It's that time of year again. The time for gathering around the fireplace to toast marshmallows and tell long, pointless, shaggy-ghost stories. Enjoy.

By A Stray Waif

Graham's Magazine, vol 39, p 243.

Are you fond of ghost stories, reader? I am. To me they are the luxuries – the tit-bits of literature. For making such an avowal I shall probably be accused of possessing a vitiated taste, but I care little for that. Why should I care anything? Every man has a predilection for something or other which his neighbor considers foolish; my predilection is for tales of the supernatural. Nor am I very particular about the quality of the article. All kinds of manifestations from the spiritual world delight me; whether it be the simple tale of a revengeful ghost returning to denounce its murderer, or the more wonderful and equally veracious histories of the genii and Juries. Even the Rochester knockers: can I descend lower? Even the Rochester knockers¹ have afforded me infinite enjoyment, with their host of hard-knuckled spirits, led by the murdered peddler whose venerable bones lie miraculously guarded in the cellar of the Foxes. What a cackling among the geese those foxes have made! At first – let me confess my weakness – I was inclined to rebel against the commonplace conceit of the return of the dead man to reclaim his mortal remains, and an involuntary exclamation of "humbug" escaped me; but when the ideas of the knockcrs expanded and their operations became more gloriously absurd, I found that I could even swallow the peddler. Having got him down with a gulp – tough morsel as he was – all that followed was positive enjoyment I reveled in every disinterested revelation made by the spirits to the public – at a dollar a-bead. With others I heard the crowding and pushing of innumerable spirits – old and young – lean and fat – tall and short – smnmoned from each quarter of the globe to answer the sensible questions of
their relatives about their ages and the time of their death. I saw the table taught a polka by St. Paul and Dr. Franklin, who varied their dignified amusement by hiding bells in ladies' laps, and, although all I saw and heard smelt strongly of atheism and blasphemy – "an ancient and fish-like smell'' – the fun was irresistible. It was ludicrous to witness the gullibility of human nature – to hear seemingly sensible men assert the truthfulness of a – speculation. At such times I felt ready to exclaim with Shakspeare. "Oh flesh, flesh, how art thou fishified."

I did not, however, sit down to write about the knockers, but to tell a ghost story of my own. If the reader is a believer in the vagaries of disembodied spirits he will probably acknowledge the
likelihood of the occurrence; but if he is not, we shall only commit ourselves so far as to tell him in the words of Hamlet – "There are more things in Heaven and earth than are dreamed of in his philosophy."

Among the most anxious expectants of the steamer Atlantic was Mrs. –. No, I cannot tell you her name, although it is on the tip of my tongue. You must rest satisfied with the dash. Such half-revealings are very provoking, I know, but it cannot be helped – at least not at present. If you and I live a hundred years longer – of which I am afraid there is
little likelihood – I may then whisper the real name – but mind you – it must be in confidence. At present we will call her Mrs. Dash. Dash is a very good name – and if not the right one, will answer our purpose as well. What's in a name?

Mrs. Dash was a married woman. Stop! let me explain myself clearly. Of course she was married or she would not be Mrs. Dash – I mean that she had not yet entered into the enjoyment of widowhood. Her husband, to whom she had been married only a few years, was known to have taken his passage on board the steamer. We may, therefore, naturally suppose that she was anxious for its safe arrival. Wives generally are in such cases – when the vinegar does not preponderate in the matrimonial compound. In the present instance they – the Dashes – had not finished the sweets.

Of a naturally desponding disposition, Mrs. Dash was one of the first to give up all hope of the steamer's safety. She professed that she had had a presentiment of misfortune from the beginning. It had been predicted to her years before by Madame Addphe – Heaven had written an intimation of it in a pack of cards: had traced it in the dregs of a teacup – popped it out of the fire in a coffin-shaped cinder, and displayed it by putting winding-sheets in the candles². Besides, thirteen had sat down to partake of her husband's farewell dinner the last time he departed from home. It is true her lap-dog was one of the number, but he was full-grown, and the rest of the puppies were not. If these were not omens enough, in Heaven's name how many more should a reasonable woman require?

