Though the ghostly narrative has shifted its center of gravity from the novel to the short story since Gothic times, and many more of the modern instances are in that form, the supernatural novel has recently taken on a new lease of life. Honors are almost even between the English and the American ghost story, as most of the representative writers on each side turn their pen at some time to write terror tales. The ghost has never lost his power over the human mind. Judging from the past, one may say that the popularity of the ghost story will continue undiminished and will perhaps increase. Certainly there has been a new influx of stories within later times. What mines of horror yet remain untouched for writers of the future, it would be hard to say, yet we do not fear for the exhaustion of the type. On the contrary, ghosts in fiction are becoming so numerous that one wonders if the Malthusian theory will not in time affect them. We are too fond of being fooled by phantoms to surrender them, for "the slow touch of a frozen finger tracing out the spine" is an awesome joy. For ourselves, we are content for the present to function on one plane, but we love to adventure on another plane through spectral substitutes. We may give up the mortal but we'll not willingly give up the ghost. We love him. We believe in him. Our attitude towards specters is much like that of the little black boy that Ellis Parker Butler tells about in _Dey Ain't No Ghosts_, who sees a terrifying array of "all de sperits in de world, an' all de ha'nt in de world, an' all de hobgoblins in de world, an' all spicters in de world, an' all de ghostes in de world," come out to bring a fearsome message to a frightened pickaninny. De king ob de ghostes, whut name old Skull-an'-Bones, he place he hand on de head ob li'l black Mose, an' de hand feel like a wet rag, an' he say: "Dey ain'no ghosts!" An' one ob de hairs on de head ob li'l black Mose turn' white. An' de monstrous big ha'nt what he name Bloody Bones he lay he hand on de head ob li'l black Mose, an' he hand feel like a toad-stool in de cool ob de day, an' he say: "Dey ain' no ghosts!" An' anudder one ob de hairs whut on de head ob li'l black Mose turn' white. An' a heejus sperit whut he name Moldy Pa'm place he hand on de head ob li'l black Mose, an' he hand feel like de yunner side ob a lizard, an' he say: "Dey ain' no ghosts!" And so on through the assembly. Small wonder that the terrified youngster is loath to go up to the loft to bed alone that night and demurs to the demand. So he ma she say, "Git erlong wid you! Whut you skeered ob when dey ain' no ghosts?" An' li'l black Mose he scrooge an' he twist an' he pucker up he mouf an' he rub he eyes an' prisintly he say right low: "I ain' skeered ob de ghosts whut am, ca'se dey ain' no ghosts." "Den whut _am_ you skeered ob?" ask he ma.