Ghosts that Pass in the Night.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XLIX, Issue 17, 23 April 1913, Page 56

Ghosts that Pass in the Night.

“And then,” continued Major Connelly after lighting a cigar, “as the town clock finished its twelve strokes of midnight, the young fellow climbed over the wall of the cemetery and found himself alone in that city of eternal sleep. But, really, don’t you know the story ? As I’ve said, it is old—one of my grandmother’s. You haven’t heard it before?”

“No—no,” exclaimed the women guests, forgetting that it was the proper thing for them to pass into the parlour when the men began to smoke. “Please tell it! What happened to him ?” So the major continued: “It was an exceedingly cold night. To make it more impressive, let us say that the moon shone, like to night, throwing streaks of silvery light on the silent tombstones. The snow covered the ground, and the wind, blowing a sad complaint through the brandies of the naked trees, made it altogether uncanny.” “How poetic you are, major,” interrupted one of the women. “The young fellow made straight for the stipulated place—found the grave—took a hammer out of his pocket, and rapidly nailed his visiting card to the cross. He had won his bet! As he was about io rise, suddenly he felt the grasp of a hand about his throat, holding him baek, paralysing his efforts to escape. His blood grew cold, of course, says the story; he imagined the revengeful hand of the dead whose grave he had desecrated choking him with its five clammy fingers, and he fell unconscious. The next day they found him—dead —frozen. In his excitement he had driven the nail both through his visiting card and—his muffler.” “How perfectly lovely!” exclaimed Miss Edith, the eldest daughter of Major Connelly. “It served him right for not believing in ghosts in the first place. I think they are adorable old things. I dote on them!”

“It’s too horribly gruesome,” objected Mrs. Connelly. “Dad should not tell such stories before Mazie. I am sure the child won’t be able to sleep to-night.”

“Why not. mamma?” said Mazie, a child of twelve years, proud of not having been sent to bed at the usual hour. “If I had been the man I would not have taken any muffler, so’s not to nail it to the cross.”

“That’s right, dear; don’t believe in ghosts,” intervened Robert Sandingham, while the other guests were moving toward the drawing room.

May it be said at once that Robert was the fiancee of Miss Edith, and, though the two were exceedingly in love with each other, they never missed an opportunity of being of different opinions about everything and anything. “What I do not understand,” he continued, “is how the people were ever able to find out what the impressions of the man were—if he were found dead the next morning! Did he come back in the; shape of a nice little ghost to tell about big blood growing cold?” “Go and ask my grandmother. She is responsible for the story—not I,” replied the major. “Robert, how aggravating you are. Why must you always spoil the fun?” said Miss Edith. “Pardon me if I have. But I honestly don’t believe in ’em. I am a materialist to the bottom of my heart.”

“Neither do I exactly believe in ghosts. I am an- old soldier. Still, Robert, I must confess that there are certain things, even certain occurrences in my own life, which it would be difficult to explain. And it is such a pretty theory—to believe oneself surrnuruhsl by the spirits of Uiose whom you have known and loved—to believe that those spirits protect you from harm and watch over you.”

“It is like superstitions,” added Edith; “you may not believe, but just the same it is lots of fun and it breaks the monotony of life, especially when you live in the country.’’

“I am not convinced. To be thirteenth nt table will never spoil my np|>etite. I consider spiritualism a fake, and I'll never believe in ghosts till I Bee one.*'

