 | Mark Twain's sketches, new and old |  |
A GHOST STORY.
I TOOK a large room, far up Broad-way,
in a huge old building whose
upper stories had been wholly unoccupied
for years, until I came. The
place had long been given up to dust
and cobwebs, to solitude and silence.
I seemed groping among the tombs and
invading the privacy of the dead, that
first night I climbed up to my quarters.
For the first time in my life a superstitious
dread came over me; and as I
turned a dark angle of the stairway and an invisible cobweb swung its slazy woof
in my face and clung there, I shuddered as one who had encountered a phantom.
I was glad enough when I reached my room and locked out the mould and the
darkness. A cheery fire was burning in the grate, and I sat down before it with a
comforting sense of relief. For two hours I sat there, thinking of bygone times;
recalling old scenes, and summoning half-forgotten faces out of the mists of the past;
listening, in fancy, to voices that long ago grew silent for all time, and to once
familiar songs that nobody sings now. And as my reverie softened down to a
sadder and sadder pathos, the shrieking of the winds outside softened to a wail, the
angry beating of the rain against the panes diminished to a tranquil patter, and one
by one the noises in the street subsided, until the hurrying footsteps of the last
belated straggler died away in the distance and left no sound behind.
The fire had burned low. A sense of loneliness crept over me. I arose and
undressed, moving on tip-toe about the room, doing stealthily what I had to do, as
if I were environed by sleeping enemies whose slumbers it would be fatal to break.
I covered up in bed, and lay listening to the rain and wind and the faint creaking
of distant shutters, till they lulled me to sleep.
I slept profoundly, but how long I do not know. All at once I found myself
awake, and filled with a shuddering expectancy. All was still. All but my own
heart—I could hear it beat. Presently the bed clothes began to slip away slowly
toward the foot of the bed, as if some one were pulling them! I could not stir; I
could not speak. Still the blankets slipped deliberately away, till my breast was
uncovered. Then with a great effort I seized them and drew them over my head.
I waited, listened, waited. Once more that steady pull began, and once more I lay
torpid a century of dragging seconds till my breast was naked again. At last I
roused my energies and snatched the covers back to their place and held them with
a strong grip. I waited. By and bye I felt a faint tug, and took a fresh grip. The
tug strengthened to a steady strain—it grew stronger and stronger. My hold parted,
and for the third time the blankets slid away. I groaned. An answering groan
came from the foot of the bed! Beaded drops of sweat stood upon my forehead.
I was more dead than alive. Presently I heard a heavy footstep in my room—the
step of an elephant, it seemed to me—it was not like anything human. But it was
moving from me—there was relief in that. I heard it approach the door—pass out
without moving bolt or lock—and wander away among the dismal corridors,
reigned once more.
When my excitement had calmed, I said to myself, “This is a dream—simply a
hideous dream.” And so I lay thinking it over until I convinced myself that it
was a dream, and then a comforting laugh relaxed my lips and I was happy again.
I got up and struck a light; and when I found that the locks and bolts were just as
I had left them, another soothing laugh welled in my heart and rippled from my
lips. I took my pipe and lit it, and was just sitting down before the fire, when—
down went the pipe out of my neverless fingers, the blood forsook my cheeks, and
my placid breathing was cut short with a gasp! In the ashes on the hearth, side
by side with my own bare footprint, was another, so vast that in comparison mine
was but an infant's! Then I had had a visitor, and the elephant tread was explained.
I put out the light and returned to bed, palsied with fear. I lay a long time,
peering into the darkness, and listening. Then I heard a grating noise overhead,
like the dragging of a heavy body across the floor; then the throwing down of the
body, and the shaking of my windows in response to the concussion. In distant
parts of the building I heard the muffled slamming of doors. I heard, at intervals,
stealthy footsteps creeping in and out among the corridors, and up and down the stairs.
Sometimes these noises approached my door, hesitated, and went away again. I
heard the clanking of chains faintly, in remote passages, and listened while the
clanking grew nearer—while it wearily climbed the stairways, marking each move
by the loose surplus of chain that fell with an accented rattle upon each succeeding
step as the goblin that bore it advanced. I heard muttered sentences; half-uttered
screams that seemed smothered violently; and the swish of invisible garments, the
rush of invisible wings. Then I became conscious that my chamber was invaded—
that I was not alone. I heard sighs and breathings about my bed, and mysterious
whisperings. Three little spheres of soft phosphorescent light appeared on the
ceiling directly over my head, clung and glowed there a moment, and then dropped
—two of them upon my face and one upon the pillow. They spattered, liquidly,
and felt warm. Intuition told me they had turned to gouts of blood as they fell—
I needed no light to satisfy myself of that. Then I saw pallid faces, dimly
luminous, and white uplifted hands, floating bodiless in the air,—floating a moment
and a solemn stillness followed. I waited, and listened. I felt that I must have
light, or die. I was weak with fear. I slowly raised myself toward a sitting posture,
and my face came in contact with a clammy hand! All strength went from
me, apparently, and I fell back like a stricken invalid. Then I heard the rustle of
a garment—it seemed to pass to the door and go out.
