Children of the Moon by Richard Middleton. Children of the Moon by Richard Middleton, read by Virgil. The boy stood at the place where the partridge stopped, and the smooth lawn slid away gently to the great house. He was dressed only in a pair of ragged knickerbuckers and a gaping buttonless shirt, so that his legs and neck and chest shone silver rare in the moonlight. By day he had a mass of rough golden hair, but now it seemed to brood above his head like a black cloud that made his face deathly white by comparison. On his arms there lay a great heap of gleaming duet roses and lilies, spoiled of the park flower beds. Their cool petals touched his cheek and filled his nostrils with aching scent. He felt his arms smotting hair in there, with the thorns of the roses had torn them in a dark, but these delicate caresses of pain only served to deepen to him the wonder of the night that wrapped him about like a cloak. Behind him there dream the black woods and over his head multitudinous stars quivered and balanced in space, but these things were nothing to him. For far across the lawn that was spread knee-deep with the web of mist, there gleamed for his eager eyes the splendor of a fairy palace. Red in orange and gold, the lights of the fairy revels shone from a hundred windows and filled him with wonder that he should see what wakeful eyes the jewels that he had desired so long in sleep. He could only gaze and gaze into the straining eyes filled with tears and set the enchanted lights dancing in the dark. All his ears that heard no more the crying of the nightbirds and the quick stir of the rabbits in the break, there fell the strings of far music. The flowers in his arms seemed to sway to it and his heart beat to the deep pulse of the night. So enraptured were his senses that he did not notice the coming of the girl. She was able to examine him closely before she called him softly through the moonlight. Boy, boy! At the sound of her voice he swung round and looked at her with stuffed eyes. He saw her excited, looked at her face in her white dress. Are you a fairy? He acts hoarsely. For the night miss was in his voice. No, she said. I'm a little girl.  He stayed silent, regarding her with a puzzled face. Who was this little white creature with a tender voice that had slipped so suddenly out of the night? As a matter of fact, the girl continued, I've come out to have a look at the fairies. There's a ring down in the wood. You can come with me if you like, wood boy. He nodded his head silently, for he was afraid to speak to her and set off through the wood by her side, still clasping the flowers to his breast. What were you looking at when I found you? she asked. The palace, the fairy palace, the boy muttered. The palace, the girl repeated. Why, that's not a palace. That's where I live. The boy looked at her with new awe, if she were a fairy. But the girl hadn't noticed that his feet made no sound but saw her shoes. Don't the thorns prick your feet, wood boy? she asked. But the boy said nothing, and they were both silent for a while. The girl looking about her keenly as she walked, and the boy watching her face. Presently they came to a wide pool where a little two-tinkling fountain threw bubbles to the hidden fish. Can you swim? she said to the boy. He shook his head. It's a pity, said the girl. We might have had a bath. It would be rather fun in the dark, but it's pretty deep there. We'd better get on to the fairy ring. The moon had flung queer shadows across the glade in which the ring lay, and when they stood on the edge listening intently, the wood seemed to speak to them with a hundred voices. The man came upon them subtly from among the silver birches. He had a knapsack on his back, and his hair was as long as a tramps. At sight of him the girl almost screamed, and her hand trembled in the voice. Some instinct made him hold it tighter. What do you want? he muttered his voice. The man was no less astonished than the children. What on earth are you doing here? he cried. His voice was mild and reassuring, and the girl answered him promptly. I came out to look for fairies. Oh, that's right enough, commented the man. And you? he said, turning to the boy. Are you after fairies too? Oh, I see, picking flowers. Do you mean to sell them? The boy shook his head. For my sister, he said, and stopped up roughly. Is your sister fond of flowers? Yes, she's dead. The man looked at him gravely. That's a phrase, he said. These are the phrases of the devil.  They always have them, said the boy, blushing for shame of his pretty thought. And what are you looking for? The girl interrupted. The man made a mocking grimace, and glanced around the glade as if he were afraid of being overheard. Dreams, he said bluntly. The girl pondered this for a moment. And your knapsack? she began. Said the man. It's full of them. The children looked at the knapsack with interest. The girl's fingers tingling to undo the straps of it. What's all they like? she asked. The man gave a very short laugh. Very like yours and his, I expect. When you grow older, young woman, you'll find there's really only one dream possible for a sensible person. But you don't want to hear about my troubles. There is more in your line. He put his hand in his pocket, and pulled out a flageolet, which he put to his lips. Listen, he said. To the girl it seemed as though his little tune had leapt from the pipe, and was dancing round the ring like a real fairy, while Echo came tripping through the trees to join it. The boy gaped and said nothing. At last, when the fairy was beginning to falter, and Echo was cracked out of breath, the man took the flageolet from his lips. Well, he said with a smile. Thank you very much, the girl said politely. I think that was very nice indeed. Oh, boy, she broke off. You're hurting my hand. The boy's eyes were shining strangely, and he was waving his arms in dismay. All the wasted moonlight, he cried. The grass is quite wet with it. The girl turned to him in surprise. Why, boy, you found your voice. After that, the man said gravely as he put his flageolet back in his pocket. I think I will show you the inside of my knapsack. The girl bent down eagerly while he loosened the straps, but gave her cry of disappointment when she saw the contents. Pictures, she said. Pictures. Echo the man dryly. Pictures of dreams. I don't know how you're going to see them. Perhaps the moon will do her best. The girl looked at them nicely and passed them one by one to the boy. Presently, she made a discovery. Oh, boy, she cried. Your tears are spoiling all the pictures. I'm sorry, said the boy huskily. I can't help it. I know, said the man quickly. It doesn't matter a bit. I expect you've seen these pictures before. I know them all, said the boy, but I have never seen them. The man frowned. It's the devil, he said to himself. When boys speak English, he turns subtly to the girl who is puzzling over the boy's tears. It's time you went back to bed, he said. There won't be any fairies tonight. It's too cold for them. The girl yawned. I shall get into a row when I get back if they found it out. I don't care. The moon is fading, said the boy suddenly. There are no more shadows. They will see you through to the wood. The man continued and said good night. He put his pictures back in his knapsack and then walked silently through the murmuring wood. At the edge of the wood, the girl stopped.  You can give me a kiss if you like. The boy did not move, but stayed regarding her awkwardly.  Why didn't you kiss her, asked the man. Her lips would burn me, said the boy. The man and the boy walked slowly across the park.  I'm only a poor boy, the boy replied simply. I don't think I have any destiny. Paradox, said the man, is meant to conceal the insincerity of the age, not to express the simplicity of youth. But I wonder, you have made phrases tonight. What are phrases? What are dreams? What are roses? What in fine is the moon? Boy, I take you for a moonchild.  All this is very well. But above all, you have the music of her great silence. Above all, you have her tears.  When I showed you my pictures, you recalled the tales with which she hushed you to sleep. And so, I knew that you were her son and my little brother. The moon has always been my friend, but I did not know that she was my mother. Perhaps your sister knows it. The happy dad are glad to seek her for a mother. That is why they are so fond of white flowers. We have a mother at home. She works very hard for us.  And the beauty of your life is the measure of your days. While the boy reflected on these things, they had reached the gates of the park and they stole past a silent lodge on the high road. A man was waiting there in the shadows, and when he saw the boy's companion, he rushed out and seized him by the arm. So I've got you, he said. I don't think I'll let you go again in a hurry.  Why is Taylor, he said pleasantly, but Taylor, you know you're making a great mistake. Very possibly, said the keeper with the laugh, you see this boy here, Taylor. I assure you he is much matterer than I am. Taylor looked at the boy kindly. Time you were in bed, Tommy, he said. Taylor, said the man earnestly, this boy has made three phrases. If you don't lock him up, he will certainly become a poet.  Your palaces will torture Taylor and your kingdoms become as dust. I have warned you. That's right, sir, and now you must come with me. Boy, said the man generously, keep your liberty, by grace of providence all men and authority are fools. We shall meet again under the light of the moon. With dreamy eyes, the boy watched the departure of his companion. He had become almost invisible along the road when, miraculously as it seemed, the light of the moon broke through the trees by the wayside and lit up his figure. For a moment it fell upon his head like a halo and touched a knapsack of dreams with glory. Then all was lost in the blackness of night. As he turned homeward, the boy felt a cold wind upon his cheek. It was the first breath of dawn. End of Children of the Moon by Richard Middleton. If we could only get used to the idea that ghosts are perfectly harmless creatures who are powerless to affect our well-being unless we assist them by giving way to our fears. We should enjoy the supernatural exceedingly, it seems, to me. Coleridge, I think it was, was once a part of my life. I was born and raised in a small town and lived in a small town. I was born and raised in a small town and lived in a small town. Coleridge, I think it was, was once asked by a lady if he believed in ghosts. And he replied, No, madam, I have seen too many of them. Which is my case exactly. I have seen so many horrid visitants from other worlds that they hardly affect me at all, so far as the mere inspiration of terror is concerned. On the other hand, they interest me hugely. And while I must admit that I do experience all the purely physical sensations that come from horrific encounters of this