Mrs. Dash was satisfied; that was enough. As days passed away without bringing any news of the missing boat, her convictions that her husband was lost to her forever became stronger and stronger. As she had not seen him for a long time, and was tenderly attached to him; and as black was not in fashion and did not become her, the afflicting idea weighed heavy on her heart. Her grief was intense. She refused to be comforted – even with tit-bits. For days together she would eat – absolutely nothing. Her friends tried coaxing in vain. Even letting her alone had no effect. They became alarmed lest she should starve herself to death. The family physician was called in, and prescribed – of course: but his prescriptions ware not taken, because Mrs. Dash said that medicine in her case was useless. Sensible woman! She was convinced that she was about to follow her better-half to a better world, where there would be no steamers to part them. Whether he had gone to a better world – or somewhere else – no one could say – but the question was soon set at rest by one of those supernatural intimations which are so often vouchsafed to suffering humanity – if the ghost-seers tell true.

One night – why do ghosts – modem ghosts I mean – always make their appearance at night? For the bad ones no doubt – the cool air is refreshing: but
the good ones – ^why do not the good ones prefer the glorious sunshine? I know I should. If I remember rightly, the mysterious peddler of the Rochester knockers was of the same opinion. See their first published pamphlet for the account of his appearance in the day time.

One night Henrietta – Mrs. Dash's maid-servant – maid by courtesy, for she was really a widow. One night Henrietta had been setting up later than usual. For what purpose is her business, not ours – or of course I should tell it. Whether she was entertaining her beau or saying her prayers is nothing to us. I hope she was doing the latter, but I do not believe
it, so we will content ourselves with knowing that she was sitting up later than usual. The clock, which kept its own time, quite independent of the old scythe-bearer, had struck the midnight hour, and she was still in the kitchen, when the sound of a descending step upon the stairs caught her ear. It was a light step, a very light step, and would not have attracted her attention if conscience had not been holding up an ear-trumpet. Knowing that her mistress and the rest of the family were abed, she felt considerable alarm.

Being of a literary turn, she had read Jack Shepherd and Morris the Highwayman, and other moral books of that class, and in consequence, visions of robbery and murder rose before her mind's eye. She saw herself – in fancy – about to become the heroine of some romantic adventure – but a curious sensation about the knees told her that she was not constitutionally a heroine, so she blew out the light, and crouched down in an out of the way comer, resolving to remain quiet, if undiscovered, but prepared, if attacked, to defend herself with a vigorous scream.

Until she had blown out the light, the idea of any one intruding upon her "from beyond the confines of the grave," had not entered her imagination, or she would most assuredly have kept the light burning. It might have burned blue – but even blue-lights are better than none when in company with ghosts. They serve to keep up one's spirit. Much, however, depends upon the quality of the light. Rush-lights³ and tallow dips⁴ are of little value. Poor folks find ghosts more audacious than the rich on that account. Spermaceti⁵ and wax make them mild and melancholy. Gas annihilates them. They glide about speechless in the moonlight, look unutterable things by lamp-light, and do ditto in no light at all. We would therefore advise all who fear a visitation to carry a portable gas-house in their pocket⁶. But we are digressing.

Having ensconced herself in what she considered a good defensible position, Henrietta prepared to encounter the worst. She listened for a repetition of the sounds that had first alarmed her, but her own heart was beating such a rat-a-tat and the steps were so faint – like the taps of the Rochester knocker babies – that she heard them no more. A moment of terrible suspense ensued. The idea of robbers rapidly gave place in her mind to the fear of beholding an apparition. She thought of the dear departed – and their last quarrel, and prayed that the spectre might be banished to – Ballahae, or some other place equally respectable.

