Ghosts I Have Met | Page 9

real truth is that I was about
written out in the matter of visitations, and needed a reinforcement of
my uncanny vein, which, far from being varicose, had become sclerotic,
so dry had it been pumped by the demands to which it had been
subjected by a clamorous, mystery-loving public. I had, I may as well
confess it, run out of ghosts, and had come down to the writing of tales
full of the horror of suggestion, leaving my readers unsatisfied through
my failure to describe in detail just what kind of looking thing it was
that had so aroused their apprehension; and one editor had gone so far
as to reject my last ghost-story because I had worked him up to a
fearful pitch of excitement, and left him there without any reasonable
way out. I was face to face with a condition--which, briefly, was that
hereafter that desirable market was closed to the products of my pen
unless my contributions were accompanied by a diagram which should
make my mysteries so plain that a little child could understand how it
all came to pass. Hence it was that, instead of following my own
convenience and taking refuge in my spectre-proof couch, I stayed
where I was. I had not long to wait. The dial in my fuel-meter
below-stairs had hardly had time to register the consumption of three
thousand feet of gas before the faint sound of a bell reached my
straining ears--which, by-the-way, is an expression I profoundly hate,
but must introduce because the public demands it, and a ghost -story
without straining ears having therefore no chance of acceptance by a
discriminating editor. I started from my chair and listened intently, but
the ringing had stopped, and I settled back to the delights of a nervous

chill, when again the deathly silence of the night--the wind had quieted
in time to allow me the use of this faithful, overworked phrase--was
broken by the tintinnabulation of the bell. This time I recognized it as
the electric bell operated by a push-button upon the right side of my
front door. To rise and rush to the door was the work of a moment. It
always is. In another instant I had flung it wide. This operation was
singularly easy, considering that it was but a narrow door, and width
was the last thing it could ever be suspected of, however forcible the
fling. However, I did as I have said, and gazed out into the inky
blackness of the night. As I had suspected, there was no one there, and I
was at once convinced that the dreaded moment had come. I was
certain that at the instant of my turning to re-enter my library I should
see something which would make my brain throb madly and my pulses
start. I did not therefore instantly turn, but let the wind blow the door to
with a loud clatter, while I walked quickly into my dining -room and
drained a glass of cooking-sherry to the dregs. I do not introduce the
cooking-sherry here for the purpose of eliciting a laugh from the reader,
but in order to be faithful to life as we live it. All our other sherry had
been used by the queen of the kitchen for cooking purposes, and this
was all we had left for the table. It is always so in real life, let critics
say what they will.
[Illustration: "THERE WAS NO ONE THERE"]
This done, I returned to the library, and sustained my first shock. The
unexpected had happened. There was still no one there. Surely this
ghost was an original, and I began to be interested.
"Perhaps he is a modest ghost," I thought, "and is a little shy about
manifesting his presence. That, indeed, would be original, seeing how
bold the spectres of commerce usually are, intruding themselves always
upon the privacy of those who are not at all minded to receive them."
Confident that something would happen, and speedily at that, I sat
down to wait, lighting a cigar for company; for burning gas-logs are not
as sociable as their hissing, spluttering originals, the genuine logs, in a
state of ignition. Several times I started up nervously, feeling as if there
was something standing behind me about to place a clammy hand upon

my shoulder, and as many times did I resume my attitude of comfort,
disappointed. Once I seemed to see a minute spirit floating in the air
before me, but investigation showed that it was nothing more than the
fanciful curling of the clouds of smoke I had blown from my lips. An
hour passed and nothing occurred, save that my heart from throbbing
took to leaping in a fashion which filled me with concern. A few
minutes later,