rent apartment waterloo

told after supper by jerome k. jerome introductoryit was christmas eve. i begin this way because it is the proper,orthodox, respectable way to begin, and i have been brought up in a proper, orthodox,respectable way, and taught to always do the proper, orthodox, respectable thing; and thehabit clings to me. of course, as a mere matter of informationit is quite unnecessary to mention the date at all. the experienced reader knows it waschristmas eve, without my telling him. it always is christmas eve, in a ghost story,christmas eve is the ghosts' great gala night. on christmas eve they hold their annual fete.on christmas eve everybody in ghostland who

is anybody—or rather, speaking of ghosts,one should say, i suppose, every nobody who is any nobody—comes out to show himselfor herself, to see and to be seen, to promenade about and display their winding-sheets andgrave-clothes to each other, to criticise one another's style, and sneer at one another'scomplexion. "christmas eve parade," as i expect they themselvesterm it, is a function, doubtless, eagerly prepared for and looked forward to throughoutghostland, especially the swagger set, such as the murdered barons, the crime-stainedcountesses, and the earls who came over with the conqueror, and assassinated their relatives,and died raving mad. hollow moans and fiendish grins are, one maybe sure, energetically practised up. blood-curdling

shrieks and marrow-freezing gestures are probablyrehearsed for weeks beforehand. rusty chains and gory daggers are over-hauled, and putinto good working order; and sheets and shrouds, laid carefully by from the previous year'sshow, are taken down and shaken out, and mended, and aired.oh, it is a stirring night in ghostland, the night of december the twenty-fourth!ghosts never come out on christmas night itself, you may have noticed. christmas eve, we suspect,has been too much for them; they are not used to excitement. for about a week after christmaseve, the gentlemen ghosts, no doubt, feel as if they were all head, and go about makingsolemn resolutions to themselves that they will stop in next christmas eve; while ladyspectres are contradictory and snappish, and

liable to burst into tears and leave the roomhurriedly on being spoken to, for no perceptible cause whatever.ghosts with no position to maintain—mere middle-class ghosts— occasionally, i believe,do a little haunting on off-nights: on all-hallows eve, and at midsummer; and some will evenrun up for a mere local event—to celebrate, for instance, the anniversary of the hangingof somebody's grandfather, or to prophesy a misfortune.he does love prophesying a misfortune, does the average british ghost. send him out toprognosticate trouble to somebody, and he is happy. let him force his way into a peacefulhome, and turn the whole house upside down by foretelling a funeral, or predicting abankruptcy, or hinting at a coming disgrace,

or some other terrible disaster, about whichnobody in their senses want to know sooner they could possibly help, and the prior knowledgeof which can serve no useful purpose whatsoever, and he feels that he is combining duty withpleasure. he would never forgive himself if anybody in his family had a trouble and hehad not been there for a couple of months beforehand, doing silly tricks on the lawn,or balancing himself on somebody's bed-rail. then there are, besides, the very young, orvery conscientious ghosts with a lost will or an undiscovered number weighing heavy ontheir minds, who will haunt steadily all the year round; and also the fussy ghost, whois indignant at having been buried in the dust-bin or in the village pond, and who nevergives the parish a single night's quiet until

somebody has paid for a first-class funeralfor him. but these are the exceptions. as i have said,the average orthodox ghost does his one turn a year, on christmas eve, and is satisfied.why on christmas eve, of all nights in the year, i never could myself understand. itis invariably one of the most dismal of nights to be out in—cold, muddy, and wet. and besides,at christmas time, everybody has quite enough to put up with in the way of a houseful ofliving relations, without wanting the ghosts of any dead ones mooning about the place,i am sure. there must be something ghostly in the airof christmas—something about the close, muggy atmosphere that draws up the ghosts,like the dampness of the summer rains brings

out the frogs and snails.and not only do the ghosts themselves always walk on christmas eve, but live people alwayssit and talk about them on christmas eve. whenever five or six english-speaking peoplemeet round a fire on christmas eve, they start telling each other ghost stories. nothingsatisfies us on christmas eve but to hear each other tell authentic anecdotes aboutspectres. it is a genial, festive season, and we love to muse upon graves, and deadbodies, and murders, and blood. there is a good deal of similarity about ourghostly experiences; but this of course is not our fault but the fault ghosts, who neverwill try any new performances, but always will keep steadily to old, safe business.the consequence is that, when you have been

at one christmas eve party, and heard sixpeople relate their adventures with spirits, you do not require to hear any more ghoststories. to listen to any further ghost stories after that would be like sitting out two farcicalcomedies, or taking in two comic journals; the repetition would become wearisome.there is always the young man who was, one year, spending the christmas at a countryhouse, and, on christmas eve, they put him to sleep in the west wing. then in the middleof the night, the room door quietly opens and somebody—generally a lady in her night-dress—walksslowly in, and comes and sits on the bed. the young man thinks it must be one of thevisitors, or some relative of the family, though he does not remember having previouslyseen her, who, unable to go to sleep, and

feeling lonesome, all by herself, has comeinto his room for a chat. he has no idea it is a ghost: he is so unsuspicious. she doesnot speak, however; and, when he looks again, she is gone!the young man relates the circumstance at the breakfast-table next morning, and askseach of the ladies present if it were she who was his visitor. but they all assure himthat it was not, and the host, who has grown deadly pale, begs him to say no more aboutthe matter, which strikes the young man as a singularly strange request.after breakfast the host takes the young man into a corner, and explains to him that whathe saw was the ghost of a lady who had been murdered in that very bed, or who had murderedsomebody else there—it does not really matter

which: you can be a ghost by murdering somebodyelse or by being murdered yourself, whichever you prefer. the murdered ghost is, perhaps,the more popular; but, on the other hand, you can frighten people better if you arethe murdered one, because then you can show your wounds and do groans.then there is the sceptical guest—it is always 'the guest' who gets let in for thissort of thing, by-the-bye. a ghost never thinks much of his own family: it is 'the guest'he likes to haunt who after listening to the host's ghost story, on christmas eve, laughsat it, and says that he does not believe there are such things as ghosts at all; and thathe will sleep in the haunted chamber that very night, if they will let him.everybody urges him not to be reckless, but

