Wandering ghostsCrawford, F. Marion (Francis Marion)
Science
Wandering ghosts
Crawford, F. Marion (Francis Marion)
American fiction; Ghost stories; Horror tales; Short stories
He was angry because he was frightened. I left him before the fireplace,
and went upstairs. There was no power on earth that could make me
believe I hadn't heard a man's footsteps overhead. I knew there was
somebody there. But there wasn't. I went into the bedroom, and it was
all quiet, and the evening light was streaming in, reddish through the
foggy air; and I went out on the landing and looked in the little back
room that was meant for a servant-girl or a child. And as I came back
again I saw that the door of the other room was wide open, though I knew
Jack had locked it. He had said the lock was no good. I looked in. It
was a room as big as the bedroom, but almost dark, for it had shutters,
and they were closed. There was a musty smell, as of old gear, and I
could make out that the floor was littered with sea-chests, and that
there were oilskins and such stuff piled on the bed. But I still
believed that there was somebody upstairs, and I went in and struck a
match and looked round. I could see the four walls and the shabby old
paper, an iron bed and a cracked looking-glass, and the stuff on the
floor. But there was nobody there. So I put out the match, and came out
and shut the door and turned the key. Now, what I am telling you is the
truth. When I had turned the key, I heard footsteps walking away from
the door inside the room. Then I felt queer for a minute, and when I
went downstairs I looked behind me, as the men at the wheel used to look
behind them on board the _Helen B._
Jack was already outside on the steps, smoking. I have an idea that he
didn't like to stay inside alone.
"Well?" he asked, trying to seem careless.
"I didn't find anybody," I answered, "but I heard somebody moving
about."
"I told you it was the wind," said Jack contemptuously. "I ought to
know, for I live here, and I hear it often."
There was nothing to be said to that, so we began to walk down toward
the beach. Jack said there wasn't any hurry, as it would take Miss Mamie
some time to dress for the wedding. So we strolled along, and the sun
was setting through the fog, and the tide was coming in. I knew the
moon was full, and that when she rose the fog would roll away from the
land, as it does sometimes. I felt that Jack didn't like my having heard
that noise, so I talked of other things, and asked him about his
prospects, and before long we were chatting as pleasantly as possible.
I haven't been at many weddings in my life, and I don't suppose you
have, but that one seemed to me to be all right until it was pretty near
over; and then, I don't know whether it was part of the ceremony or not,
but Jack put out his hand and took Mamie's and held it a minute, and
looked at her, while the parson was still speaking.
Mamie turned as white as a sheet and screamed. It wasn't a loud scream,
but just a sort of stifled little shriek, as if she were half frightened
to death; and the parson stopped, and asked her what was the matter, and
the family gathered round.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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