The Sixth Ghost Story Megapack: 25 Classic Ghost Stories

by Wildside Press

  “Home!” repeated the young man. “Decidedly not. I’ll never go home again till I return with some medal hung to my coat, or a leg or arm cut off. I’ve thought it all out, William. I’ll go and enlist. There’s a talk of war; and, living or dead, my father shall have reason to retract his opinion about my being a coward.”

  “I am sure the admiral never thought you anything of the sort, sir,” said William. “Why, you have the pluck of ten!”

  “Not before him,” answered the young fellow sadly.

  “You’ll do nothing rash, Master Graham; you won’t go ’listing, or aught of that sort, in your anger?”

  “If I do not, what is to become of me?” asked the other. “I cannot beg—to beg I am ashamed. Why, but for you, I should not have had a roof over my head last night.”

  “Not much of a roof, I am afraid, sir.”

  “Not much of a roof!” repeated the young man. “Why, who could desire a better? What a capital room this is,” he went on, looking around the apartment, where William was now kindling a fire; “one might dine twenty people here easily!”

  “If you think so well of the place, Master Graham, you might stay here for a while, till you have made up your mind what you are going to do. The landlord won’t make any objection, I am very sure.”

  “Oh! nonsense; he would want a long rent for a house like this.”

  “I dare say; if he could get it,” was William’s significant answer.

  “What do you mean? Won’t the place let?”

  “No, sir. I did not tell you last night, but there was a murder done here, and people are shy of the house ever since.”

  “A murder! What sort of a murder? Who was murdered?”

  “A woman, Master Graham—the landlord’s sister; she lived here all alone, and was supposed to have money. Whether she had or hot, she was found dead from a stab in her breast, and if there ever was any money, it must have been taken at the same time, for none ever was found in the house from that day to this.”

  “Was that the reason your wife would not stop here?” asked the young man, leaning against the mantelshelf, and looking thoughtfully down on William.

  “Yes, sir. She could not stand it any longer; she got that thin and nervous one would have believed it possible; she never saw anything, but she said she heard footsteps and voices, and then when she walked through the hall, or up the staircase, someone always seemed to be following her. We put the children to sleep in that big room you had last night, and they declared they often saw an old woman sitting by the hearth. Nothing ever came my way,” finished William, with a laugh; “I was always ready to go to sleep the minute my head touched the pillow.”

  “Were not the murderers discovered?” asked Graham Coulton.

  “No, sir; the landlord, Miss Tynan’s brother, had always lain under the suspicion of it—quite wrongfully, I am very sure—but he will never clear himself now. It was known he came and asked her for help a day or two before the murder, and it was also known he was able within a week or two to weather whatever trouble had been harassing him. Then, you see, the money was never found; and, altogether, people scarce knew what to think.”

  “Humph!” ejaculated Graham Coulton, and he took a few turns up and down the apartment.

  “Could I go and see this landlord?”

  “Surely, sir, if you had a hat,” answered William, with such a serious decorum that the young man burst out laughing.

  “That is an obstacle, certainly,” he remarked, “and I must make a note do instead. I have a pencil in my pocket, so here goes.”

  * * * *

  Within half an hour from the dispatch of that note, William was back again with a sovereign; the landlord’s compliments, and he would be much obliged if Mr Coulton could “step round.”

  “You’ll do nothing rash, sir,” entreated William.

  “Why, man,” answered the young fellow, “one may as well be picked off by a ghost as a bullet. What is there to be afraid of?”

  William only shook his head. He did not think his young master was made of the stuff likely to remain alone in a haunted house and solve the mystery it assuredly contained by dint of his own unassisted endeavours. And yet when Graham Coulton came out of the landlord’s house he looked more bright and gay than usual, and walked up the Lambeth road to the place where William awaited his return, humming an air as he paced along.

  “We have settled the matter,” he said. “And now if the dad wants his son for Christmas, it will trouble him to find him.”

  “Don’t say that, Master Graham, don’t,” entreated the man, with a shiver; “maybe after all it would have been better if you had never happened to chance upon Vauxhall Walk.”

  “Don’t croak, William,” answered the young man; “if it was not the best day’s work I ever did for myself I’m a Dutchman.”

  During the whole of that forenoon and afternoon, Graham Coulton searched diligently for the missing treasure Mr Tynan assured him had never been discovered. Youth is confident and self-opinionated, and this fresh explorer felt satisfied that, though others had failed, he would be successful. On the second floor he found one door locked, but he did not pay much attention to that at the moment, as he believed if there was anything concealed it was more likely to be found in the lower than the upper part of the house. Late into the evening he pursued his researches in the kitchen and cellars and old-fashioned cupboards, of which the basement had an abundance.

  It was nearly eleven, when, engaged in poking about amongst the empty bins of a wine cellar as large as a family vault, he suddenly felt a rush of cold air at his back. Moving, his candle was instantly extinguished, and in the very moment of being left in darkness he saw, standing in the doorway, a woman, resembling her who had haunted his dreams overnight.

  He rushed with outstretched hands to seize her, but clutched only air. He relit his candle, and closely examined the basement, shutting off communication with the ground floor ere doing so.

