Chapter 2

I put it there when I
returned home last night. But, apropos of this, what do you think? Some
idiot, doubtless to play a stupid joke on me, came ringing at my door
towards midnight. I demanded who was there, but as no one replied, I
went back to bed again, and to sleep.”

At this moment the door opened and the landlord, a fat and extremely
impertinent person, entered without saluting us.

“Sir,” said he, “I pray you to take away immediately that carrion which
you have hung to your bell-pull. Unless you do this I shall be compelled
to ask you to leave.”

“Sir,” responded Pierre, with much gravity, “you insult a hand which
does not merit it. Know you that it belonged to a man of high breeding?”

The landlord turned on his heel and made his exit, without speaking.
Pierre followed him, detached the hand and affixed it to the bell-cord
hanging in his alcove.

“That is better,” he said. “This hand, like the ‘Brother, all must die,’
of the Trappists, will give my thoughts a serious turn every night
before I sleep.”

At the end of an hour I left him and returned to my own apartment.

I slept badly the following night, was nervous and agitated, and several
times awoke with a start. Once I imagined, even, that a man had broken
into my room, and I sprang up and searched the closets and under the
bed. Towards six o’clock in the morning I was commencing to doze at
last, when a loud knocking at my door made me jump from my couch. It was
my friend Pierre’s servant, half dressed, pale and trembling.

“Ah, sir!” cried he, sobbing, “my poor master. Someone has murdered
him.”

I dressed myself hastily and ran to Pierre’s lodgings. The house was
full of people disputing together, and everything was in a commotion.
Everyone was talking at the same time, recounting and commenting on the
occurrence in all sorts of ways. With great difficulty I reached the
bedroom, made myself known to those guarding the door and was permitted
to enter. Four agents of police were standing in the middle of the
apartment, pencils in hand, examining every detail, conferring in low
voices and writing from time to time in their note-books. Two doctors
were in consultation by the bed on which lay the unconscious form of
Pierre. He was not dead, but his face was fixed in an expression of the
most awful terror. His eyes were open their widest, and the dilated
pupils seemed to regard fixedly, with unspeakable horror, something
unknown and frightful. His hands were clinched. I raised the quilt,
which covered his body from the chin downward, and saw on his neck,
deeply sunk in the flesh, the marks of fingers. Some drops of blood
spotted his shirt. At that moment one thing struck me. I chanced to
notice that the shriveled hand was no longer attached to the bell-cord.
The doctors had doubtless removed it to avoid the comments of those
entering the chamber where the wounded man lay, because the appearance
of this hand was indeed frightful. I did not inquire what had become of
it.

I now clip from a newspaper of the next day the story of the crime with
all the details that the police were able to procure:

“A frightful attempt was made yesterday on the life of young M. Pierre
B., student, who belongs to one of the best families in Normandy. He
returned home about ten o’clock in the evening, and excused his valet,
Bouvin, from further attendance upon him, saying that he felt fatigued
and was going to bed. Towards midnight Bouvin was suddenly awakened by
the furious ringing of his master’s bell. He was afraid, and lighted a
lamp and waited. The bell was silent about a minute, then rang again
with such vehemence that the domestic, mad with fright, flew from his
room to awaken the concierge, who ran to summon the police, and, at the
end of about fifteen minutes, two policemen forced open the door. A
horrible sight met their eyes. The furniture was overturned, giving
evidence of a fearful struggle between the victim and his assailant. In
the middle of the room, upon his back, his body rigid, with livid face
and frightfully dilated eyes, lay, motionless, young Pierre B., bearing
upon his neck the deep imprints of five fingers. Dr. Bourdean was called
immediately, and his report says that the aggressor must have been
possessed of prodigious strength and have had an extraordinarily thin
and sinewy hand, because the fingers left in the flesh of the victim
five holes like those from a pistol ball, and had penetrated until they
almost met. There is no clue to the motive of the crime or to its
perpetrator. The police are making a thorough investigation.”

