As I stood motionless there, solitary in the glow of the electric light with this fearful visitor, I began to wish that it would move. I wanted to face it—to meet its gaze with my gaze, eye to eye, and will against will. The battle between us must start at once, I thought, if I was to have any chance of victory, for, moment by moment, I felt my resolution, my manliness, my mere physical courage slipping away.
But the apparition did not stir. Impassive, remorseless, sinister, it was content to wait, well aware that all suspense was in its favour. Then I said to myself that I would cross the room and so attain my object. I made a step and drew back, frightened by the quite sound of a creaking board. Absurd! but it was quite a minute before I dared to move another step. I had meant to walk straight across to the other door, passing in my course close by the occupied chair. I did do not so; I kept round by the wall, creeping on tiptoe, and my eye never leaving the figure in the chair. I did this in spite of myself, and the manner of my action was the first hint of my ultimate defeat.
At length I stood in the doorway leading to the bedroom. I could feel the perspiration on my forehead and at the back of my neck. I fronted the inscrutable white face of Lord Clarenceux, the lover of Rosetta Rosa; I met its awful eyes: dark, invidious, fateful. Ah, those eyes! Even in my terror I could read in them all the history and the characteristics of Lord Clarenceux. They were the eyes of one who could be of the highest and the lowest. Mingled in their hardness was a melting softness, with their cruelty a large benevolence, with their hate a pitying tenderness, with their spirituality a hellish turpitude. They were the eyes of two opposite men, and as I gazed into them they reconciled for me the conflicting accounts of Lord Clarenceux which I had heard from different people.
But, as far as I was concerned, that night the eyes held nothing but cruelty and disaster; though I could detect in them the other qualities, these qualities were not for me. We faced each other, the apparition and I, and the struggle, silent and bitter as the grave, began. Neither of us moved. My arms were folded easily, but my nails pressed into the palms of my clenched hands. My teeth were set, my lips tight together, my glance unswerving. By sheer strength of endeavour I cast aside my fear of defeat, and in my heart I said with the profoundest conviction that I would love Rosa though the seven seas and all the continents give up their dead to frighten me.
So we remained, for how long I do not know. It may have been only minutes—I cannot tell. Then gradually there came over me a feeling that the ghost in the chair was growing larger. The ghastly inhuman sneer on his thin widening lips assaulted me like a giant’s malediction, and the light in the room seemed to become more brilliant till it was almost blinding. This went on for a time, and once more I pulled myself together, collected my scattering senses, and seized again the courage of determination which had nearly slipped from me; but I knew that I must get away, out of sight of this moveless and diabolic figure, which did not speak, but which made known its commands by means of its eyes. “Resign her,” the eyes said. “Tear your love for her out of your heart! Swear that you will never see her again—or I will ruin you utterly, not now only but for evermore.”
I think I trembled; my eyes answered “No.” For some reason which I cannot at all explain, I suddenly took off my overcoat, and, drawing aside the screen which ran across the corner of the room at my right hand, forming a primitive sort of wardrobe, I hung it on one of the hooks. I had to feel with my fingers for the hook, because I kept my gaze on the figure. “I will go into the bedroom,” I said; and I turned to pass through the doorway. Then I stopped. If I did so, the eyes of the ghost would be upon my back, and I felt that I could only withstand that glance by meeting it. To have it on my back.… Doubtless I was going mad. However, I went backwards to the doorway, and then rapidly stepped out of sight of the apparition and sat down upon the bed. Useless! I must return. The mere idea of the empty sitting-room—empty with the ghost in it—filled me with a new and considerable fear. Horrible happenings might occur in that room, and I must be there to see them! Moreover, the ghost’s gaze must now fall on nothing; that would be too appalling (without doubt I was mad). Its gaze must meet something, otherwise it would travel out into space further and further till it had left all the stars and waggled aimless in the ether. The notion of such a calamity was unbearable. Besides, I was hungry for that gaze. My eyes desired those eyes: if that glance did not press against them, they would burst from my head and roll on the floor, and I should be compelled to go down on my hands and knees and grope in search for them. No, no. I must return to the sitting-room. And I returned. The gaze met mine in the doorway, and now there was something novel in it—an added terror, a more intolerable menance, the silent imprecation so frightful that no human being could suffer it. I sank to the ground, and as I did so I shrieked; but it was a weird shriek, sounding only within the brain, and in reply to that unheard shriek I heard an unheard voice of the ghost crying, “Yield!”
I would not yield. Crushed, maddened, tortured, I would not yield. I wanted to die. I felt that death would be sweet and truly desirable. And, so thinking, I faded into a kind of coma, or rather a state which was just short of coma. I had not lost consciousness, but I was conscious of nothing but the gaze. “Good-bye, Rosa,” I whispered; “I am beaten, but my love has not been conquered.” The next thing I remember was the paleness of the dawn at the window. The apparition had vanished for the night, and I was alive. But I knew that I had touched the skirts of death. I knew that after such another night I should die.
