Ghost Stories

by Bill Bowers

  “Good Lord, Lester, we’ve driven him mad,” he said, in a frightened whisper. “We must go after him.”

  There was no reply. Meagle sprang to his feet.

  “Do you hear?” he cried. “Stop your fooling now; this is serious. White! Lester! Do you hear?”

  He bent and surveyed them in angry bewilderment. “All right,” he said, in a trembling voice. “You won’t frighten me, you know.”

  He turned away and walked with exaggerated carelessness in the direction of the door. He even went outside and peeped through the crack, but the sleepers did not stir. He glanced into the blackness behind, and then came hastily into the room again.

  He stood for a few seconds regarding them. The stillness in the house was horrible; he could not even hear them breathe. With a sudden resolution he snatched the candle from the mantelpiece and held the flame to White’s finger. Then as he reeled back stupefied, the footsteps again became audible.

  He stood with the candle in his shaking hand, listening. He heard them ascending the farther staircase, but they stopped suddenly as he went to the door. He walked a little way along the passage, and they went scurrying down the stairs and then at a jog-trot along the corridor below. He went back to the main staircase, and they ceased again.

  For a time he hung over the balusters, listening and trying to pierce the blackness below; then slowly, step by step, he made his way downstairs, and, holding the candle above his head, peered about him.

  “Barnes!” he called. “Where are you?”

  Shaking with fright, he made his way along the passage, and summoning up all his courage, pushed open doors and gazed fearfully into empty rooms. Then, quite suddenly, he heard the footsteps in front of him.

  He followed slowly for fear of extinguishing the candle, until they led him at last into a vast bare kitchen, with damp walls and a broken floor. In front of him a door leading into an inside room had just closed. He ran towards it and flung it open, and a cold air blew out the candle. He stood aghast.

  “Barnes!” he cried again. “Don’t be afraid! It is I—Meagle!”

  There was no answer. He stood gazing into the darkness, and all the time the idea of something close at hand watching was upon him. Then suddenly the steps broke out overhead again.

  He drew back hastily, and passing through the kitchen groped his way along the narrow passages. He could now see better in the darkness, and finding himself at last at the foot of the staircase, began to ascend it noiselessly. He reached the landing just in time to see a figure disappear round the angle of a wall. Still careful to make no noise, he followed the sound of the steps until they led him to the top floor, and he cornered the chase at the end of a short passage.

  “Barnes!” he whispered. “Barnes!”

  Something stirred in the darkness. A small circular window at the end of the passage just softened the blackness and revealed the dim outlines of a motionless figure. Meagle, in place of advancing, stood almost as still as a sudden horrible doubt took possession of him. With his eyes fixed on the shape in front he fell back slowly, and, as it advanced upon him, burst into a terrible cry.

  “Barnes! For God’s sake! Is it you?”

  The echoes of his voice left the air quivering, but the figure before him paid no heed. For a moment he tried to brace his courage up to endure its approach, then with a smothered cry he turned and fled.

  The passages wound like a maze, and he threaded them blindly in a vain search for the stairs. If he could get down and open the hall door—

  He caught his breath in a sob; the steps had begun again. At a lumbering trot they clattered up and down the bare passages, in and out, up and down, as though in search of him. He stood appalled, and then as they drew near entered a small room and stood behind the door as they rushed by. He came out and ran swiftly and noiselessly in the other direction, and in a moment the steps were after him. He found the long corridor and raced along it at top speed. The stairs he knew were at the end, and with the steps close behind he descended them in blind haste. The steps gained on him, and he shrank to the side to let them pass, still continuing his headlong flight. Then suddenly he seemed to slip off the earth into space.

  Lester awoke in the morning to find the sunshine streaming into the room, and White sitting up and regarding with some perplexity a badly blistered finger.

  “Where are the others?” inquired Lester.

  “Gone, I suppose,” said White. “We must have been asleep.”

  Lester arose, and, stretching his stiffened limbs, dusted his clothes with his hands and went out into the corridor. White followed. At the noise of their approach a figure which had been lying asleep at the other end sat up and revealed the face of Barnes. “Why, I’ve been asleep,” he said, in surprise. “I don’t remember coming here. How did I get here?”

  “Nice place to come for a nap,” said Lester severely, as he pointed to the gap in the balusters. “Look there! Another yard and where would you have been?”

  He walked carelessly to the edge and looked over. In response to his startled cry the others drew near, and all three stood staring at the dead man below.

  ABOUT THE EDITOR

  BILL BOWERS IS A FREELANCE WRITER AND EDITOR WHO HAS LOVED ghost stories as long as he can remember. The tales collected here are among his all-time favorites. He lives with his wife in a small village in rural New England.