  All in vain. Not a trace could he find of living creature—not a window was open—not a door unbolted.

  “It is very odd,” he thought, as, after securely fastening the door at the top of the staircase, he searched the whole upper portion of the house, with the exception of the one room mentioned.

  “I must get the key of that tomorrow,” he decided, standing gloomily with his back to the fire and his eyes wandering about the drawing-room, where he had once again taken up his abode.

  Even as the thought passed through his mind, he saw standing in the open doorway a woman with white dishevelled hair, clad in mean garments, ragged and dirty. She lifted her hand and shook it at him with a menacing gesture, and then, just as he was darting towards her, a wonderful thing occurred.

  From behind the great mirror there glided a second female figure, at the sight of which the first turned and fled, littering piercing shrieks as the other followed her from storey to storey.

  Sick almost with terror, Graham Coulton watched the dreadful pair as they fled upstairs past the locked room to the top of the house.

  It was a few minutes before he recovered his self-possession. When he did so, and searched the upper apartments, he found them totally empty.

  That night, ere lying down before the fire, he carefully locked and bolted the drawing-room door; before he did more he drew the heavy settle in front of it, so that if the lock were forced no entrance could be effected without considerable noise.

  For some time he lay awake, then dropped into a deep sleep, from which he was awakened suddenly by a noise as if of something scuffling stealthily behind the wainscot. He raised himself on his elbow and listened, and, to his consternation, beheld seated at the opposite side of the hearth the same woman he had seen before in his dreams, lamenting over her gold.

  The fire was not quite out, and at th
at moment shot up a last tongue of flame. By the light, transient as it was, he saw that the figure pressed a ghostly finger to its lips, and by the turn of its head and the attitude of its body seemed to be listening.

  He listened also—indeed, he was too much frightened to do aught else; more and more distinct grew the sounds which had aroused him, a stealthy rustling coming nearer and nearer—up and up it seemed, behind the wainscot.

  “It is rats,” thought the young man, though, indeed, his teeth were almost chattering in his head with fear. But then in a moment ne saw what disabused him of that idea—the gleam of a candle or lamp through a crack in the panelling. He tried to rise, he strove to shout—all in vain; and, sinking down, remembered nothing more till he awoke to find the grey light of an early morning stealing through one of the shutters he had left partially unclosed.

  For hours after his breakfast, which he scarcely touched, long after William had left him at mid-day, Graham Coulton, having in the morning made a long and close survey of the house, sat thinking before the fire, then, apparently having made up his mind, he put on the hat he had bought, and went out.

  When he returned the evening shadows were darkening down, but the pavements were full of people going marketing, for it was Christmas Eve, and all who had money to spend seemed bent on shopping.

  It was terribly dreary inside the old house that night. Through the deserted rooms Graham could feel that ghostly semblance was wandering mournfully. When he turned his back he knew she was flitting from the mirror to the fire, from the fire to the mirror; but he was not afraid of her now—he was far more afraid of another matter he had taken in hand that day.

  The horror of the silent house grew and grew upon him. He could hear the beating of his own heart in the dead quietude which reigned from garret to cellar.

  At last William came; but the young man said nothing to him of what was in his mind. He talked to him cheerfully and hopefully enough—wondered where his father would think he had got to, and hoped Mr Tynan might send him some Christmas pudding. Then the man said it was time for him to go, and, when Mr Coulton went downstairs to the hall-door, remarked the key was not in it.

  “No,” was the answer, “I took it out today, to oil it.”

  “It wanted oiling,” agreed William, “for it worked terribly stiff.” Having uttered which truism he departed.

  Very slowly the young man retraced his way to the drawing-room, where he only paused to lock the door on the outside; then taking off his boots he went up to the top of the house, where, entering the front attic, he waited patiently in darkness and in silence.

  It was a long time, or at least it seemed long to him, before he heard the same sound which had aroused him on the previous night—a stealthy rustling—then a rush of cold air—then cautious footsteps—then the quiet opening of a door below.

  It did not take as long in action as it has required to tell. In a moment the young man was out on the landing and had closed a portion of the panelling on the wall which stood open; noiselessly he crept back to the attic window, unlatched it, and sprung a rattle, the sound of which echoed far and near through the deserted streets, then rushing down the stairs, he encountered a man who, darting past him, made for the landing above; but perceiving the way of escape closed, fled down again, to find Graham struggling desperately with his fellow.

  “Give him the knife—come along,” he said savagely; and next instant Graham felt something like a hot iron through his shoulder, and then heard a thud, as one of the men, tripping in his rapid flight, fell from the top of the stairs to the bottom.

  At the same moment there came a crash, as if the house was falling, and faint, sick, and bleeding, young Coulton lay insensible on the threshold of the room where Miss Tynan had been murdered.

  When he recovered he was in the dining-room, and a doctor was examining his wound.

  Near the door a policeman stiffly kept guard. The hall was full of people; all the misery and vagabondism the streets contain at that hour was crowding in to see what had happened.

