Ghost Stories

by Bill Bowers

  The other gray little men laughed and clapped their hands and cried: “Glic! Glic! Hwee! Hwee! Go on, go on, you have eight hours before you till daybreak!”

  The men kicked and beat Teig until he ran off in the direction towards which they hounded him. There was not a wet path, or a dirty boreen, or a crooked, contrary road in the whole county that he did not cover that night. He eventually came upon a high wall that was in pieces broken down, and an old church on the inside of the wall. He went up to the church door and found it locked and too solidly built to knock down.

  A voice in his ear said to him, “Search for the key on the top of the door, or on the wall.”

  “Who is that speaking to me?!”

  “Search for the key on the top of the door, or on the wall.”

  “What’s that?” said Teig, the sweat running from his forehead, “who spoke to me?!”

  “It’s I, the corpse, that spoke to you!” said the voice.

  “Can you talk?” said Teig.

  “Now and again,” said the corpse.

  Teig searched for the key, and he found it on top of the wall. Shaking in fear, he opened the door and went inside the church.

  “Light the candle,” said the corpse, for it was pitch black. Teig lit an old stump of a candle he found in a rusted candlestick by the door. He went to the middle aisle of the church, where he found a spade. He pried up the flagstones, and dug until he uncovered a body.

  “You corpse, there on my back,” says he, “will you be satisfied if I bury you there?” There was no response.

  “That’s a good sign,” Teig said to himself. He thrust the spade into the earth again.

  The dead man that was in the hole stood up in the grave, and gave an awful shout. “Hoo! Hoo! Hoo! Go! Go!! Go!!! or YOU’RE A DEAD, DEAD, DEAD MAN!” The corpse then fell back into the grave.

  Teig’s hair stood upright, the cold sweat came over his face, and a tremor ran through his bones. Still, as he calmed down, he remembered to return the earth and the flagstones to their original state.

  He tried digging in another space closer to the door. Scarcely had he turned the clay away when the woman underneath sat up and began to cry, “Ho, you bodach! Ha, you bodach! Where has he been that he got no bed?”

  Teig stumbled back, and the woman, seeing that she would get no answer, peacefully closed her eyes and fell back into the grave. After recovering his wits, Teig again made the grave as it was before. Tired and dejected, he left the church, locked the door, and replaced the key on the wall.

  Teig sat on a tombstone that was near the church, laid his face in his hands, and cried for grief and fatigue, for at this point he was dead certain that he would never come home alive. He attempted once more to dislodge the corpse from his back, but the harder he pulled on the corpse’s hands, the tighter they squeezed.

  Teig gave up, and was going to sit down once more, when the cold, horrid lips of the dead man said to him, “Carrick-fhad-vic-Orus,” and he remembered the command of the good people to bring the corpse with him to that place if he should be unable to bury it where he had been.

  He rose up, and looked about him. “I don’t know the way,” he said. As soon as he had uttered the word, the corpse stretched out suddenly its left hand that had been tightened round his neck, and kept it pointing out, showing him the road he ought to follow. Teig went in the direction that the fingers were stretched, and passed out of the churchyard. He found himself on an old rutty, stony road, and he stood still again, not knowing where to turn. The corpse stretched out its bony hand a second time, and pointed out to him another road—not the road by which he had come when approaching the old church. Teig followed that road, and whenever he came to a path or road meeting it, the corpse always stretched out its hand and pointed with its fingers, showing him the way he was to take.

  Many was the cross-road he turned down, and many was the crooked boreen he walked, until he saw from him an old burying-ground at last, beside the road, but there was neither church nor chapel nor any other building in it. The corpse squeezed him tightly, and he stood. “Bury me, bury me in the burying-ground,” said the voice.

  Teig drew over towards the old burying-place, and he was not more than about twenty yards from it, when, raising his eyes, he saw hundreds and hundreds of ghosts—men, women, and children—sitting on the top of the wall round about, or standing on the inside of it, or running backwards and forwards, and pointing at him, while he could see their mouths opening and shutting as if they were speaking, though he heard no word, nor any sound amongst them at all.

