Ghostly Tales

by Chronicle Books

  No use to look for the thing? I don’t see how you can say that. It was nonsense to talk of burying it, of course, for it doesn’t want to be buried; it wants to go back into its bandbox and be taken upstairs, poor thing! Trehearn took it out, I know, and made the seal over again. Perhaps he took it to the churchyard, and he may have meant well. I dare say he thought that it would not scream any more if it were quietly laid in consecrated ground, near where it belongs. But it has come home. Yes, that’s it. He’s not half a bad fellow, Trehearn, and rather religiously inclined, I think. Does not that sound natural, and reasonable, and well meant? He supposed it screamed because it was not decently buried—with the rest. But he was wrong. How should he know that it screams at me because it hates me, and because it’s my fault that there was that little lump of lead in it?

  No use to look for it, anyhow? Nonsense! I tell you it wants to be found—Hark! what’s that knocking? Do you hear it? Knock—knock—knock—three times, then a pause, and then again. It has a hollow sound, hasn’t it?

  It has come home. I’ve heard that knock before. It wants to come in and be taken upstairs in its box. It’s at the front door.

  Will you come with me? We’ll take it in. Yes, I own that I don’t like to go alone and open the door. The thing will roll in and stop against my foot, just as it did before, and the light will go out. I’m a good deal shaken by finding that bit of lead, and, besides, my heart isn’t quite right—too much strong tobacco, perhaps. Besides, I’m quite willing to own that I’m a bit nervous tonight, if I never was before in my life.

  That’s right, come along! I’ll take the box with me, so as not to come back. Do you hear the knocking? It’s not like any other knocking I ever heard. If you will hold this door open, I can find the lantern under the stairs by the light from this room without bringing the lamp into the hall—it would only go out.

  The thing knows we are coming—hark! It’s impatient to get in. Don’t shut the door till the lantern is ready, whatever you do. There will be the usual trouble with the matches, I suppose—no, the first one, by Jove! I tell you it wants to get in, so there’s no trouble. All right with that door now; shut it, please. Now come and hold the lantern, for it’s blowing so hard outside that I shall have to use both hands. That’s it, hold the light low. Do you hear the knocking still? Here goes—I’ll open just enough with my foot against the bottom of the door—now!

  Catch it! it’s only the wind that blows it across the floor, that’s all—there’s half a hurricane outside, I tell you! Have you got it? The bandbox is on the table. One minute, and I’ll have the bar up. There!

  Why did you throw it into the box so roughly? It doesn’t like that, you know.

  What do you say? Bitten your hand? Nonsense, man! You did just what I did. You pressed the jaws together with your other hand and pinched yourself. Let me see. You don’t mean to say you have drawn blood? You must have squeezed hard by Jove, for the skin is certainly torn. I’ll give you some carbolic solution for it before we go to bed, for they say a scratch from a skull’s tooth may go bad and give trouble.

  Come inside again and let me see it by the lamp. I’ll bring the bandbox—never mind the lantern, it may just as well burn in the hall for I shall need it presently when I go up the stairs. Yes, shut the door if you will; it makes it more cheerful and bright. Is your finger still bleeding? I’ll get you the carbolic in an instant; just let me see the thing.

  Ugh! There’s a drop of blood on the upper jaw. It’s on the eye-tooth. Ghastly, isn’t it? When I saw it running along the floor of the hall, the strength almost went out of my hands, and I felt my knees bending; then I understood that it was the gale, driving it over the smooth boards. You don’t blame me? No, I should think not! We were boys together, and we’ve seen a thing or two, and we may just as well own to each other that we were both in a beastly funk when it slid across the floor at you. No wonder you pinched your finger picking it up, after that, if I did the same thing out of sheer nervousness, in broad daylight, with the sun streaming in on me.

  Strange that the jaw should stick to it so closely, isn’t it? I suppose it’s the dampness, for it shuts like a vice—I have wiped off the drop of blood, for it was not nice to look at. I’m not going to try to open the jaws, don’t be afraid! I shall not play any tricks with the poor thing, but I’ll just seal the box again, and we’ll take it upstairs and put it away where it wants to be. The wax is on the writing-table by the window. Thank you. It will be long before I leave my seal lying about again, for Trehearn to use, I can tell you. Explain? I don’t explain natural phenomena, but if you choose to think that Trehearn had hidden it somewhere in the bushes, and that the gale blew it to the house against the door, and made it knock, as if it wanted to be let in, you’re not thinking the impossible, and I’m quite ready to agree with you.

  Do you see that? You can swear that you’ve actually seen me seal it this time, in case anything of the kind should occur again. The wax fastens the strings to the lid, which cannot possibly be lifted, even enough to get in one finger. You’re quite satisfied, aren’t you? Yes. Besides, I shall lock the cupboard and keep the key in my pocket hereafter.

  Now we can take the lantern and go upsta0.8rs. Do you know? I’m very much inclined to agree with your theory that the wind blew it against the house. I’ll go ahead, for I know the stairs; just hold the lantern near my feet as we go up. How the wind howls and whistles! Did you feel the sand on the floor under your shoes as we crossed the hall?

