The Big Book of Ghost Stories

by Otto Penzler

  “That,” he finished as he pulled up before the porch, “accounts for the blood that accompanies his apparition.”

  Harley opened the door slowly and got out, looking uneasily at the battered old house. Nicholls cut the motor, got out, and walked at once to the back of the car.

  “Come on,” he said, dragging things out of the compartment. “Give me a hand with this. I’m not going to carry this stuff all by myself.”

  Harley came around reluctantly, regarded the curious assortment of bundles of dried faggots, lengths of colored cord, chalk pencils, ugly little bunches of wilted weeds, bleached bones of small animals, and a couple of less pleasant things without pleasure.

  Pat. HISS. Pat. HISS—

  “He’s here!” Harley yelped. “Listen! He’s someplace around here watching us.”

  “Ha!”

  The laugh was deep, unpleasant, and—bodiless. Harley looked around desperately for the tell-tale trickle of blood. And he found it; from the air it issued, just beside the car, sinking gracefully to the ground and sizzling, vanishing, there.

  “I’m watching you, all right,” the voice said grimly. “Russell, you worthless piece of corruption, I’ve got no more use for you than you used to have for me. Dead or alive, this is my land! I shared it with your uncle, you young scalawag, but I won’t share it with you. Get out!”

  Harley’s knees weakened and he tottered dizzily to the rear bumper, sat on it. “Nicholls—” he said confusedly.

  “Oh, brace up,” Nicholls said with irritation. He tossed a ball of gaudy twine, red and green, with curious knots tied along it, to Harley. Then he confronted the trickle of blood and made a few brisk passes in the air before it. His lips were moving silently, Harley saw, but no words came out.

  There was a gasp and a chopped-off squawk from the source of the blood drops. Nicholls clapped his hands sharply, then turned to young Harley.

  “Take that cord you have in your hands and stretch it around the house,” he said. “All the way around, and make sure it goes right across the middle of the doors and windows. It isn’t much, but it’ll hold him till we can get the good stuff set up.”

  Harley nodded, then pointed a rigid finger at the drops of blood, now sizzling and fuming more angrily than before. “What about that?” he managed to get out.

  Nicholls grinned complacently. “It’ll hold him here till the cows come home,” he said. “Get moving!”

  Harley inadvertently inhaled a lungful of noxious white smoke and coughed till the tears rolled down his cheeks. When recovered he looked at Nicholls, who was reading silently from a green leather book with dog-eared pages. He said, “Can I stop stirring this now?”

  Nicholls grimaced angrily and shook his head without looking at him. He went on reading, his lips contorting over syllables that were not in any language Harley had ever heard, then snapped the book shut and wiped his brow.

  “Fine,” he said. “So far, so good.” He stepped over to leeward of the boiling pot Harley was stirring on the hob over the fireplace, peered down into it cautiously.

  “That’s about done,” he said. “Take it off the fire and let it cool a bit.”

  Harley lifted it down, then squeezed his aching biceps with his left hand. The stuff was the consistency of sickly green fudge.

  Nicholls didn’t answer. He looked up in mild surprise at the sudden squawk of triumph from outside, followed by the howling of a chill wind.

  “Hank must be loose,” he said casually. “He can’t do us any harm, I think, but we’d better get a move on.” He rummaged in the dwindled pile of junk he’d brought from the car, extracted a paint-brush. “Smear this stuff around all the windows and doors. All but the front door. For that I have something else.” He pointed to what seemed to be the front axle of an old Model-T. “Leave that on the doorsill. Cold iron. You can just step over it, but Hank won’t be able to pass it. It’s been properly treated already with the very best thaumaturgy.”

  “Step over it,” Harley repeated. “What would I want to step over it for? He’s out there.”

