The Third Ghost Story Megapack: 26 Classic Ghost Stories

by Wildside Press

  Muriel saw the quick movement of her hand as it pounced on an apparently very small object, took it up, glanced at it, bestowed it in some receptacle. Then, as though attracted by a sound, the searcher raised her head; the attitude was that of listening—keen, furtive. Her glance travelled up to the landing above her; she remained a moment motionless, then, like one reassured, she stooped and again felt carefully about her, to and fro, shifted her position slightly, repeated the movement of picking up something. After a little she sat upon her heels, took the box, or what it was that she held, from the ground, and seemed to examine the contents; then bowed herself afresh, and again searched the floor.

  Muriel watched like one petrified, a consideration creeping into her consciousness that made her shiver. Until the coming of her light Miss Abel must have been searching for those minute objects she had dropped in the pitch dark. The coming of the candle and the spectator made no effect upon her movements; she neither started nor turned her head.

  An urgent need to make sure was the first imperative impulse. Leaning over the rail, and subduing her voice that the invalid above might not hear it, she spoke—

  “Miss Abel, what are you doing?”

  The quavering accents fell dead upon the silence, the crouching figure took no heed. It was just possible that she might be deaf; and Muriel, taking her courage in both hands, cleared the remaining stairs at a run, and, gaining the hail, circled round so as to face the intruder.

  The woman with the sinister jaw and heavily shaded eyes now stood up. Her movements all suggested a fierce necessity for noiseless haste. She made a dart at the house door, and with one last backward gaze of alarmed watchfulness seemed to let herself out instantly. The sound of the cautious click of the latch as it closed behind her, echoed through the still house to its remotest end, like the widening of ripples on a pool when a stone is gently dropped. The first momentary impression of the listening girl was the conviction that her step-mother must he aroused by a noise so solitary, so incisive.

  Shaking all over she approached the door. The chain was up, the bolts drawn. The whole figure of this woman was delusion then—stark and sheer delusion. Her knees knocked together, she almost lost grip on her own consciousness; only the thought of her father’s critical state kept her from abject panic. For his sake she mastered fear, compelled her limbs to obey her will—to enter the drawing-room, take thence the book she needed, and to walk, not to stampede, up the stairs again.

  The bedroom, with its fire and lamp, seemed the essence of comfort and friendliness. She crouched by the generous blaze, warming her chilled fingers, steadying her convulsive shaking.

  “This is a cold house,” she said to her father, forcing her wan lips to a smile. “Is Agnes awake?” asked the major.

  She looked up quickly. “No! What makes you ask?”

  “I thought I heard you speak to her; and I thought I heard her door close.”

  III

  “Ah, Dr. Forrest,” said Muriel, archly, next day, “I have made a discovery! Not treasure—no! But I have found out what Agnes was so anxious you should not tell me yesterday White Gates is haunted!”

  “Ah!” said the doctor, retaining her hand that he might feel her pulse, “so you have been dreaming of horrors, have you? I’m not surprised; I should not have told you all that yarn.

  “You cannot be responsible for my dreaming; you left out the essential person in the story; who is she?’

  He looked genuinely puzzled. “Tell me what you saw, Miss North.”

  “Tell me first—you knew the house is haunted?”

  “I have heard people say so.”

  “And tenants left, and the rent went down, in consequence?”

  “Folks are superstitious.”

  “Now, doctor, what did people see, or fancy they saw?”

  “‘Pon my life, I hardly know. Noises, rustlings, doors opened, some one about the house at night—the usual thing. The manner of the old ladies’ death was more than enough to give the place a bad name.”

  “But the person—the individual that walks and rustles, that opens or closes doors—who is she? No Kenyon, I am quite sure, from your description of the family. Do tell me how she comes into the story.”

  “My dear young lady, I have no notion what you are talking about; please explain.” She told him, then, of the two appearances of the fair-haired woman—told him so simply and directly, that he could not help but feel in some sort impressed.