The following appeared in the same newspaper next day:

“M. Pierre B., the victim of the frightful assault of which we published
an account yesterday, has regained consciousness after two hours of the
most assiduous care by Dr. Bourdean. His life is not in danger, but it
is strongly feared that he has lost his reason. No trace has been found
of his assailant.”

My poor friend was indeed insane. For seven months I visited him daily
at the hospital where we had placed him, but he did not recover the
light of reason. In his delirium strange words escaped him, and, like
all madmen, he had one fixed idea: he believed himself continually
pursued by a specter. One day they came for me in haste, saying he was
worse, and when I arrived I found him dying. For two hours he remained
very calm, then, suddenly, rising from his bed in spite of our efforts,
he cried, waving his arms as if a prey to the most awful terror: “Take
it away! Take it away! It strangles me! Help! Help!” Twice he made the
circuit of the room, uttering horrible screams, then fell face downward,
dead.

* * * * *

As he was an orphan I was charged to take his body to the little village
of P., in Normandy, where his parents were buried. It was the place from
which he had arrived the evening he found us drinking punch in Louis
R.’s room, when he had presented to us the flayed hand. His body was
inclosed in a leaden coffin, and four days afterwards I walked sadly
beside the old cure, who had given him his first lessons, to the little
cemetery where they dug his grave. It was a beautiful day, and sunshine
from a cloudless sky flooded the earth. Birds sang from the blackberry
bushes where many a time when we were children we had stolen to eat the
fruit. Again I saw Pierre and myself creeping along behind the hedge and
slipping through the gap that we knew so well, down at the end of the
little plot where they bury the poor. Again we would return to the house
with cheeks and lips black with the juice of the berries we had eaten. I
looked at the bushes; they were covered with fruit; mechanically I
picked some and bore it to my mouth. The cure had opened his breviary,
and was muttering his prayers in a low voice. I heard at the end of the
walk the spades of the grave-diggers who were opening the tomb. Suddenly
they called out, the cure closed his book, and we went to see what they
wished of us. They had found a coffin; in digging a stroke of the
pickaxe had started the cover, and we perceived within a skeleton of
unusual stature, lying on its back, its hollow eyes seeming yet to
menace and defy us. I was troubled, I know not why, and almost afraid.

“Hold!” cried one of the men, “look there! One of the rascal’s hands has
been severed at the wrist. Ah, here it is!” and he picked up from beside
the body a huge withered hand, and held it out to us.

“See,” cried the other, laughing, “see how he glares at you, as if he
would spring at your throat to make you give him back his hand.”

“Go,” said the cure, “leave the dead in peace, and close the coffin. We
will make poor Pierre’s grave elsewhere.”

The next day all was finished, and I returned to Paris, after having
left fifty francs with the old cure for masses to be said for the repose
of the soul of him whose sepulchre we had troubled.

THE VENGEANCE OF A TREE.

BY ELEANOR F. LEWIS.

Through the windows of Jim Daly’s saloon, in the little town of C----,
the setting sun streamed in yellow patches, lighting up the glasses
scattered on the tables and the faces of several men who were gathered
near the bar. Farmers mostly they were, with a sprinkling of
shopkeepers, while prominent among them was the village editor, and all
were discussing a startling piece of news that had spread through the
town and its surroundings. The tidings that Walter Stedman, a laborer on
Albert Kelsey’s ranch, had assaulted and murdered his employer’s
daughter, had reached them, and had spread universal horror among the
people.

A farmer declared that he had seen the deed committed as he walked
through a neighboring lane, and, having always been noted for his
cowardice, instead of running to the girl’s aid, had hailed a party of
miners who were returning from their mid-day meal through a field near
by. When they reached the spot, however, where Stedman (as they
supposed) had done his black deed, only the girl lay there, in the
stillness of death. Her murderer had taken the opportunity to fly. The
party had searched the woods of the Kelsey estate, and just as they were
nearing the house itself the appearance of Walter Stedman, walking in a
strangely unsteady manner toward it, made them quicken their pace.