  “He won’t hurt you,” said Nicholls. “You will carry an amulet with you—that one, there—that will keep him away. Probably he couldn’t really hurt you anyhow, being a low-order ghost who can’t materialize to any great density. But just to take no chances, carry the amulet and don’t stay out too long. It won’t hold him off forever, not for more than half an hour. If you ever have to go out and stay for any length of time, tie that bundle of herbs around your neck.” Nicholls smiled. “That’s only for emergencies, though. It works on the asafoetida principle. Ghosts can’t come anywhere near it—but you won’t like it much yourself. It has—ah—a rather definite odor.”

  He leaned gingerly over the pot again, sniffing. He sneezed.

  “Well, that’s cool enough,” he said. “Before it hardens, get moving. Start spreading the stuff upstairs—and make sure you don’t miss any windows.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I,” said Nicholls sharply, “will be here.

  Start.”

  But he wasn’t. When Harley finished his disagreeable task and came down he called Nicholls’ name, but the man was gone. Harley stepped to the door and looked out; the car was gone too.

  He shrugged. “Oh, well,” he said, and began taking the dust-clothes off the furniture.

  II

  Somewhere within the cold, legal mind of Lawyer Turnbull, he weighed the comparative likeness of nightmare and insanity.

  He stared at the plush chair facing him, noted with distinct uneasiness how the strangely weightless, strangely sourceless trickle of redness disappeared as it hit the floor, but left long, mud-ochre streaks matted on the upholstery. The sound was unpleasant too; Pat. HISS. Pat.

  HISS—

  The voice continued impatiently, “Damn your human stupidity! I may be a ghost, but heaven knows I’m not trying to haunt you. Friend, you’re not that important to me. Get this—I’m here on business.”

  Turnbull learned that you cannot wet lips with a dehydrated tongue. “Legal business?”

  “Sure. The fact that I was once killed by violence, and have to continue my existence on the astral plane, doesn’t mean I’ve lost my legal right. Does it?”

  The lawyer shook his head in bafflement. He said, “This would be easier on me if you weren’t invisible. Can’t you do something about it?”

  There was a short pause. “Well, I could materialize for a minute,” the voice said. “It’s hard work—damn hard, for me. There are a lot of us astral entities that can do it easy as falling out of bed, but—Well, if I have to I shall try to do it once.”

  There was a shimmering in the air above the armchair, and a milky, thick smoke condensed into an intangible seated figure. Turnbull took no delight in noting that, through the figure, the outlines of the chair were still hazily visible. The figure thickened. Just as the features took form—just as Turnbull’s bulging eyes made out a prominent hooked nose and a crisp beard—it thinned and exploded with a soft pop.

  The voice said weakly, “I didn’t think I was that bad. I’m way out of practice. I guess that’s the first daylight materialization I’ve made in seventy-five years.”

  The lawyer adjusted his rimless glasses and coughed. Hell’s hinges, he thought, the worst thing about this is that I’m believing it!

  “Oh, well,” he said aloud. Then he hurried on before the visitor could take offense: “Just what did you want? I’m just a small-town lawyer, you know. My business is fairly routine—”

  “I know all about your business,” the voice said. “You can handle my case—it’s a land affair. I want to sue Russell Harley.”

  “Harley?” Turnbull fingered his cheek. “Any relation to Zeb Harley?”

  “His nephew—and his heir too.”

  Turnbull nodded. “Yes, I remember now. My wife’s folks live in Rebel Butte, and I’ve been there. Quite a coincidence you should come to me—”

  The voice laugh
ed. “It was no coincidence,” it said softly.

  “Oh.” Turnbull was silent for a second. Then, “I see,” he said. He cast a shrewd glance at the chair. “Lawsuits cost money, Mr.—I don’t think you mentioned your name?”

  “Hank Jenkins,” the voice prompted. “I know that. Would—let’s see. Would six hundred and fifty dollars be sufficient?”

  Turnbull swallowed. “I think so,” he said in a relatively unemotional tone—relative to what he was thinking.

  “Then suppose we call that your retainer. I happen to have cached a considerable sum in gold when I was—that is to say, before I became an astral entity. I’m quite certain it hasn’t been disturbed. You will have to call it treasure trove, I guess, and give half of it to the state, but there’s thirteen hundred dollars altogether.”