  He was afraid to go forward, so he stood where he was, and the moment he stood, all the ghosts became quiet, and ceased moving. Then Teig understood that it was trying to keep him from going in, that they were. He walked a couple of yards forwards, and immediately the whole crowd rushed together towards the spot to which he was moving, and they stood so thickly together that it seemed to him that he never could break through them, even though he had a mind to try. But he had no mind to try it. He went back broken and dispirited, and when he had gone a couple of hundred yards from the burying-ground, he stood again, for he did not know what way he was to go. He heard the voice of the corpse in his ear, saying, “Teampoll-Ronan,” and the skinny hand was stretched out again, pointing him out the road.

  As tired as he was, he had to walk, and the road was neither short nor even. The night was darker than ever, and it was difficult to make his way. Many was the toss he got, and many a bruise they left on his body. At last he saw Teampoll-Ronan from him in the distance, standing in the middle of the burying-ground. He moved over towards it, and thought he was all right and safe, when he saw no ghosts nor anything else on the wall, and he thought he would never be hindered now from leaving his load off him at last. He moved over to the gate, but as he was passing in, he tripped on the threshold. Before he could recover himself, something that he could not see seized him by the neck, by the hands, and by the feet, and bruised him, and shook him, and choked him, until he was nearly dead; and at last he was lifted up, and carried more than a hundred yards from that place, and then thrown down in an old dyke, with the corpse still clinging to him.

  He rose up, bruised and sore, but feared to go near the place again, for he had seen nothing the time he was thrown down and carried away.

  “You corpse, up on my back?” said he, “shall I go over again to the churchyard?”—but the corpse never answered him. “That’s a sign you don’t wish me to try it again,” said Teig.

  He was now in great doubt as to what he ought to do, when the corpse spoke in his ear, and said, “Imlogue-Fada.”

  “Oh, murder!” said Teig, “must I bring you there? If you keep me long walking like this, I tell you I’ll fall under you.”

  He went on, however, in the direction the corpse pointed out to him. He could not have told, himself, how long he had been going, when the dead man behind suddenly squeezed him, and said, “There!”

  Teig looked from him, and he saw a little low wall, that was so broken down in places that it was no wall at all. It was in a great wide field, in from the road; and only for three or four great stones at the corners, that were more like rocks than stones, there was nothing to show that there was either graveyard or burying-ground there.

  “Is this Imlogue-Fada? Shall I bury you here?” said Teig.

  “Yes,” said the voice.

  “But I see no grave or gravestone, only this pile of stones,” said Teig.

  The corpse did not answer, but stretched out its long fleshless hand to show Teig the direction in which he was to go. Teig went on accordingly, but he was greatly terrified, for he remembered what had happened to him at the last place. He went on, “with his heart in his mouth,” as he said himself afterwards; but when he came to within fifteen or twenty yards of the little low square wall, there broke out a flash of lightning, bright yellow and red, with blue streaks in it, and went round about the wall in one course, and it swept by as fast as the swallow in
the clouds, and the longer Teig remained looking at it the faster it went, till at last it became like a bright ring of flame round the old graveyard, which no one could pass without being burnt by it. Teig never saw, from the time he was born, and never saw afterwards, so wonderful or so splendid a sight as that was. Round went the flame, white and yellow and blue sparks leaping out from it as it went, and although at first it had been no more than a thin, narrow line, it increased slowly until it was at last a great broad band, and it was continually getting broader and higher, and throwing out more brilliant sparks, till there was never a color on the ridge of the earth that was not to be seen in that fire; and lightning never shone and flame never flamed that was so shining and so bright as that.

  Teig was amazed; he was half dead with fatigue, and he had no courage left to approach the wall. There fell a mist over his eyes, and there came a soorawn in his head, and he was obliged to sit down upon a great stone to recover himself. He could see nothing but the light, and he could hear nothing but the whirr of it as it shot round the paddock faster than a flash of lightning.