He was soon in custody, although he had protested his innocence of the
crime. He said that he had just seen the body himself on his way to the
station, and that when they had found him he was going to the house for
help. But they had laughed at his story and had flung him into the tiny,
stifling calaboose of the town.

What were their proofs? Walter Stedman, a young fellow of about
twenty-six, had come from the city to their quiet town, just when times
were at their hardest, in search of work. The most of the men living in
the town were honest fellows, doing their work faithfully, when they
could get it, and when they had socially asked Stedman to have a drink
with them, he had refused in rather a scornful manner. “That infernal
city chap,” he was called, and their hate and envy increased in strength
when Albert Kelsey had employed him in preference to any of themselves.
As time went on, the story of Stedman’s admiration for Margaret Kelsey
had gone afloat, with the added information that his employer’s
daughter had repulsed him, saying that she would not marry a common
laborer. So Stedman, when this news reached his employer’s ears, was
discharged, and this, then, was his revenge! For them, these proofs were
sufficient to pronounce him guilty.

Yet that afternoon, as Stedman, crouched on the floor of the calaboose,
grew hopeless in the knowledge that no one would believe his story, and
that his undeserved punishment would be swift and sure, a tramp,
boarding a freight car several miles from the town, sped away from the
spot where his crime had been committed, and knew that forever its
shadow would follow him.

From the tiny window of his prison Walter Stedman could see the red glow
of the heavens that betokened the setting of the sun. So the red sun of
his life was soon to set, a life that had been innocent of all crime,
and that now was to be ended for a deed that he had never committed.
Most prominent of all the visions that swept through his mind was that
of Margaret Kelsey, lying as he had first found her, fresh from the
hands of her murderer. But there was another of a more tender nature.
How long he and Margaret had tried to keep their secret, until Walter
could be promoted to a higher position, so that he could ask for her
hand with no fear of the father’s antagonism! Then came the remembrance
of an afternoon meeting between the two in the woods of the Kelsey
estate--how, just as they were parting, Walter had heard footsteps near
them, and, glancing sharply around, saw an evil, scowling, murderous
face peering through the brush. He had started toward it, but the owner
of the countenance had taken himself hurriedly off.

The gossiping townspeople had misconstrued this romance, and when Albert
Kelsey had heard of this clandestine meeting from the man who was later
on to appear as a leader of the mob, and that he had discharged Stedman,
they had believed that the young man had formally proposed and had been
rejected. But justice had gone wrong, as it had done innumerable times
before, and will again. An innocent man was to be hanged, even without
the comfort of a trial, while the man who was guilty was free to wander
where he would.

That autumn night the darkness came quickly, and only the stars did
their best to light the scene. A body of men, all masked, and having as
a leader one who had ever since Stedman’s arrival in town, cherished a
secret hatred of the young man, dragged Stedman from the calaboose and
tramped through the town, defying all, defying even God himself. Along
the highway, and into Farmer Brown’s “cross cut,” they went, vigilantly
guarding their prisoner, who, with the lanterns lighting up his haggard
face, walked among them with the lagging step of utter hopelessness.

“That’s a good tree,” their leader said, presently, stopping and
pointing out a spreading oak; when the slipknot was adjusted and Stedman
had stepped on the box, he added: “If you’ve got anything to say, you’d
better say it now.”

“I am innocent, I swear before God,” the doomed man answered; “I never
took the life of Margaret Kelsey.”

“Give us your proof,” jeered the leader, and when Stedman kept a
despairing silence, he laughed shortly.

“Ready, men!” he gave the order. The box was kicked aside, and
then--only a writhing body swung to and fro in the gloom.

In front of the men stood their leader, watching the contortions of the
body with silent glee. “I’ll tell you a secret, boys,” he said suddenly.
“I was after that poor murdered girl myself. A d---- little chance I
had; but, by ----, he had just as little!”

