The Big Book of Ghost Stories

by Otto Penzler

  I was not surprised when the lights began to grow dim. Indeed, I had been expecting it. Leaning back in Mr. Lincoln’s comfortable chair, I closed my eyes and put in a call to Mom. When I opened them, the room was dark save for the now familiar corpse-light manifested by the dead and gone. Deploying from the dark hallway that led to the bedrooms a grim array of monstrous images advanced, while around me a second army gathered as if to do battle.

  But Meeks’s creatures—as I had deduced—were not, had never been, the actual dead, over whom he had no power. Rather they were his projected memories or perverse imaginings. My ghosts, on the other hand, were as real as thunder, and they moved forward with purpose, each and every man of them lifting the vivid, glowing memory of the noose he had died by.

  We the living had become irrelevant. The specters passed through us as we might have passed through smoke. Yet I could see through them, so that even amid the throng the enemy remained dimly visible. I was able to watch Meeks’s fearsome fantasies shrivel and fade as his terror mounted, leaving only the pathetic Hangman himself to confront his victims. They closed in around him; he gave a strangled outcry; they were so thick upon him that he vanished for a moment.

  And then forever. With a flicker, pop, and squelch, like the explosion of a damp firecracker, he delaminated and rejoined the Cosmic All—which, as far as anyone living or dead cared, was welcome to him. We the living rose and clasped hands, noting only then that the six bottles of bourbon Steve had set out were now entirely empty.

  Comment from the Editors of the JPR

  We present the foregoing account—discovered on Mr. Martin’s computer by the executor of his will—with a certain degree of hesitancy, not to say trepidation.

  The author was a Life Member of this society, well known to all of us as a person of unimpeachable veracity. Back copies of the Greenwood Falls Standard confirm the existence of stories about the Hangman’s House, exactly as reported in his account.

  Yet “Stephen Preston James” (a pseudonym) refuses to comment on Mr. Martin’s essay, and threatens a lawsuit if we print either his real name or the actual address of his house. Members of the group Death Must Die follow their attorney’s lead, stating that if they become known as “kooks” their attempt to have the death penalty abolished will suffer. Efforts to reach the widow Letitia Loos have been unavailing, since she has left the country, and is believed to be living in Rio de Janeiro.

  So confirmatory testimony is lacking. Yet the Editors feel constrained to publish this account, not only because of its intrinsic interest, but also as a memorial to Mr. Martin. Following the tumultuous events here recounted, our old friend and colleague returned home, sat down to rest in his La-Z-Boy, and passed over in his sleep, a victim of cardiovascular disease associated with his age and sedentary lifestyle. A curious final note has been added by the appearance, on the CD-ROM containing his account, of a few lines not present when the disc was first viewed at our offices. Perhaps a sort of spirit message, like those received by mediums of past times on sealed writing slates? This postscript to the story—perhaps (or perhaps not) the last words we shall ever receive from George Martin—reads as follows:

  I don’t know how long I slept after the excitement of last evening. I do remember having a brief, unpleasant dream of some sort, before a familiar voice woke me.

  “Hi, Mom,” I said, rising from the chair toward the ceiling. “It’ll be really nice, being with you again at Thanksgiving.”

  *By George Martin, P.I., in Journal of Psychical Research, Vol. XCII, No. 2. Reprinted by permission.

  THE TRANSFERRED GHOST

  Frank Stockton

  A WRITER OF CHILDREN’S books laced with fantasy and popular fiction, mostly of a humorous nature, Frank Stockton (1834–1902) is remembered almost exclusively today for a few satiric ghost stories and the great American classic “The Lady, or the Tiger?” This most famous of all riddle stories was originally titled “The King’s Arena” when Stockton read it aloud at a party. It drew such enthusiastic response that he expanded it, changed the title, and sold it to Century Magazine (November 1882). Two years later, it became the title story of his most successful collection of short stories.

  Born in Philadelphia, Stockton started out as a wood engraver, inventing an important engraving tool. He began writing at an early age, starting with children’s stories and sketches, continuing with popular stories for most of the important magazines of the time; he also served as the assistant editor of the very successful St. Nicholas Magazine. His novels of humor, notably Rudder Grange (1879) and The Rudder Grangers Abroad (1891), which made him famous, were unusual for their time as they used neither colloquialisms nor dialect—then a staple of comic writing in America. His other contributions to the fantasy and supernatural genre include The Christmas Wreck and Other Stories (1886), The Bee-Man of Orn and Other Fanciful Tales (1887), A Story-Teller’s Pack (1897), and The Queen’s Museum and Other Fanciful Tales (1906).

  “The Transferred Ghost” was first collected in The Lady or the Tiger? And Other Stories (New York, Scribner’s, 1884).

  The Transferred Ghost

  FRANK STOCKTON

  THE COUNTRY RESIDENCE OF Mr. John Hinckman was a delightful place to me, for many reasons. It was the abode of a genial, though somewhat impulsive, hospitality. It had a broad, smooth-shaven lawn and towering oaks and elms; there were bosky shades at several points, and not far from the house there was a little rill spanned by a rustic bridge with the bark on; there were fruits and flowers, pleasant people, chess, billiards, rides, walks, and fishing. These were great attractions; but none of them, nor all of them together, would have been sufficient to hold me to the place very long. I had been invited for the trout season, but should, probably, have finished my visit early in the summer had it not been that upon fair days, when the grass was dry, and the sun was not too hot, and there was but little wind, there strolled beneath the lofty elms, or passed lightly through the bosky shades, the form of my Madeline.