  As he sat there on the stone, the voice whispered once more in his ear, “Kill-Breedya”; and the dead man squeezed him so tightly that he cried out. He rose again, sick, tired, and trembling, and went forward as he was directed. The wind was cold, and the road was bad, and the load upon his back was heavy, and the night was dark, and he himself was nearly worn out, and if he had had very much farther to go he must have fallen dead under his burden.

  At last the corpse stretched out its hand, and said to him, “Bury me there.”

  “This is the last burying-place,” said Teig in his own mind; “and the little grey man said I’d be allowed to bury him in some of them, so it must be this; it can’t be but they’ll let him in here.”

  The first faint streak of the ring of day was appearing in the east, and the clouds were beginning to catch fire, but it was darker than ever, for the moon was set, and there were no stars.

  “Make haste, make haste!” said the corpse; and Teig hurried forward as well as he could to the graveyard, which was a little place on a bare hill, with only a few graves in it. He walked boldly in through the open gate, and nothing touched him, nor did he either hear or see anything. He came to the middle of the ground, and then stood up and looked round him for a spade or shovel to make a grave. As he was turning round and searching, he suddenly perceived what startled him greatly—a newly dug grave right before him. He moved over to it, and looked down, and there at the bottom he saw a black coffin. He clambered down into the hole and lifted the lid, and found that (as he thought it would be) the coffin was empty. He had hardly mounted up out of the hole, and was standing on the brink, when the corpse, which had clung to him for more than eight hours, suddenly relaxed its hold of his neck, and loosened its shins from round his hips, and sank down with a plop into the open coffin.

  Teig fell down on his two knees at the brink of the grave, and gave thanks to God. He made no delay then, but pressed down the coffin lid in its place, and threw in the clay over it with his two hands, and when the grave was filled up, he stamped and leaped on it with his feet, until it was firm and hard, and then he left the place.

  All the people at his own home thought that he must have left the country, and they rejoiced greatly when they saw him come back. Everyone began asking him where he had been, but he would not tell anyone except his father.

  He was a changed man from that day. He never drank too much; he never lost his money over cards; and especially he would not take the world and be out late by himself of a dark night.

  He was not a fortnight at home until he married Mary, the girl he had been in love with, and it’s at their wedding the sport was, and it’s he was the happy man from that day forward, and it’s all I wish that we may be as happy as he was.

  GLOSSARY.—Rann, a stanza; kailee (céilidhe), a visit in the evening; wirra (a mhuire), “Oh, Mary!” an exclamation like the French dame; rib, a single hair (in Irish, ribe); a lock (glac), a bundle or wisp, or a little share of anything; maneen, a little person, elf, or fairy; kippeen (cipin), a rod or twig; boreen (bóithrin), a lane; bodach, a clown; soorawn (suarán), vertigo. Avic (a Mhic), my son, or rather, Oh, son. Mic is the vocative of Mac.

  21

  The Screaming Skull

  By F. Marion Crawford

  I HAVE OFTEN HEARD IT SCREAM. NO, I AM NOT NERVOUS, I AM NOT imaginative, and I never believed in ghosts, unless that thing is one. Whatever it is, it hates me almost as much as it hated Luke Pratt, and it screams at me.

  If I were you, I would never tell ugly stories about ingenious ways of killing people, for you never can tell but that some one at the table may be tired of his or her nearest and dearest. I have always blamed myself for Mrs. Pratt’s death, and I suppose I was responsible for it in a way, though heaven knows I never wished her anything but long life and happiness. If I had not told that story she might be alive yet. That is why the thing screams at me, I fancy.

  She was a good little woman, with a sweet temper, all things considered, and a nice gentle voice; but I remember hearing her shriek once when she thought her little boy was killed by a pistol that went off though everyone was sure that it was not loaded. It was the same scream; exactly the same, with a sort of rising quaver to the end; do you know what I mean? Unmistakable.