nature, I can truly add in my own behalf that mentally I can rise above the physical impulse to run away. And invariably standing my ground, I have gained much useful information concerning them. I am prepared to assert that if a thing with flashing green eyes and clammy hands and long-dripping strips of seaweed in place of hair should rise up out of the floor before me at this moment, 2 a.m., and nobody in the house but myself with a fearful, nerve-destroying storm raging outside, I should, without hesitation, ask it to sit down and light a cigar and state its business. Or, if it were of the female persuasion, to join me in a bottle of sasperilla. Although every physical manifestation of fear of which my poor body is capable would be present, I have had experiences in this line which, if I could get you to believe them, would convince you that I speak the truth. Knowing weak, suspicious human nature as I do, however, I do not hope ever to convince you, though it is nonetheless true that on one occasion in the spring of 1895 there was a spiritual manifestation in my library which nearly prostrated me physically, but which mentally I hugely enjoyed. Because I was mentally strong enough to subdue my physical repugnance for the thing which suddenly and without any apparent reason materialized in my armchair. I'm going to tell you about it briefly, though I warn you in advance that you will find it a great strain upon your confidence in my veracity. It may even shatter that confidence beyond repair, but I cannot help that. I hold that it is a man's duty in this life to give the world the benefit of his experience. All that he sees he should set down exactly as he sees it, and so simply with all, but to the dullest comprehension the moral involved should be perfectly obvious. If he has a painter and an Auburn-haired maiden appears to him to have blue hair, he should paint her hair blue, and just so long as he sticks by his principles and is true to himself, he'd need not bother about what you may think of him. So it is with me. My scheme of living is based on being true to myself. You may class me with Baron Munchausen if you choose. I shall not mind so long as I have the consolation of feeling, deep down in my heart, that I am a true realist, and the words not from the paths of truth as truth manifests itself to me.  It was worse than grotesque. It graded on every nerve. Alongside of it, the ordinary poster of the present day would seem to be as accurate in drawing as a bicycle map, and in its coloring it simply shrieked with discord. If color had toned which struck the ear, instead of appealing to the eye, the thing would have deafened me. It was about midnight when the manifestation first took shape. My family had long before retired, and I had just finished smoking a cigar, which was one of a thousand which my wife had bought from me at a Monday sale at one of the big department stores in New York. I don't remember the brand, but that is just as well. It was not a cigar to be advertised in a civilized piece of literature. But I do remember that the thing came in bundles of 50, tied about with blue ribbons. The one I had been smoking tasted and burned as if it had been rolled by a Cuban insurrectionist while fleeing from a Spanish regiment, threw a morass, gathering its component parts as he ran. It had two distinct merits, however. No man could possibly smoke too many of them, and they were economical, which is how the ever-helpful little madame came to get them for me, and I have no doubt they will someday prove very useful in removing insects from the rose bushes. They cost $3.99 a thousand on five days a week, but at the Monday sale they were marked down to $1.75, which is why my wife, to whom I had recently read a little lecture on economy, purchased them for me. Upon the evening in question, I had been at work on this cigar for about two hours, and had smoked one side of it three-quarters of the way down to the end, and concluded that I had smoked enough for one day. So I rose up to cast the other side into the fire, which was flickering fitfully in my spacious fireplace. This done, I turned about, and there, fearful to see, set this thing grinning at me from the depths of my chair. My hair not only stood on end, but tugged madly in an effort to get away. Four hairs, I can prove the statement if it be desired, did pull themselves loose from my scalp and their insane desire to arrive above the terrors of the situation, and flying upwards stuck like nails into the oak ceiling directly over my head, once they had to be pulled the next morning with nippers by our hired man, who would no doubt testify to the truth of the occurrence as I had asserted it if he were still living, which, unfortunately, he is not. Like most hired men, he was subject to a tax of lethargy, from one of which he died last summer. He sank into a rest about weed time last June and lingered quietly along for two months. And after several futile efforts to wake him up, we finally disposed of him to our town crematory for experimental purposes. I am told he burned very actively, and I believe it. Forward to my certain knowledge he was very dry, and not so green as some persons who had previously employed him affected to think. A cold chill came over me as my eye rested upon the horrid visitor and noted the greenest depths of his eyes and the claw-like formation of his fingers, and my flesh began to creep like an inchworm. At one time I was conscious of eight separate corrugations on my back, and my arms goose-fleshed until they looked like one of those miniature plaster casts of the Alps which are so popular in Swiss summer resorts. But mentally I was not disturbed at all. My repugnance was entirely physical, and to come to the point at once, I calmly offered the specter a cigar, which he had accepted, and demanded a light. I gave it, nonchalantly lighting the match upon the goose-flushing of my wrist. Now I admit that this was extraordinary and hardly credible, yet it happened exactly as I have set it down, and furthermore I enjoyed the experience. For three hours the thing and I conversed, and not once during that time did my hair stop pulling away at my scalp, or the repugnance ceased to run in great rolling waves up and down my back. If I wished to deceive you, I might add that pin feathers began to grow from the goose-flesh, but that would be a lie, and lying and I are not friends, and furthermore this paper is not written to amaze, but to instruct. Except for its personal appearance, this particular ghost was not very remarkable, and I do not at this time recall any of the details of our conversation beyond the point that my share of it was not particularly coherent, because of the discomfort attendant upon the fearful hair-pulling process I was going through. I merely cite its coming to prove that with all the outward visible signs of fear manifesting themselves in no uncertain manner. Mentally I was cool enough to cope with the visitant, and sufficiently calm and at ease to light the match upon my wrist, perceiving for the first time with an Edison-like ingenuity one of the uses to which goose-flesh might be put, and knowing full well that if I tried to light it on the sole of my shoe I should have fallen to the ground, my knees being too shaky to admit of my standing on one leg even for an instant. Had I been mentally overcome, I should have tried to light the match on my foot and fallen ignominiously to the floor, then and there. There was another ghost that I recall to prove my point, who was of very great use to me in the summer immediately following the spring of which I have just told you. You will possibly remember how that summer of 1895 had rather more than its fair share of heat, and that the lovely New Jersey town in which I have the happiness to dwell appeared to be the headquarters of the temperature. The thermometers of the nation really seemed to take orders from Beechdale, and properly enough, for our town is a born leader in respect to heat. Having no property to sell, I candidly admit that Beechdale is not of an arctic nature in summer, socially perhaps. Socially it is the coolest town in the state, but we are at this moment not discussing cordiality, fraternal love, or the question raised by the Declaration of Independence, as to whether all men are born equal. The warmth we have in hand is what the old lady called fair and heat, and from the thermometric point of view, Beechdale, if I may be a trifle slangy, as I sometimes am, has heat to burn. There are mitigations of this heat, it is true, but they generally come along in winter. I must claim, in behalf of my town, that never in all my experience have I known a summer so hot that it was not sooner or later, by January anyhow, followed by a cool spell. But in the summer of 1895, even the real estate agents confessed that the cold wave announced by the Weather Bureau at Washington summered elsewhere. In the tropics perhaps, but not at Beechdale. One hardly dared to take a bath in the morning for fear of being scalded that flow from the cold water faucet. Our reservoir is entirely unprotected by shade trees, and in summer a favorite spot for young Waltons who like to catch bass already boiled. My neighbors and myself lived on cracked ice, ice cream, and destructive cold drinks. I do not myself mine hot weather in the daytime, but hot nights are killing. I can't sleep. I toss about for hours and then, for the sake of variety, I flop. But sleep cometh not. My debts double and my income seems to sizzle away under the influence of a hot, sleepless night. And it was just here that a certain awful thing saved me from the insanity which is a certain result of parboiled insomnia. It was about the 16th of July, which, as I remember reading in an extra edition of the evening bun, got out to mention the fact was the hottest 16th of July known in 38 years. I had retired at half past seven after dining lightly upon a cold salmon and a gallon of iced tea. Not because I was tired, but because I wanted to get down to first principles at once and remove my clothing. It sort of spread myself over all the territory I could, which is a thing you can't do in a library or even in a white and gold parlor. If a man were constructed like a machine, as he really ought to be, to be strictly comfortable, a machine that could be taken apart like an eight-day clock, I should have taken myself apart. Putting one section of myself on the roof, another part in the spare room, hanging a third on the clothesline in the yard, and so on. Leaving my head in the ice box. But unfortunately we had to keep ourselves together in this life. Hence I did the only thing one can do and retired and incidentally spread myself over some freshly baked bed clothing. There was some relief from the heat, but not much. I had been roasting and while my sensations were somewhere like those which I imagine come to a plank shed when he first finds