he persists in his foolhardiness, and goesup to the yellow chamber (or whatever colour the haunted room may be) with a light heartand a candle, and wishes them all good-night, and shuts the door.next morning he has got snow-white hair. he does not tell anybody what he has seen:it is too awful. there is also the plucky guest, who sees aghost, and knows it is a ghost, and watches it, as it comes into the room and disappearsthrough the wainscot, after which, as the ghost does not seem to be coming back, andthere is nothing, consequently, to be gained by stopping awake, he goes to sleep.he does not mention having seen the ghost to anybody, for fear of frightening them—somepeople are so nervous about ghosts,—but

determines to wait for the next night, andsee if the apparition appears again. it does appear again, and, this time, he getsout of bed, dresses himself and does his hair, and follows it; and then discovers a secretpassage leading from the bedroom down into the beer-cellar,- -a passage which, no doubt,was not unfrequently made use of in the bad old days of yore.after him comes the young man who woke up with a strange sensation in the middle ofthe night, and found his rich bachelor uncle standing by his bedside. the rich uncle smileda weird sort of smile and vanished. the young man immediately got up and looked at his watch.it had stopped at half-past four, he having forgotten to wind it.he made inquiries the next day, and found

that, strangely enough, his rich uncle, whoseonly nephew he was, had married a widow with eleven children at exactly a quarter to twelve,only two days ago, the young man does not attempt to explainthe circumstance. all he does is to vouch for the truth of his narrative.and, to mention another case, there is the gentleman who is returning home late at night,from a freemasons' dinner, and who, noticing a light issuing from a ruined abbey, creepsup, and looks through the keyhole. he sees the ghost of a 'grey sister' kissing the ghostof a brown monk, and is so inexpressibly shocked and frightened that he faints on the spot,and is discovered there the next morning, lying in a heap against the door, still speechless,and with his faithful latch-key clasped tightly

in his hand.all these things happen on christmas eve, they are all told of on christmas eve. forghost stories to be told on any other evening than the evening of the twenty-fourth of decemberwould be impossible in english society as at present regulated. therefore, in introducingthe sad but authentic ghost stories that follow hereafter, i feel that it is unnecessary toinform the student of anglo-saxon literature that the date on which they were told andon which the incidents took place was—christmas eve.nevertheless, i do so. how the stories came to be toldit was christmas eve! christmas eve at my uncle john's; christmas eve (there is toomuch 'christmas eve' about this book. i can

see that myself. it is beginning to get monotonouseven to me. but i don't see how to avoid it now.) at no. 47 laburnham grove, tooting!christmas eve in the dimly-lighted (there was a gas-strike on) front parlour, wherethe flickering fire-light threw strange shadows on the highly coloured wall-paper, while without,in the wild street, the storm raged pitilessly, and the wind, like some unquiet spirit, flew,moaning, across the square, and passed, wailing with a troubled cry, round by the milk-shop.we had had supper, and were sitting round, talking and smoking.we had had a very good supper—a very good supper, indeed. unpleasantness has occurredsince, in our family, in connection with this party. rumours have been put about in ourfamily, concerning the matter generally, but

more particularly concerning my own sharein it, and remarks have been passed which have not so much surprised me, because i knowwhat our family are, but which have pained me very much. as for my aunt maria, i do notknow when i shall care to see her again. i should have thought aunt maria might haveknown me better. but although injustice—gross injustice,as i shall explain later on—has been done to myself, that shall not deter me from doingjustice to others; even to those who have made unfeeling insinuations. i will do justiceto aunt maria's hot veal pasties, and toasted lobsters, followed by her own special makeof cheesecakes, warm (there is no sense, to my thinking, in cold cheesecakes; you losehalf the flavour), and washed down by uncle

john's own particular old ale, and acknowledgethat they were most tasty. i did justice to them then; aunt maria herself could not butadmit that. after supper, uncle brewed some whisky-punch.i did justice to that also; uncle john himself said so. he said he was glad to notice thati liked it. aunt went to bed soon after supper, leavingthe local curate, old dr. scrubbles, mr. samuel coombes, our member of the county council,teddy biffles, and myself to keep uncle company. we agreed that it was too early to give infor some time yet, so uncle brewed another bowl of punch; and i think we all did justiceto that—at least i know i did. it is a passion with me, is the desire to do justice.we sat up for a long while, and the doctor

brewed some gin-punch later on, for a change,though i could not taste much difference myself. but it was all good, and we were very happy—everybodywas so kind. uncle john told us a very funny story in thecourse of the evening. oh, it was a funny story! i forget what it was about now, buti know it amused me very much at the time; i do not think i ever laughed so much in allmy life. it is strange that i cannot recollect that story too, because he told it us fourtimes. and it was entirely our own fault that he did not tell it us a fifth. after that,the doctor sang a very clever song, in the course of which he imitated all the differentanimals in a farmyard. he did mix them a bit. he brayed for the bantam cock, and crowedfor the pig; but we knew what he meant all

right.i started relating a most interesting anecdote, but was somewhat surprised to observe, asi went on, that nobody was paying the slightest attention to me whatever. i thought this ratherrude of them at first, until it dawned upon me that i was talking to myself all the time,instead of out aloud, so that, of course, they did not know that i was telling thema tale at all, and were probably puzzled to understand the meaning of my animated expressionand eloquent gestures. it was a most curious mistake for any one to make. i never knewsuch a thing happen to me before. later on, our curate did tricks with cards.he asked us if we had ever seen a game called the "three card trick." he said it was anartifice by means of which low, unscrupulous