  This lady was not, in very truth, my Madeline. She had never given herself to me, nor had I, in any way, acquired possession of her. But as I considered her possession the only sufficient reason for the continuance of my existence, I called her, in my reveries, mine. It may have been that I would not have been obliged to confine the use of this possessive pronoun to my reveries had I confessed the state of my feelings to the lady.

  But this was an unusually difficult thing to do. Not only did I dread, as almost all lovers dread, taking the step which would in an instant put an end to that delightful season which may be termed the ante-interrogatory period of love, and which might at the same time terminate all intercourse or connection with the object of my passion; but I was also dreadfully afraid of John Hinckman. This gentleman was a good friend of mine, but it would have required a bolder man than I was at that time to ask him for the gift of his niece, who was the head of his household, and, according to his own frequent statement, the main prop of his declining years. Had Madeline acquiesced in my general views on the subject, I might have felt encouraged to open the matter to Mr. Hinckman; but, as I said before, I had never asked her whether or not she would be mine. I thought of these things at all hours of the day and night, particularly the latter.

  I was lying awake one night, in the great bed in my spacious chamber, when, by the dim light of the new moon, which partially filled the room, I saw John Hinckman standing by a large chair near the door. I was very much surprised at this for two reasons. In the first place, my host had never before come into my room; and, in the second place, he had gone from home that morning, and had not expected to return for several days. It was for this reason that I had been able that evening to sit much later with Madeline on the moonlit porch. The figure was certainly that of John Hinckman in his ordinary dress, but there was a vagueness and indistinctness about it which presently assured me that it was a ghost. Had the good old man been murdered? and had his spirit come to tell me of the deed, and to confide to m
e the protection of his dear—? My heart fluttered at what I was about to think, but at this instant the figure spoke.

  “Do you know,” he said, with a countenance that indicated anxiety, “if Mr. Hinckman will return to-night?”

  I thought it well to maintain a calm exterior, and I answered:

  “We do not expect him.”

  “I am glad of that,” he said, sinking into the chair by which he stood. “During the two years and a half that I have inhabited this house, that man has never before been away for a single night. You can’t imagine the relief it gives me.”

  And as he spoke he stretched out his legs, and leaned back in the chair. His form became less vague, and the colours of his garments more distinct and evident, while an expression of gratified relief succeeded to the anxiety of his countenance.

  “Two years and a half!” I exclaimed. “I don’t understand you.”

  “It is fully that length of time,” said the ghost, “since I first came here. Mine is not an ordinary case. But before I say any more about it, let me ask you again if you are sure that Mr. Hinckman will not return to-night.”

  “I am as sure of it as I can be of anything,” I answered. “He left to-day for Bristol, two hundred miles away.”

  “Then I will go on,” said the ghost, “for I am glad to have the opportunity of talking to someone who will listen to me; but if John Hinckman should come in and catch me here, I should be frightened out of my wits.”

  “This is all very strange,” I said, greatly puzzled by what I heard. “Are you the ghost of Mr. Hinckman?”

  This was a bold question, but my mind was so full of other emotions that there seemed to be no room for that of fear.

  “Yes, I am his ghost,” my companion replied, “and yet I have no right to be. And this is what makes me so uneasy, and so much afraid of him. It is a strange story, and, I truly believe, without precedent. Two years and a half ago, John Hinckman was dangerously ill in this very room. At one time he was so far gone that he was really believed to be dead. It was in consequence of too precipitate a report in regard to this matter that I was, at that time, appointed to be his ghost. Imagine my surprise and horror, sir, when, after I had accepted the position and assumed its responsibilities, that old man revived, became convalescent, and eventually regained his usual health. My situation was now one of extreme delicacy and embarrassment. I had no power to return to my original unembodiment, and I had no right to be the ghost of a man who was not dead. I was advised by my friends to quietly maintain my position, and was assured that, as John Hinckman was an elderly man, it could not be long before I could rightfully assume the position for which I had been selected. But I tell you, sir,” he continued, with animation, “the old fellow seems as vigorous as ever, and I have no idea how much longer this annoying state of things will continue. I spend my time trying to get out of that old man’s way. I must not leave this house, and he seems to follow me everywhere. I tell you, sir, he haunts me.”

  “That is truly a queer state of things,” I remarked. “But why are you afraid of him? He couldn’t hurt you.”

  “Of course he couldn’t,” said the ghost. “But his very presence is a shock and terror to me. Imagine, sir, how you would feel, if my case were yours.”

  I could not imagine such a thing at all. I simply shuddered.