himself spread out over the plank, there was mitigation. My temperature fell off from 167 to about 163 which is not quite enough to make a man absolutely content. Suddenly, however, I began to shiver. There was no breeze but I began to shiver. It is getting cooler, I thought, as the chill came on, and I rose and looked at the thermometer. It still registered the highest possible point and the mercury was rebelliously trying to break through the top of the glass tube and take a stroll on the roof. I said to myself, it's as hot as ever and yet I'm shivering. I wonder if my goose is cooked. I certainly got a chill. I jumped back into bed and pulled a sheet up over me but still I shivered. Then I pulled the blanket up but the chill continued. I couldn't seem to get warm again. Then came the counter pain and finally I had to put on my bathrobe, a fuzzy woollen affair which in mid-winter I had sometimes found too warm for comfort. Even then I was not sufficiently bundled up so I called for an extra blanket, two Afghans, and a hot water-back. Everyone in the house thought I had gone mad and I wondered myself if perhaps I hadn't. When all of a sudden I perceived, off in the corner, the awful thing and perceiving it, I knew all. I was being haunted and the physical repugnance of which I have spoken was on. The cold shiver, the invariable accompaniment of the ghostly visitant had come and I assure you I was never so glad of it. It has always been said of me by my critics that I am raw. I was afraid that after that night they would say I was half-baked and I would far rather be the one than the other. And it was the awful thing that saved me. Realizing this, I spoke to it gratefully. You are a heaven-born gift on a night like this, said I, rising and walking to its side. I am glad to be of service to you, the awful thing replied, smiling at me so yellowly that I almost a button of cowardice could have seen it. It's very good of you, I put in. Not at all, replied the thing. You are the only man I know who doesn't think it necessary to bevaricate about ghost every time he gets in order for a Christmas story. There have been more lies told about us than any other class of things in existence, and we are getting a trifle tired of it. We may have lost our corporeal existence, but some of our sensitivity still remains. Well, said I, rising and lighting the gas-logs, for I was on the very verge of congealment. I am sure I am pleased if you like my stories. Oh, as for that, I don't think much of them, said the awful thing, with a purple display of candor which amuse me, although I cannot say that I relished it. But you never lie about us.   Just because one happens to be a thing is no reason why writers should libel and that's why I've always suspected you. We regard you as a sort of Spook Boswell.  And when I saw you in imminent danger of becoming a mere grease-spot, owing to the fearful heat, I decided to help you through. That's why I'm here. Go to sleep now. I'll stay here and keep you shivering until daylight anyhow. I'd stay longer, but we are always late at sunrise. Like an egg, I said sheepily. Tut, said the ghost, go to sleep. If you talk, I'll have to go. And so I dropped off to sleep as softly and sweetly as a tired child. In the morning I awoke refreshed. The rest of my family were prostrated, but I was fresh. The awful thing was gone, and the room was warming up again. And if it had not been for the tinkling ice in my water-pitcher, I should have suspected it was all a dream. And so throughout the whole sizzling road by me and kept me cool. And I haven't a doubt that it was because of his good offices and keeping me shivering on those fearful August nights that I survived the season, and came to my work in the autumn as fit as a fiddle. So fit indeed that I have not written a poem since that has not struck me as being the very best of its kind. And if I can find a publisher who will take the risk of putting those poems out, I shall unequivocably and without hesitation acknowledge, as I do here, my debt of gratitude to my friends . Manifestations of this nature, then, are harmful, as I have already observed, only one a person who has haunted yields to his physical impulses. Fought stubbornly inch by inch with the will, they can be subdued, and often they are a boon. I think I approved both these points. It took me a long time to discover the facts, however, and my discovery came about in this way. It may perhaps interest you to know how I made it. It was, at one time, a presence of an insulting turn of mind. It was at my friend Jarley's little baronial hall, which he had rented from the Earl of Brookdale the year Mrs. Jarley was presented at court. The count as a Brookdale social influence went with the chateau for a slightly increased rental, which was why the Jarleys took it. I was invited to spend a month with them, not so much because Jarley is fond of me as because Mrs. Jarley had a sort of idea that, by her glory in some American Sunday newspaper, and Jarley laughingly assigned me to the haunted chamber, without at least one of which no baronial hall in the old country is considered worthy of the name. It will interest you more than any other, Jarley said, and if it has a ghost, I imagine you will be able to subdu him. I gladly accepted the hospitality of my friend and was delighted at his consideration in giving me the haunted chamber, where I might pursue my investigations into the London then for a time. I ran down to Brookdale Hall and took up my abode there with a half a dozen other guests. Jarley, as usual since his sudden goldfall, as Wilkins called it, did everything with a lavish hand. I believe a man could have got diamonds on toast if he had chosen to ask for them. However, this is a part from my story. I had occupied the haunted chamber about two weeks before anything of importance occurred, and then it came. And a more unpleasant, ill-mannered spook never floated in the ether. He materialized about three a.m. and was unpleasantly sulfurous to one's perceptions. He sat upon the divan in my room, holding his knees in his hands, leering and scowling upon me as though I were the intruder and not he. Who are you, I asked excitedly, as in the dying light of the log fire he loomed grimly up before me. None of your business, he replied insolently, showing his teeth as he spoke. On the other hand, who are you? This is my room, and not yours, and it is I who have the right to question. If you have any business here well and good, if not, you will oblige me by removing yourself. For your presence is offensive to me. I am a guest in the house, I answered, restraining my impulse to throw the ink stand at him for his impudence. And this room has been set apart from my use by my host. One of the servants guessed I presume, he said insultingly, his livid lavender-like lip uncurling into a haughty sneer which was maddening to a self-respecting worm like myself.  But again, I restrained myself. It will not do to quarrel, I thought. I will be courteous if he is not, thus giving a dead Englishman a lesson which wouldn't hurt some of the living. No, I said, my voice tremulous with wrath. No. I am the guest of my friend, Mr. Jarley, an American who, same thing, observed the intruder with a yellow sneer. Race of low-class animals of those Americans only fit for gentlemen's stables, you know. This was too much. A ghost may insult me with impunity, but when he tackles my people he must look out for himself. I sprang forward with an ejaculation of wrath, and with all my strength struck at him with the poker, which I still held in my hand. If he had been anything but a ghost, he would have been split vertically from top to toe. But as it was, the poker passed harmlessly through his misty makeup and rent a great gash two feet long in Jarley's divan. The yellow sneer faded from his lips, and a maddening blue smile took its place. Hmm! he observed nonchalantly.  And what a vulgar display of temper! Really, you are the most humorous insect I have yet encountered. From what part of the states do you come? I am truly interested to know in what kind of soil exotics of your peculiar kind are cultivated. Are you part of the fauna or the floor of your tropical states, or what? And then I realized the truth. There is no physical method of combating a ghost which can result in his discomforture, so I resolved to try the intellectual. It was a mind-to-mind contest, and he was easy prey after I got going. I joined him in his blue smile, and began to talk about English aristocracy. For I doubted not, from the specter's manner, that he was or had been one of that class. He had about him that haughty lack of manners which bespoke the aristocrat. I waxed very eloquent when, as I say, I got my mind really going. I spoke of kings and queens, their uses of divine right, of dukes, earls, marquis, of all the pompous establishments of British royalty and nobility, with that contemptuously humorous tolerance of a necessary and somewhat amusing evil which we find in American comic papers. We had a battle royale for about one hour, and I must confess I was worthy of any man's steel, so long as I was reasonable in my arguments. But when I finally observed that it wouldn't beat ten years before Barnum and Bailey's greatest show on earth, had the whole lot engaged for the New York Circus season, stalking about the Madison Square Garden arena, with the Prince of Wales at the head beating a tom-tom, he grew iridescent with wrath, and fled madly through the wainscotting of the room.  