men, frequenters of race-meetings and suchlike haunts, swindled foolish young fellows out of their money. he said it was a verysimple trick to do: it all depended on the quickness of the hand. it was the quicknessof the hand deceived the eye. he said he would show us the imposture sothat we might be warned against it, and not be taken in by it; and he fetched uncle'spack of cards from the tea-caddy, and, selecting three cards from the pack, two plain cardsand one picture card, sat down on the hearthrug, and explained to us what he was going to do.he said: "now i shall take these three cards in my hand—so—and let you all see them.and then i shall quietly lay them down on the rug, with the backs uppermost, and askyou to pick out the picture card. and you'll

think you know which one it is." and he didit. old mr. coombes, who is also one of our churchwardens,said it was the middle card. "you fancy you saw it," said our curate, smiling."i don't 'fancy' anything at all about it," replied mr. coombes, "i tell you it's themiddle card. i'll bet you half a dollar it's the middle card.""there you are, that's just what i was explaining to you," said our curate, turning to the restof us; "that's the way these foolish young fellows that i was speaking of are lured onto lose their money. they make sure they know the card, they fancy they saw it. they don'tgrasp the idea that it is the quickness of the hand that has deceived their eye."he said he had known young men go off to a

boat race, or a cricket match, with poundsin their pocket, and come home, early in the afternoon, stone broke; having lost all theirmoney at this demoralising game. he said he should take mr. coombes's half-crown,because it would teach mr. coombes a very useful lesson, and probably be the means ofsaving mr. coombes's money in the future; and he should give the two-and-sixpence tothe blanket fund. "don't you worry about that," retorted oldmr. coombes. "don't you take the half-crown out of the blanket fund: that's all."and he put his money on the middle card, and turned it up.sure enough, it really was the queen! we were all very much surprised, especiallythe curate.

he said that it did sometimes happen thatway, though—that a man did sometimes lay on the right card, by accident.our curate said it was, however, the most unfortunate thing a man could do for himself,if he only knew it, because, when a man tried and won, it gave him a taste for the so-calledsport, and it lured him on into risking again and again; until he had to retire from thecontest, a broken and ruined man. then he did the trick again. mr. coombes saidit was the card next the coal-scuttle this time, and wanted to put five shillings onit. we laughed at him, and tried to persuade himagainst it. he would listen to no advice, however, but insisted on plunging.our curate said very well then: he had warned

him, and that was all that he could do. ifhe (mr. coombes) was determined to make a fool of himself, he (mr. coombes) must doso. our curate said he should take the five shillingsand that would put things right again with the blanket fund.so mr. coombes put two half-crowns on the card next the coal- scuttle and turned itup. sure enough, it was the queen again!after that, uncle john had a florin on, and he won.and then we all played at it; and we all won. all except the curate, that is. he had a verybad quarter of an hour. i never knew a man have such hard luck at cards. he lost everytime.

we had some more punch after that; and unclemade such a funny mistake in brewing it: he left out the whisky. oh, we did laugh at him,and we made him put in double quantity afterwards, as a forfeit.oh, we did have such fun that evening! and then, somehow or other, we must have goton to ghosts; because the next recollection i have is that we were telling ghost storiesto each other. teddy biffles' storyteddy biffles told the first story, i will let him repeat it here in his own words.(do not ask me how it is that i recollect his own exact words— whether i took themdown in shorthand at the time, or whether he had the story written out, and handed methe ms. afterwards for publication in this

book, because i should not tell you if youdid. it is a trade secret.) biffles called his story -johnson and emily orthe faithful ghost (teddy biffles' story)i was little more than a lad when i first met with johnson. i was home for the christmasholidays, and, it being christmas eve, i had been allowed to sit up very late. on openingthe door of my little bedroom, to go in, i found myself face to face with johnson, whowas coming out. it passed through me, and uttering a long low wail of misery, disappearedout of the staircase window. i was startled for the moment—i was onlya schoolboy at the time, and had never seen

a ghost before,—and felt a little nervousabout going to bed. but, on reflection, i remembered that it was only sinful peoplethat spirits could do any harm to, and so tucked myself up, and went to sleep.in the morning i told the pater what i had seen."oh yes, that was old johnson," he answered. "don't you be frightened of that; he liveshere." and then he told me the poor thing's history.it seemed that johnson, when it was alive, had loved, in early life, the daughter ofa former lessee of our house, a very beautiful girl, whose christian name had been emily.father did not know her other name. johnson was too poor to marry the girl, sohe kissed her good-bye, told her he would

soon be back, and went off to australia tomake his fortune. but australia was not then what it becamelater on. travellers through the bush were few and far between in those early days; and,even when one was caught, the portable property found upon the body was often of hardly sufficientlynegotiable value to pay the simple funeral expenses rendered necessary. so that it tookjohnson nearly twenty years to make his fortune. the self-imposed task was accomplished atlast, however, and then, having successfully eluded the police, and got clear out of thecolony, he returned to england, full of hope and joy, to claim his bride.he reached the house to find it silent and deserted. all that the neighbours could tellhim was that, soon after his own departure,

the family had, on one foggy night, unostentatiouslydisappeared, and that nobody had ever seen or heard anything of them since, althoughthe landlord and most of the local tradesmen had made searching inquiries.poor johnson, frenzied with grief, sought his lost love all over the world. but he neverfound her, and, after years of fruitless effort, he returned to end his lonely life in thevery house where, in the happy bygone days, he and his beloved emily had passed so manyblissful hours. he had lived there quite alone, wanderingabout the empty rooms, weeping and calling to his emily to come back to him; and whenthe poor old fellow died, his ghost still kept the business on.it was there, the pater said, when he took

