A Thin Ghost | Page 9

property in the
neighbourhood of Whitminster, and not unfrequently about this time
spent a few days at the "King's Head," ostensibly on business. But he
must have had some leisure, for his diary is copious, especially for the
days of which I am telling the story. It is probable to me that he wrote
this episode as fully as he could at the bidding of Miss Mary.
"Uncle Oldys (how I hope I may have the right to call him so before
long!) called this morning. After throwing out a good many short
remarks on indifferent topics, he said 'I wish, Spearman, you'd listen to
an odd story and keep a close tongue about it just for a bit, till I get
more light on it.' 'To be sure,' said I, 'you may count on me.' 'I don't
know what to make of it,' he said. 'You know my bedroom. It is well
away from every one else's, and I pass through the great hall and two or
three other rooms to get to it.' 'Is it at the end next the minster, then?' I
asked. 'Yes, it is: well, now, yesterday morning my Mary told me that
the room next before it was infested with some sort of fly that the
housekeeper couldn't get rid of. That may be the explanation, or it may
not. What do you think?' 'Why,' said I, 'you've not yet told me what has
to be explained.' 'True enough, I don't believe I have; but by-the-by,
what are these sawflies? What's the size of them?' I began to wonder if
he was touched in the head. 'What I call a sawfly,' I said very patiently,
'is a red animal, like a daddy-longlegs, but not so big, perhaps an inch
long, perhaps less. It is very hard in the body, and to me'--I was going
to say 'particularly offensive,' but he broke in, 'Come, come; an inch or
less. That won't do.' 'I can only tell you,' I said, 'what I know. Would it
not be better if you told me from first to last what it is that has puzzled
you, and then I may be able to give you some kind of an opinion.' He
gazed at me meditatively. 'Perhaps it would,' he said. 'I told Mary only
to-day that I thought you had some vestiges of sense in your head.' (I
bowed my acknowledgements.) 'The thing is, I've an odd kind of
shyness about talking of it. Nothing of the sort has happened to me
before. Well, about eleven o'clock last night, or after, I took my candle

and set out for my room. I had a book in my other hand--I always read
something for a few minutes before I drop off to sleep. A dangerous
habit: I don't recommend it: but I know how to manage my light and
my bed curtains. Now then, first, as I stepped out of my study into the
great half that's next to it, and shut the door, my candle went out. I
supposed I had clapped the door behind me too quick, and made a
draught, and I was annoyed, for I'd no tinder-box nearer than my
bedroom. But I knew my way well enough, and went on. The next
thing was that my book was struck out of my hand in the dark: if I said
twitched out of my hand it would better express the sensation. It fell on
the floor. I picked it up, and went on, more annoyed than before, and a
little startled. But as you know, that hall has many windows without
curtains, and in summer nights like these it is easy to see not only
where the furniture is, but whether there's any one or anything moving,
and there was no one--nothing of the kind. So on I went through the
hall and through the audit chamber next to it, which also has big
windows, and then into the bedrooms which lead to my own, where the
curtains were drawn, and I had to go slower because of steps here and
there. It was in the second of those rooms that I nearly got my quietus.
The moment I opened the door of it I felt there was something wrong. I
thought twice, I confess, whether I shouldn't turn back and find another
way there is to my room rather than go through that one. Then I was
ashamed of myself, and thought what people call better of it, though I
don't know about "better" in this case. If I was to describe my
experience exactly, I should say this: there was a dry, light, rustling
sound all over the room as I went in, and then (you remember it was
perfectly dark) something seemed to rush