The Big Book of Ghost Stories

by Otto Penzler

  Whether, in commanding his limbs to move toward me, he distracted some of the power concentrated upon me, I don’t know. But suddenly a flicker of strength returned to me.

  Quickly, almost mechanically, my hand shot to my belt. My army gun flashed up. There was a thundering report, though I do not recall pulling the trigger.

  The man stopped. His terrible eyes seemed to bulge farther than ever. For a moment he stood, staring at me.

  “You’re going now,” he said, “but you’ll come back.” The words came out in English—low, guttural, and lifeless. I could have sworn that life had already passed from the loathsome body, and that he was speaking from Beyond. But once more the monotonous sound came through his repulsive, voluptuous lips:

  “It’s not the end for you. You’re coming back—and I’ll be waiting!” Then he collapsed in a heap.

  Cold dawn was stealing through the barred windows as I hurried down the stairs. A quick search in the rear of the building showed me an unlocked door, by which the girl probably escaped. I slipped through this, and discovering the direction to our lines by the faint light in the east, I was able to make my way back to my comrades before the sun rose.

  God, how sweet the fresh air seemed, after the heavy, drugged air of that dark chateau! How beautiful and safe seemed the bodies of my comrades, sleeping in the dugout here! One thing was certain, I thought, as I made my way on tip-toe to my own bunk and sank down on it: whatever happened in the future, I should never go back to that fiendish place! Never, I thought, never!

  And as that thought flashed through my brain, I stooped down to unwind my puttees—and met the eyes of my buddy, Fred Vincent. His look seemed odd.

  “Did you whisper something to me?” he asked in a low voice, after staring at me a second.

  I shook my head. Fred sat up, rubbed his eyes as if trying to waken himself, and then turned and regarded me with an odd look.

  “It’s funny,” he said, still in a low voice, “but it seemed as if—as if somebody rather terrible to look at was leaning over my bed. And he put his lips to my ear and whispered, ever so clear: ‘Tell him, it’s not the end!’ he whispered. ‘Tell him, he’s coming back … and I’ll be waiting!’ ”

  The Armistice came, and two months later found me in Paris, employed as a representative of an American automobile concern. I succeeded in my work beyond my best hopes, and at the end of another year, I was a fairly prosperous man, with rooms in a fine, up-to-date apartment on the Boulevard Raspail.

  I remember sitting by the window in my living-room on the sixth floor, early one evening. Below me gleamed the stationary street lamps and the moving, criss-crossing lamps of the continual line of automobiles; the noise rose to my window with a muffled roar. It was all so snappy, so modern and safe! But my thoughts drifted away to that gloomy chateau, rising in the silence of the forests of the Dolomite Mountains. It was all so far away, I thought; so impossible. Even the beautiful child of the violet-blue eyes and the maddening white throat seemed unreal. It was a dream, a hideous nightmare, in which an angel flitted for a brief moment.

  I remember that that was on the fifteenth of December, because the same evening was the never-to-be-forgotten evening I spent with the Dawsons.

  There were about ten of us there, all members of the American business colony; and after dinner we moved to the drawing-room, where we sat about our coffee, drinking and chatting.

  Somehow, the conversation turned to Spiritualism, and practically everyone scoffed at it. Pretty Helen Purcell, however, had a doubtful word to say in its defence.

  “There’s nothing in it, I know,” she said with a laugh. “But have you ever been to a séance? They may be fake, but they’re terribly thrilling!”

  “I know they are! Awfully eerie!” Jane Dawson, our hostess, jumped to her feet. “Let’s rig one up!” she cried. “Come on, Professor Fallow, you be our medium! I’m sure you’ve got a lot of psychic waves, or static, or whatever you call it!”

  We all burst into laughter, and old Doctor Fallow, an exchange professor at the Sorbonne, rose to his feet. He was a thin, dried-up man, capable of saying extraordinarily funny things in a very solemn voice.

  “I feel extremely psychic tonight,” he said, in a slow pompous voice. “I feel a queer, crawling sensation along my body which must be spirit fingers—though till now I simply took it to be my winter underwear that I put on today for the first time.”