All the physical possibilities of my being would have exhausted themselves futile before him. I turned upon him the resources of my fancy, my imagination unrestrained, and held back by no sense of responsibility he was a child in my hands, obstrectorous, but certain to be subdued. If it were not for Mrs. Jolly's wrath, which I admit she tried to conceal over the damage to her divan, I should now look back upon that visitation as the most agreeable haunting experience of my life. At any rate, it was at that time I first learned how to handle ghost, and since that time I have been able to overcome them without trouble. Save in one instance, with which I shall close this chapter of my reminences, and which I give only to prove the necessity of observing strictly one point in dealing with specters. It happened last Christmas, in my own home. I had provided as a little surprise for my wife a complete new solid silver service marked with her initials. The tree had been prepared for the children, and all had retired save myself. I had lingered later than the others to put the silver of the tree, where its happy recipient would find it when she went to the tree with the little ones the next morning. It made a magnificent display. The two dozen of each kind of spoon, the forks, the knives, the coffee pot, water urn and all. The salvers, the vegetable dishes, olive forks, cheese scoops and other dazzling attributes of a complete service, not to go into details, presented a fairly scintillating picture which would have made me gasp if I had not at the moment when my own breath began to catch, heard another gasp in the corner behind me. Turning about quickly to see whence it came, I observed a dark figure in the pale light of the moon which streamed in through the window. Who are you, I cried, starting back, the physical symptoms of a ghostly presence manifesting themselves as usual. I am the ghost of one long gone before, was the reply in sepulchral tones. I breathed a sigh of relief, for I had for a moment feared it was a burglar. Oh, I said, you gave me a start at first. I was afraid you were a material thing to rob me. Then, turning towards the tree, I observed with a wave of my hand, fine layout, eh? Beautiful, he said hollily. Yet not so beautiful as things I've seen in realms beyond your kin. And then he said about telling me of the beautiful gold and silverware they used in the Elysian fields. And I must confess, Monte Cristo would have had a hard time with Sinbad the Sailor to help, to surpass the picture of royal magnificence the specter drew. I stood enthralled until, even as he was talking, the clock struck three. When he rose up and moving slowly across the floor barely visible, murmured regretfully that he must be off, with which he faded away down the back stairs. I pulled my nerves, which were getting rather strained together again, and went to bed. Next morning every bit of that silverware was gone. And what is more, three weeks later I found the ghost picture in the rogues gallery in New York as that of the cleverest sneak thief in the country. All of which, let me say to you dear reader, in conclusion, proves that when you are dealing with ghost you mustn't give up all your physical resources until you have definitely ascertained that the thing by which you are confronted, horrid or otherwise, is a ghost. And not an all too material robe with a light step, and a commodious jute bag for plunder concealed beneath his coat. How to tell a ghost, you ask? Well, as an imminent master of fiction frequently observes in his writings, that is another story. Which I shall hope someday to tell you for your instruction in my own aggrandizement. End of Ghost That Have Haunted Me by John Kendrick Bangs This recording by James Christopher JXChristopher at yahoo.com The Clanger of the Swords had died away. The shouting of the slaughter was hushed. Silence lay on the red-stained snow. The bleak pale sun that glittered so blindly from the ice fields and the snow-covered plains struck sheens of silver from rent coarselets and broken blades where the dead lay as they had fallen. The nerveless hand yet gripped the broken hilt. The helmeted heads backdrawn in the throes of death tilted red beards in the throes of death. Throes of death tilted red beards and golden beards grimly upward as if in last invocation to Ymir the frost god god of a warrior race across the red drifts and the male-clad forms two figures glared at each other and that utter desolation only they moved. The frosty sky was over them the white, illimitable plain around them the dead men at their feet slowly through the corpses they came as ghost might come to a trist through the shambles of a dead world in the brooding silence they stood face to face both were tall men built like tigers their shields were gone their coarselets battered and dented blood dried on their mail their swords were stained red their horned helmets showed marks of fierce strokes and black mained the locks and the beard of the other were red as the blood on the sunlit snow man he said tell me your name so that my brothers in Vanaheim may know who was the last of Wolf-Hare's band to fall before the sword of Hymdel not in Vanaheim growled the black-haired warrior but in Valhalla you will tell your brothers that you met Conan of Samaria Hymdel roared and leapt his sword flashed in a deathly arc Conan staggered and his vision was filled with red sparks as the singing blade crashed on his helmet shivering into bits of blue fire but as he reeled he thrust with all of the power of his broad shoulders behind the humming blade the sharp point tore through brass scales and bone and heart and the red-haired warrior died at Conan's feet Samarian stood upright trailing his sword a sudden sick weariness assailing him the glare of the sun on the snow cut his eyes like a knife and the sky seemed shrunken and strangely apart he turned away from the trampled expanse where yellow-bearded warriors lay locked with red-haired slayers in the death embrace a few steps he took and the glare of the snow fields was suddenly dimmed and he engulfed him and he sank down into the snow supporting himself on one mailed arm seeking to shake the blindness out of his eyes as a lion might shake his mane a silvery laugh cut through his dizziness and his sight cleared slowly he looked up there was a strangeness about all the landscape that he could not place or define and an unfamiliar tinge to the earth and sky but he did not think long of this before him swaying like a sapling in the wind stood a woman her body was ivory to his dazed gaze and saved for a light veil of gossamer she was naked as the day her slender bare feet were whiter than the snow they spurned she laughed down at the bewildered warrior her laughter was sweeter than the rippling of silver fountains and poisonous with cruel mockery who are you? asked the Sumerian whence come you? what matter? her voice was more musical than a silver stringed harp but it was edged with cruelty call up your men said he grasping his sword yet though my strength fail me they shall not take me alive I see that you are of veneer have I said so? his gaze went again to her unruly locks which at first glance he thought to be red but he saw that they were neither red nor yellow but a glorious compound of both colors he gazed spellbound her hair was like elfin gold the sun struck it so dazzlingly that he could scarcely bear to look upon it her eyes were likewise neither holy blue nor holy gray but of shifting colors and dancing lights and clouds of colors he could not define her full red lips smiled and from her slender feet to the blinding crown of her billowy hair her ivory body was as perfect as the dream of a god Conan's pulse hammered in his temples I cannot tell, he said whether you are vanaheim or mine enemy or Asgard and my friend far I have wandered but a woman like you I have never seen your locks blind me with their brightness never have I seen such hair among the fairest daughters of Isar but Yamir who are you to swear by Yamir she mocked what know you of the gods of ice and snow you have come up from the south to adventure among an alien people by the dark gods of my race he cried in anger though I am not the golden haired Asir none has been more forward in sword play this day I have seen four men fall and I alone have survived the field where wolf's hear's reavers met the wolves of Braji tell me woman have you seen the flash of mail out across the snow planes or seen armed men moving upon the ice I have seen the whorefrost glittering in the sun she answered I have seen the wind whispering across the everlasting snows he shook his head with a sigh Neord should have come up with us before that battle joined I fear he and his fighting men have been ambushed wolf here and his warriors lie dead I had thought there was no village within many leagues of this spot for the war carried us far but you cannot have come a great distance over these snows naked as you are lead me to your tribe if you are of Asgard for I am faint with blows and the weariness of strife my village is further than you can walk Conan of Samaria she laughed spreading her arms wide she swayed before him her golden head lolling sensuously her sentilent eyes half shadowed beneath their long silken lashes am I not beautiful oh man like dawn running naked on the snows he muttered his eyes burning like those of a wolf then why do you not rise and follow me who is the strong warrior who falls down before me she chanted in maddening mockery lie down and die in the snow with the other fools Conan of the black hair you cannot follow where I lead with an oath the Samarian heaved himself up on his feet his blue eyes blazing his dark scarred face contorted rage shook his soul but desire for the taunting figure before him hammered at his temples and drove his wild blood fiercely through his veins passion fierce as physical agony flooded his whole being so that earth and sky swam red in his dizzy gaze in the madness that swept upon him weariness and faintness were swept away he spoke no word as he drove at her fingers spread to grip her soft flesh with a shriek of laughter she leapt back and ran laughing at him over her white shoulder with a growl Conan followed he had forgotten the fight forgotten the mailed warriors who lay in their blood forgotten the Ord and the Reavers who had failed to reach the fight he had thought only for the slender white shape which seemed to float rather than run before him out across the white blinding plane the chase led the trampled red field fell out of sight behind him but still Conan kept on with the silent tenacity of his race his mailed feet broke through the crust he sank deep in the drifts and forged them by sheer strength but the girl danced across the snow light as a feather floating across the pool her naked feet barely left their imprint in the whorefrost that overlaid the crust in spite of the fire in his veins the cold bit through the warriors mail and fur-lined tunic but the girl in her gossamer veil ran as lightly as gaily as if she danced through the palm and rose gardens of poutain on she led and Conan followed black curses drooled through the Sumerian's parched lips the great veins in his temples swelled and throbbed and his teeth gnashed you cannot escape me he roared lead me into a trap and I'll pile the heads of your kinsmen at your feet hide from me and I'll tear apart the mountains to find you her maddening laughter flaunted back to him and the foam flew from the barbarian's lips further and further into the waist she led him the land changed the wide plains gave way to low hills marching upward in broken ranges far to the north he caught a glimpse of towering mountains blue with the distance or white with the eternal snow above those mountains shown the flaring rays of the borealis they spread fan-wise into the sky frosty blades of cold flaming light changing in color growing and brightening above him the skies glowed and crackled with strange lights and gleams the snow shone weirdly now frosty blue now icy crimson now cold silver through a shimmering icy realm of enchantment Conan plunged doggedly onward in a crystallized maze with the white body dancing across the glittering snow beyond his reach ever beyond his reach he did not wonder at the strangeness of it all not even when the two gigantic