the house, and the agent had knocked ten poundsa year off the rent in consequence. after that, i was continually meeting johnsonabout the place at all times of the night, and so, indeed, were we all. we used to walkround it and stand aside to let it pass, at first; but, when we grew at home with it,and there seemed no necessity for so much ceremony, we used to walk straight throughit. you could not say it was ever much in the way.it was a gentle, harmless, old ghost, too, and we all felt very sorry for it, and pitiedit. the women folk, indeed, made quite a pet of it, for a while. its faithfulness touchedthem so. but as time went on, it grew to be a bit abore. you see it was full of sadness. there

was nothing cheerful or genial about it. youfelt sorry for it, but it irritated you. it would sit on the stairs and cry for hoursat a stretch; and, whenever we woke up in the night, one was sure to hear it potteringabout the passages and in and out of the different rooms, moaning and sighing, so that we couldnot get to sleep again very easily. and when we had a party on, it would come and sit outsidethe drawing-room door, and sob all the time. it did not do anybody any harm exactly, butit cast a gloom over the whole affair. "oh, i'm getting sick of this old fool," saidthe pater, one evening (the dad can be very blunt, when he is put out, as you know), afterjohnson had been more of a nuisance than usual, and had spoiled a good game of whist, by sittingup the chimney and groaning, till nobody knew

what were trumps or what suit had been led,even. "we shall have to get rid of him, somehow or other. i wish i knew how to do it.""well," said the mater, "depend upon it, you'll never see the last of him until he's foundemily's grave. that's what he is after. you find emily's grave, and put him on to that,and he'll stop there. that's the only thing to do. you mark my words."the idea seemed reasonable, but the difficulty in the way was that we none of us knew whereemily's grave was any more than the ghost of johnson himself did. the governor suggestedpalming off some other emily's grave upon the poor thing, but, as luck would have it,there did not seem to have been an emily of any sort buried anywhere for miles round.i never came across a neighbourhood so utterly

destitute of dead emilies.i thought for a bit, and then i hazarded a suggestion myself."couldn't we fake up something for the old chap?" i queried. "he seems a simple-mindedold sort. he might take it in. anyhow, we could but try.""by jove, so we will," exclaimed my father; and the very next morning we had the workmenin, and fixed up a little mound at the bottom of the orchard with a tombstone over it, bearingthe following inscription:- sacred to the memory of emily her last wordswere - "tell johnson i love him" "that ought to fetch him," mused the dad ashe surveyed the work when finished. "i am sure i hope it does."it did!

we lured him down there that very night; and—well,there, it was one of the most pathetic things i have ever seen, the way johnson sprang uponthat tombstone and wept. dad and old squibbins, the gardener, cried like children when theysaw it. johnson has never troubled us any more inthe house since then. it spends every night now, sobbing on the grave, and seems quitehappy. "there still?" oh yes. i'll take you fellowsdown and show you it, next time you come to our place: 10 p.m. to 4 a.m. are its generalhours, 10 to 2 on saturdays. interlude—the doctor's storyit made me cry very much, that story, young biffles told it with so much feeling. we wereall a little thoughtful after it, and i noticed

even the old doctor covertly wipe away a tear.uncle john brewed another bowl of punch, however, and we gradually grew more resigned.the doctor, indeed, after a while became almost cheerful, and told us about the ghost of oneof his patients. i cannot give you his story. i wish i could.they all said afterwards that it was the best of the lot—the most ghastly and terrible—buti could not make any sense of it myself. it seemed so incomplete.he began all right and then something seemed to happen, and then he was finishing it. icannot make out what he did with the middle of the story.it ended up, i know, however, with somebody finding something; and that put mr. coombesin mind of a very curious affair that took

place at an old mill, once kept by his brother-in-law.mr. coombes said he would tell us his story, and before anybody could stop him, he hadbegun. mr coombes said the story was called - the haunted mill or the ruined home(mr. coombes's story) well, you all know my brother-in-law, mr.parkins (began mr. coombes, taking the long clay pipe from his mouth, and putting it behindhis ear: we did not know his brother-in-law, but we said we did, so as to save time), andyou know of course that he once took a lease of an old mill in surrey, and went to livethere. now you must know that, years ago, this verymill had been occupied by a wicked old miser,

who died there, leaving—so it was rumoured--all his money hidden somewhere about the place. naturally enough, every one who hadsince come to live at the mill had tried to find the treasure; but none had ever succeeded,and the local wiseacres said that nobody ever would, unless the ghost of the miserly millershould, one day, take a fancy to one of the tenants, and disclose to him the secret ofthe hiding-place. my brother-in-law did not attach much importanceto the story, regarding it as an old woman's tale, and, unlike his predecessors, made noattempt whatever to discover the hidden gold. "unless business was very different then fromwhat it is now," said my brother-in-law, "i don't see how a miller could very well havesaved anything, however much of a miser he

might have been: at all events, not enoughto make it worth the trouble of looking for it."still, he could not altogether get rid of the idea of that treasure.one night he went to bed. there was nothing very extraordinary about that, i admit. heoften did go to bed of a night. what was remarkable, however, was that exactly as the clock ofthe village church chimed the last stroke of twelve, my brother-in-law woke up witha start, and felt himself quite unable to go to sleep again.joe (his christian name was joe) sat up in bed, and looked around.at the foot of the bed something stood very still, wrapped in shadow.it moved into the moonlight, and then my brother-in-law

saw that it was the figure of a wizened littleold man, in knee-breeches and a pig-tail. in an instant the story of the hidden treasureand the old miser flashed across his mind. "he's come to show me where it's hid," thoughtmy brother-in-law; and he resolved that he would not spend all this money on himself,but would devote a small percentage of it towards doing good to others.the apparition moved towards the door: my brother-in-law put on his trousers and followedit. the ghost went downstairs into the kitchen, glided over and stood in front of the hearth,sighed and disappeared. next morning, joe had a couple of bricklayersin, and made them haul out the stove and pull down the chimney, while he stood behind witha potato-sack in which to put the gold.