  While the laughter died away, he seated himself at the far end of the room, before a table. All lights, save a lamp directly beside him, were extinguished. Then, in the hush that followed, Fallow placed his finger-tips on the table and stared before him, into space.

  “Communication for Mr. Dawson,” he commenced, solemnly, “from Moses—Abe Moses, late of Grand Street, New York. He says to pay that last instalment on your piano to his wife, or he’ll get the spirit law after you!”

  “Good!” cried Dawson, in the laugh that followed. “What’s his wife’s name?”

  There was a long pause. The old man continued to stare solemnly before him, but—did a shudder pass over his body, leaving his face paler, even, than usual? For a minute we waited for an answer, but no answer came.

  “I say!” Dawson demanded again. “Why don’t you tell me her name? I can’t make out a cheque unless I know it, you know!”

  Again a long silence followed. Then the old man’s lips moved—moved tightly over his teeth, like a dead man’s.

  “Myra,” he said, his voice hoarse and lifeless.

  For some reason, a shudder passed over me. I heard Dawson’s jovial voice, coming out of the darkness around us.

  “Myra?” he cried. “That’s a pretty name for a piano salesman’s wife!”

  The old man did not heed him. He stared directly before him, and once more those lips moved.

  “Myra … look at me, Myra … look at me, and you will be calm … calm … calm …” The voice, very faint, was a terrible monotone now. It did not seem to come from the man’s lips, but rather from far down within him, like a far-away voice, overheard as it addressed another person in confidential tones. The room was quiet now, and the people sitting in the darkness around me grew tense.

  As for me, I sat there, feeling that creeping sensation, which the old man had laughed at a few minutes earlier, crawling up my back. Myra! The name of that far-away Austrian girl! Could there be any connection? And those words and the voice—how strangely familiar they sounded, calling to me from a near-forgotten past, through those dried-up lips! But now he spoke again.

  “Myra …” sounded that lifeless, muffled voice. “Don’t scream, Myra … you can’t wake him … he sleeps, until I am ready for him.”

  One of the women choked back a hysterical laugh. I saw Jim Edgemere, a consulate man, half rise to his feet.

  “Better cut it, Doctor Fallow,” he snapped. “You’re too good an actor for the girls!” but his wife pulled him back again.

  A long silence followed the interruption, a terrible silence in which no one stirred. The old man continued to stare before him, motionless, unseeing. His outstretched fingers did not move; his lips did not move; it almost seemed as if he did not breathe.

  Then, slowly, his head turned, as if on a pivot. His eyes, no longer lifeless, bulged out, a terrible light in them, until I heard the woman beside me draw in her breath with fear. Slowly, slowly, his head turned, until, finally, those eyes rested on mine in the half light—and my heart stopped beating a moment, as I thought I saw another’s eyes, gazing through his at me!

  An evil smile, like the smile of a dead body, curved the lips; and now he spoke again, this time loudly, and directly to myself.

  “It’s not the end for you,” he said. “You’re coming back … and I am waiting for you.…”

  There was a scream, and Helen Purcell fell in a dead faint. Immediately the lights were switched on, and young Doctor Palmer rushed to her side and commenced chafing her wrists. She opened her eyes, to our immense relief; and at
that very moment, a cry from our hostess caused us to whirl about.

  “Look!” she gasped. “Professor Fallow!” She pointed to where the old man slumped, a crumpled heap, across the table.

  In a moment the young doctor was at his side. He chafed his wrists for a moment, as he had the girl’s. Then, suddenly stopping, he lifted the man’s head and examined him carefully. Finally he glanced up.

  Jim Edgemere intercepted the grave look on the doctor’s face.

  “Is he—dead?” he asked, in a low voice.

  For answer, the doctor stared at the motionless body in a puzzled fashion. Finally he looked up.

  “If—if I did not feel it would be the remark of a madman,” he said, in repressed tones, “I would say he has been dead ten minutes!”