  Through the midst two men were being conveyed to the station-house; one, with his head dreadfully injured, on a stretcher, the other handcuffed, uttering frightful imprecations as he went.

  After a time the house was cleared of the rabble, the police took possession of it, and Mr Tynan was sent for.

  “What was that dreadful noise?” asked Graham feebly, now seated on the floor, with his back resting against the wall.

  “I do not know. Was there a noise?” said Mr Tynan, humouring his fancy, as he thought.

  “Yes, in the drawing-room, I think; the key is in my pocket.”

  Still humouring the wounded lad, Mr Tynan took the key and ran upstairs.

  When he unlocked the door, what a sight met his eyes! The mirror had fallen—it was lying all over the floor shivered into a thousand pieces; the console table had been borne down by its weight, and the marble slab was shattered as well. But this was not what chained his attention.

  Hundreds, thousands of gold pieces were scattered about, and an aperture behind the glass contained boxes filled with securities amid deeds amid bonds, the possession of which had cost his sister her life.

  * * * *

  “Well, Graham, and what do you want?” asked Admiral Coulton that evening as his eldest born appeared before him, looking somewhat pale but otherwise unchanged.

  “I want nothing,” was the answer, “but to ask your forgiveness. William has told me all the story I never knew before; and, if you let me, I will try to make it up to you for the trouble you have had. I am provided for,” went on the young fellow, with a nervous laugh; “I have made my fortune since I left you, and another man’s fortune as well.”

  “I think you are out of your senses,” said the Admiral shortly.

  “No, sir, I have found them,” was the answer; “and I mean to strive and make a better thing of my life than I should ever have done had I not gone to the Old House in Vauxhall Walk.”

  “Vauxhall Walk! What is the lad talking about?”

  “I will tell you, sir, if I may sit down,” was Graham Coulton’s answer, and then he told his story.

  THE GHOST IN THE MILL, by Harriet Beecher Stowe

  Originally published in 1870.

  “Come, Sam, tell us a story,” said I, as Harry and I crept to his knees, in the glow of the bright evening firelight; while Aunt Lois was busily rattling the tea-things, and grandmamma, at the other end of the fireplace, was quietly setting the heel of a blue-mixed yarn stocking.

  In those days we had no magazines and daily papers, each reeling off a serial story. Once a week, “The Columbian Sentinel” came from Boston with its slender stock of news and editorial; but all the multiform devices—pictorial, narrative, and poetical—which keep the mind of the present generation ablaze with excitement, had not then even an existence. There was no theatre, no opera; there were in Oldtown no parties or balls, except, perhaps, the annual election, or Thanksgiving festival; and when winter came, and the sun went down at half-past four o’clock, and left the long, dark hours of evening to be provided for, the necessity of amusement became urgent. Hence, in those days, chimney-corner story-telling became an art and an accomplishment. Society then was full of traditions and narratives which had all the uncertain glow and shifting mystery of the firelit hearth upon them. They were told to sympathetic audiences, by the rising and falling light of the solemn embers, with the hearth-crickets filling up every pause. Then the aged told their stories to the young,—tales of early life; tales of war and adventure, of forest-days, of Indian captivities and escapes, of bears and wild-cats and panthers, of rattlesnakes, of witches and wizards, and strange and wonderful dreams and appearances and providences.

  In those days of early Massachusetts, faith and credence were in the very air. Two-thirds of New England was then dark, u
nbroken forests, through whose tangled paths the mysterious winter wind groaned and shrieked and howled with weird noises and unaccountable clamors. Along the iron-bound shore, the stormful Atlantic raved and thundered, and dashed its moaning waters, as if to deaden and deafen any voice that might tell of the settled life of the old civilized world, and shut us forever into the wilderness. A good story-teller, in those days, was always sure of a warm seat at the hearthstone, and the delighted homage of children; and in all Oldtown there was no better story-teller than Sam Lawson.

  “Do, do, tell us a story,” said Harry, pressing upon him, and opening very wide blue eyes, in which undoubting faith shone as in a mirror; “and let it be something strange, and different from common.”

  “Wal, I know lots o’ strange things,” said Sam, looking mysteriously into the fire. “Why, I know things, that ef I should tell,—why, people might day they wa’n’t so; but then they is so for all that.”

  “Oh, do, do, tell us!”

  “Why, I should scare ye to death, mebbe,” said Sam doubtingly.

  “Oh, pooh! no, you wouldn’t,” we both burst out at once.

  But Sam was possessed by a reticent spirit, and loved dearly to be wooed and importuned; and go he only took up the great kitchen-tongs, and smote on the hickory forestick, when it flew apart in the middle, and scattered a shower of clear bright coals all over the hearth.

  “Mercy on us, Sam Lawson!” said Aunt Lois in an indignant voice, spinning round from her dishwashing.

  “Don’t you worry a grain, Miss Lois,” said Sam composedly. “I see that are stick was e’en a’most in two, and I thought I’d jest settle it. I’ll sweep up the coals now,” he added, vigorously applying a turkey-wing to the purpose, as he knelt on the hearth, his spare, lean figure glowing in the blaze of the firelight, and getting quite flushed with exertion.