Scarcely had the prayer escaped her lips when the kitchen door flew open. Now, were I am accomplished story-teller, I should pause here to dally with the reader's curiosity, endeavoring' to screw his imagination to the highest pitch as long as possible – but, alas! I am only "a plain, blunt man, this speaks right on. So the door opened, and a something entered that curdled her blood with horror. That last is a stereotyped ghost story sentence, and public property⁷. A something entered. It was so robber. It seemed to be nothing mortal. By the light of the almost extinguished fire which gleamed faintly on the intrader – no – which flashed up and instantly expired, Henrietta perceived that it was a figure clothed in white – in the habiliments of the grave – or a night-gown. Although of no extraordinary sixe, it had a shadowy, unearthly appearance, and stalked, or rather glided about the kitchen without making the slightest noise, spreading out its arms in the most mysterious manner possible. The hair of the beholder – though tightly screwed up in papers – rose "like quills upon the fretful porcupine." She attempted to rise; to rush from the kitchen, but at that moment the – whatever it was – seemed to have become aware of her presence. It approached her – nearer, nearer still. Henrietta shrank back into her corner – would have shrunk back into nothin or something less – if she couid, but she could not ; so she attempted to scream. But the scream would not come as she wished, and therefore fainted away.

How long she lay insensible she knew not, but when she awoke to consciousness again her un-earthly visitor had departed. Half frozen with the cold, she rushed up stairs to bed. Bundling in as quickly as possible, she thrust her head under the blankets, and was soon riding on a nightmare to morning.

Her first impression upon waking was still one of terror, but daylight was streaming cheerfully into the room, and she soon began to argue herself into the belief that the occurrence of the night before had been only a dream, or a freak of the imagination. Upon going down into the kitchen, however, she soon received ocular demonstration of its dread reality. The furniture in the kitchen had been disarranged, the closets ransacked, and what was worse than all, a number of delicacies prepared to tempt Mrs. Dash to eat, had been abstracted – for what purpose a glance at the table betrayed. The ghost had evidently made a meal off them – and had forgotten to clear the dishes.

Henrietta was puzized. She had never before heard of a ghost's appetite – for substantials at any rate; and in consequence she began to suspect that her visitor could not have been one who had "shuffled off this mortal coil." Her senses still maintained that what she had seen was not of the "earth – earthly", but her reason sturdily demanded whether she had ever heard of a ghost's supping off the tit-bits designed for the living. Decidedly not! It was contrary to every theory of ghostology. True it is, the Rochester knockers have discovered that
immaterial spirits have physical powers – thumping knuckles – and perhaps the power of eating is included. But it was natural for Henrietta to doubt whether a shadow would run the risk of a dyspeptic attack by picking a drum-stick. If ghosts could be guilty of such imprudence, widows would be obliged to pay double board.

Henrietta was puzzled. She was perplexed. The loss of the eatables perplexed her. Ghost or no ghost, her mistress's breakfast was gone, and she knew not how to replace it in time. She was afraid of being accused of eating it herself. Who would believe her story of the apparition? Nobody. "She would not have believed it herself" – the converts to the Rochester knocking spirits declare when their dancing mahogany wonders are doubted. "She would not have believed it herself if she had not seen it. But seeing 's believing – if it did cost a dollar." The eatables were gone, and if not into the stomach of the ghost – what had become of them? A thief would have taken the spoons – the cat would have supped in the closet.

What was to be done? She was well aware that Mrs. Dash was not likely to eat anything, but for all that something must be taken up to her. The invalid must be pressed that she might have the pleasure of declining. The sigh that accompanies a refusal is such a relief. Something must decidedly be taken up. It was as much as Henrietta's place was worth to neglect it without a satisfactory reason. Summoned by her mistress's bell, while still cogitating on the subject, she rushed upstairs, and without pausing to reflect upon the consequences, proclaimed to Mrs. Dash the alarming advent of the apparition.

To this course she was undoubtedly instigated by the spirit, who, according to the Rochester knocking theory, required a medium of communication with the party principally interested.