  I walked home that night, a terrible fear clutching at me. Could it be true that this power, this Influence, not only was able to reach beyond the grave, but stretch beyond mountains, beyond national borders, like a terrible Hand, stretching out silently to grasp me? I glanced around at the broad, busy Champs Elysées, as I hurried down it, at the lighted bridge of the Concorde as I crossed it. It was absurd, I decided! How could this power, whatever its strength, force me to return to that lonely country and chateau, where it held sway? And I laughed to myself.

  And as I laughed, a picture suddenly flashed across my brain—the picture of a beautiful girl with violet-blue eyes. It was startlingly vivid, all the more startling, because I had remembered her only vaguely all this time. And as I pictured that charming face, that gorgeous throat, a vague uneasiness crept over me. It was as if some devilishly keen opponent had discovered a weak spot in my armour, which I myself did not know existed.

  Had I unconsciously been wounded by an arrow from young love’s bow?

  “But what difference could that make to him?” I said, half aloud, as, entering my apartment building, I stepped into the automatic elevator and mounted to the sixth floor. Striding down the long dark corridor to my own rooms, the sound of my feet muffled in the thick plush carpet, I reached my door and unlocked it. Whatever happened, there was one thing I was willing to swear to: in no circumstances would I ever again go to that mysterious chateau; never, never again.

  And throwing open the door, I stepped into the dark, empty living-room of my apartment.

  “I won’t give in!” I cried aloud, clenching my fists to steel myself. “I won’t!” And the echo of my words beat against the dark walls around me. Those words gave me strength, and undressing and jumping into bed, I succeeded in controlling my thoughts long enough to get to sleep.

  With the morning, however, came a horrible realization. Dull memories of tortured dreams rose in my mind, and although I tried to laugh it off, I knew deep inside that I had entered upon a struggle—a struggle with a powerful, evil Mind, released from its body. For over a year that Mind had probably hovered over me, hunting for a point of attack; and yesterday evening, through the poor old professor’s mind, it had found an opening. Fear had entered my consciousness; and through fear, it hoped gradually to gain control of me, to overpower me.

  And so it proved true. As I sat at my desk in my busy office or walked the crowded streets, always that thought remained at the back of my head—the thought of him. And as the thought jumped into my consciousness, more and more that Mind seized at the opening, drilled into me, trying to weaken my resistance. As I thought of him, so I thought more and more of her, the soft-skinned peasant girl of the violet-blue eyes. In the daytime, I saw her beautiful, innocent face always before me, and in the night, she was always in my dreams. Somehow, terrible as it seems, the two went together in my thoughts: the personification of Evil. It almost seemed as though he thrust the memory of her before me, and thus weakened my resistance.

  I became nervous and jumpy; my face grew pale and haggard-looking. But I fought; fought with all my strength and reason, so that never was he able to gain, even for a moment, that complete power over me that he wanted—the power which, I knew, meant the end. So long as I strode the gay streets or sat in the noisy cafés of Paris, I felt myself protected by a force he was unable to combat; for that force lay in the hard reality that surrounded my senses; crowds, lights, laughter … so different from the mystic gloominess of that chateau in the Dolomites, where he held sway.

  “Never will I go where he can get me absolutely in his power!” I said to myself, as I sat before a crowded café one evening in late summer. I brought my glass of anisette to my lips, holding it tight in my fingers, for nowadays my hand trembled more and more. “He is mad to imagine I would be such a fool!” I laughed to myself, and stopped abruptly. Almost, it seemed, I saw her in the flesh, standing in the street before me, regarding me with sad, beseeching eyes. I jumped up and ran out a few steps, and found I had been staring at a shrunken old woman who was selling newspapers.

  That night, feeling more nervous than ever, I dropped into the Alhambra music-hall, hoping to be calmed and amused by a good show. There was a mind-reading act on when I entered, one of those acts wherein a man sits blindfolded in the centre of the stage, his aide points haphazardly to someone in the audience, and the mind-reader then tells the world about that man’s private life. Having always believed that the person chosen from the audience was picked out before the performance began, I dropped into my seat in the back of the darkened theatre, smiling at the credulity of the people around me.