  “The first time I saw her,” she said, “nothing could have been more totally unexpected. Now, do tell me who she is!”

  “But I have no idea who she is.” He looked thoroughly puzzled. “The idea of her being Miss Abel is absurd, of course. The little dressmaker is a dark-haired hunchback.”

  “Is she not one of the treasure-hunters who occupied the house in such numbers for the last twenty years?”

  “No, certainly not. There have been five sets of tenants, and I have known them all. You see, folks here are at my mercy completely. If they fall ill, they must either die or call me in. He laughed. “Nobody at all like the person you describe has ever, to my knowledge, set foot in the house. And yet, oddly enough, I do know of a person to whom your description applies in some curious points: the hair especially—the unusual style of it. She is a Mrs. Gibson, the wife of a farmer who lives at Cloverhead, nearly twelve miles from here, on the wolds. She isn’t young now by any means; and she is no ghost—as much alive as you or I—and I would take my oath she never was at White Gates in her life.”

  “Who is she? A native of these parts?”

  “A native of God knows where. She was a barmaid in Bristol, and turned the heads of half the young men in the place, in my day. I don’t know why she married Gibson of Cloverhead; he’s rich, of course; but she might have done better, I should think.”

  “I should like to see her,” said Muriel suddenly. “Was she married at the time of Miss Kenyon’s death?”

  He pondered. “Was she? No. That spring, I think it was. Yes, of course, that spring. I remember it now, because Hackett’s wife and she were confined much the same time. Her child—Mrs. Gibson’s—was born prematurely, about six months after her marriage, and did not live. She was left without a baby, and poor little Hackett without a mother.”

  “I should like to see her,” said Muriel. “If it was summer-time, I’d drive you over, said the doctor. “But this time of year it’s out of the question.”

  The human brain weaves threads faster than any spider; and Muriel’s was busy indeed after the doctor left her.

  Mrs. Gibson—ex-barmaid in Bristol—very attractive. Young Hackett was in business in Bristol.… Her sudden marriage, immediately after the announcement of his—for Dr. Forrest had said that the fact of his being married came as a surprise to the neighbourhood.… The birth of her child.… Oh, surely, surely there was some thread of connection here! Was it not possible that after all Mrs. Gibson, and she alone, knew the secret of the disappearance of the bulk of Joshua’s fortune? The motive?—Revenge.

  It all seemed to unroll itself before her like a drama. Young Hackett, the doctor said, knew of the secret hoard; if Muriel’s suspicions hit the mark, the one person to whom he would be likely to mention such a thing would be the barmaid. How easy to gain access to a house inhabited solely by three women, all advanced in years! In so many empty rooms, how easy concealment to one who had learned the ways of the house from the nephew and heir of its owners!

  And no possible clue to connect the woman and her secret could, as far as one saw, have been forthcoming, short of her own haunting presence there! In the very place!

  Muriel was divided between a great desire to pass a night in the room containing the safe, and a great fear of doing so. The thought of Agnes was the casting vote; her distress and disapproval would be so great, and Murie
l could think of no device by which permission to change her room could be obtained, without speaking of the second apparition which was so far, a secret between herself and the doctor. Neither he nor she had the least reason to suppose that Mrs. North had ever been disturbed nocturnally, though she knew the house was reputed haunted, and was most anxious that her step-daughter should be kept in ignorance.

  Major North’s turn for the better became so marked, that very soon there was no more night-nursing required. The weather changed, and grew soft and genial, which was very favourable to him.

  Dr. Forrest and Muriel more than once discussed the fanciful theories which she had based upon his casual mention of Mrs. Gibson: the doctor inclining to the belief that, had she really abstracted the jewels, she would have taken herself off and lived in wealth upon the proceeds; Muriel strongly urging that such a theory was opposed to the motive of the theft, as she conceived it, and that Mrs. Gibson’s possession of the treasures accounted entirely for the undoubted fact that no sale of them had been attempted.

  One evening, unusually late, the doctor dropped in, finding the girl, as he expected, alone in the library.