figures rose up to bar his way the scales of their mail were white with whorefrost their helmets and their axes were covered with ice snow sprinkled their locks in their beards were spikes of icicles their eyes were cold as the lights that streamed above them brothers cried the girl dancing between them look who follows I have brought you a man to slay take his heart that we may lay it smoking on our father's board the giants answered with roars like the grinding of icebergs on a frozen shore and heaved their shining axes as the maddened Sumerian hurled himself upon them a frosty blade flashed before his eyes blinding him with its brightness and he gave back a terrible stroke that sheared through his foes thigh with a groan the victim fell and at the instant Conan was dashed into the snow with his left shoulder numb from the blow of the survivor from which the Sumerian's mail had barely saved his life Conan saw the remaining giant looming high above him like a colossus carved of ice etched against the cold glowing sky the axe fell to sink through the snow as Conan hurled himself aside and leapt to his feet the giant roared and wrenched his axe free but even as he did Conan's sword sang down the giant's knees bent and he sank slowly to the snow which turned crimson from the blood that gushed from his half severed neck Conan wheeled to see the girl standing a short distance away staring at him in wide-eyed whore all the mockery gone from her face he cried out fiercely the drops flew from his sword as his hand shook in the intensity of his passion called the rest of your brothers he cried I'll give their hearts to the wolves you cannot escape me with a cry of fright she turned and ran fleetily she did not laugh now nor mock him over her white shoulder she ran for her life and though he strained every nerve and threw until his temples were like to burst and the snow swam red to his gaze she drew away from him dwindling in the witch-fire of the skies until she was a figure no bigger than a child then a dancing white flame on the snow then a dim blur in the distance but grinding his teeth until the blood started from his gums he reeled on and he saw the blur grow to a dancing white flame and the flame to a figure as big as a child and then she was running less than a hundred paces ahead of him slowly the space narrowed foot by foot she was running with effort now her golden locks blowing free he heard the quick panting of her breath and saw a flash of fear in the look she cast over her white shoulder the grim endurance of the barbarian had served him well the speed ebbed from her flashing white legs she reeled in her gait in his untamed soul leapt up the fires of hell well with an inhuman roar he closed in on her just as she wheeled with a haunting cry and flung at her arms to fend him off his sword fell into the snow as he crushed her to him her lithe body bent backward as she fought with desperate frenzy in his iron arms her golden hair blew about his face blinding him with its sheen the feel of her slender body twisting in his mailed arms drove him to blinder madness his strong fingers sank deep into her smooth flesh and that flesh was cold as ice it was as if he embraced not a woman of human flesh and blood but a woman of flaming ice she writhed her golden head aside striving to avoid the fierce kisses that bruised her red lips you were as cold as the snows he mumbled daisily I will warm you with the fire in my blood with a scream and a desperate wrench she slipped from his arms leaving her single gossamer garment in his grasp she sprang back and faced him her golden locks and wild disarray her white bosom heaving her beautiful eyes blazing with terror for an instant he stood frozen awed by her terrible beauty as she posed naked against the snows and in that instant she flung her arms toward the lights that glowed in the skies above her eyes that rang in Conan's ears forever after Yamir oh, my father save me Conan was leaping forward arms spread to Caesar when with a crack like the breaking of an ice mountain the whole sky leapt into icy fire the girl's ivory body was suddenly enveloped in a cold blue flame so blinding that the samaritan threw up his hands to shield his eyes from the intolerable blaze a fleeting instant the skies and snowy hills were bathed in crackling white flames blue darts of icy light and frozen crimson fires then Conan staggered and cried out the girl was gone the glowing snow lay empty and bare high above his head the witch-lights flashed and played in a frosty sky gone mad and among the distant blue mountains there sounded a rolling thunder as of a gigantic war-chariot rushing behind steeds whose frantic hooves struck lightning from the snows and echoed from the skies then suddenly the borealis the snow-clad hills and blazing heavens reeled drunkenly to Conan's sight thousands of fireballs burst with the showers of sparks and the sky itself became a titanic wheel which rained stars as it spun under his feet the snowy hills heaved up like a wave and the samarian crumpled into the snows to lie motionless in a cold, dark universe whose sun was extinguished eons ago Conan felt the movement of life alien and unguessed an earthquake had him in its grip and was shaking him to and fro at the same time chafing his hands and feet until he yelled in pain and fury and groped for his sword he's coming too, Horsa said a voice haste, we must rub the frost out of his limbs if he's ever to wield a sword again he won't open his left hand the other growled he's clutching something Conan opened his eyes and stared into the bearded faces that bent over him he was surrounded by tall golden-haired warriors and male and furs Conan, you live by crum ne'ord gasped the samarian am I alive or are we all dead and in Valhalla we live grunted the Asir busy over Conan's half-frozen feet we had to fight our way through an ambush or we would have come up with you before the battle was joined the corpses were scarce cold when we came upon the field we did not find you among the dead so we followed your spore in Ymir's name Conan, why did you wander off into the waste of the north in the tracks in the snow for hours had a blizzard come and hidden them we would never have found you by Ymir swear not so often by Ymir uneasily muttered a warrior glancing at the distant mountains this is his land and the god bides among yonder mountains the legends say I saw a woman Conan answered hazily we met Bragi's men in the plains I know not how long we fought I alone lived I was dizzy and faint the land lay like a dream before me only now do all things seem natural and familiar the woman came and taunted me she was beautiful as a frozen flame from hell a strange madness fell upon me when I looked at her so I forgot all else in the world I followed her did you not find her tracks or the giants in icy mail I slew Ymir shook his head we found only your tracks in the snow Conan then it may be that I am mad said Conan daisily yet you yourself are no more real to me than was the golden locked witch who fled naked across the snows before me yet from under my hands she vanished in an icy flame he's delirious whispered a warrior not so cried an older man whose eyes were wild and weird it was Atali the daughter of Ymir the frost giant to the fields of the dead she comes and shows herself to the dying myself when a boy I saw her when I lay half slain on the bloody field of wool raven I saw her walk among the dead in the snows her naked body gleaming like ivory and her golden hair unbearably bright in the moonlight I lay and howled like a dying dog because I could not crawl after her she lures men from stricken fields into the wastelands to be slain by her brothers the ice giants who lay men's red hearts smoking on Ymir's board the Samarian has seen Atali the frost giant's daughter bah! Granted Horsa Old Gorm's mind was touched in his youth by a sword cut on the head Conan was delirious from the fury of battle look how his helmet is dented any of those blows would have addled his brain it was in a hallucination that he followed into the wastes he is from the south what does he know of Atali you speak truth perhaps muttered Conan it was all strange and weird by Crom he broke off glaring at the object that still dangled from his clenched left fist the others gaped silently at the veil he held up a wisp of gossamer that was never spun by human to staff the end of gods of the north by Robert E. Howard recorded by Rowdy Delaney Idaho USA A Haunted House by Virginia Woolf this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org recording by David Federman A Haunted House by Virginia Woolf whatever hour you woke there was a door shutting from room to room they went hand in hand lifting here opening there making sure a ghostly couple here we left it she said and he added oh but here too it's upstairs quietly they said or we shall wake them but it wasn't that you woke us oh no they're looking for it they're drawing the curtain and so read on a page or two now they've found it one would be certain stopping the pencil on the margin and then tired of reading one might rise and see for oneself the house all empty doors standing open only the wood pigeons bubbling with content and the hum of the threshing machine sounding from the farm what did I come in here for what did I want to find my hands were empty perhaps it's upstairs then the apples were in the loft and so down again the garden still as ever only the book had slipped into the grass but they had found it in the drawing room not that one could ever see them the window panes reflected apples reflected roses all the leaves were green in the glass if they moved in the drawing room the apple only turned its yellow side yet the moment after if the door was opened spread about the floor hung upon the walls pendant from the ceiling what my hands were empty the shadow of a thrush crossed the carpet from the deepest wells of silence the wood pigeon drew its bubble of sound safe safe safe the pulse of the house beat softly the treasure buried the room the pulse stopped short oh was that the buried treasure a moment later the light had faded out in the garden then but the trees spun darkness for a wandering beam of sun so fine so rare so cruelly sunk beneath the surface the beam I sought always burning behind the glass death was the glass death was between us coming to the woman first hundreds of years ago leaving the house ceiling all the windows the rooms were darkened he left it left her went north went east saw the stars turned in the southern sky sought the house found it dropped beneath the downs safe safe the pulse of the house beat gladly the treasure yours the wind roars up the avenue trees stoop and bend this way and that the beams splash and spill wildly in the rain but the beam of the lamp falls straight from the window the candle burns stiff and still wandering through the house opening the windows whispering not to wake