me feel kinder toward living folks. Ain't it strange!”
“Mr. Hobson,” I said, “I think the ghost has made us all see things differently. In a word, sir, I have a confession to make—if you don't mind.”
And I told him briefly of my accidental meeting with Anita in the donjon, of the practical joke we planned, of our sudden meeting with the real ghost on the ramparts. Mr. Hobson listened, his face growing redder and redder. At the finish of my story he suddenly leaped to his feet and brought his fist down on the table with a bang.
“Well, you little devils!” he said admiringly, and burst into loud laughter. “You're a spunky lad, Jeff. And there ain't any doubt that the de Pierreponts are as good stuff as you can get in the ancestry business. The Christmas supper is spread in the banquet hall. Come, de Pierrepont, will you sup with the old Earl?”
The huge oaken banquet hall, lined with rich hangings, shrunk us to dwarfs by its vastness. Golden goblets were at each place. A butler, dressed in antique livery, threw a red cloak over Hobson's fat shoulders. It was a whim of the old man's.
As we took our places, I noticed the table was set for four.
“Whose is the extra place?” I asked.
The old man at first made no reply. At last he turned to me earnestly and said: “Do you believe in ghosts?”
“No,” I replied. “Yet how else can I explain that vision I saw on the ramparts?”
“Is the fourth place for him?” Anita almost whispered.
The old man nodded mutely and raised a golden goblet.
“To the Transplanted Ghost!” I said. It was an empty goblet that I touched to my lips.
From Scribner's Magazine. Copyright, 1907, by Charles Scribner's Sons. By permission of the publishers and Nelson Lloyd.
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The Last Ghost in Harmony By NELSON LLOYDFrom his perch on the blacksmith's anvil he spoke between the puffs of his post-prandial pipe. The fire in the forge was out and the day was going slowly, through the open door of the shop and the narrow windows, westward to the mountains. In the advancing shadow, on the pile of broken wheels on the work-bench, on keg and barrel, they sat puffing their post-prandial pipes and listening.
For a partner in business I want a truthful man, but for a companion give me one with imagination. To my mind imagination is the spice of life. There is nothing so uninteresting as a fact, for when you know it that is the end of it. When life becomes nothing but facts it won't be worth living; yet in a few years the race will have no imagination left. It is being educated out. Look at the children. When I was young the bogey man was as real to me as pa and nearly as much to be feared of, but just yesterday I was lectured for merely mentioning him to my neffy. So with ghosts. We was taught to believe in ghosts the same as we was in Adam or Noar. Nowadays nobody believes in them. It is unscientific, and if you are superstitious you are considered ignorant and laughed at. Ghosts are the product of the imagination, but if I imagine I see one he is as real to me as if he actually exists, isn't he? Therefore he does exist. That's logic. You fellows have become scientific and admits only what you see and feel, and don't depend on your imagination for anything. Such being the case, I myself admit that the sperrits no longer ha'nt the burying-ground or play around your houses. I admit it because the same condition exact existed in Harmony when I was there, and because of what was told me by Robert J. Dinkle about two years after he died, and because of what occurred between me and him and the Rev. Mr. Spiegelnail.
Harmony was a highly intellectual town. About the last man there with any imagination or interesting ideas, excepting me, of course, was Robert J. Dinkle. Yet he had an awful reputation, and when he died it was generally stated privately that the last landmark of ignorance and superstition had been providentially removed. You know he had always been seeing things, but we set it down to his fondness for hard cider or his natural prepensity for joshing. With him gone there was no one left to report the doings of the sperrit-world. In fact, so widespread was the light of reason, as the Rev. Mr. Spiegelnail called it, that the burying-ground became a popular place for moonlight strolls. Even I walked through it frequent on my way home from Miss Wheedle's, with whom I was keeping company, and it never occurred to me to go any faster there, or to look back over my shoulder, for I didn't believe in such foolishness. But to the most intellectual there comes times of doubt about things they know nothing of nor understand. Such a time come to me, when the wind was more mournfuller than usual in the trees, and the clouds scudded along overhead, casting peculiar shadders. My imagination got the best of my intellect. I hurried. I looked back over my shoulder. I shivered, kind of. Natural I see nothing in the burying-ground, yet at the end of town I was still uneasy-like, though half laughing at myself. It was so quiet; not a light burned anywhere, and the square seemed lonelier than the cemetery, and the store was so deserted, so ghostly in the moonlight, that I just couldn't keep from peering around at it.
Then, from the empty porch, from the empty bench—empty, I swear, for I could see plain, so clear was the night—from absolute nothing come as pleasant a voice as ever I hear.
“Hello!” it says.
My blood turned icy-like and the chills waved up and down all through me. I couldn't move.
The voice came again, so natural, so familiar, that I warmed some, and rubbed my eyes and stared.
There, sitting on the bench, in his favorite place, was the late Robert J. Dinkle, gleaming in the moonlight, the front door showing right through him.
“I must appear pretty distinct,” he says in a proud-like way. “Can't you see me very plain?”
See him plain! I should think so. Even the patches on his coat was visible, and only for the building behind him, he never looked more natural, and hearing him so pleasant, set me thinking. This, says I, is the sperrit of the late Robert J. Dinkle. In life he never did me any harm and in his present misty condition is likely to do less; if he is looking for trouble I'm not afraid of a bit of fog. Such being the case, I says, I shall address him as soon as I am able.
But Robert got tired waiting, and spoke again in an anxious tone, a little louder, and ruther complaining, “Don't I show up good?” says he.
“I never see you looking better,” I answered, for my voice had came back, and the chills were quieter, and I was fairly ca'm and dared even to move a little nearer.
A bright smile showed on his pale face. “It is a relief to be seen at last,” he cried, most cheerful. “For years I've been trying to do a little ha'nting around here, and no one would notice me. I used to think mebbe my material was too delicate and gauzy, but I've conceded that, after all, the stuff is not to blame.”
He heaved a sigh so natural that I forgot all about his being a ghost. Indeed, taken all in all, I see that he had improved, was solemner, had a sweeter expression and wasn't likely to give in to his old prepensity for joshing.
“Set down and we will talk it over,”
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