  “And if one must be a wrongful ghost at all,” the apparition continued, “it would be much pleasanter to be the ghost of some man other than John Hinckman. There is in him an irascibility of temper, accompanied by a facility of invective, which is seldom met with. And what would happen if he were to see me, and find out, as I am sure he would, how long and why I have inhabited his house, I can scarcely conceive. I have seen him in his bursts of passion; and, although he did not hurt the people he stormed at any more than he would hurt me, they seemed to shrink before him.”

  All this I knew to be very true. Had it not been for this peculiarity of Mr. Hinckman, I might have been more willing to talk to him about his niece.

  “I feel sorry for you,” I said, for I really began to have a sympathetic feeling toward this unfortunate apparition. “Your case is indeed a hard one. It reminds me of those persons who have had doubles, and I suppose a man would often be very angry indeed when he found that there was another being who was personating himself.”

  “Oh! the cases are not similar at all,” said the ghost. “A double or doppelgänger lives on the earth with a man; and, being exactly like him, he makes all sorts of trouble, of course. It is very different with me. I am not here to live with Mr. Hinckman. I am here to take his place. Now, it would make John Hinckman very angry if he knew that. Don’t you know it would?”

  I assented promptly.

  “Now that he is away I can be easy for a little while,” continued the ghost; “and I am so glad to have the opportunity of talking to you. I have frequently come into your room, and watched you while you slept, but did not dare to speak to you for fear that if you talked with me Mr. Hinckman would hear you, and come into the room to know why you were talking to yourself.”

  “But would he not hear you?” I asked.

  “Oh, no!” said the other: “there are times when anyone may see me, but no one hears me except the person to whom I address myself.”

  “But why did you wish to speak to me?” I asked.

  “Because,” replied the ghost, “I like occasionally to talk to people, and especially to someone like yourself, whose mind is so troubled and perturbed that you are not likely to be frightened by a visit from one of us. But I particularly wanted to ask you to do me a favour. There is every probability, so far as I can see, that John Hinckman will live a long time, and my situation is becoming insupportable. My great object at present is to get myself transferred, and I think that you may, perhaps, be of use to me.”

  “Transferred!” I exclaimed. “What do you mean by that?”

  “What I mean,” said the other, “is this: Now that I have started on my career I have got to be the ghost of somebody, and I want to be the ghost of a man who is really dead.”

  “I should think that would be easy enough,” I said. “Opportunities must continually occur.”

  “Not at all! Not at all!” said my companion quickly. “You have no idea what a rush and pressure there is for situations of this kind. Whenever a vacancy occurs, if I may express myself in that way, there are crowds of applications for the ghostship.”

  “I had no idea that such a fate of things existed,” I said, becoming quite interested in the matter. “There ought to be some regular system, or order of precedence, by which you could all take your turns like customers in a barber’s shop.”

  “Oh, dear, that would never do at all!” said the other. “Some of us would have to wait for ever. There is always a great rush whenever a good ghostship offers itself—while, as you know, there are some positions that no one would care for. And it was in consequence of my being in too great a hurry on an occasion of the kind that I got myself into my present disagreeable predicament, and I have thought that it might be possible that you would help me out of it. You might know of a case where an opportunity for a ghostship was not generally expected, but which might present itself at any moment. If you would give me a short notice, I know I could arrange for a transfer.”

  “What do you mean?” I exclaimed. “Do you want me to commit suicide? Or to undertake a murder for your benefit?”

  “Oh, no, no, no!” said the other, with a vapoury smile. “I mean nothing of that kind. To be sure, there are lovers who are watched with considerable interest, such persons having been known, in moments of depression, to offer very desirable ghostships; but I did not think of anything of that kind in connection with you. You were the only person I cared to speak to, and I hoped that you might give me some information that would be of use; and, in return, I shall be very glad to help you in your love affair.”

  “You seem to know that I have such an affair,” I said.

  “Oh, y
es!” replied the other, with a little yawn. “I could not be here so much as I have been without knowing all about that.”

  There was something horrible in the idea of Madeline and myself having been watched by a ghost, even, perhaps, when we wandered together in the most delightful and bosky places. But, then, this was quite an exceptional ghost, and I could not have the objections to him which would ordinarily arise in regard to beings of his class.

  “I must go now,” said the ghost, rising. “But I will see you somewhere to-morrow night. And remember—you help me, and I’ll help you.”

  I had doubts the next morning as to the propriety of telling Madeline anything about this interview, and soon convinced myself that I must keep silent on the subject. If she knew there was a ghost about the house, she would probably leave the place instantly. I did not mention the matter, and so regulated my demeanour that I am quite sure Madeline never suspected what had taken place. For some time I had wished that Mr. Hinckman would absent himself, for a day at least, from the premises. In such case I thought I might more easily nerve myself up to the point of speaking to Madeline on the subject of our future collateral existence; and, now that the opportunity for such speech really occurred, I did not feel ready to avail myself of it. What would become of me if she refused me?

  I had an idea, however, that the lady thought that, if I were going to speak at all, this was the time. She must have known that certain sentiments were afloat within me, and she was not unreasonable in her wish to see the matter settled one way or the other. But I did not feel like taking a bold step in the dark. If she wished me to ask her to give herself to me, she ought to offer me some reason to suppose that she would make the gift. If I saw no probability of such generosity, I would prefer that things should remain as they were.