Mrs. Dash was highly excited by the narration. She did not doubt its truth for a moment. She was convinced that it was the ghost of her husband come to command her to put on her mourning. The dear departed had returned to put her out of suspense. This eating her tit-bits was nothing surprising. When alive he was noted for epicurean tastes, and now he was dead, his journey through the sea air had undoubtedly sharpened his appetite. Even his going first to the kitchen instead of coming directly to her, was a proof of devotion, dear soul! He was afraid that his too suddenly appearing in her presence might have agitated her too much. It was better – wiser – to prepare her by first shocking the less susceptible nerves of her maid.

But he need not have been afraid. Had she not always loved his very shadow? The sight of his ghost could excite in her nothing but joy. She resolved to sit up that very night to learn his desires. Cautioning Henrietta to secrecy she made her preparations for the interview. Her own cushioned rocking-chair and the large family bible, which was only used on extraordinary occasions, were ordered down into the kitchen. A comfortable fire was to be in readiness, and a roasted turkey, with oyster sauce, was to be upon the table, as a bouche for the expected visitant.

The night came. It was a long time in coming, but it did come, and finding itself welcome, stayed till morning. It was a night exactly suited for a ghostly interview. A better one could not have been chosen. The wind blew great guns, and the rain fell in torrents. There was a strange whistling through the keyholes, as if the spirits were playing at hide-and-seek, and then the roaring in the chimney led an uncomfortable impression on the mind that the invisibles were at fisticuffs among the soot. As the evening advanced and the conflict of the elements increased in violence, Mrs. Dash's resolution half failed her. She had been reading a work on demonology and witchcraft, to fortify her courage, and teach her how to act on the occasion – a sort of spiritual book of etiquette – and it had engendered a doubt in her mind whether she might not be carried off in a flash of lightning by some evil spirit. But she did not like to back out. So she seated herself at the appointed hour by the kitchen fire, with the bible open on the table, and a novel in her hand.

As the orthodox moment for spiritual appearance approached, she became hysterically alive to every sound. The rushing of the wind caused her to start every instant and look at the candles. But none of them as yet gave the signal of an approaching ghost. They still refused to burn blue.

Twelve came and passed. It was one – two. The ghost was either laid up with an indigestion, in consequence of its last night's debauch, or else it refused to appear to her.

At last, in spite of her nervous state of excitement, worn out with unaccustomed watching, she fell asleep. Visions – strangely disconnected visions of her earlier days floated before her mind. She seemed to live over again the hours of her courtship and marriage. Scenes treasured in memory rose vividly to view; but there was no unity in the transition from the one to the other. Now she was the simple village maiden, listening with a blush to the first declaration of love – and now she was a belle of the town, with numerous suitors in her train. Then she was once more in her John's company; he was not in his ghostly habit as he had been in their happier days, – when she used to stand behind his chair playfully hunting the gray hairs. She thought that they sat down and supped together, and they eat, and drank, and laughed, till the vision grew dim abruptly, and she sunk into a heavy oblivious slumber, from which she was not roaxed till Henrietta ventured to intrude on her solitude in the morning.

Henrietta was delighted to see her mistress alive. She had fully expected to hold a post mortem examination over a heap of ashes with the dusting brush, or else to discover in a piece of torn skirt, the only evidence of her having been carried bodily off by the spirit. Mrs. Dash assured her that she had seen no ghost – yet the ghost had evidently been there. It must have been while she was asleep. A portion of the turkey's bosom⁸ was gone.

Now, considering the trouble that Mrs. Dash had taken to procure an interview, such conduct in the ghost was very shabby. It was, in fact, highly reprehensible. Mrs. Dash, poor woman, was deeply affected by it. It was natural she should be. After such a display of affection for the dear departed, he ought to have acted different. But men have no consideration – and their ghosts are not half so good. She could not keep silent on the subject. Before the day was half over, all her relations and friends had been made acquainted with the facts. The tongues of a dozen women were set in motion. The inquiring mind may, if it likes, calculate how long it was before half the town knew that the house was haunted. Somebody has said that the news spread like lightning – but that, of course, was speaking figuratively.