THE HAUNTED AUTOMATON, by W. C. Morrow
Old man Erkins had three principal faults: he was rich, stingy, and a hard drinker. For the first of these he was to blame; for the second, pitied; for the third—but wait and read further before you express an opinion. At all events, by reason of these things and of others that I shall now write concerning him, I say and you will say that he should have been killed; which I am restrained from doing in this very line by the necessities of this story and not at all by fear either of the law or of punishment in the world to come.
Upon recovering from a hard spree, toward the end of which he would begin to see strange things, Erkins would not touch a drop for several days; then, recovering his nerve, he would laugh at his past timidity and—take a drink; the next day one, the next three, the next four, and so on, until snakes and other queer things would creep out of dark places.
There was an old servant, named Sarah, that kept his large prison (for such was his house) in order; and the one green spot in her shaky old life was a pretty girl, old Erkins’ niece, ward and prisoner combined—Alice by name, and the prettiest girl in all the country thereabout, though a very unhappy one, to be sure. Alice had inherited Sarah, who was Alice’s mother’s trusted servant, and who vowed that she never, never would leave the poor young orphan, though the old house should swarm with snakes and things.
Now, the old miser loved his niece in a certain way. There are persons who love others so deeply that they murder them. There are various ways of committing murder, and one of the cruelest is to shut up a pretty girl in a big house and never let a young fellow even look at her.
Merely because she accidentally—entirely accidentally—fell in love with a poor but good-looking young machinist whom she met at church, her old guardian, in a spirit of mean tyranny, forbade her ever going out again, and in a most insulting and over-bearing manner told this young man, Howard Rankin, that the girl should never see him again, and that any mendicant fortune-hunter who should ever present himself at the house or seek to capture her for her quarter of a million would be riddled with buckshot.
Old Erkins had a mania for curious mechanisms. He had clocks that did all manner of wonderful things, and hundreds of other ingenious contrivances of various kinds. Whenever he read of some curious invention he would have it. He never tired of amusing himself with these things. There was one thing that Erkins needed to complete his ha
ppiness as well as his collection, and that was an automaton—a working counterfeit man. He had read everything that had ever been written on the subject of such automata. He had visited museums and wax-works shows, and had seen gladiators and Zouaves dying their several deaths again and again; but they were all too suggestive, for there were times when old Erkins’ nerves were weak. Once he did buy a dying gladiator at enormous expense, but on the occasion of his next bad spell that gladiator’s departing life seemed to take the form of numberless snakes and monkeys; and, frantic with fright, its owner chopped it to pieces with a hatchet.
Howard Rankin had a certain inventive genius. Knowing the old mans weakness, he conceived the idea of constructing an automaton, with which he hoped, he told a friend, to reinstate himself in the old man’s good graces. However, this was a secret. All that he gave out was that he was going to construct an automaton—he knew what would result. He really did think that he loved Alice very, very deeply. Why shouldn’t he? He promptly began to put his idea into execution, and selected the back room of his work-shop.
Very soon the project caused such talk that old Erkins heard of it. As the work progressed and favored bends were permitted to see the wonderful automaton as it grew under its author’s hands, old Erkins, hearing the stories, became more and more interested. When a few months had passed he heard that the automaton was nearly finished.
Erkins could restrain himself no longer—he must see that automaton and must secure it. But how should he proceed? He had grossly insulted the inventor. This was a serious difficulty. He pondered over it a few days, and then boldly sent a polite note, asking permission to see the automaton. A formal note, granting the request, came in reply. The old man went at once.
The young man received him with polite condescension. Erkins’ keen old eyes glittered eagerly; and Howard, noticing it, was secretly elated accordingly. Outwardly he was stiff and cold.
“And so you are at work on an automaton?” Erkins asked, as he was ushered into the back room.
“Yes,” deliberately responded the young mechanic, as he quietly proceeded with his work.
“Cheerful one?”
“What?”
“Cheerful?”
“What do you mean?”
“It doesn’t die, or anything of that sort, does it?”
“Oh, no!”
“’Cause I had a dying gladiator once, and it died so hard that sna—that—that it was unpleasant.”
He stepped closer to the half finished automaton. It sat in an easy-chair. “So I killed it,” he said.
“Killed what?”
“Gladiator.”
He was devoured with curiosity concerning Howard’s automaton, and yet felt such timidity that he hesitated about asking questions. Howard, volunteering no information, continued his work. Presently Erkins mustered up courage.
“I see you haven’t put on its head yet,” he essayed.
“No.”
“Haven’t got it ready?”
“No.”
There was a pause.
“What will it do?”
“A good many things.”