  Turnbull nodded judiciously. “Assuming we can locate your trove,” he said, “I think that would be quite satisfactory.” He leaned back in his chair and looked legal. His aplomb had returned.

  And half an hour later he said slowly, “I’ll take your case.”

  Judge Lawrence Gimbel had always liked his job before. But his thirteen honorable years on the bench lost their flavor for him as he grimaced wearily and reached for his gavel. This case was far too confusing for his taste.

  The clerk made his speech, and the packed courtroom sat down en masse. Gimbel held a hand briefly to his eyes before he spoke.

  “Is the counsel for the plaintiff ready?”

  “I am, your honor.” Turnbull, alone at his table, rose and bowed.

  “The counsel for the defendant?”

  “Ready, your honor!” Fred Wilson snapped. He looked with a hard flicker of interest at Turnbull and his solitary table, then leaned over and whispered in Russell Harley’s ear. The youth nodded glumly, then shrugged.

  Gimbel said, “I understand the attorneys for both sides have waived jury trial in this case of Henry Jenkins versus Russell Joseph Harley.”

  Both lawyers nodded. Gimbel continued, “In view of the unusual nature of this case, I imagine it will prove necessary to conduct it with a certain amount of informality. The sole purpose of this court is to arrive at the true facts at issue, and to deliver a verdict in accord with the laws pertaining to these facts. I will not stand on ceremony. Nevertheless, I will not tolerate any disturbances or unnecessary irregularities. The spectators will kindly remember that they are here on privilege. Any demonstration will result in the clearing of the court.”

  He looked severely at the white faces that gleamed unintelligently up at him. He suppressed a sigh as he said, “The counsel for the plaintiff will begin.”

  Turnbull rose quickly to his feet, faced the judge.

  “Your honor,” he said, “we propose to show that my client, Henry Jenkins, has been deprived of his just rights by the defendant. Mr. Jenkins, by virtue of a sustained residence of more than twenty years in the house located on Route 22, eight miles north of the town of Rebel Butte, with the full knowledge of its legal owner, has acquired certain rights. In legal terminology we define these as the rights of adverse possession. The laymen would call them common-law rights—squatters’ rights.”

  Gimbel folded his hands and tried to relax. Squatters’ rights—for a ghost! He sighed, but listened attentively as Turnbull went on.

  “Upon the death of Zebulon Harley, the owner of the house involved—it is better known, perhaps, as Harley Hall—the defendant inherited title to the property. We do not question his right to it. But my client has an equity in Harley Hall; the right to free and full occupation of it for the duration of his existence. The defendant has forcefully evicted my client, by means which have caused my client great mental distress, and have even endangered his very existence.”

  Gimbel nodded. If the case only had a precedent somewhere.… But it hadn’t; he remembered grimly the hours he’d spent thumbing through all sorts of unlikely law books, looking for anything that might bear on the case. It had been his better judgment that he throw the case out of court outright—a judge couldn’t afford to have himself laughed at, not if he were ambitious. And public laughter was about the only certainty there was to this case. But Wilson had put up such a fight that the judge’s temper had taken over. He never did like Wilson, anyhow.

  “You may proceed with your witnesses,” he said.

  Turnbull nodded. To the clerk he said, “Call Henry Jenkins to the stand.”

  Wilson was on his feet before the clerk opened his mouth.

  “Objection!” he bellowed. “The so-called Henry Jenkins cannot qualify as a witness!”

  “Why not?” demanded Turnbull.

  “Because he’s dead!”

  The judge clutched his gavel with one hand, forehead with the other. He banged on the desk to quiet the courtroom.

  Turnbull stood there, smiling. “Naturally,” he said, “you’ll have proof of that statement.”

  Wilson snarled. “Certainly.” He referred to his brief. “The so-called Henry Jenkins is the ghost, spirit, or specter of one Hank Jenkins, who prospected for gold in this territory a century ago. He was killed by a bullet through the throat from the gun of one Long Tom Cooper, and was declared legally dead on September 14, 1850. Cooper was hanged for his murder. No matter what hocus-pocus you produce for evidence to the contrary now, that status of legal death remains completely valid.”