“O!” burst out Edith, “how I wish that some ghost would come to you some dark night and scare you good and proper!” “I wish him joy if he should. I think I would cure him from any desire he might have of visiting me again.” “What would you do?” “Shoot him. There is always a little gun within reach of my hand at night.” “The admission, my dear boy. that you would shoot seems to me to indicate that you are not wholly disinclined to believe in the possibility of ghosts.” “Not at all, major, not at all ” But here he grew a little flushed and angry. Miss Edith clapped her hands. “Oh, good, good!’’ she cried. “He does believe in ghosts, after all. He’s afraid of them! ” The major and the others joined in the laugh. Robert began to defend himself. “I keep the gun in my bureau more from habit than anything else. I began to put it under my pillow several years ago when we had that burglar scare.” “But if you keep it for burglars, why would you shoot a ghost if you saw one ?” demanded Miss Edith. “Don’t be mean, Edith. You know that was only a joke. In the first place, I would’t see a ghost because there’s no such thing, and supposing I did, I’d get up and shake hands with it and ask it how Captain Cook was when it left the other place.” Everybodv laughed, but Miss Edith was merciless. *“I know you’d shoot,” she jibed—“you’d be so scared. And you’d be more frightened, too, when you’d fired, to see the'bullets go right through the ohost and hear them strike somewhere harmless, while the ghost came straight on.” , , i “If it’s to be a case like that, volunteered the major, “blank cartridges would do as well as any others. Iye got a box of them somewhere, Robert, if you can use them.” Soon after Miss Edith made her_ excuses, saying she was sleepy and would go up at once. *At the door she paused with the laughing hope that a ghost would visit Robert that , very night and frighten him into a proper respect for all shades and bogies. When the others followed in half an hour Robert paused before her room to call out, “ Good night, sweetheart,” but received no response, though he knew she was not asleep, for under the crack of the door he saw a light creeping out into the hall.

Half an hour later through Robert’s opened window the moon was peering upon his black head as it rested snoringly upon the white pillow.

The moonbeams had moved well across the room when Robert awoke with a start. How long he had slept he did not know, and at first he did not understand the vague feeling of alarm that filled him. He glanced about and was on the point of lying down again when, suddenly, his eyes caught the flash of something white in a dusky corner. His eyes go wide with sudden excitement. The white blurr moves. Slowly and silently it seems to glide from the corner. The moonlight falls upon it. “Is it—is it a ghost?” he breathes.

The ghost is in the middle of the room moaning. Robert feels a cold moisture upon his forehead. He is disgusted to find himself hot and then cold. It is witn ludicrous firmness of voice that he declaims:

“Get out of here! Do you hear? Get out or I’ll shoot.”

In short, staccato steps the figure in white resumes its progress toward him, and he, with his heart banging like a drum, has only enough presence of mind to realise that fear is overpowering him. His voice sounds far away to his buzzing ears.

“i’ll shoot, if you don’t go at once!” And suddenly it is panic that has seized him —the kind of panic that makes a coward of even a brave man, the kfhd that catches men in a theatre aflame or on a sinking boat, when One thought is self-preservation. He no longer reasons; he only knows that the white, creeping, whispering thing has glided swiftly to the bedside. In the aftermist of the moon he knows rather than sees that a hand of naked bone is

lowering upon his head — and bang! He has pulled the trigger. Half a second, and then distinctly he hears the bullet drop upon the floor right beside the bed. A sickening horror races through his whole body as he sees that the thing is still there, close beside him, vague, swaying, whispering. With deliberate aim he fires—twice —• and twice he hears the bullets drop beside the bed.

One uncontrolled, back to nature yell escaped his parched throat as he leaped over the footboard of the bed, and, kicking chairs and tables to left and right, made straight for the light switch. But someone else has reached it just before him, and a full glare from a dozen electric bulbs all smiling at once revealed to his staring eyes the major, Mrs Connelly, half a dozen guests, and several servants—all mo-re or less undressed and more or lees armed as for combat, one with a boot tree, another with a walking stick, another with the water jug. The major held a six-shooter. . “Well, what’s up?” demanded the major.

“Oh, Robert, what is it?” Mrs Connelly stuttered through set teeth. “ You’re as white as a ghost—what is it, Robert? There were shots.” “ Y"es, there were shots —three of them,” said Robert, and then becoming conscious that he still gripped his revolver he turned the nose of it toward him to reassure himself that it had not been a nightmare. “ Three—there were THREE—” and he stared again into the gun-barrel, “but—all six chambers are empty! What! Blank cartridges!”

A faint voice from the curtain beside the bed made every one start—until it resolved itself into the familiar tones.of Miss Edith.

“If you will promise not to shoot any more, and to forgive me, Robert dear. I’ll come and join your party.”