  The truth is, I had not realized that the doctor and his wife were not on good terms. They used to bicker a bit now and then when I was here, and I often noticed that little Mrs. Pratt got very red and bit her lip hard to keep her temper, while Luke grew pale and said the most offensive things. He was that sort when he was in the nursery, I remember, and afterwards at school. He was my cousin, you know; that is how I came by this house; after he died, and his boy Charley was killed in South Africa, here were no relations left. Yes, it’s a pretty little property, just the sort of thing for an old sailor like me who has taken to gardening.

  One always remembers one’s mistakes much more vividly than one’s cleverest things, doesn’t one? I’ve often noticed it. I was dining with the Pratts one night, when I told them the story that afterwards made so much difference. It was a wet night in November, and the sea was moaning. Hush!—if you don’t speak you will hear it now. . . .

  Do you hear the tide? Gloomy sound, isn’t it? Sometimes, about this time of year—hallo!—there it is! Don’t be frightened, man—it won’t eat you—it’s only a noise, after all! But I’m glad you’ve heard it, because there are always people who think it’s the wind, or my imagination, or something. You won’t hear it again tonight, I fancy, for it doesn’t often come more than once. Yes—that’s right. Put another stick on the fire, and a little more stuff into that weak mixture you’re so fond of. Do you remember old Blauklot the carpenter, on that German ship that picked us up when the Clontarf went to the bottom? We were hove to in a howling gale one night, snug as you please, with no land within five hundred miles, and the ship coming up and falling off as regularly as clockwork—“Biddy te boor beebles ashore tis night, poys!” old Blauklot sang out, as he went off to his quarters with the sail-maker. I often think of that, now that I’m ashore for good and all.

  Yes, it was on a night like this, when I was at home for a spell, waiting to take the Olympia out on her first trip—it was on the next voyage that she broke the record, you remember—but that dates it. Ninety-two was the year, early in November.

  The weather was dirty, Pratt was out of temper, and the dinner was bad, very bad indeed, which didn’t improve matters, and cold, which made it worse. The poor little lady was very unhappy about it, and insisted on making a Welsh rarebit on the table to counteract the raw turnips and the half-boiled mutton. Pratt must have had a hard day. Perhaps he had lost a patient. At all events, he was in a nasty temper.

  “My wife is trying to poison me, you see!” he said. “She’ll succeed some day.” I saw that she was hurt, and I made believe to laugh, and said that Mrs. Pratt was much too clever to get rid of her
husband in such a simple way; and then I began to tell them about Japanese tricks with spun glass and chopped horsehair and the like.

  Pratt was a doctor, and knew a lot more than I did about such things, but that only put me on my mettle, and I told a story about a woman in Ireland who did for three husbands before anyone suspected foul play.

  Did you ever hear that tale? The fourth husband managed to keep awake and caught her, and she was hanged. How did she do it? She drugged them, and poured melted lead into their ears through a little horn funnel when they were asleep—No, that’s the wind whistling. It’s backing up to the southward again. I can tell by the sound. Besides, the other thing doesn’t often come more than once in an evening even at this time of year—when it happened. Yes, it was in November. Poor Mrs. Pratt died suddenly in her bed not long after I dined there. I can fix the date, because I got the news in New York by the steamer that followed the Olympia when I took her out on her first trip. You had the Leofric the same year? Yes, I remember. What a pair of old duffers we are coming to be, you and I. Nearly fifty years since we were apprentices together on the Clontarf. Shall you ever forget old Blauklot? “Biddy te boor beebles ashore, poys!” Ha, ha! Take a little more, with all that water. It’s the old Hulstkamp I found in the cellar when this house came to me, the same I brought Luke from Amsterdam five-and-twenty years ago. He had never touched a drop of it. Perhaps he’s sorry now, poor fellow.

  Where did I leave off? I told you that Mrs. Pratt died suddenly—yes. Luke must have been lonely here after she was dead, I should think; I came to see him now and then, and he looked worn and nervous, and told me that his practice was growing too heavy for him, though he wouldn’t take an assistant on any account. Years went on, and his son was killed in South Africa, and after that he began to be queer. There was something about him not like other people. I believe he kept his senses in his profession to the end; there was no complaint of his having made mistakes in cases, or anything of that sort, but he had a look about him—.