Classic Ghost Stories Page 12

  “Well, it’s not much of a waterfall,” said Wolfe. “I can just see it—a tiny thread of mist wavering down the cliff a long way on, beyond the mouth of the tunnel.”

  “Ay; I see it now—a sort of inferior Staubbach. Heavens! what power the sun has up here! At what time did Kauffmann say we should get to Schwartzenfelden?”

  “Not before seven, at the earliest—and it is now nearly four.”

  “Humph! three hours more—say three and a half. Well, that will be a pretty good first day’s pedestrianizing, heat and all considered!”

  Here the conversation dropped, and we plodded on again in silence. Meanwhile the sun blazed in the heavens, and the light, struck back from white rock and whiter road, was almost blinding. And still the hot air danced and shimmered before us; and a windless stillness, as of death, lay upon all the scene.

  Suddenly—quite suddenly, as if he had started out of the rock—I saw a man coming towards us with rapid and eager gesticulations. He seemed to be waving us back; but I was so startled for the moment by the unexplained way in which he made his appearance, that I scarcely took in the meaning of his gestures.

  “How odd!” I exclaimed, coming to a halt. “How did he get there?”

  “How did who get there?” said Wolfe.

  “Why, that fellow yonder. Did you see where he came from?”

  “What fellow, my dear boy? I see no one but ourselves.”

  And he stared vaguely round, while all the time the man between us and the gallery was waving his right arm above his head, and running on to meet us.

  “Good heavens! Egerton,” I said impatiently, “where are your eyes? Here—straight before us—not a quarter of a mile off—making signs as hard as he can. Perhaps we had better wait till he comes up.”

  My friend drew his race-glass from its case, adjusted it carefully, and took a long, steady look down the road. Seeing him do this, the man stood still; but kept his right hand up all the same.

  “You see him now, surely?” said I.

  “No.”

  I turned and looked him in the face. I could not believe my ears.

  “Upon my honour, Frank,” he said earnestly, “I see only the empty road and the mouth of the tunnel beyond. Here, Kauffmann!”

  Kauffmann, who was standing close by, stepped up and touched his cap.

  “Look down the road,” said Wolfe.

  The guide shaded his eyes with his hand, and looked.

  “What do you see?”

  “I see the entrance to the gallery, mein Herr.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “Nothing else, mein Herr.”

  And still the man stood there in the road—even came a step or two nearer! Was I mad?

  “You still think you see someone yonder?” said Egerton, looking at me very seriously.

  “I know that I do.”

  He handed me his race-glass.

  “Look through that,” he said, “and tell me if you still see him.”

  “I see him more plainly than before.”

  “What is he like?”

  “Very tall—very slender—fair—quite young—no more, I should say, than fifteen or sixteen—evidently an Englishman.”

  “How is he dressed?”

  “In a grey suit—his collar open, and his throat bare. Wears a Scotch cap with a silver badge in it. He takes his cap off, and waves it! He has a whitish scar on his right temple. I can see the motion of his lips—he seems to say, ‘Go back! go back!’ Look for yourself—you must see him!”

  I turned to give him the glass, but he pushed it away.

  “No, no,” he said, hoarsely. “It’s of no use. Go on looking ... What more, for God’s sake?”

  I looked again—the glass all but dropped from my hand.

  “Gracious heavens!” I exclaimed breathlessly, “he is gone!”

  “Gone!”

  Ay, gone. Gone as suddenly as he came—gone as though he had never been! I could not believe it. I rubbed my eyes. I rubbed the glass on my sleeve. I looked, and looked again; and still, though I looked, I doubted.

  At this moment, with a wild unearthly cry, and a strange sound as of some heavy projectile cleaving the stagnant air, an eagle plunged past us upon mighty wings, and swooped down into the valley.

  “Ein Alder! ein Alder!” shouted the guide, flinging up his cap and running to the brink of the precipice.

  Wolfe laid his hand upon my arm, and drew a deep breath.