us the ghostly couple seek their joy here we slept she says and he adds kisses without number waking in the morning silver between the trees upstairs in the garden when summer came in winter snowtime the doors go shutting far in the distance gently knocking like the pulse of a heart nearer they come cease at the doorway the wind falls the rain slides silver down the glass our eyes darken we hear no steps beside us we see no ladies spread her ghostly cloak his hands shield the lantern look he breathes sound asleep love upon their lips stooping holding their silver lamp above us long they look and deeply long they pause the wind drives the flames stoop slightly wild beams of moon like cross both floor and wall and meeting stain the faces bent the faces pondering the faces that search the sleepers and seek their hidden joy safe safe safe the heart of the house beats proudly long years he sighs again you found me here she murmurs sleeping in the garden reading laughing rolling apples in the loft here we left our treasure stooping their light lifts the lids upon my eyes safe safe safe safe the pulse of the house beats wildly waking I cry oh is this your buried treasure the light the heart end of a haunted house by Virginia Woolf recording by David Federman the man who is not on the passenger list by Robert Barr this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org recording by Anna Seumann the man who is not on the passenger list by Robert Barr the well sworn lie frank to the world with all the circumstances of proof cringes a bashed and sneaks along the wall at the first sight of truth the Gibranthus of the hot cross burn line was at one time the best ship of that justly celebrated fleet all steamships have of course their turn at the head of the fleet until a better boat is built but the Gibranthus is even now a reasonably fast and popular boat an accident happened on board the Gibranthus some years ago which was of small importance to the general public but of some moment to Richard Keeling for it killed him the poor man got only a line or two in the papers when the steamer arrived in New York and then they spelled his name wrong it had happened something like this Keeling was wandering around very late at night when he should have been in his bunk and he stepped on a dark place that he thought was solid as it happened there was nothing between him and the bottom of the hold but space they buried Keeling at sea and the officers knew absolutely nothing about the matter when inquisitive passengers hearing rumours questioned them this state of things very often exists both on sea and land as far as officials are concerned Mrs Keeling who had been left in England while her husband went to America to make his fortune and tumbled down a hole instead felt aggrieved at the company the company said that Keeling had no business to be nosing around dark places on the deck at that time of night and doubtless their contention was just Miss Keeling on the other hand helped that a steamer had no right to have such mantraps open at any time night or day without having them properly guarded and in that she was also probably correct the company was very sorry of course that the thing had occurred but they refused to pay for Keeling unless compelled to do so by the law of the land and their matter stood no one can tell what the law of the land will do when it's put in motion although many people thought that if Mrs Keeling had brought a suit against the hot cross burn company she would have won it but Mrs Keeling was a poor woman and you have to put a penny in the slot when you want the figures of justice to work so the unfortunate creature signed something which the lawyer of the company had written out and accepted the few pounds which Keeling had paid for room 18 on the Gibranthus it would seem that this ought to have settled the matter but when the lawyer told Mrs Keeling he thought the company acted very generously in refunding the passage money but it didn't settle the matter within a year from that time the company voluntarily paid Mrs Keeling £2,100 for her husband now that the occurrence is cool to your mind you will perhaps remember the editorial one of the leading London dailies had on the extraordinary circumstance in which it was very ably shown that the old saying about corporations having no souls to be condemned or bodies to be kicked did not apply in these days of commercial honour and integrity it was a very touching editorial and it caused tears to be shed on the stock exchange the members having had no idea before reading it that they were so noble and generous how then was it that the hot cross burn company did this commendable act when their lawyer took such pains to clear them of all legal liability the purser of the Gibranthus who is now old and superannuated could probably tell you if he liked when the negotiations with Mrs Keeling had been brought to a satisfactory conclusion by the lawyer of the company and when that gentleman was rubbing his hands over his easy victory the good chip Gibranthus was steaming out of the mercy on her way to New York the stewards in the Grand Saloon were busy getting things in order for dinner when a well and gone passenger spoke to one of them where have you placed me at table he asked what name sir asked the steward Keeling the steward looked along the main tables at one side and down the other reading the cards but nowhere they defined the name he was in search of then he looked at the small tables but also without success how do you spell it sir he asked the patient passenger K-E-L-I-N-G on the four rows of names on the passenger list he held in his hand but finally shook his head I can't find your name on the passenger list he said I'll speak to the purser sir I wish you would reply the passenger in a listless way as if he had not much interest in the matter the passenger whose name was not on the list waited until the steward returned would you mind stepping into the purser's room for a moment sir I'll show you the way sir when the passenger was shown into the purser's room that official said to him in the urbane manner of pursers might I look at your ticket sir the passenger pulled a long pocketbook from the inside of his coat opened it and handed the purser the document it contained the purser scrutinized it sharply and then referred to a list he had on the desk before him this is very strange he said at last I never knew such a thing to occur before although of course it is always possible I'm sure having some unaccountable manner left your name out of my list I'm sorry you've been put to any inconvenience sir there has been no inconvenience so far said the passenger and I trust there will be none you find the ticket regular I presume quite so quite so replied the purser then to the waiting steward give Mr Keeling any place he prefers at the table which is not already taken you have room 18 that was what I bought at Liverpool well I see you have the room to yourself and I hope you'll find it comfortable have you ever crossed with this before sir I seem to recollect your face I've never been in America ah I see so many faces of course that I sometimes fancy I know a man when I don't well I hope you'll have a pleasant voyage sir thank you number 18 was not a popular passenger people seemed instinctively to shrink from him although it must be admitted that he made no advances all went well until the Gibranthus was about half way over one four noon the chief officer entered the captain's room with a pale face and shutting the door after him said I'm very sorry to have to report sir that one of the passengers has fallen into the hold good heavens! cried the captain is he hurt he is killed sir the captain stared aghast at his subordinate how did it happen? I gave the strictest orders those places were on no account to be left unguarded although the company had held to Mrs. Keeling that the captain was not to blame their talk with that gentleman was of an entirely different tone that is a strange part of it sir the hatch has not been opened this voyage sir and was securely bolted down nonsense nobody will believe such a story someone has been careless asked the person to come here please when the person saw the body he recollected and came as near fainting as a person can they dropped Keeling overboard in the night and the whole affair was managed so quietly that nobody suspected anything and what is the most incredible thing in this story the New York papers did not have a word about it what the Liverpool office said about the matter nobody knows but it must have stirred up something like a breeze in that strictly business locality it is likely they poo-pooed the whole affair for strange to say when the person tried to corroborate the story with the dead man's ticket the document was nowhere to be found the Gibranthas started out on our next voyage from Liverpool with all her colours flying but some of her officers had a vague feeling of unrest within them which reminded them of the time they first sailed on the heaving seas the person was seated in his room busy as purses always are at the beginning of a voyage when there was a wrap at the door come in shouted the important official and there entered unto him a stranger who said are you the person yes sir, what can I do for you I have room number 18 what cried the person with a gasp almost jumping from his chair then he looked at the robust man before him and sank back with a sigh of relief it was not keeling I have room number 18 continued the passenger what I made with your people in Liverpool was that I was to have the room to myself I do a great deal shipping over your yes my dear sir said the person after having looked rapidly over his list you have number 18 to yourself so I told the man who was unpacking his luggage there but he showed me his ticket and it was issued before mine I can't quite understand why your people should what kind of a looking man is he a thin and healthy cadaverous man who doesn't look as if he would last till the voyage ends I don't want him for a roommate if I have to have one I think you ought I will sir I will make it all right I suppose if it should happen that a mistake has been made and he has the prior claim to the room you would not mind taking number 24 it is a larger and better room that will suit me exactly so the person locked his door and went down to number 18 well he said to its occupant well looking up at him with his cold and fishy eyes you are here again are you I am here again and I will be here again and again and again and again now what the then the person hesitated a moment and thought perhaps he had better not swear with that icy, calamity gaze fixed upon him what object have you in all this object the very simple one of making your company live up to its contract from Liverpool to New York my ticket reads I paid for being landed in the United States not for being dumped overboard in mid