they knocked down half the wall, and neverfound so much as a four- penny bit. my brother-in-law did not know what to think.the next night the old man appeared again, and again led the way into the kitchen. thistime, however, instead of going to the fireplace, it stood more in the middle of the room, andsighed there. "oh, i see what he means now," said my brother-in-lawto himself; "it's under the floor. why did the old idiot go and stand up against thestove, so as to make me think it was up the chimney?"they spent the next day in taking up the kitchen floor; but the only thing they found was athree-pronged fork, and the handle of that was broken.on the third night, the ghost reappeared,

quite unabashed, and for a third time madefor the kitchen. arrived there, it looked up at the ceiling and vanished."umph! he don't seem to have learned much sense where he's been to," muttered joe, ashe trotted back to bed; "i should have thought he might have done that at first."still, there seemed no doubt now where the treasure lay, and the first thing after breakfastthey started pulling down the ceiling. they got every inch of the ceiling down, and theytook up the boards of the room above. they discovered about as much treasure asyou would expect to find in an empty quart-pot. on the fourth night, when the ghost appeared,as usual, my brother- in-law was so wild that he threw his boots at it; and the boots passedthrough the body, and broke a looking-glass.

on the fifth night, when joe awoke, as healways did now at twelve, the ghost was standing in a dejected attitude, looking very miserable.there was an appealing look in its large sad eyes that quite touched my brother-in-law."after all," he thought, "perhaps the silly chap's doing his best. maybe he has forgottenwhere he really did put it, and is trying to remember. i'll give him another chance."the ghost appeared grateful and delighted at seeing joe prepare to follow him, and ledthe way into the attic, pointed to the ceiling, and vanished."well, he's hit it this time, i do hope," said my brother-in-law; and next day theyset to work to take the roof off the place. it took them three days to get the roof thoroughlyoff, and all they found was a bird's nest;

after securing which they covered up the housewith tarpaulins, to keep it dry. you might have thought that would have curedthe poor fellow of looking for treasure. but it didn't.he said there must be something in it all, or the ghost would never keep on coming asit did; and that, having gone so far, he would go on to the end, and solve the mystery, costwhat it might. night after night, he would get out of hisbed and follow that spectral old fraud about the house. each night, the old man would indicatea different place; and, on each following day, my brother- in-law would proceed to breakup the mill at the point indicated, and look for the treasure. at the end of three weeks,there was not a room in the mill fit to live

in. every wall had been pulled down, everyfloor had been taken up, every ceiling had had a hole knocked in it. and then, as suddenlyas they had begun, the ghost's visits ceased; and my brother-in-law was left in peace, torebuild the place at his leisure. "what induced the old image to play such asilly trick upon a family man and a ratepayer?" ah! that's just what i cannot tell you.some said that the ghost of the wicked old man had done it to punish my brother-in-lawfor not believing in him at first; while others held that the apparition was probably thatof some deceased local plumber and glazier, who would naturally take an interest in seeinga house knocked about and spoilt. but nobody knew anything for certain.

interludewe had some more punch, and then the curate told us a story.i could not make head or tail of the curate's story, so i cannot retail it to you. we noneof us could make head or tail of that story. it was a good story enough, so far as materialwent. there seemed to be an enormous amount of plot, and enough incident to have madea dozen novels. i never before heard a story containing so much incident, nor one dealingwith so many varied characters. i should say that every human being our curatehad ever known or met, or heard of, was brought into that story. there were simply hundredsof them. every five seconds he would introduce into the tale a completely fresh collectionof characters accompanied by a brand new set

of incidents.this was the sort of story it was:- "well, then, my uncle went into the garden,and got his gun, but, of course, it wasn't there, and scroggins said he didn't believeit." "didn't believe what? who's scroggins?""scroggins! oh, why he was the other man, you know—it was wife.""what was his wife—what's she got to do with it?""why, that's what i'm telling you. it was she that found the hat. she'd come up withher cousin to london—her cousin was my sister- in-law, and the other niece had married aman named evans, and evans, after it was all over, had taken the box round to mr. jacobs',because jacobs' father had seen the man, when

he was alive, and when he was dead, joseph—""now look here, never you mind evans and the box; what's become of your uncle and the gun?""the gun! what gun?" "why, the gun that your uncle used to keepin the garden, and that wasn't there. what did he do with it? did he kill any of thesepeople with it—these jacobses and evanses and scrogginses and josephses? because, ifso, it was a good and useful work, and we should enjoy hearing about it.""no—oh no—how could he?—he had been built up alive in the wall, you know, andwhen edward iv spoke to the abbot about it, my sister said that in her then state of healthshe could not and would not, as it was endangering the child's life. so they christened it horatio,after her own son, who had been killed at

waterloo before he was born, and lord napierhimself said—" "look here, do you know what you are talkingabout?" we asked him at this point. he said "no," but he knew it was every wordof it true, because his aunt had seen it herself. whereupon we covered him over with the tablecloth,and he went to sleep. and then uncle told us a story.uncle said his was a real story. the ghost of the blue chamber(my uncle's story) "i don't want to make you fellows nervous,"began my uncle in a peculiarly impressive, not to say blood-curdling, tone of voice,"and if you would rather that i did not mention it, i won't; but, as a matter of fact, thisvery house, in which we are now sitting, is

haunted.""you don't say that!" exclaimed mr. coombes. "what's the use of your saying i don't sayit when i have just said it?" retorted my uncle somewhat pettishly. "you do talk sofoolishly. i tell you the house is haunted. regularly on christmas eve the blue chamber[they called the room next to the nursery the 'blue chamber,' at my uncle's, most ofthe toilet service being of that shade] is haunted by the ghost of a sinful man—a manwho once killed a christmas wait with a lump of coal.""how did he do it?" asked mr. coombes, with eager anxiousness."was it difficult?" "i do not know how he did it," replied myuncle; "he did not explain the process. the