  “Legrice,” he said very calmly, but with a white, awe-struck look in his face, “you described my brother Lawrence—age, height, dress, everything; even to the Scotch cap he always wore, and the silver badge my uncle Horace gave him on his birthday. He got that scar in a cricket-match at Harrogate.”

  “Your brother Lawrence?” I faltered.

  “Why you should be the one permitted to see him is strange,” he went on, speaking more to himself than to me. “Very strange! I wish . . . but there! perhaps I should not have believed my own eyes. I must believe yours.”

  “I will never believe that my eyes saw your brother Lawrence,” I said resolutely.

  “We must turn back, of course,” he went on, taking no notice of my answer. “Look here, Kauffmann—can we get to Schwartzenfelden tonight by the old pass, if we turn back at once?”

  “Turn back!” I interrupted. “My dear Egerton, you are not serious?”

  “I was never more serious in my life,” he said, gravely.

  “If these Herren wish to take the old pass,” said the astonished guide, “we cannot get to Schwartzenfelden before midnight. We have already come seven miles out of the way, and the old pass is twelve miles farther round.”

  “Twelve and fourteen are twenty-six,” said I. “We cannot add twenty-six miles to our original thirty. It is out of the question.”

  “These Herren can sleep at the chalet where we halted,” suggested the guide.

  “True—I had not thought of that,” said Wolfe. “We can sleep at the chalet, and go on as soon as it is day.”

  “Turn back, sleep at the chalet, go on in the morning, and lose full half a day, with one of the finest passes in Switzerland before us, and our journey two-thirds done!” I cried. “The idea is too absurd.”

  “Nothing shall induce me to go on, in defiance of a warning from the dead,” said Wolfe hastily.

  “And nothing,” I replied, “shall induce me to believe that we have received any such warning. I either saw that man, or I laboured under some kind of optical illusion. But ghosts I do not believe in.”

  “As you please. You can go on if you prefer it, and take Kauffmann with you. I know my way back.”

  “Agreed—except as regards Kauffmann. Let him take his choice.”

  Kauffmann, having the matter explained to him, elected at once to go back with Egerton Wolfe.

  “If the Herr Englishman has been warned in a vision,” he said, crossing himself devoutly, “it is suicide to go on. Obey the blessed spirit, mein Herr!”

  But nothing now would have induced me to turn back, even if I had felt inclined to do so; so, agreeing to meet next day at Schwartzenfelden, my friend and I said goodbye.

  “God grant you may come to no harm, dear old fellow,” said Wolfe, as he turned away.

  “I don’t feel like harm, I assure you,” I replied, laughing.

  And so we parted.

  I stood still and watched them till they were out of sight. At the turn of the road they paused and looked back. When Wolfe waved his hand for the last time and finally disappeared, I could not repress a sudden thrill—he looked so like the figure of my illusion!

  For that it was an illusion, I did not doubt for a moment. Such phenomena, though not common, are by no means unheard-of. I had talked with more than one eminent physician on this very subject, and I remembered that each had spoken of cases within his own experience. Besides, there was the famous case of Nicolai, the bookseller of Berlin; not to mention many others, equally well attested. That I must have been tempo
rarily in the condition of persons so affected, I took for granted; and yet I felt well—never better; my head cool—my mind clear—my pulse regular. Well—I would never disbelieve in hallucinations again. To that I made up my mind; but as for ghosts . . . pshaw! how could any sane man, above all, such a man as Egerton Wolfe, believe in ghosts?

  Reasoning thus, and smiling to myself, I tightened the shoulder-straps of my knapsack, took a pull at my wine-flask, and set off towards the tunnel.

  It was still half a mile distant; for I had stopped on first sight of the figure, before we were half across the space that lay between that dark opening and the turn of the road above. And now, plodding steadily towards it, I examined the ground at every step (especially on the side of the precipice) for any path or rocky projection of which a man could possibly have availed himself for retreat or shelter; but the smooth upright wall of solid limestone on the one hand, and the sheer, inaccessible, giddy depths on the other, made all such explanation impossible. Thrown back thus on the illusion theory, I paused once or twice, and tried to conjure up the figure before my eyes, but in vain.