  “Miss Muriel,” he said, “I’m sent for, to Cloverhead. Mrs. Gibson is ill. I shall start early tomorrow morning, and as it’s so fine, if you like. I’ll take you; but you must wrap up.

  Mrs. North eagerly accepted the chance for Muriel to get a good long drive; and the following morning, amid the chill, still smiles of a sunny, quiet December day, they set off in the clog-cart over the wolds, to the remote farm known as Cloverhead.

  A more desolate drive than that which lies between the two places could hardly be imagined. The wold, in its most treeless, exposed form, heaved in sullen savagery all about it. The square, grey, hard-looking house, with its ricks and outbuildings, stood out as a landmark for miles and miles.

  A pebble-capped walk, edged with pointed cypress bushes, led from the gate to the house door; and, as the doctor’s cart stopped, a tall woman, wrapped in a shawl, came slowly down the dark entrance passage, and paused on the threshold, holding her shawl over her mouth as though she feared the keen air.

  “Good-morning, Mrs. Gibson,” called the doctor. “May I bring in this young lady out of the cold?”

  The woman nodded silently; and, with some tumult of nerves, Muriel found herself approaching, facing, actually speaking to—the spectre that haunted White Gates.

  There was no doubt it was she. The face was gaunt, aged, haggard, the hard line of jaw was even more pronounced; but the sunken eyes were still accented with artificial pencilling, the abundant hair was not grey, and was still elaborately dressed. As she preceded them into her parlour, the grandeur of her carriage, and the fine lines of her build, showed traces of a personality not usual in farmers’ wives.

  “Sit down,” she said abruptly to Muriel, pulling forward a solid old Chippendale chair.

  “You must have had a chilly drive. There s a good fire. I’ll go and have a chat with the doctor, and tell the girl to bring you some cake.” Muriel sat down, bewildered. The corporeal touch of the woman’s fingers upon her own jarred with probabilities. Many people in these days have heard of Phantasms of the living. Muriel never had. It seemed uncanny, even to the point of horror, that she should have spoken face to face with a woman whom she had recently seen vanish through barred doors.

  The room was hot and stuffy, the big clock ticked lazily, the wood fire crackled. An armchair, such as one sees in old pictures, with very high back, drawn near the fire and piled with tumbled pillows, showed that Mrs. Gibson had been sitting here until the doctor’s arrival. There was an inkstand on the table near, and a litter of papers and pens. It was a relief to see signs of habitation among the wool mats, albums, and wax-flower groups.

  Muriel’s eye rested idly on a folded vellum document that looked legal, thence it wandered to a packet of letters, carefully tied up. There was sealing-wax upon the package—newly spilt, as one could see by the adjacent candle and smell by the unmistakable fragrance. There was in the girl’s mind no smallest intent to spy, but her eye fell on the inscription, written in a large, flowing hand.

  “To be given, with all the other contents of this box, to Maurice Kenyon Hackett, on the death of his father. The contents to justify my entire course of conduct.”

  A hot flush mounted slowly to Muriel’s brow. Springing up, she turned her back upon the table, and walked to the window. Her heart beat uncomfortably. She was ashamed, yet triumphant. She felt like a spy, yet she longed—oh, how ardently—to break the seal, and possess herself of the secret those letters hid!

  After a long hesitation she took a sudden resolution—with a swift movement back to the table she turned the package over so that the wax lay uppermost, and the inscription was hidden from view. Then she went back to the window. A minute later a servant-girl brought in a tray of cake and currant wine; and, to beguile the time of waiting, Muriel presently ate some, for her long drive had made her hungry. More than an hour was she alone with that packet of mystery, before the doctor and his patient rejoined her.

  The woman’s face was more drawn, her eyes more sunken than ever. “I’m sorry you’ve had to wait so long,” she said.

  Muriel murmured a word of deprecation, and thanked her for her hospitality. Mrs. Gibson approached the table, against which she leaned, like one who needs support; the girl saw a sudden swift start, as her eye fell on the package; she saw her note that it lay so that no writing could be seen, saw her glance from it to her visitor, and push it away as though inadvertently, under some loose sheets of blotting-paper.