When everything was still once more, I crept out of bed, sick and feeble, and lit
the gas with a hand that trembled as if it were aged with a hundred years. The
light brought some little cheer to my spirits. I sat down and fell into a dreamy
contemplation of that great footprint in the ashes. By and bye its outlines began
to waver and grow dim. I glanced up and the broad gas flame was slowly wilting
away. In the same moment I heard that elephantine tread again. I noted its
approach, nearer and nearer, along the musty halls, and dimmer and dimmer the
light waned. The tread reached my very door and paused—the light had dwindled
to a sickly blue, and all things about me lay in a spectral twilight. The door did
not open, and yet I felt a faint gust of air fan my cheek, and presently was conscious
of a huge, cloudy presence before me. I watched it with fascinated eyes. A pale
glow stole over the Thing; gradually its cloudy folds took shape—an arm appeared,
then legs, then a body, and last a great sad face looked out of the vapor. Stripped
of its filmy housings, naked, muscular and comely, the majestic Cardiff Giant
loomed above me!
All my misery vanished—for a child might know that no harm could come with
that benignant countenance. My cheerful spirits returned at once, and in sympathy
with them the gas flamed up brightly again. Never a lonely outcast was so glad
to welcome company as I was to greet the friendly giant. I said:
“Why, is it nobody but you? Do you know, I have been scared to death for the
last two or three hours? I am most honestly glad to see you. I wish I had a
chair— Here, here, don't try to sit down in that thing!”
But it was too late. He was in it before I could stop him, and down he went—I
never saw a chair shivered so in my life.
“Stop, stop, you'll ruin ev—”
Too late again. There was another crash, and another chair was resolved into
its original elements.
“Confound it, haven't you got any judgment at all? Do you want to ruin all the
furniture on the place? Here, here, you petrified fool—”
But it was no use. Before I could arrest him he had sat down on the bed, and
it was a melancholy ruin.
“Now what sort of a way is that to do? First you come lumbering about the
place bringing a legion of vagabond goblins along with you to worry me to death,
and then when I overlook an indelicacy of costume which would not be tolerated
anywhere by cultivated people except in a respectable theatre, and not even there
if the nudity were of your sex, you
repay me by wrecking all the furniture
you can find to sit down on.
And why will you? You damage yourself
as much as you do me. You have
broken off the end of your spinal column,
and littered up the floor with
chips off your hams till the place looks
like a marble-yard. You ought to be
ashamed of yourself—you are big
enough to know better.”
“Well, I will not break any more
furniture. But what am I to do?
I have not had a chance to sit down
for a century.” And the tears came
into his eyes.
“Poor devil,” I
said, “I should not have been so harsh
with you. And you are an orphan, too, no doubt. But sit down on the floor here
—nothing else can stand your weight—and besides, we cannot be sociable with
you away up there above me; I want you down where I can perch on this high
counting-house stool and gossip with you face to face.”
So he sat down on the floor, and lit a pipe which I gave him, threw one of my
red blankets over his shoulders, inverted my sitz-bath on his head, helmet fashion,
and made himself picturesque and comfortable. Then he crossed his ancles, while
feet to the grateful warmth.
“What is the matter with the bottom of your feet and the back of your legs, that
they are gouged up so?”
“Infernal chilblains—I caught them clear up to the back of my head, roosting
out there under Newell's farm. But I love the place; I love it as one loves his
old home. There is no peace for me like the peace I feel when I am there.”
We talked along for half an hour, and then I noticed that he looked tired, and
spoke of it.
“Tired?” he said. “Well I should think so. And now I will tell you all about
it, since you have treated me so well. I am the spirit of the Petrified Man that
lies across the street there in the Museum. I am the ghost of the Cardiff Giant.
I can have no rest, no peace, till they have given that poor body burial again.
Now what was the most natural thing for me to do, to make men satisfy this wish?
Terrify them into it!—haunt the place where the body lay! So I haunted the
museum night after night. I even got other spirits to help me. But it did no
good, for nobody ever came to the museum at midnight. Then it occurred to me
to come over the way and haunt this place a little. I felt that if I ever got a hearing
I must succeed, for I had the most efficient company that perdition could
furnish. Night after night we have shivered around through these mildewed halls,
dragging chains, groaning, whispering, tramping up and down stairs, till to tell you
the truth I am almost worn out. But when I saw a light in your room to-night I
roused my energies again and went at it with a deal of the old freshness. But I am
tired out—entirely fagged out. Give me, I beseech you, give me some hope!”
I lit off my perch in a burst of excitement, and exclaimed:
“This transcends everything! everything that ever did occur! Why you poor
blundering old fossil, you have had all your trouble for nothing—you have been
haunting a plaster cast of yourself—the real Cardiff Giant is in Albany![1]
Confound
it, don't you know your own remains?”
I never saw such an eloquent look of shame, of pitiable humiliation, overspread
a countenance before.
The Petrified Man rose slowly to his feet, and said:
“Honestly, is that true?”
“As true as I am sitting here.”
He took the pipe from his mouth and laid it on the mantel, then stood irresolute
a moment, (unconsciously, from old habit, thrusting his hands where his
pantaloons pockets should have been, and meditatively dropping his chin on his
breast,) and finally said:
“Well—I never felt so absurd before. The Petrified Man has sold every body
else, and now the mean fraud has ended by selling its own ghost! My son, if there
is any charity left in your heart for a poor friendless phantom like me, don't let
this get out. Think how you would feel if you had made such an ass of yourself.”
I heard his stately tramp die away, step by step down the stairs and out into
the deserted street, and felt sorry that he was gone, poor fellow—and sorrier still
that he had carried off my red blanket and my bath-tub.
| Mark Twain's sketches, new and old | |