ocean do you think you can take me over you've had two tries at it and have not succeeded yours is a big and powerful company too if you know we can't do it then why do you the person hesitated pester you with my presence suggests Mr. Keeling I want you to do justice £2,000 is the prize and I will raise it £100 every trip this time the New York papers got hold of the incident but not of its peculiar features they spoke of the extraordinary carelessness of the officers in allowing practically the same accident to occur twice on the same boat when the Gibranthus reached Liverpool all the officers from the captain down sent in their resignations most of the sailors did not take the trouble to cut for it the managing director was annoyed at the newspaper comments but laughed at the rest of the story he was invited to come over and interview Keeling for his own satisfaction most of the officers promising to remain on the ship if he did so he took room 18 himself what happened? I do not know for the person refused to sail again on the Gibranthus and was given another ship but this much is certain when the managing director got back the company generously paid Mrs Keeling £2,100 end of the man who is not on the passenger list by Robert Bar No Living Voice by Thomas Street Millington this is a LibriVox recording old LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org No Living Voice by Thomas Street Millington how do you come for it I don't account for it at all I don't pretend to understand it you think then that it was really supernatural we know so little what nature comprehends what are its powers and limits that we can sparsely speak of anything that happens is beyond it or above it and are you certain this did happen quite certain of that I have no doubt whatever these sentences pass between the two gentlemen in the drawing room of a country house where a small family party was assembled after dinner and in consequence of a lull in the conversation occurring at the moment they were distinctly heard by nearly everybody present curiosity was excited and inquiries were eagerly pressed as to the nature or super nature of the event under discussion a ghost story cried one oh delightful hear it oh please no said another I should not sleep all night and yet I am dying of curiosity others seemed inclined to treat the question rather from a rational or psychological point of view and would have started the discussion upon ghost in general each giving his own experience but these were brought back by the voice of the hostess crying question question and the first speakers were warmly urged to explain that the event had formed the subject of their conversation it was you Mr Brown who said you could not account for it and you are such a very matter of fact person that we feel doubly anxious to hear what wonderful occurrence could have made you look so grave and earnest thank you said Mr Brown I am a matter of fact person I confess and I was speaking of a fact though I must beg to be excused it is an old story but I never even think of it without a feeling of distress and I should not like to stir up such keen and haunting memories merely for the sake of gratifying curiosity I was relating to Mr Smith in few words an adventure which befell me in Italy many years ago giving him the naked facts of the case and refutation of a theory which he had been propounding now we don't want theories and we won't have naked facts they are hardly proper at any time and at this period of the year with snow upon the ground they would be most unseasonable but we must have that story fully and feelingly related to us and we promise to give it a respectful hearing implicit belief and unbounded sympathy so draw round the fire all of you and let Mr Brown begin Paul Mr Brown turned pale and red his lips quivered his entreaties to be excused became quite plaintive but his good nature and perhaps also the consciousness that he could really interest his hearers led him to overcome his reluctance and after exacting a solemn promise that there should be no jesting or levity in regard to what he had to tell he cleared his throat twice or thrice and in a hesitating nervous tone began as follows he was in the spring of 18 something I had been at Rome during the Holy Week and had taken a place in the diligence for Naples there were two routes one by way of Teresina and the other by the Via Latina more inland the diligence which made the journey only twice a week followed these routes alternately so that each road was traversed only once in seven days I chose the inland route and after a long day's journey arrived at Soprano where we halted for the night very early and it was scarcely yet daylight when we reached the Neapolitan frontier at a short distance from the town there our passports were examined and to my great dismay I was informed that mine was not in regal it was covered indeed with stamps and signatures not one of which had been procured without some cost and trouble but one visa yet was wanting and that the all important one without which none could enter none could enter the kingdom of Naples I was obliged therefore to alight and to send my wretched passport back to Rome my wretched self being doomed to remain under police surveillance at Soprano until the diligence should bring it back to me on that day week at Soonest I took up my abode at the hotel where I had passed the previous night and there I presently received a visit from the Capo d'Operizia very civilly that I must present myself every morning and evening at his bureau but that I might have liberty to circulate in the neighbourhood during the day I grew so weary of this dull place that after I had explored the immediate vicinity of the town I began to extend my walks to a greater distance and as I always reported myself to the police before night I met with no objection on their part one day however when I had been as far as elatry and was returning on foot night overtook me I had lost my way I could not tell how far I might be from my destination I was very tired and had a heavy knapsack on my shoulders packed with stones and relics from the ruins of the old plastic fortress which I had been exploring besides a number of old coins and a lamp or two which I had purchased there I could discern no signs of any human habitation and the heels covered with wood seemed to shut me in on every side I was beginning to think seriously of looking out for some sheltered spot under a thicket in which to pass the night when the welcome sound of a footstep behind me fell upon my ears presently a man dressed in the usual long shaggy coat of a shepherd overtook me and hearing of my difficulty offered to conduct me to a house at a short distance from the road where I might obtain a lodging before he reached the spot he told me that the house in question wasn't in and that he was the landlord of it he had not much custom he said so he employed himself in shepherding during the day but he could make me comfortable and give me a good supper also better than I should expect to look at him but he had been in different circumstances once and had lived in service in good families and knew how things ought to be and what a signore like myself was used to the house to which he took me seemed like its owner to have seen better days it was a large rambling place and much dilapidated but it was tolerably comfortable within and my landlord after he'd thrown off his sheepskin coat prepared me a good and savoury meal and sat down to look at and converse with me while I ate it I did not much like the look of the fellow but he seemed anxious to be sociable in his former life when he was in service expecting to receive similar confidences from me I did not gratify him much but one must talk of something and he seemed to think it only proper to express an interest in his guests and learn as much of their concerns as they would tell him I went to bed early intending to resume my journey as soon as it should be light my landlord took up my knapsack and carried it to my room a great wait for me to travel with I answered jokingly that it contained great treasures referring to my coins and relics of course he did not understand me and before I could explain he wished me a most happy little night and left me the room in which I found myself was situated at the end of a long passage there were two rooms on the right side of this passage and a window on the left which looked out upon a yard or garden having taken a survey of the outside of the house while smoking my cigar after dinner when the moon was up I understood exactly the position of my chamber the end room of a long narrow wing projecting at right angles from the main building with which it was connected only by the passage and the two side rooms already mentioned please bear this description carefully in mind while I proceed before getting into bed I drove into the floor close to the door a small gimlet which formed part of a complicated pocket knife which I always carried with me so that it would be impossible for anyone to enter the room without my knowledge there was a lock to the door but the key would not turn in it there was also a bolt but it would not enter the hole intended for it the door having sunk apparently from its proper level I satisfied myself however that the door was securely fastened by my gimlet and soon fell asleep how can I describe the strange and horrible sensation which oppressed me as I woke out of my first slumber I had been sleeping soundly and before I quite recovered consciousness I had instinctively risen from my pillow and was crouching forward my knees drawn up my hands clasped before my face and my whole frame quivering with horror I saw nothing felt nothing but a sound was ringing in my ears which seemed to make my blood run cold I could not have supposed it possible that any mere sound whatever might be its nature could have produced such a revulsion of feeling or inspired such intense horror as I then experienced it was not a cry of terror that I heard that would arouse me to action nor the moaning of one in pain that would have distressed me and called for sympathy rather than aversion true it was like the groaning of when an anguish and despair but not like any mortal voice it seemed too dreadful too intense for human utterance the sound had begun while I was fast asleep close on the head of my bed close to my very pillow it continued after I was wide awake a long loud hollow protracted groan making them in my ear reverberate and then dying gradually away until it ceased entirely it was some minutes before I could at all recover from the terrible impression which seemed to stop my breath and paralyze my limbs at length I began to look about me for the night was not entirely dark and I could discern the outlines of the room and the several pieces of furniture in it I then got out of bed and called aloud who is there? what does the matter? is anyone