  And now with every step that I took the mouth of the tunnel grew larger and the depth of shade within it blacker and more mysterious. I was by this time near enough to see that it was faced with brickwork—that it spanned the full width of the road—and that it was more than lofty enough for an old-fashioned, top-heavy diligence to pass under it. The next moment, being within half a dozen yards of it, I distinctly heard the cool murmur of the more distant waterfall (now hidden by the great mountain spur through which the gallery was carried); and the next moment after that, I had plunged into the tunnel.

  It was like the transition from an orchid-house to an ice-house—from midday to midnight. The darkness was profound, and so intense the sudden chill, that for the first second it almost took my breath away.

  The roof and sides of the gallery, and the road beneath my feet, were all hewn in the solid rock. A sharp, arrowy gleam of light, shooting athwart the gloom about fifty yards ahead, marked the position of the first loop-hole. A second, a third, a fourth, as many perhaps as eight or ten, gleamed faintly in the distance. The tiny blue speck which showed where the gallery opened out again upon the day, looked at least a mile away. The path underfoot was wet and slippery; and as I went on, my eyes becoming accustomed to the darkness, I saw that every part of the tunnel was streaming with moisture.

  I pushed on rapidly. The first and second loop-holes were soon left behind, but at the third I paused to breathe the outer air. Then, for the first time, I observed that every rut in the road beneath my feet was filled with running water.

  I hurried on faster and faster. I shivered. I felt the cold seizing me. The arched entrance through which I had just passed had dwindled already to a shining patch no bigger than my hand, while the tiny blue speck on ahead seemed far off as ever. Meanwhile the tunnel was dripping like a shower-bath.

  All at once, my attention was arrested by a sound—a strange indescribable sound—heavy, muffled, as of mighty forces at work in the heart of the mountain. I stood still—I held my breath—I fancied I felt the solid rock vibrate beneath my feet! Then it flashed upon me that I must now be approaching that part of the gallery behind which the waterfall was conducted, and that what I heard was the muffled roar of its descent. At the same moment, chancing to look down at my feet, I saw that the road was an inch deep in running water from wall to wall.

  Now, lawyer as I am, and ignorant of the first principles of civil engineering, I felt sure that this much-praised Herr Becker should, at least, have made his tunnel water-tight. That it leaked somewhere was plain, and that it should be suffered to go on leaking to the discomfort of travellers was simply intolerable. An inch of water, for instance, was more than . . . an inch did I say? Gracious heavens! since the moment I looked, it had risen to three—it was closing over my boots—it was becoming a rushing torrent!

  In that instant a great horror fell upon me—the horror of darkness and sudden death. I turned, flung away my Alpenstock, and fled for my life. Fled blindly, breathlessly, wildly, with the horrible grinding sound of the imprisoned waterfall in my ears, and the gathering torrent at my heels!

  Never while I live shall I forget the agony of those next few seconds—the icy numbness seizing on my limbs—the sudden, frightful sense of impeded respiration—the water rising, eddying, clamouring, pursuing me, passing me—the swirl of it, as it flashed past each loop-hole in succession—the rush with which (as I strained on to the mouth of the gallery, now not a dozen yards distant) it leaped out into the sunlight like a living thing, and dashed to the edge of the precipice!

  At that supreme instant, just as I had darted out through the echoing arch and staggered a few paces up the road, a deafening report, cracking, hurried, tremendous, like the explosion of a mine, rent the air and roused a hundred echoes. It was followed by a moment of strange and terrible suspense. Then, with a deep and sullen roar, audible above all the rolling thunders of the mountains round, a mighty wave—smooth, solid, glassy, like an Atlantic wave on an English western coast—came gleaming up the mouth of the tunnel, paused as it were, upon the threshold, reared its majestic crest, curved, trembled, burst in a cataract of foam, flooded the road for yards beyond the spot where I was clinging to the rock like a limpet, and rushing back again, as the wave rushes down the beach, hurled itself over the cliff, and vanished in a cloud of mist.