wait had taken up a position just inside thefront gate, and was singing a ballad. it is presumed that, when he opened his mouth forb flat, the lump of coal was thrown by the sinful man from one of the windows, and thatit went down the wait's throat and choked him.""you want to be a good shot, but it is certainly worth trying," murmured mr. coombes thoughtfully."but that was not his only crime, alas!" added my uncle. "prior to that he had killed a solocornet-player." "no! is that really a fact?" exclaimed mr.coombes. "of course it's a fact," answered my uncletestily; "at all events, as much a fact as you can expect to get in a case of this sort."how very captious you are this evening. the

circumstantial evidence was overwhelming.the poor fellow, the cornet-player, had been in the neighbourhood barely a month. old mr.bishop, who kept the 'jolly sand boys' at the time, and from whom i had the story, saidhe had never known a more hard-working and energetic solo cornet-player. he, the cornet-player,only knew two tunes, but mr. bishop said that the man could not have played with more vigour,or for more hours in a day, if he had known forty. the two tunes he did play were "annielaurie" and "home, sweet home"; and as regarded his performance of the former melody, mr.bishop said that a mere child could have told what it was meant for."this musician—this poor, friendless artist used to come regularly and play in this streetjust opposite for two hours every evening.

one evening he was seen, evidently in responseto an invitation, going into this very house, but was never seen coming out of it!""did the townsfolk try offering any reward for his recovery?" askedmr. coombes. "not a ha'penny," replied my uncle."another summer," continued my uncle, "a german band visited here, intending—so they announcedon their arrival—to stay till the autumn. "on the second day from their arrival, thewhole company, as fine and healthy a body of men as one could wish to see, were invitedto dinner by this sinful man, and, after spending the whole of the next twenty-four hours inbed, left the town a broken and dyspeptic crew; the parish doctor, who had attendedthem, giving it as his opinion that it was

doubtful if they would, any of them, be fitto play an air again." "you—you don't know the recipe, do you?"asked mr. coombes. "unfortunately i do not," replied my uncle;"but the chief ingredient was said to have been railway refreshment-room pork-pie."i forget the man's other crimes," my uncle went on; "i used to know them all at one time,but my memory is not what it was. i do not, however, believe i am doing his memory aninjustice in believing that he was not entirely unconnected with the death, and subsequentburial, of a gentleman who used to play the harp with his toes; and that neither was healtogether unresponsible for the lonely grave of an unknown stranger who had once visitedthe neighbourhood, an italian peasant lad,

a performer upon the barrel- organ."every christmas eve," said my uncle, cleaving with low impressive tones the strange awedsilence that, like a shadow, seemed to have slowly stolen into and settled down upon theroom, "the ghost of this sinful man haunts the blue chamber, in this very house. there,from midnight until cock-crow, amid wild muffled shrieks and groans and mocking laughter andthe ghostly sound of horrid blows, it does fierce phantom fight with the spirits of thesolo cornet- player and the murdered wait, assisted at intervals, by the shades of thegerman band; while the ghost of the strangled harpist plays mad ghostly melodies with ghostlytoes on the ghost of a broken harp. uncle said the blue chamber was comparativelyuseless as a sleeping-apartment on christmas

eve."hark!" said uncle, raising a warning hand towards the ceiling, while we held our breath,and listened; "hark! i believe they are at it now—in the blue chamber!" the blue chamberi rose up, and said that i would sleep in the blue chamber.before i tell you my own story, however—the story of what happened in the blue chamber—iwould wish to preface it with - a personal explanationi feel a good deal of hesitation about telling you this story of my own. you see it is nota story like the other stories that i have been telling you, or rather that teddy biffles,mr. coombes, and my uncle have been telling

you: it is a true story. it is not a storytold by a person sitting round a fire on christmas eve, drinking whisky punch: it is a recordof events that actually happened. indeed, it is not a 'story' at all, in thecommonly accepted meaning of the word: it is a report. it is, i feel, almost out ofplace in a book of this kind. it is more suitable to a biography, or an english history.there is another thing that makes it difficult for me to tell you this story, and that is,that it is all about myself. in telling you this story, i shall have to keep on talkingabout myself; and talking about ourselves is what we modern-day authors have a strongobjection to doing. if we literary men of the new school have one praiseworthy yearningmore ever present to our minds than another

it is the yearning never to appear in theslightest degree egotistical. i myself, so i am told, carry this coyness—thisshrinking reticence concerning anything connected with my own personality, almost too far; andpeople grumble at me because of it. people come to me and say -"well, now, why don't you talk about yourself a bit? that's what we want to read about.tell us something about yourself." but i have always replied, "no." it is notthat i do not think the subject an interesting one. i cannot myself conceive of any topicmore likely to prove fascinating to the world as a whole, or at all events to the culturedportion of it. but i will not do it, on principle. it is inartistic, and it sets a bad exampleto the younger men. other writers (a few of

them) do it, i know; but i will not—notas a rule. under ordinary circumstances, therefore, ishould not tell you this story at all. i should say to myself, "no! it is a good story, itis a moral story, it is a strange, weird, enthralling sort of a story; and the public,i know, would like to hear it; and i should like to tell it to them; but it is all aboutmyself—about what i said, and what i saw, and what i did, and i cannot do it. my retiring,anti-egotistical nature will not permit me to talk in this way about myself."but the circumstances surrounding this story are not ordinary, and there are reasons promptingme, in spite of my modesty, to rather welcome the opportunity of relating it.as i stated at the beginning, there has been

unpleasantness in our family over this partyof ours, and, as regards myself in particular, and my share in the events i am now aboutto set forth, gross injustice has been done me.as a means of replacing my character in its proper light—of dispelling the clouds ofcalumny and misconception with which it has been darkened, i feel that my best courseis to give a simple, dignified narration of the plain facts, and allow the unprejudicedto judge for themselves. my chief object, i candidly confess, is to clear myself fromunjust aspersion. spurred by this motive—and i think it is an honourable and a right motive—ifind i am enabled to overcome my usual repugnance to talking about myself, and can thus tell-

my own storyas soon as my uncle had finished his story, i, as i have already told you, rose up andsaid that i would sleep in the blue chamber that very night."never!" cried my uncle, springing up. "you shall not put yourself in this deadly peril.besides, the bed is not made." "never mind the bed," i replied. "i have livedin furnished apartments for gentlemen, and have been accustomed to sleep on beds thathave never been made from one year's end to the other. do not thwart me in my resolve.i am young, and have had a clear conscience now for over a month. the spirits will notharm me. i may even do them some little good, and induce them to be quiet and go away. besides,i should like to see the show."

