Specially Written for The World
Toronto World, December 25, 1883
The natural and proper scene of a ghost story is some lonely old mansion in the country, whose better days have long deserted it, and which is now falling gradually into decay. A ghost is indigenous to such a house, with its long flights of stairs leading nowhere in particular, its gloomy straggling corridors which run hither and thither, and its musty, old-fashioned rooms, not less mysterious and gloomy. The blue room, and the red room, and the room which a hundred years ago was shut up because of some terrible deed committed within it, at the mention of which the gray-headed butler shakes his head solemnly and says nothing, offer attractions which no ghost in the course of my reading has ever been able to resist. The portraits of the periwigged and balloon-skirted ancestors which hang grimly on the walls, seem inanimate enough, but the on-looker secretly feels, as he gazes on them, that there is not one which is unprepared to step out of the frame when the clock strikes at midnight, and proceed at once to play all sorts of unwarrantable and ghostly antics. The wind, too, at night has a fashion of moaning dolorously around the corners and among the nooks and crannies of the old building, while the trees which cower close to its moss-covered sides, bend over and tap with their branches at the windows of the visitor’s room, and add fresh horrors to his lot. For, be it observed, it is always a stranger, some guest invited by the family perhaps, who is treated in this shabby way by the inhospitable old place. It is no credit to the house of this kind to have a ghost or two in it. Indeed, as modern advertisements say, it would not be complete without one.
Number 39, Clarion-Square, is not at all a place of this kind, and you would as soon think of looking for a ghost in a baker’s shop as inside its walls. Judging from appearances indeed, no building in the whole city of Toronto would be less likely to harbor a supernatural occupants. As everybody who is acquainted with the Square knows, Number 39 is one of the new red brick row of houses, all of which are built exactly on the same pattern, and all of which bear equal testimony to the thriftiness of the builder, who has successfully solved the problem of how to get the maximum of rent in return for the minimum of outlay. True, the walls are not very tight, and the doors not very close, so that a moderately flexible ghost would experience very little difficulty in any of these respects, and as the plumbing is not better than that of the ordinary brick house built to see, his ghostship could, I am convinced, if he found every other means of ingress blocked, obtain easy entrance by way of the waste-pipe. At the time of my story, Number 39 did duty as a genteel boarding-house, and fairly comfortable we were on the whole with Mrs. Rackham. I — that is the secretary and paymaster of a thriving railway company — had a large room which opened off the first landing up-stairs, and immediately above mine were the apartments of Gormes and Johnson, two students of the law, of whom Johnson was a harum-scarum fellow, chiefly noted for his love of mischief and late hours, while Gormes, on the contrary, was steady and studious, with hopes someday of becoming a Q.C., and in the meantime a regular attendant at the Oak street church. One evening in December, not many years ago, as I was reclining in my easy chair after dinner, in front of a cheerful fire, Gormes tapped at the door, and in response to my invitation entered and took a seat. We lit our pipes, and as I liked nothing better than a chat with my young friend Gormes, who was an earnest, clever fellow, I essayed a conversation on one of our customary themes. Somewhat to my surprise, he made little or no effort to reply, and our talk flagged. I looked at him and saw he wore a perturbed look.
“Gormes,” said I, “what’s the matter? Have you got the blues? You look as if you had seen a ghost.”
“So I have,” was the rather startling reply.
“Tut, you’re joking,” said I, though somewhat disconcerted by Gormes’ serious face.
“Not joking a bit,” returned he; “I saw a ghost, or something very like one, no longer ago than last night.”
“Where?”
“In this very house, and in my own room,” said Gormes.
This was coming near home indeed; for, as I said before, Gormes’ room was immediately above mine, and if a nocturnal visitor of this kind had called on him I was very likely to receive a similar compliment next.
“Tell me how it was,” I said.
“Well,” replied he, “you’ll laugh at me, perhaps, but I saw something last night that wasn’t of this world, or else I’m not Gormes, and I’m not sitting here on this chair looking at you.”
As he was certainly both, I could offer nothing by way of objection and Gormes went on.
“I’m not particularly superstitious, and I haven’t much faith in ghost yarns as a rule, but last night I was lying in bed reading, after everybody else was asleep, yourself included, and not a soul moving in the house. It was Taylor’s Equity I had, for that’s one of the books on the list for our next exam, and I was reading away when suddenly I felt constrained to lift my eyes from the book and raise them to the top of the door opposite the foot of the bed. In doing so, I caught a glimpse of something that looked like a face disappearing quickly from behind the fanlight, just as if somebody were standing on a chair peering in, and drawing away as soon as noticed. I got up and opened the door, but there was nobody there. Only half convinced that I had not dropped into a momentary doze and been deceived by my imagination I went back to bed and took up my book again. Presently I had the same feeling of being obliged to look up, and again I saw the face withdrawing from above the door. Thinking it might be some trick of Johnson’s I stole along quietly to his room, but no, his door was locked, and on listening I could hear him snoring inside. Besides, it was not possible for him to have come out of bed and climbed up to the top of my door without making noise enough for me to hear him. I returned to my room and in a little while the same thing occurred again in precisely the same way. I cannot be mistaken. I was fully awake and in possession of my senses, and I say I saw that face three times above my door last night.”
“What did it look like?” said I, impressed by the seriousness of Gormes’ manner.
“The face,” replied Gormes, “was that of a young girl, with a queer, troubled expression. And the strangest thing was that beyond being a little nervous, I didn’t feel in the least frightened. But I don’t know what to make of it. I always thought ghosts were out of date.”
Then after a pause:
“Don’t tell Johnson or any one. If I don’t see it again I shall think it was all an illusion, though dear knows Taylor’s Equity is not the kind of book to excite one’s imagination.”
Next morning I inquired of Gormes if he had seen anything the previous night, but he shook his head and said he hadn’t. Nothing occurred in two weeks, and then Gormes left the house, saying that though he had seen nothing more, he could not any longer sleep comfortably in the room. A few days after his departure, I met Johnson on the stairs in the act of removing his trunk and other valuables, as if he were taking leave of his quarters.
“Hello! Johnson,” said I, “going away? I didn’t know you intended moving.”
“Neither did I,” responded Johnson, “until to-day. I wouldn’t stay here any longer if I were paid for it.”
“What’s up now?” I queried. “Had a quarrel with Mrs.
Rackham?”
“No,” said he, “but I’ve wanted to change for a long time.”
Then seeing his explanation was somewhat contradictory, he drew me into my own room, and having closed the door, said with unusual solemnity:
“This