  After this, the imprisoned flood came pouring out tumultuously for several minutes, bringing with it fragments of rock and masonry, and filling the road with debris; but even this disturbance presently subsided, and almost as soon as the last echoes of the explosion had died away, the liberated waters were rippling pleasantly along their new bed, sparkling out into the sunshine as they emerged from the gallery, and gliding in a smooth continuous stream over the brink of the precipice, thence to fall, in multitudinous wavy folds and wreathes of prismatic mist, into the valley two thousand feet below.

  For myself, drenched to the skin as I was, I could do nothing but turn back and follow meekly in the track of Egerton Wolfe and Peter Kauffmann. How I did so, dripping and weary, and minus my Alpenstock; how I arrived at the chalet about sunset, shivering and hungry, just in time to claim my share of a capital omelette and a dish of mountain trout; how the Swiss press rang with my escape for, at least, nine days after the event; how the Herr Becker was liberally censured for his defective engineering; and how Egerton Wolfe believes to this day that his brother Lawrence came back from the dead to save us from utter destruction, are matters upon which it were needless to dwell in these pages. Enough that I narrowly escaped with my life, and that had we gone on, as we doubtless should have gone on but for the delay consequent upon my illusion, we should most probably have been in the heart of the tunnel at the time of the explosion, and not one left to tell the tale.

  Nevertheless, my dear friends, I do not believe, and I have made up my mind never to believe—in ghosts.

  ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

  THE BODY-SNATCHER

  EVERY NIGHT in the year, four of us sat in the small parlour of the George at Debenham—the undertaker, and the landlord, and Fettes, and myself. Sometimes there would be more; but blow high, blow low, come rain or snow or frost, we four would be each planted in his own particular armchair. Fettes was an old drunken Scotsman, a man of education obviously, and a man of some property, since he lived in idleness. He had come to Debenham years ago, while still young, and by a mere continuance of living had grown to be an adopted townsman. His blue camlet cloak was a local antiquity, like the church-spire. His place in the parlour at the George, his absence from church, his old, crapulous, disreputable vices, were all things of course in Debenham. He had some vague Radical opinions and some fleeting infidelities, which he would now and again set forth and emphasize with tottering slaps upon the table. He drank rum—five glasses regularly every evening; and for the greater portion of his nightly visit to the George sat, with his gla
ss in his right hand, in a state of melancholy alcoholic saturation. We called him the Doctor, for he was supposed to have some special knowledge of medicine, and had been known upon a pinch, to set a fracture or reduce a dislocation; but, beyond these slight particulars, we had no knowledge of his character and antecedents.

  One dark winter night—it had struck nine some time before the landlord joined us—there was a sick man in the George, a great neighbouring proprietor suddenly struck down with apoplexy on his way to Parliament; and the great man’s still greater London doctor had been telegraphed to his bedside. It was the first time that such a thing had happened in Debenham, for the railway was but newly open, and we were all proportionately moved by the occurrence.

  “He’s come,” said the landlord, after he had filled and lighted his pipe.

  “He?” said I. “Who?—not the doctor?”

  “Himself,” replied our host.

  “What is his name?”

  “Dr. Macfarlane,” said the landlord.

  Fettes was far through his third tumbler, stupidly fuddled, now nodding over, now staring mazily around him; but at the last word he seemed to awaken, and repeated the name “Macfarlane” twice, quietly enough the first time, but with sudden emotion at the second.

  “Yes,” said the landlord, “that’s his name, Doctor Wolfe Macfarlane.”

  Fettes became instantly sober: his eyes awoke, his voice became clear, loud, and steady, his language forcible and earnest. We were all startled by the transformation, as if a man had risen from the dead.

  “I beg your pardon,” he said, “I am afraid I have not been paying much attention to your talk. Who is this Wolfe Macfarlane?” And then, when he had heard the landlord out, “It cannot be, it cannot be,” he added; “and yet I would like well to see him face to face.”

  “Do you know him, Doctor?” asked the undertaker, with a gasp.

  “God forbid!” was the reply. “And yet the name is a strange one; it were too much to fancy two. Tell me, landlord, is he old?”