  “What evidence have you of the identity of my client with this Hank Jenkins?” Turnbull asked grimly.

  “Do you deny it?”

  Turnbull shrugged. “I deny nothing. I’m not being cross-examined. Furthermore, the sole prerequisite of a witness is that he understand the value of an oath. Henry Jenkins was tested by John Quincy Fitzjames, professor of psychology at the University of Southern California. The results—I have Dr. Fitzjames’ sworn statement of them here, which I will introduce as an exhibit—show clearly that my client’s intelligence quotient is well above normal, and that a psychiatric examination discloses no important aberrations which would injure his validity as a witness. I insist that my client be allowed to testify on his own behalf.”

  “But he’s dead!” squawked Wilson. “He’s invisible right now!”

  “My client,” said Turnbull stiffly, “is not present just now. Undoubtedly that accounts for what you term his invisibility.”

  He paused for the appreciative murmur that swept through the court. Things were breaking perfectly, he thought, smiling. “I have here another affidavit,” he said. “It is signed by Elihu James and Terence MacRae, who respectively head the departments of physics and biology at the same university. It states that my client exhibits all the vital phenomena of life. I am prepared to call all three of my expert witnesses to the stand, if necessary.”

  Wilson scowled but said nothing. Judge Gimbel leaned forward.

  “I don’t see how it is possible for me to refuse the plaintiff the right to testify,” he said. “If the three experts who prepared these reports will testify on the stand to the facts contained in them, Henry Jenkins may then take the stand.”

  Wilson sat down heavily. The three experts spoke briefly—and dryly. Wilson put them through only the most formal of cross-examinations.

  The judge declared a brief recess. In the corridor outside, Wilson and his client lit cigarettes, and looked unsympathetically at each other.

  “I feel like a fool,” said Russell Harley. “Bringing suit against a ghost.”

  “The ghost brought the suit,” Wilson reminded him. “If only we’d been able to hold fire for a couple more weeks, till another judge came on the bench, I could’ve got this thing thrown right out of court.”

  “Well, why couldn’t we wait?”

  “Because you were in such a damn hurry!” Wilson said. “You and that idiot Nicholls—so confident that it would never come to trial.”

  Harley shrugged, and thought unhappily of their failure in completely exorcising the ghost of Hank Jenkins. That had been a mess. Jenkins had somehow escaped from the charmed
circle they’d drawn around him, in which they’d hoped to keep him till the trial was forfeited by nonappearance.

  “That’s another thing,” said Wilson. “Where is Nicholls?”

  Harley shrugged again. “I dunno. The last I saw of him was in your office. He came around to see me right after the deputy slapped the show-cause order on me at the house. He brought me down to you—said you’d been recommended to him. Then you and him and I talked about the case for a while. He went out, after he lent me a little money to help meet your retainer. Haven’t seen him since.”

  “I’d like to know who recommended me to him,” Wilson said grimly. “I don’t think he’d ever recommend anybody else. I don’t like this case—and I don’t much like you.”

  Harley growled but said nothing. He flung his cigarette away. It tasted of the garbage that hung around his neck—everything did. Nicholls had told no lies when he said Harley wouldn’t much like the bundle of herbs that would ward off the ghost of old Jenkins. They smelled.

  The court clerk was in the corridor, bawling something, and people were beginning to trickle back in. Harley and his attorney went with them.

  When the trial had been resumed, the clerk said, “Henry Jenkins!”

  Turnbull was on his feet at once. He opened the door of the judge’s chamber, said something in a low tone. Then he stepped back, as if to let someone through.

  Pat, HISS. Pat. HISS—

  There was a concerted gasp from the spectators as the weirdly appearing trickle of blood moved slowly across the open space to the witness chair. This was the ghost—the plaintiff in the most eminently absurd case in the history of jurisprudence.