A pause--then: “He’s shunted this earth. Cut him down, you fellows!”

* * * * *

“It’s no use, son. I’ll give up the blasted thing as a bad job. There’s
something queer about that there tree. Do you see how its branches
balance it? We have cut the trunk nearly in two, but it won’t come down.
There’s plenty of others around; we’ll take one of them. If I’d a long
rope with me I’d get that tree down, and yet the way the thing stands it
would be risking a fellow’s life to climb it. It’s got the devil in it,
sure.”

So old Farmer Brown shouldered his axe and made for another tree, his
son following. They had sawed and chopped and chopped and sawed, and yet
the tall white oak, with its branches jutting out almost as regularly as
if done by the work of a machine, stood straight and firm.

Farmer Brown, well known for his weak, cowardly spirit, who in beholding
the murder of Albert Kelsey’s daughter, had in his fright mistaken the
criminal, now in his superstition let the oak stand, because its
well-balanced position saved it from falling, when other trees would
have been down. And so this tree, the same one to which an innocent man
had been hanged, was left--for other work.

It was a bleak, rainy night--such a night as can be found only in
central California. The wind howled like a thousand demons, and lashed
the trees together in wild embraces. Now and then the weird “hoot,
hoot!” of an owl came softly from the distance in the lulls of the
storm, while the barking of coyotes woke the echoes of the hills into
sounds like fiendish laughter.

In the wind and rain a man fought his path through the bush and into
Farmer Brown’s “cross cut,” as the shortest way home. Suddenly he
stopped, trembling, as if held by some unseen impulse. Before him rose
the white oak, wavering and swaying in the storm.

“Good God! it’s the tree I swung Stedman from!” he cried, and a strange
fear thrilled him.

His eyes were fixed on it, held by some undefinable fascination. Yes,
there on one of the longest branches a small piece of rope still
dangled. And then, to the murderer’s excited vision, this rope seemed to
lengthen, to form at the end into a slipknot, a knot that encircled a
purple neck, while below it writhed and swayed the body of a man!

“Damn him!” he muttered, starting toward the hanging form, as if about
to help the rope in its work of strangulation; “will he forever follow
me? And yet he deserved it, the black-hearted villain! He took her
life----”

He never finished the sentence. The white oak, towering above him in its
strength, seemed to grow like a frenzied, living creature. There was a
sudden splitting sound, then came a crash, and under the fallen tree lay
Stedman’s murderer, crushed and mangled.

From between the broken trunk and the stump that was left, a gray, dim
shape sprang out, and sped past the man’s still form, away into the wild
blackness of the night.

THE PARLOR-CAR GHOST.

All draped with blue denim--the seaside cottage of my friend, Sara Pyne.
She asked me to go there with her when she opened it to have it set in
order for the summer. She confessed that she felt a trifle nervous at
the idea of entering it alone. And I am always ready for an excursion.
So much blue denim rather surprised me, because blue is not
complimentary to Sara’s complexion--she always wears some shade of red,
by preference. She perceived my wonder; she is very near-sighted, and
therefore sees everything by some sort of sixth sense.

“You do not like my portieres and curtains and table-covers,” said she.
“Neither do I. But I did it to accommodate. And now he rests well in his
grave, I hope.”

“Whose grave, for pity’s sake?”

“Mr. J. Billington Price’s.”

“And who is he? He doesn’t sound interesting.”