Mrs. Dash was too indignant to sit up again. But her sister Mary had already resolved to detect the impostor herself. Disbelieving in ghosts, she was sure that there was an imposture, and strongly suspecting the maid, determined that no one should know her design.

But she had overrated her own courage. It was one thing to plan during the day, and another to perform at night. Darkness brought misgivings along with it. To sit up during the midnight hours, a solitary watcher for ghosts, with no sound to break the stillness, save the monotonous ticking of the clock, was no easy task for a young imaginative girl. Skeptical as she felt in the day-time, fancy would become busy as the witching hour approached. The noises of the day were a protection which vanished in the silence of the night.

An hour's watching made her sufficiently nervous to receive a spiritual impression. With trepidation she watched every crack through which a ghost could possibly squeeze, and got a twist in the neck by continually turning her bead to look over her shoulder. Yet one passed, and no ghost had appeared. Rejoicing, she resolved to retire, but as she opened the kitchen door, a sight was presented to her eyes that riveted her to the spot. Descending the stairs was a figure clothed exactly as Henrietta had described it.With solemn, noiseless dignity it descended. Without venturing a second glance Mary retreated. Slowly and without noticing her the spirit advanced. Mary's skepticism and her courage were both gone. Trembling with terror, she gained the stairs, and paused not until she had locked and bolted the door of her own room, three stairs up.

In the morning it was discovered that another inroad had been made into the larder. That the house was haunted was no longer a matter of doubt. Could the apparition be any other than that of Mr. Dash? Mrs. Dash's opinion was decided on that point. If it was not Mr. Dash – who was it? It could not be any body else. She thought that his preference for the kitchen was very strange ; but are not men's notions all strange? She felt hurt at his not appearing to her, but if he had taken a notion to pick a bit there, as he used to do before going to bed, why it was her duty, as a faithful widow, not to thwart his inclination. Nay, she would show the undying devotion of her sex by providing something nice for him with her own hands every night.

"One day or other," she sighed, as she expressed her determination, "one day or other I shall receive my reward."

Pleased with the idea, she put it in execution that very night. A nice supper was laid out in the kitchen – and disappeared. She was delighted. The next night she prepared something nicer still. The ghost finished the whole of it. People wondered, sadly shook their heads. Some believed, some doubled, others laughed in utter incredulity; but there were the facts to confound them. Night after night supper was served and disappeared. No one attempted to unravel the mystery further. Mrs. Dash continued to rack her invention to prepare dainties which the ghost apparently appreciated as they deserved; and although she herself still lived almost entirely, like the chameleon, on air, the excitement of the undertaking alone seemed to be restoring her to health.

"His spirit is watching over me unseen," she would exclaim in ecstasy. He sees me rolling his pie-crust."

It was a pleasing fancy, but Mrs. Dash was mistaken. The Asia arrived with the news of the Atlantic's safety, and brought the passengers, among whom was Mr. Dash. She had therefore been ministering to the ghost of somebody else – but of whom That was left for Mr. Dash to discover. On his way to his residence he was met by a friend, who told him the state of affairs. Indignant at what he pronounced an imposture, he resolved to unravel the mystery before he disclosed his return. The night, in consequence, was far advanced before he went home. Mrs. Dash and the rest had already retired. His friend had prepared for his entering the house unobserved. Ensconced in the kitchen, he waited the hour of the ghost. At length it appeared – it advanced. Undismayed but breathless he watched its proceedings. It went direct to the table – sat down – and commenced its attack on the food. Mr. Dash lightly approached it – laid his hand on its arm. It sprang up with a shriek – and Mr. Dash the next moment was clasped in the warm, living arms of his wife.

Dmitri Gheorgheni

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