The Fourth Ghost Story MEGAPACK ®. Sarah Orne Jewett
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whispered. “Show us the man in the mirror!”
I could only babble incoherent words of delight. But even before I reached the threshold the wound on my forehead seethed and agonies unspeakable crashed through my brain.
The columns of the veranda spun about me and I clung to both men for support. But through it all I was conscious only that my innocence and veracity were proved at last beyond all question, and that I was about to see my brother’s enemy again face to face.
“Your story is a plausible one, after all!” Robesart was saying in a cool, monotonous tone as we stumbled into the vestibule.
The electrolier had been turned out, the reception-hall was shaded save for the twin clusters of light twinkling over the great gilt mirror at the far end. As Robesart walked beside me, his face showed a perceptible triumph, his eyes glittered suspiciously.
We traversed the hallway in silence, and then I paused directly in front of the mirror, and my heart ceased its beat.
I simply stared straight ahead, and there he stood—the vandal—the same haunted face, the same bulging eyes, heavy cap, black band, tawny hair, and apron with its stains of modeling clay, the brand in the center of the forehead.
“Yes, yes, it’s he!” I screamed. “It’s he! It’s he!”
The torments of the inferno fairly riddled me. I threw out my arms and sprang forward to throttle him. Before the men could interfere, I had crashed into the mirror, reeled, and fallen with the unwieldy mass of it upon me.
And then—at last—I knew—it was I—I—
But I can say no more.
HIS DAY BACK, by Jack Brant
There was a knock at the door. At my request, it opened and in walked, or rather glided, my man, Mullbury. A strange thing about Mullbury is that he whenever he knocks, I realize instantly that I have something to say to him.
“Mullbury, pack my suitcase for a week of travel. I’m going West.”
Mullbury immediately withdrew. He is a most remarkable man, and save for the one time when he asked for an increase in wages because of the court’s decision that he should pay alimony, his sole object in knocking has been to take my expected command.
Why I should start for the West I could not understand. I knew no one in New Mexico. I had seen it on the map when a small boy—a square of pink, I think, though I am not sure now of the color—and learned that it was one of those lawless places called territories.
Beyond that, being what is known as a narrow man, which means that more vital interests absorb my attentions, I have never taken the slightest interest in New Mexico until startled by Mullbury’s knock. Then, moved by some unexplainable impulse, I threw away my cigar, telephoned for accommodations to Las Cruces, and started on the midnight express.
During the three days’ journey, I had ample time to reflect on the folly of this move. I realized perfectly that I should not have left my business at this time. That I had always intended, when able to take a vacation, to visit my brother in Cuba.
Cuba would do me good, and I would have the opportunity to gratify an abnormal craving to see a cockfight. Yet I found it absolutely impossible to turn back.
On the afternoon of the third day, I arrived in Las Cruces on a train I would not have caught but for the fortunate fact that it was twelve hours late. I took passage in what might have been the original overland stage, slightly modified, and was conveyed safely through the dust, to the taste of which I had become accustomed on the sleeper, to a one-story mud fort bearing the name “hotel” in red and black over its door.
I engaged a narrow but surprisingly cool room. Then I ventured forth on the one long business street, still compelled by the unaccountable impulse, and purchased a complete costume more in accord with my surroundings than the one suit which I had brought with me, and which was already attracting more attention than was pleasing to a man of my retiring nature.
I also purchased an elaborate prospecting outfit, provisions to last several days, and a sleeping-bag. This last was forced upon me by an attractive Mexican maiden with perfect teeth who thrust it laughingly into my arms, repeating what appeared to be the only English she knew, “You buy! You buy!” as if it all was a huge joke.
And it was a joke. That bag would have been all right for a trip to the north pole, but was slightly unnecessary for the burning sands of New Mexico.
As a final act of folly I engaged transportation with a mule-team which would start in the morning for Organ. Organ is a small mining settlement at the base of the Organ Mountains, which rise very much like the pipe-stems of an organ above the level desert in the east.
Rugged and steep the mountains look, like the edge of the world. I felt somewhere that they were my destination, and watched them—gorgeously lighted with purple and gold by the brilliant sunset— with interest.
There was a great deal of mystery and awe about them. They seemed a fitting haunt for wild, inhuman spirits, whose unholy groans could echo through the deep canyons; for lone, ghostly shapes, floating sadly from their heights at dusk to bring terror and disaster to the surrounding world. Standing there so tall, and plainly outlined in the clear, dry air. I could scarcely believe when told that they were ten miles away, so near they seemed.
I never believed in fairies. At least, not very much. You can’t if you happen to live in a city with proof on all sides that no such things exist. But I couldn’t help thinking, as I looked at those mountains, that if there were any anywhere you would find them among those red and pink and purple rocks.
* * * *
At daybreak the next morning, the hotel furnished me with a fine breakfast, and I was relieved to find that my madness had not affected my appetite. I had not slept very well—a reddish stain on the wall over my head, framed by about a hundred and fifty disconnected red legs, had reminded me of what a man on the train had told me regarding tarantulas and centipedes. But I don’t think I saw any real ones.
I found my mule team and put my pack in and climbed up on the front seat with the driver. The first part of the drive was very pleasant until the sun discovered us and came a little nearer to see what a man of my make was doing with a prospector’s outfit.
The desert, which had looked so flat in the distance, was a series of sandy hills partly covered with cactus and what I think was sage (I am not sure that I know what sage is, so it might have been sage), populated by lizards and horned toads and fat little prairie dogs and thousands upon thousands of long-eared rabbits. I understood what the man meant who said that when he got out on the desert, the ground got up and started to run away from him.
Every now and then we would come upon a bird about as big as a spring chicken, which looked like an over-grown and very unkempt sandpeep, employed in killing a snake or making a tasty breakfast off of centipedes and tarantulas. If I had to live in that country, I would tame one of those birds and keep it with me constantly.
I tried to learn something of the country from the driver, but without success. He was cheerful enough, but his vocabulary was not much more extensive than that of the girl who had sold me the sleeping-bag. He was evidently used to prospectors of my type, for he made no comment when I asked to be put off just before reaching Organ.
He waved to me as I entered a deep ravine, and I waved back. Then I passed out of sight among the rocks, and found myself absolutely alone in the wildest country I had ever seen.
Up and up I climbed, winding in and out through massive boulders and tangles of knotted and twisted trees. I had no idea where I was going, but the something that had brought me this far kept leading me on, and I followed passively.
Once in a patch of sand I saw tracks as big as my head, with claws; but I was not afraid. The reason that I did not feel worried I attribute to my belief in fate—since my marriage I have been content to take calmly whatever may be in store for me.
After scrambling over