  A sheepish-looking man was standing in the middle of the house, the aide having pointed him out, and the blindfolded reader was telling him what he already knew rather well. “Your wife’s name is Vivienne. Her age is forty-three, though you’ve been thinking it’s thirty-eight, and you have two children, a boy named Jacques and a girl named …” Here he hesitated, for a long time, while he sat motionless in the silence of the house. His aide turned with a look of surprise. The audience stirred uneasily, and then settled back into a puzzled silence. At last he spoke, very, very slowly. “And a girl named … Myra!”

  There was a gleeful laugh from the man in the audience. Distinctly the patrons heard him say: “Non! Elle s’appelle Louise!” and the whole house broke into a roar of laughter.

  The laughter died away. The mind-reader sat, still blindfolded, his body tense and motionless. I saw his helper scratch his head in perplexity. Then the reader spoke, and his words came slow and forced. His voice had a strange quality. “Myra, the name is Myra!” he said. “I see it standing before me, written in fire!” There was a long pause. “I feel,” he said, uncertainly, “some influence, which has come in this house …”

  He stood up; came to the edge of the stage, without removing the cloth from his eyes. The house was hushed expectantly. Finally he spoke again, in a clear, hard voice, but very slowly.

  “Someone is calling. I hear it faint, far, away … A woman’s voice, calling for help through the darkness … Her voice is tragic, helpless …” Again he stopped. The audience was breathless with attention, while I sat, the sweat pouring off my face, every nerve taut and quivering. A whole minute passed before he continued in the same slow, deliberate voice. “There is a man in the audience, a man who has just come in … an American who fought on the Italian front. Will he stand up?”

  There was a swish of moving bodies, and everybody looked right and left and behind them. Scarcely realizing what I did, I forced myself to rise to my feet. Immediately all eyes were turned upon me. The reader, who could neither see nor hear me, turned in my direction.

  “You know a girl named Myra?” he asked, low but clearly.

  “Yes.” The word came out hoarsely, scarcely more than a whisper.

  “She is calling to you. I hear her clearer now,” he went on in a slow unnatural voice. “It is like a voice from down in a deep, dark valley, calling to the light, helplessly, pitifully. I can hear the words now …” He hesitated a moment. “If you remember, come! Help me! Help me!… I can hear no more.”

  He stopped. A woman shrieked hysterically. Somewhere behind the scenes, a cauti
ous manager gave orders. The curtain rolled down; lights flashed on.

  The cynosure of several thousand eyes, I made my way to the aisle and strode back to the exit, forcing myself to walk steadily. Once outside, I slipped away from any curious members of the audience, and reaching the Café de la Paix, I threw myself into a sidewalk seat and mechanically ordered a fine champagne. While I drank with trembling fingers, I seemed to see her before me, more vividly than ever, her slender body, her smooth, heart-breaking throat, and her violet-blue eyes, gazing solemnly and reproachfully into mine. She was in danger, and she called to me. To me, whom she had seen only in a flash, and yet that flash had been so vivid to her that it enabled her to call across the night, to me. As, with fast-beating heart, I thought of this, another thought whispered to me in the back of my brain: “Was it really she who called? Or could it be a ruse?”

  For a long time I sat there in the crowds and lights of that most famous of all cafés, staring into the great square of honking autos, sauntering crowds, newswomen, policemen—the noisy safe reality where he could not come, where millions of prosaic people created a matter-of-fact bulwark that strengthened my resistance and thwarted him. And outside that bulwark, in the darkness beyond these safe borders, was he waiting?

  For my answer, my vision flashed across the night-covered mountains to the great and gloomy chateau, to the dark, silent rooms, where he held sway. And, as if he waited there, watching me across the darkness, chuckling at this new hold he had on me, I felt a shudder pass through my entire body.

  For a long time I sat there, always seeing those violet-blue eyes before me, imploring, reproachful; hearing those words ring over and over in my brain: “If you remember, come! Help me! Help me!”

  I slipped a five franc note under my glass and, jumping up, I called a taxi. Half an hour later I had thrown a few things in my suitcase, and was speeding down the Gare de Lyon, where I bought a ticket and succeeded in hopping onto the Turin express just as it was leaving the station.