“Then I will tell you about him,” said Sara, taking a seat directly in
front of one of those curtains. “Last autumn I was leaving this place
for New York, traveling on the fast express train known as the Flying
Yankee. Of course, I thought of the Flying Dutchman and Wagner’s musical
setting of the uncanny legend, and how different things are in these
days of steam, etc. Then I looked out of the window at the landscape,
the horizon that seemed to wheel in a great curve as the train sped on.
Every now and then I had an impression at the ‘tail of the eye’ that a
man was sitting in a chair three or four numbers in front of me on the
opposite side of the car. Each time that I saw this shape I looked at
the chair and ascertained that it was unoccupied. But it was an odd
trick of vision. I raised my lorgnette, and the chair showed emptier
than before. There was nobody in it, certainly. But the more I knew that
it was vacant the more plainly I saw the man. Always with the corner of
my eye. It made me nervous. When passengers entered the car I dreaded
lest they might take that seat. What would happen if they should? A bag
was put in the chair--that made me uncomfortable. The bag was removed at
the next station. Then a baby was placed in the seat. It began to laugh
as though someone had gently tickled it. There was something odd about
that chair--thirteen was its number. When I looked away from it the
impression was strong upon me that some person sitting there was
watching me.

“Really, it would not do to humor such fancies. So I touched the
electric button, asked the porter to bring me a table, and taking from
my bag a pack of cards, proceeded to divert myself with a game of
patience. I was puzzling where to put a seven of spades. ‘Where can it
go?’ I murmured to myself. A voice behind me prompted: ‘Play the four of
diamonds on the five, and you can do it.’ I started. The only occupants
of the car, besides me, were a bridal couple, a mother with three little
children, and a typical preacher of one of the straitest sects. Who had
spoken? ‘Play up the four, madam,’ repeated this voice.

“I looked fearfully over my shoulder. At first I saw a bluish cloud,
like cigar smoke, but inodorous. Then the vision cleared, and I saw a
young man whom I knew by a subtle intuition to be the occupant, seen and
not seen, of chair number thirteen. Evidently he was a traveling
salesman--and a ghost. Of course, a drummer’s ghost sounds
ridiculous--they’re so extremely alive! Or else you would expect a dead
drummer to be particularly dead and not ‘walk.’ This was a most
commonplace-looking ghost, cordial, pushing, businesslike. At the same
time, his face had an expression of utter despair and horror which made
him still more preposterous. Of course it is not nice to let a stranger
speak to one, even on so impersonal a topic as a four of diamonds. But a
ghost--there can’t be any rule of etiquette about talking with a ghost!
My dear, it was dreadful! That forward creature showed me how to play
all the cards, and then begged me to lay them out again, in order that
he might give me some clever points. I was too much amazed and disturbed
to speak. I could only place the cards at his suggestion. This I did so
as not to appear to be listening to the empty air, and be supposed to be
a crazy woman. Presently the ghost spoke again, and told me his story.

“‘Madam,’ he said, ‘I have been riding back and forth on this car ever
since February 22, 189--. Seven months and eleven days. All this time I
have not exchanged a word with anyone. For a drummer, that is pretty
hard, you may believe! You know the story of the Flying Dutchman? Well,
that is very nearly my case. A curse is upon me and will not be removed
until some kind soul----. But I’m getting ahead of my text. That day
there were four of us, traveling for different houses. One of the boys
was in wool, one in baking powder, one in boots and shoes, and myself in
cotton goods. We met on the road, took seats together and fell into
talking shop.

“‘Those fellows told big lies about their sales, Washington’s Birthday
though it was. The baking powder man raised the amount of the bills of
goods which he had sold better than a whole can of his stuff could have
done. I admitted the straight truth, that I had not yet been able to
make a sale. And then I swore--not in a light-minded, chipper style of
verbal trimmings, but a great, round, heaven-defying oath--that I would
sell a case of blue denims on that trip if it took me forever. We became
dry with talk, and when the train stopped at Rivermouth, we went out to
have some beer. It is good there, you know--pardon me, I forgot that I
was speaking to a lady. Well, we had to run to get aboard. I missed my
footing, fell under the wheels, and the next thing that I knew they were
holding an inquest over my remains; while I, disemboweled, was sitting
on a corner of the undertaker’s table, wondering which of the coroner’s
jury was likely to want a case of blue denims.