ill? I repeated these inquiries in Italian and in French but there was none that answered fortunately I had some matches in my pocket and was able to light my candle I then examined every pan of the room carefully and especially the wall at the head of my bed sounding it with my knuckles it was firm and solid there as in all the other places I unfastened my door and explored the passage and the two adjoining rooms which were unoccupied and almost destitute of furniture they had evidently not been used for some time such as I would I could gain no clue to the mystery returning to my room I sat down upon the bed in great perplexity and began to turn over in my mind whether it was possible I could have been deceived whether the sounds which caused me such distress might be the offspring of some dream but to that conclusion I could not bring myself at all much as I wished it for the groaning had continued ringing in my ears long after I was wide awake and conscious while I was thus reflecting having neglected to close the door which was opposite to the side of my bed where I was sitting I heard a soft footstep at a distance and presently a light appeared at the further end of the passage then I saw the shadow of a man placed upon the opposite wall it moved very slowly and presently stopped I saw the hand raised as of making a sign to someone and I knew from the fact of the shadow being thrown in advance that there must be a second person in the rear by whom the light was earned after a short pause they seemed to retrace their steps without my having had a glimpse of either of them but only of the shadow which had come before and which followed them it was then a little after one o'clock and I concluded they were retiring late to rest and anxious to avoid disturbing me though I have since thought that it was the light from my room which caused their retreat I felt half inclined to call to them but I shrank without knowing why from making known what had disturbed me and while I hesitated they were gone so I fastened my door again and resolved to sit up and watch a little longer by myself my candle was beginning to burn low and I found myself in this dilemma either I must extinguish it at once or I should be left without the means of procuring a light and ease should I be again disturbed I regretted that I had not called for another candle while there were people yet moving in the house but I could not do so now without making explanations so I grasped my box of matches put out my light and lay down in the bed for an hour or more I lay awake thinking over what had occurred and by that time I had almost persuaded myself that I had nothing but my own morbid imagination to thank for the alarm which I had suffered it is an outer wall I said to myself they are all outer walls and the house is built of stone it is impossible that any sound could be heard through such a thickness besides it seemed to be in my room close to my ear what an idiot I must be to be excited and alarmed about nothing I'll think no more about it so I turned on my side with a smile rather a forced one at my own foolishness and composed myself to sleep at that instant I heard with more distinctness than I ever heard any other sound in my life a gasp a voiceless gasp or trying with desperate efforts to cry out or speak it was repeated a second and a third time then there was a pause then again that horrible gasping and then a long drawn breath an audible drawing up of the air into the throat such as one would make in heaving a deep sigh such sounds as these could not possibly have been heard unless they had been close to my ear they seemed to come from the wall at my head or to rise up out of my pillow that fearful gasping and that drawing in of the breath in the darkness and silence of the night seemed to make every nerve in my body thrill with dreadful expectation unconsciously I shrank away from it crouching down as before with my face upon my knees it ceased and immediately a moaning sound began which lengthened out into an awful protracted groan waxing louder and louder as if under an increasing agony and then dying away slowly and gradually into silence yet painfully and distinctly audible even to the last as soon as I could rouse myself from the freezing horror which seemed to penetrate even to my joints and marrow I crept away from the bed and in the furthest corner of the room lighted with shaking hand my candle looking anxiously about me as I did so expecting some dreadful relevation as the light flashed up as if you will believe me I did not feel alarmed or frightened rather oppressed and penetrated with an unnatural overpowering sentiment of awe I seemed to be in the presence of some great and horrible mystery some bottomless depth of woe or misery or crime I shrank from it with the sensation of intolerable loathing and suspense it was a feeling akin to this which prevented me from calling to my landlord I could not bring myself to speak to him of what had passed not knowing how nearly he might be himself involved in the mystery I was only anxious to escape as quietly as possible from the room and from the house the candle was now beginning to flicker in its socket but the stars were shining outside and there was space and air to breathe there which seemed to be wanting in my room so I hastily opened my window tied the bed-clothes together for a rope and lowered myself silently and safely to the ground there was a light still burning in the lower part of the house but I crept noiselessly along feeling my way carefully among the trees and in due time came upon a beaten track which led me to a road the same which I had been travelling on the previous night I walked on, scarcely knowing wither anxious only to increase my distance from the accursed house until the day began to break when almost the first object I could see distinctly was a small body of men approaching me it was with no small pleasure that I recognised at their head my friend the capo de polizia ah! he cried, unfortunate Ingles what trouble have you given me? where have you been? God be praised that I see you safe and sound but how? what does the matter with you? you look like one possessed I told him how I had lost my way and where I had lodged and what happened to you there? he cried, with a look of anxiety I was disturbed in the night I could not sleep I made my escape and here I am I cannot tell you more but you must tell me more dear sir forgive me, you must tell me everything I must know all that passed in that house we have had it under our surveillance for a long time and when I heard in what direction you had gone yesterday and had not returned I feared you had gotten to some mischief there and we were even now upon our way to look for you I could not enter in particulars but I told him I had heard strange sounds and at his request I went back with him to the spot he told me by the way that the house was known to be the resort of Banditi that the landlord harbored them received their ill-gotten goods and helped them to dispose of their booty arrived at the spot he placed his men about the premises and instituted a strict search the landlord and the man who was found in the house being compelled to accompany him the room in which I had slept was carefully examined the floor was of plaster or cement so that no sound could have passed through it the walls were sound and solid and there was nothing to be seen that could in any way account for the strange disturbance I had experienced the room on the ground floor underneath my bedroom was next inspected it contained a quantity of straw, hay, firewood and lumber it was paved with brick and on turning over the straw which was heaped together in a corner it was observed that the bricks were uneven as if they had been recently disturbed dig here! said the officer we shall find something hidden here I imagine the landlord was evidently much disturbed stop! he cried I will tell you what lies there come away out of doors and you shall know all about it dig! I say we will find out for ourselves let the dead rest! cried the landlord with a trembling voice for the love of heaven come away and hear what I shall tell you go on with your work said the sergeant to his men who were now plying pickaxe and spade I can't stay here and see it he exclaimed the landlord once more here then it is the body of my son my only son let him rest if rest he can he was wounded in a quarrel and brought home here to die I thought he would recover but there was neither doctor nor priest at hand and in spite of all that we could do for him he died let him alone now although the priest first be sent for he died unconfessed but it was not my fault it may not be yet too late to make peace for him but why is he buried in this place? we did not wish to make a stir about it nobody knew of his death and we laid him down quietly one place I thought was as good as another when the life was out of him we are poor folk I could not pay for ceremonies the truth at length came out father and son were both members of a band of thieves under this floor they had concealed their plunder and there too lay more than one modelling corpse victims who had occupied the room in which I slept and had there met their death the son was indeed buried in that spot he had been mortally wounded in a skirmish with travellers and had lived long enough to repent of his deeds and to beg for that priestly absolution which according to his creed was necessary to secure his pardon in vade he had verged his father to bring the confessor to his bed-side in vain he had entreated him to break off from the murderous band with which he was allied and to live honestly in future his prayers were disregarded and his dying admonitions were of no avail but for the strange mysterious warning which had roused me from my sleep and driven me out of the house that night another crime would have been added to the old man's tale of guilt that gasping attempt to speak to all groaning whence did they proceed it was no living voice beyond that I will express no opinion on the subject I will only say it was the means of saving my life and at the same time putting an end to the series of bloody deeds which had been committed in that house I received my passport that evening by the diligence from Rome and started the next morning on my way to Naples as we were crossing the frontier a bigger approach wearing the long, rough capola of the medicant friars with a hood over the face and holes for the eyes to look through he earned a tin-money box in his hand which he held out to the passengers jingling a few coins in it and crying in a monotonous voice Anime in Purgatorio I do not believe in Purgatory nor in supplications for the dead but I dropped a piece of silver into the box nevertheless I graved in the forest and my prayer went up to heaven in all sincerity Rest in peace End of No Living Voice by Thomas Street Millington Recording by Ross Clement