saying which, i sat down again. (how mr. coombescame to be in my chair, instead of at the other side of the room, where he had beenall the evening; and why he never offered to apologise when i sat right down on topof him; and why young biffles should have tried to palm himself off upon me as my unclejohn, and induced me, under that erroneous impression, to shake him by the hand for nearlythree minutes, and tell him that i had always regarded him as father,—are matters that,to this day, i have never been able to fully understand.)they tried to dissuade me from what they termed my foolhardy enterprise, but i remained firm,and claimed my privilege. i was 'the guest.' 'the guest' always sleeps in the haunted chamberon christmas eve; it is his perquisite.

they said that if i put it on that footing,they had, of course, no answer; and they lighted a candle for me, and accompanied me upstairsin a body. whether elevated by the feeling that i wasdoing a noble action, or animated by a mere general consciousness of rectitude, is notfor me to say, but i went upstairs that night with remarkable buoyancy. it was as much asi could do to stop at the landing when i came to it; i felt i wanted to go on up to theroof. but, with the help of the banisters, i restrained my ambition, wished them allgood- night, and went in and shut the door. things began to go wrong with me from thevery first. the candle tumbled out of the candlestick before my hand was off the lock.it kept on tumbling out of the candlestick,

and every time i picked put it up and putit in, it tumbled out again: i never saw such a slippery candle. i gave up attempting touse the candlestick at last, and carried the candle about in my hand; and, even then, itwould not keep upright. so i got wild and threw it out of window, and undressed andwent to bed in the dark. i did not go to sleep,—i did not feel sleepyat all,—i lay on my back, looking up at the ceiling, and thinking of things. i wishi could remember some of the ideas that came to me as i lay there, because they were soamusing. i laughed at them myself till the bed shook.i had been lying like this for half an hour or so, and had forgotten all about the ghost,when, on casually casting my eyes round the

room, i noticed for the first time a singularlycontented-looking phantom, sitting in the easy-chair by the fire, smoking the ghostof a long clay pipe. i fancied for the moment, as most people wouldunder similar circumstances, that i must be dreaming. i sat up, and rubbed my eyes.no! it was a ghost, clear enough. i could see the back of the chair through his body.he looked over towards me, took the shadowy pipe from his lips, and nodded.the most surprising part of the whole thing to me was that i did not feel in the leastalarmed. if anything, i was rather pleased to see him. it was company.i said, "good evening. it's been a cold day!" he said he had not noticed it himself, butdared say i was right.

we remained silent for a few seconds, andthen, wishing to put it pleasantly, i said, "i believe i have the honour of addressingthe ghost of the gentleman who had the accident with the wait?"he smiled, and said it was very good of me to remember it. one wait was not much to boastof, but still, every little helped. i was somewhat staggered at his answer. ihad expected a groan of remorse. the ghost appeared, on the contrary, to be rather conceitedover the business. i thought that, as he had taken my reference to the wait so quietly,perhaps he would not be offended if i questioned him about the organ-grinder. i felt curiousabout that poor boy. "is it true," i asked, "that you had a handin the death of that italian peasant lad who

came to the town once with a barrel-organthat played nothing but scotch airs?" he quite fired up. "had a hand in it!" heexclaimed indignantly. "who has dared to pretend that he assisted me? i murdered the youthmyself. nobody helped me. alone i did it. show me the man who says i didn't."i calmed him. i assured him that i had never, in my own mind, doubted that he was the realand only assassin, and i went on and asked him what he had done with the body of thecornet-player he had killed. he said, "to which one may you be alluding?""oh, were there any more then?" i inquired. he smiled, and gave a little cough. he saidhe did not like to appear to be boasting, but that, counting trombones, there were seven."dear me!" i replied, "you must have had quite

a busy time of it, one way and another."he said that perhaps he ought not to be the one to say so, but that really, speaking ofordinary middle-society, he thought there were few ghosts who could look back upon alife of more sustained usefulness. he puffed away in silence for a few seconds,while i sat watching him. i had never seen a ghost smoking a pipe before, that i couldremember, and it interested me. i asked him what tobacco he used, and he replied,"the ghost of cut cavendish, as a rule." he explained that the ghost of all the tobaccothat a man smoked in life belonged to him when he became dead. he said he himself hadsmoked a good deal of cut cavendish when he was alive, so that he was well supplied withthe ghost of it now.

i observed that it was a useful thing to knowthat, and i made up my mind to smoke as much tobacco as ever i could before i died.i thought i might as well start at once, so i said i would join him in a pipe, and hesaid, "do, old man"; and i reached over and got out the necessary paraphernalia from mycoat pocket and lit up. we grew quite chummy after that, and he toldme all his crimes. he said he had lived next door once to a young lady who was learningto play the guitar, while a gentleman who practised on the bass- viol lived opposite.and he, with fiendish cunning, had introduced these two unsuspecting young people to oneanother, and had persuaded them to elope with each other against their parents' wishes,and take their musical instruments with them;

and they had done so, and, before the honeymoonwas over, she had broken his head with the bass-viol, and he had tried to cram the guitardown her throat, and had injured her for life. my friend said he used to lure muffin-meninto the passage and then stuff them with their own wares till they burst and died.he said he had quieted eighteen that way. young men and women who recited long and drearypoems at evening parties, and callow youths who walked about the streets late at night,playing concertinas, he used to get together and poison in batches of ten, so as to saveexpense; and park orators and temperance lecturers he used to shut up six in a small room witha glass of water and a collection-box apiece, and let them talk each other to death.it did one good to listen to him.