  Yes—this is the door of the best bedroom. Hold up the lantern, please. This side, by the head of the bed. I left the cupboard open when I got the box. Isn’t it queer how the faint odour of women’s dresses will hang about an old closet for years? This is the shelf. You’ve seen me set the box there, and now you see me turn the key and put it into my pocket. So that’s done!

  Good-night. Are you sure you’re quite comfortable? It’s not much of a room, but I dare say you would as soon sleep here as upstairs tonight. If you want anything, sing out; there’s only a lath and plaster partition between us. There’s not so much wind on this side by half. There’s the Hollands on the table, if you’ll have one more nightcap. No? Well, do as you please. Good-night again, and don’t dream about that thing, if you can.

  The following paragraph appeared in the Penraddon News, 23rd November, 1906:

  “Mysterious Death of a Retired Sea Captain

  “The village of Tredcombe is much disturbed by the strange death of Captain Charles Braddock, and all sorts of impossible stories are circulating with regard to the circumstances, which certainly seem difficult of explanation. The retired captain, who had successfully commanded in his time the largest and fastest liners belonging to one of the principal transatlantic steamship companies, was found dead in his bed on Tuesday morning in his own cottage, a quarter of a mile from the village. An examination was made at once by the local practitioner, which revealed the horrible fact that the deceased had been bitten in the throat by a human assailant, with such amazing force as to crush the windpipe and cause death. The marks of the teeth of both jaws were so plainly visible on the skin that they could be counted, but the perpetrator of the deed had evidently lost the two lower middle incisors. It is hoped that this peculiarity may help to identify the murderer, who can only be a dangerous escaped maniac. The deceased, though over sixty-five years of age, is said to have been a hale man of considerable physical strength, and it is remarkable that no signs of any struggle were visible in the room, nor could it be ascertained how the murderer had entered the house. Warning has been sent to all the insane asylums in the United Kingdom, but as yet no information has been received regarding the escape of any dangerous patient.

  “The coroner’s jury returned the somewhat singular verdict that Captain Braddock came to his death ‘by the hands or teeth of some person unknown.’ The local surgeon is said to have expressed privately the opinion that the maniac is a woman, a view he deduces from the small size of the jaws, as shown
by the marks of the teeth. The whole affair is shrouded in mystery. Captain Braddock was a widower, and lived alone. He leaves no children.”

  [note.—Students of ghost lore and haunted houses will find the foundation of the foregoing story in the legends about a skull which is still preserved in the farm-house called Bettiscombe Manor, situated, I believe, on the Dorsetshire coast.]

  A NOTE ON THE SOURCES

  The tales in this book include a sampling of ghost stories from England, Scotland, and the United States, written during or soon after Queen Victoria’s reign. They have been excerpted from magazines, ghost story collections, and other literary compilations. All the stories are in the public domain.

  SOURCES

  Oh, Whistle, and I’ll Come to You, My Lad

  By M. R. James, published in Ghost Stories of an Antiquary

  The Old Nurse’s Story

  By Elizabeth Gaskell, originally published in the magazine Household Words and subsequently published in Lizzie Leigh and Other Tales

  The Signalman

  By Charles Dickens, originally published as “No. 1 Branch Line: The Signal-Man” in the magazine All the Year Round and subsequently published as “The Signal-Man” in Three Ghost Stories

  The Body-Snatcher

  By Robert Louis Stevenson, published in Tales and Fantasies

  The Captain of the Pole-Star

  By Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, published in The Captain of the Polestar and Other Tales

  The Phantom Coach

  By Amelia B. Edwards, originally published as “Another Past Lodger Relates His Own Ghost Story” in the magazine All the Year Round and subsequently published as “The North Mail” in Miss Carew

  The Screaming Skull

  By F. Marion Crawford, published in Wandering Ghosts

  THE AUTHORS

  m. r. james (1862-1936) was an English author and medievalist. He published a series of ghost story collections, as well as several guidebooks and children’s books and many scholarly works.

  elizabeth gaskell (1810-1865) was an English novelist and short story writer. Her best-known works include Cranford, North and South, and Wives and Daughters.

  charles dickens (1812-1870) was an English writer. In addition to authoring novels such as The Adventures of Oliver Twist, A Tale of Two Cities, and Great Expectations, he wrote hundreds of short stories and was the editor of the weekly magazines Household Words and All the Year Round.

  robert louis stevenson (1850-1894) was a Scottish novelist, short story writer, poet, and essayist. His works include Treasure Island, Kidnapped, and The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde.

  sir arthur conan doyle (1859-1930) was a Scottish author and physician, best known for his Sherlock Holmes stories. His other works include novels, short stories, non-fiction, plays, and poetry.

  amelia b. edwards (1831-1892) was an English novelist, journalist, and Egyptologist. Her works include the novels Barbara’s History and Lord Brackenbury, the travelogue A Thousand Miles up the Nile, and several ghost stories.

  f. marion crawford (1854-1909) was an Italian-born American novelist and historian. He authored many novels, including the Saracinesca series, several works of Italian history, several plays, and a collection of ghost stories.

  bill bragg is an award-winning artist and illustrator based in London.