“‘Then I remembered my wicked oath, and understood that I was a soul
doomed to wander until I could succeed in selling that bill of goods. I
spoke once or twice, offering the denims under value, but nobody noticed
me. Verdict: accidental death; negligence of deceased; railroad
corporation not to blame; deceased got out for beer at his own risk. The
other drummers took charge of the remains, and wrote a beautiful letter
to my relatives about my social qualities and my impressive
conversation. I wish it had been less impressive that time! I might have
lied about my sales, or I might have said that I hoped for better luck.
But after that oath there was nothing for it. Back and forth, back and
forth, on this road, in chair number thirteen, to all eternity. Nobody
suspects my presence. They sit on my knees--I’m playing in luck when it
is a nice baby as it was this afternoon! They pile wraps, bags, even
railway literature on me. They play cards under my nose--and what
duffers some of them are! You, madam, are the first person who has
perceived me; and therefore I ventured to speak to you, meaning no
offense. I can see that you are sorry for me. Now, if you recall the
story of the Flying Dutchman, he was saved by the charity of a good
woman. In fact, Senta married him. Now I’m not asking anything of that
size. I see that you wear a wedding ring, and no doubt you make some
man’s happiness. I wasn’t a marrying man myself, and, naturally, am not
a marrying ghost. And that has nothing to do with the matter anyway. But
if you could--I don’t suppose you would have any use for them--but if
you were disposed to do a turn of good, solid, Christian charity--I
should be everlastingly grateful, and you may have that case of denims
at $72.50. And that quality is quoted to-day at $80. Does it go, madam?’

“The speech of the poor ghost was not very eloquent, but his eyes had an
intense, eager glare, which was terrible. Something--pity, fear, I do
not know what--compelled me. I decided to do without that white and gold
evening cloak. Instead, I gave $72.50 to the ghost and took from him a
receipt for the sum, signed J. Billington Price. Then he smiled
contentedly, thanked me with emotion, and returned to chair number
thirteen. Several times on the journey, although I did not perceive him
again, I felt dazed. When the train arrived at New York, and I, with the
other passengers, dismounted, it seemed to me that a strong hand passed
under my elbow, steadying me down the steps. As I walked the length of
the station my bag--not heavy at any time--appeared to become
weightless. I believe that the parlor-car ghost walked beside me,
carrying the bag, whose handle still remained in my other hand. Indeed,
once or twice I thought I felt the touch of cold fingers against mine.
Since then I have no reason to suppose that the poor ghost is not at
rest. I hope he is.

“But I never expected nor wished for the blue denims. The next day,
however, a dray belonging to a great wholesale house backed up to our
door and delivered a case of denims, with a receipted bill for the same.
What was I to do? I could not go about selling blue denims; I could not
give them away without exciting comment. So I furnished the cottage with
them--and you know the effect on my complexion. Pity me, dear! And
credit me, frivolous woman as I am, with having saved a soul at the
expense of my own vanity. My story is told. What do you think about
it?”

GHOST OF BUCKSTOWN INN.

BY ARNOLD M. ANDERSON.

Several travel-worn drummers sat in the lobby exchanging yarns. It was
Rodney Green’s turn, and he looked wise and began his tale.

“I don’t claim, by any means, that the belief in ghosts is a general
thing in Arkansas, but I do say that I had an experience out there a few
years ago.

“It was late in the fall, and I happened to be in the village of
Buckstown, which desecrates a very limited portion of the State. The
town is about as small and dirty a place as ever I saw, and the
Buckstown Inn is not much above the general character of the place. The
region is inhabited by natives who still cling to all sorts of foolish
superstitions. The inn, in the ante-bellum days, was kept by one who was
said to be the meanest and most crabbed of mortals. The old demon was as
miserly as he was mean, and all his narrow life he hoarded his filthy
lucre with fiendish greed. Report had it also that he had even murdered
his patrons in their beds for their money. What the facts actually were
I don’t know, but even to this day the old inn is held in suspicion.