The old man went round it and examined it narrowly. It was the figure of a fop, dressed in the extreme of fashion, sitting in an indolent posture.
“Everything finished except the head, eh?”
“Yes,” answered Howard; who seeing that he had carried his indifference far enough, left off his work, and said: “The head is to be the main part, because the more important work is to be done by it, and great care is required in making its wax face, its eyes, and so forth. Here is the block of it, with the machinery inside. That blonde wig will be its hair. As the automaton now is, however, it can give all the limb motions, though they are comparatively insignificant.” Howard inserted a key in a hole in the back of the chair and wound up the automaton. The slight clicking of machinery was audible. Old Erkins trembled with excitement as he saw the automaton begin to move. It brought its right hand to the place where its mouth would be, then lowered it; brought up its left hand, and then crossed its legs.
“The right hand,” explained Howard, “will carry a cigar, for the automaton will smoke. See—it will take a few puffs and then withdraw the cigar. The other hand is now taking up an eye-glass.
I must now stop the machinery, as other attachments, not yet supplied, will have to be added, and still other machinery, the most intricate of all, is contained within the head.”
“What will you do with the automaton?” asked Erkins, feeling his way.
“Don’t know—probably keep it for my own amusement.”
“Wouldn’t you sell it?”
“Sell it! why, who is rich enough to buy it!”
Erkins’ heart sank.
“What shall you ask for it?” he inquired in sheer desperation.
“A thousand dollars.”
Erkins’ heart leaped with joy.
“I’ll take it,” he eagerly said. He had expected to hear five-thousand. “It’s a go,” quietly responded Howard.
Then Erkins began to reflect that possibly he had been too hasty.
“I may be giving you too much,” he said.
“Don’t take it if you don’t want it,” coolly answered the young man.
“Will you give me a written guaranty of what it will do?” he asked.
Howard pondered a moment. “I will do not only that,” he said, “but more; for I have great confidence in the automaton. Let me see. This is the 12th of November. I will be married on Wednesday, the 24th of next month, the day before Christmas. I shall want eight hundred dollars for my wedding and to start in life. I—”
“Married!” exclaimed old Erkins in astonishment.
“Yes. I will take eight hundred dollars down. If the automaton please you, you are to pay the balance; if in any particular it fall below your expectations, you may keep the two hundred. I will give you a written guaranty that the automaton shall cross and uncross its legs, smoke cigars, adjust its eye-glass, incline its head, open and close its eyes, wink and talk—speak two or three words.”
“Good!” cried the old man. “It’s a bargain.” Erkins was very happy when he left. He had had two triumphs—secured the automaton and learned that Alice and her fortune were no longer in danger.
According to agreement the automaton was delivered on Saturday, December 20th, by a friend of Howard’s, the inventor sending word that under the circumstances he had no desire to enter Mr. Erkins’ house. The automaton was encased in a large box provided with handles, and four men were brought to carry it into the house. Old Erkins danced about in great excitement and high glee. It was a time of such rejoicing with him that he called Alice and Old Sarah to share his happiness and see the wonderful automaton. Much of his exhilaration was due to drink, for the old man was rapidly reaching the limit, and in two or three days his old wriggling friends would surely be upon him.
“How’s Rankin getting along with his wedding?” asked Erkins of the friend.
The latter gave some offhand reply, and as he did so he saw Alice stagger backward to the wall and her face blanch. “By the way, Alice,” said wicked old Erkins, delighting in the cruel stab he was giving, “Howard Rankin is to be married next Wednesday.”
The poor girl could say nothing, for her heart was broken; but old Erkins did not notice her strange conduct nor see the agony of shame, humiliation and despair she suffered. Sarah saw it all, and it wrung her faithful old heart. She slipped her arm around the young girl’s waist and would have led her away; but Erkins commanded them to remain, and Erkins’ word was law.
The men set down the big box in the hall.
“Mr. Erkins,” said the friend, “here are certain instructions that Howard sent for the management of the automaton. He insists that they be car
ried out to the letter, or he will not be responsible for failure.”
The old man hastily read the instructions. Among them there was this one: “The automaton must be kept in a room with a temperature not below 65 degrees Fahrenheit nor above 75 degrees, otherwise the springs, catgut strings, the wax of the face and of the head, and the glue of the various parts will be ruined.” Here was another: “There must be little light in the room, or the delicate colors in the face and hands will fade; and the automaton must not be placed with its face to the light” Another instruction made careful provision for ventilation, thus: “Exterior air, which at this time of year is either damp or frosty, must be excluded, and hence the window should never be opened; but as fresh air is necessary, the door must always be left slightly ajar—say six inches—and it must not open into any other room, but into a hall.” Winding at night or more than once a day was forbidden. There were also minute instructions for preparing and lighting the cigars that the automaton should smoke.
The Third Ghost Story Megapack: 26 Classic Ghost Stories Page 17