The Big Book of Canadian Hauntings. John Robert Colombo

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 I always thought ghosts were out of date.”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 place is haunted, and I’ve seen it.”

      “Seen what?”

      “Why, the ghost.” And Johnson went on to relate in almost precisely the words Gormes had used: how he had been reading in his room late the night before; how he had felt compelled to lift his eyes to the half-open door, and how, as he did so, a face had suddenly disappeared behind it, how he had got up and looked but found nothing; and how the same thing had occurred twice again before he turned out the light. On my pressing him he recalled that the face seemed to be that of a girl or young woman, and had an anxious look, as of a person in fear or perplexity.

      “I don’t expect you to believe me,” continued Johnson, “but that’s what I saw, and I don’t propose to stay in the house where there’s any such nonsense going on.”

      “Did Gormes tell you why he left?” said I.

      “No,” returned Johnson, “why?”

      “Well,” said I, “he said he saw something of the kind, too.”

      “That settles it,” said Johnson; “Number 39 sees me no more. And you had better come too or it’ll be your turn next.”

      “Thanks, I’m pretty comfortable. I guess I shan’t move yet. I want to see the ghost,” said I.

      Nevertheless I was not at all reassured. The accounts which had been given by Gormes and Johnson, whom I had no reason to suspect of being in collusion, agreed so exactly that I was more than half inclined to believe they had both actually seen something. What that something was I was anxious to know, and after a little conflict between my resolution and the misgivings I secretly entertained I determined to stay and see whether as Johnson had predicted “it would be my turn next.” This was in broad daylight, and my nerves were correspondingly strong. When evening approached, however, my courage weakened and I began to repent that I had not followed the example of my friends and left too. It so happened that that night — a week or so before Christmas — I had the whole house to myself, Mrs. Rackham and husband having gone out to spend the evening at a neighbor’s. I sat before my fire as usual, thinking partly of the strange events that had occurred of late, and partly of the journey which lay before me on the morrow, when I was going along the line to pay the band’s their month’s wages, for which purpose I had that afternoon drawn from the bank several thousand dollars, and placed the same in the breast-pocket of my overcoat. All was silent — so silent I could hear the ticking of my gold timepiece which lay on the dressing-case close at hand. Outside the snow was falling noiselessly, yet thickly, and once in a while I could see below the half-lowered blind that the wind caught up some of it from the kitchen roof just below my window and dashed it against the panes. Hark! what’s that? Only the falling of a lump of coal in the self-feeder downstairs. But listen! isn’t that some one walking about in the room above? No, it’s the man next door. Pshaw! I’m getting nervous. I sit a little while longer, and at last begin to feel sleepy. All at once I am wide awake, every sense on the alert. I hear nothing; but I feel there is somebody or something behind me. I turn quickly around and lo! the face at the door. ’Tis the ghost! I jerk open the door and rush to the top of the stairs! Again the face! and in some mysterious way moving straight through the glass door in the hall, and turning one beckoning look on me before it disappears. I seize a hat from the rack, and follow impetuously into the street. Is that the drifting snow or a ghostly face at the lamppost a few yards away? When I get there, nothing. Round the Square I go, still looking for the face, and round the next block, and round half a dozen blocks, but finding it not, and at last awake to the fact that I am out in a snowstorm overcoatless, and with nothing on my feet more substantial than a pair of slippers. I make my way back to the house as best I can. Fortunately, I never part with my latch-key, and so get in without trouble, resolved to give Mrs. Rackham notice in the morning, and to leave before night. On entering my room, the first thing that catches my eye is my window wide open, through which the snow is drifting in. Wondering what has happened, I look around. My watch is gone! I rush to my Newmarket. Gone is my wallet! The truth is too clear; during my short absence I’ve been robbed, robbed of watch and money, and probably thrown out of my situation, to be a suspected man for life for who would believe that I had lost the company’s funds in so extraordinary a way? But all these things in a moment appear as trifles, for turning round, I catch sight of something lying on the bed, and realize how narrow is the escape which I have had. There, glittering in the light of the gas jet which is still burning, is a long, sharp, deadly looking knife, a grim and murderous weapon indeed, and a surer and more silent instrument than the noisy revolver. Beyond a doubt, it has been left behind in his hasty flight by a wretch who would have cut my throat with as little compunction as he has shown in robbing me. But I have no time to lose even in reflections of this kind, and so give alarm at once. The neighbors rush in and a policeman is called, who takes possession of the knife and discovers the ladder by which the scoundrel obtained access to the room from the kitchen roof below, but this is all. The miscreant’s footsteps are already covered by the falling snow, and there is nothing to show which way he has gone. And though I have reason to believe that every diligence was used by the police, the owner of the knife has never turned up to this day. As for the money, it was in bank bills, and the same has long ago been transferred to the wrong side of the profit and loss account in the railway company’s books. It was evident next morning that the rooms upstairs formerly occupied by Gormes and Johnson had also been visited and ransacked, but as they were unoccupied no further booty was obtained. It was doubtless fortunate for these young men that they left the house when they did; otherwise my fate, or even a worse one, might have befallen them. The theory was advanced by the police that I had been seen at the bank during the day drawing out this large sum of money by the villain, who then followed me home and laid his plans for committing the robbery — and murder if necessary — accordingly. But this was mere theory, and the misery which attended the commission of the crime still hides its perpetrator.

      As I carried out my intentions of leaving the house next day, I cannot say whether or not the mysterious face has ever reappeared at Number 39. From the fact that a genteel boarding establishment still flourishes there, though presided over by another than Mrs. Rackham, which I understand to be well patronized. I infer that it has not, nor do I think it likely,