  “We must get off, Miss Muriel, or we shall be benighted,” said Dr. Forrest.

  “Are you staying with the doctor?” asked Mrs. Gibson.

  “Oh no, I am staying at White Gates,” replied Muriel, smiling full into her eyes. There was not a flicker, not a ray of recognition, nor of consciousness.

  “White Gates? Where’s that?” said the slow, hard voice. For a moment Muriel held her breath; then she replied simply—“I think you know the house; I have seen you there.”

  The woman looked at her in blank, broad surprise. “I don’t know what you mean,” she said.

  The doctor drew back, watching Muriel, his hand hiding his amused lips.

  “I have been staying a month at White Gates, in Longstreet,” said Muriel, “and I have twice seen you there; the second time, you were picking up those things that you dropped in the hall, you remember.”

  Still the woman faced her with unmoved muscles; but a red spot crept into her cheeks. “You make a mistake,” she said coldly, “I have not been beyond the garden since October.”

  “Nevertheless, I have seen you at White Gates,” steadily repeated the girl. “Next time, do you think you will know me?”

  “I don’t understand your insinuation,” replied her antagonist, after a pause. “I have hardly been in Longstreet village in my life, and I do not know the house you allude to.”

  “Nor the owner?” softly suggested Muriel.

  Nothing could daunt this woman; her lips tightened themselves like cords. “Nor its owner,” she replied unflinchingly. Then she turned to the doctor.

  “This young lady has—a bee in her bonnet.”

  “She seems to be asking queer questions,” said Dr. Forrest, twinkling. “I will ask no more,” said Muriel, her face relaxing into a smile. “I have found out all I wished to know. Good-bye, Mrs. Gibson; do speak to me next time we meet. We have been introduced now, you know.”

  “I am sure she must be cracked,” was the only answer vouchsafed by the hostess. The woman had strung herself to a point, but, as they shook hands, Muriel felt that she was quivering, and her breath came in quick, short pants. They drove away in silence from the desolate place, and, standing at the door, she watched them go, her shawl over her mouth.


  “She sent for rue chiefly to tell me that she has made me sole executor of her will,” said the doctor, speaking at last. “I don’t fancy she and Gibson get on over well. Poor soul! Her days are numbered, I hardly think she will get through the winter.”

  Mrs. Gibson never moved until the dog-cart dipped down out of sight, over the brow of the moor. Then she turned back to the sitting-room, and, closing the door, stood motionless in the middle of the room. After a silence, she flung her arms upwards and outwards, with a gesture that sent her shawl to the ground, and showed the attenuation of her finely-proportioned figure.

  “My God!” she said aloud, “after twenty years!… My God! How long it takes to die!”

  IV

  Of course Muriel told Dr. Forrest of the inscription on the packet of letters, and he gave her in return the information that Maurice was certainly the name of Joshua Hackett’s son. It began to seem to him almost probable that the wronged woman had chosen so to avenge herself and that the box to be given to the young man might actually prove to contain the missing fortune. Meanwhile, no action was possible; all was surmise; and Mrs. Gibson so near death that the doctor could not find it in his heart to break confidence, and confide his suspicions to Joshua Hackett.

  For several days the image of the miserable woman, her desolate house, and her haggard eyes, so dwelt in Muriel’s mind that she went about the house expecting to meet her at every corner. But as days went by, and all things at White Gates pursued their normal course, the strength of the impression began to fade. Several external circumstances combined in this direction. The weather continued “saft,” the major liked her to exercise his horse, she was introduced by the doctor to the young people at the Manor House, and with them she rode and also played hockey, and had something of a good time. But soon after Christmas the weather became severe. A heavy snowfall, accompanied by a driving gale, plunged the Cotswolds into a mass of drifts; and White Gates, when communication with the outer world was practically severed, was a weird and gruesome abode.