i asked him when he expected the other ghosts—theghosts of the wait and the cornet-player, and the german band that uncle john had mentioned.he smiled, and said they would never come again, any of them.i said, "why; isn't it true, then, that they meet you here everychristmas eve for a row?" he replied that it was true. every christmaseve, for twenty-five years, had he and they fought in that room; but they would nevertrouble him nor anybody else again. one by one, had he laid them out, spoilt, and utterlyuseless for all haunting purposes. he had finished off the last german-band ghost thatvery evening, just before i came upstairs, and had thrown what was left of it out throughthe slit between the window-sashes. he said

it would never be worth calling a ghost again."i suppose you will still come yourself, as usual?" i said. "they would be sorry to missyou, i know." "oh, i don't know," he replied; "there's nothingmuch to come for now. unless," he added kindly, "you are going to be here. i'll come if youwill sleep here next christmas eve." "i have taken a liking to you," he continued;"you don't fly off, screeching, when you see a party, and your hair doesn't stand on end.you've no idea," he said, "how sick i am of seeing people's hair standing on end."he said it irritated him. just then a slight noise reached us from theyard below, and he started and turned deathly black."you are ill," i cried, springing towards

him; "tell me the best thing to do for you.shall i drink some brandy, and give you the ghost of it?"he remained silent, listening intently for a moment, and then he gave a sigh of relief,and the shade came back to his cheek. "it's all right," he murmured; "i was afraidit was the cock." "oh, it's too early for that," i said. "why,it's only the middle of the night." "oh, that doesn't make any difference to thosecursed chickens," he replied bitterly. "they would just as soon crow in the middle of thenight as at any other time—sooner, if they thought it would spoil a chap's evening out.i believe they do it on purpose." he said a friend of his, the ghost of a manwho had killed a water- rate collector, used

to haunt a house in long acre, where theykept fowls in the cellar, and every time a policeman went by and flashed his bull's-eyedown the grating, the old cock there would fancy it was the sun, and start crowing likemad; when, of course, the poor ghost had to dissolve, and it would, in consequence, getback home sometimes as early as one o'clock in the morning, swearing fearfully becauseit had only been out for an hour. i agreed that it seemed very unfair."oh, it's an absurd arrangement altogether," he continued, quite angrily. "i can't imaginewhat our old man could have been thinking of when he made it. as i have said to him,over and over again, 'have a fixed time, and let everybody stick to it—say four o'clockin summer, and six in winter. then one would

know what one was about.'""how do you manage when there isn't any cock handy?" i inquired.he was on the point of replying, when again he started and listened. this time i distinctlyheard mr. bowles's cock, next door, crow twice. "there you are," he said, rising and reachingfor his hat; "that's the sort of thing we have to put up with. what is the time?"i looked at my watch, and found it was half-past three."i thought as much," he muttered. "i'll wring that blessed bird's neck if i get hold ofit." and he prepared to go. "if you can wait half a minute," i said, gettingout of bed, "i'll go a bit of the way with you.""it's very good of you," he rejoined, pausing,

"but it seems unkind to drag you out.""not at all," i replied; "i shall like a walk." and i partially dressed myself, and took myumbrella; and he put his arm through mine, and we went out together.just by the gate we met jones, one of the local constables."good-night, jones," i said (i always feel affable at christmas- time)."good-night, sir," answered the man a little gruffly, i thought."may i ask what you're a-doing of?" "oh, it's all right," i responded, with awave of my umbrella; "i'm just seeing my friend part of the way home."he said, "what friend?" "oh, ah, of course," i laughed; "i forgot.he's invisible to you. he is the ghost of

the gentleman that killed the wait. i'm justgoing to the corner with him." "ah, i don't think i would, if i was you,sir," said jones severely. "if you take my advice, you'll say good-bye to your friendhere, and go back indoors. perhaps you are not aware that you are walking about withnothing on but a night-shirt and a pair of boots and an opera-hat. where's your trousers?"i did not like the man's manner at all. i said, "jones! i don't wish to have to reportyou, but it seems to me you've been drinking. my trousers are where a man's trousers oughtto be—on his legs. i distinctly remember putting them on.""well, you haven't got them on now," he retorted. "i beg your pardon," i replied. "i tell youi have; i think i ought to know."

"i think so, too," he answered, "but you evidentlydon't. now you come along indoors with me, and don't let's have any more of it."uncle john came to the door at this point, having been awaked, i suppose, by the altercation;and, at the same moment, aunt maria appeared at the window in her nightcap.i explained the constable's mistake to them, treating the matter as lightly as i could,so as not to get the man into trouble, and i turned for confirmation to the ghost.he was gone! he had left me without a word—without even saying good-bye!it struck me as so unkind, his having gone off in that way, that i burst into tears;and uncle john came out, and led me back into the house.on reaching my room, i discovered that jones

was right. i had not put on my trousers, afterall. they were still hanging over the bed-rail. i suppose, in my anxiety not to keep the ghostwaiting, i must have forgotten them. such are the plain facts of the case, outof which it must, doubtless, to the healthy, charitable mind appear impossible that calumnycould spring. but it has.persons—i say 'persons'—have professed themselves unable to understand the simplecircumstances herein narrated, except in the light of explanations at once misleading andinsulting. slurs have been cast and aspersions made on me by those of my own flesh and blood.but i bear no ill-feeling. i merely, as i have said, set forth this statement for thepurpose of clearing my character from injurious

suspicion. end of told after supper by jerome k. jerome.recording by ruth golding. hi, this is superutils with some afterwords. i'm here just to ask: if you enjoyed thisaudio book, then please, please do click on the like button down below and subscribe tomy channel. thanks a lot for your attention and have awonderful day! :)