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Is There A Ghost In The House 1963-06-20 The Man In The Chair
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Is There A Ghost In The House 1963-06-20 The Man In The Chair
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Is there a ghost in the house? My story is called the man in the Chair. I have never been one for believing in ghosts. I've heard people tell of having seen them, but I've never thought much of their tales. To begin with, the ghosts didn't do anything interesting. And secondly, I was puzzled to understand the reason for the reappearance of some quite unremarkable old character in ghostly form. It all seemed a bit futile. My grandmother swore that her house was haunted. It had belonged to an old bachelor for years, and Grandmother insisted that the old man's ghost walked about the house just as he had walked about it in life. She'd heard him shuffling down the passage to the kitchen, she said, and she'd heard him messing about with the pots and pans and banging the cupboard doors. I found myself wondering what was the point of the old man's coming back as a ghost, just to walk up and down a passage and make a clatter with a few saucepan lids? It was unenterprising, to say the least of it. I must say that I never saw or heard the ghost. And it wasn't through lack of trying. I sat in the kitchen night after night, waiting for a glimpse of Grandmother's pet apparition. But nary a thing did I see. And the irritating part of it all was that as soon as my back was turned, so to speak, Grandmother heard the ghost at it hard and strong. If I missed the night, the ghost was sure to play up well. This summer I decided to go on a walking tour. I've never liked the idea of a planned holiday. I just felt like wandering about the country with no destination in mind and not knowing where I'd spend the next night. After about a week of this sort of thing, I found myself following the course of a river towards the end of a beautiful afternoon of sunshine, breeze and shower. The footpath along the bank led me to a white house standing at the top of a gentle rise. And the house looked so snug and comfortable in its pretty garden that I was taken with a strong desire to spend the night within its walls. I wondered if I dare ask the owners for a night's lodging. They might receive my suggestion with very little enthusiasm, I thought. But then I spotted a weathered old board nailed to a tree near the garden gate, on which was painted the word teas. Well, well, if they served teas, I thought, they might go even further and serve me with a supper. And after supper, they might find a bed for me. So I went into the garden and walked up the path to the front door, which stood open. A pleasant looking countrywoman was sitting in an old rocking chair just inside the door, and I made known to her my wishes. She welcomed me with a smile and said yes. They kept a room for travellers. In fact, people sometimes spent a week with them, for it was a quiet place and the scenery thereabouts was much admired. She would cook something wholesome and tasty for my supper. She said there was nothing she enjoyed more than giving townsfolk a taste of real country food, and besides, her husband would soon be back from the fields and he'd be hungry. This was hospitality indeed. No wonder people stayed at the white cottage for a week at a time. And indeed, after my supper and an excellent night's sleep in a feather bed between sheets that smelt of lavender, I was in no hurry to resume my wanderings. I asked the good lady at breakfast if I might stay on for two or three days, and she smiled in a knowing way, as if my request was no surprise to her. Of course, she said there was a boat I could use if I wished. It was moored at the bottom of the garden, and there was a summer house overlooking the river. People liked to sit in it and do nothing. She said it was very restful. Restful it was. The birds sang in the grove of trees that encircled the summer house and flitted from tree to bush and bush to tree. Brightly coloured insects droned past the open windows, and the lapping of the water in the reeds lulled me into a doze within half an hour of my sitting down in a huge old cane chair full of patchwork cushions. When I awoke I found that it was almost noon, and I found, too, that I was not alone in the summer house. There was a child in the room, a girl of about seven or eight years of age, who was sitting on a stool not more than a few feet from me. Her head was bent over a piece of needlework and the sunbeams danced in her light brown hair. Good morning, I said. The child gravely lifted her head and said, I hope I didn't wake you up. Oh, no, I said. Im quite ashamed of myself, sleeping on a beautiful morning like this. And after a good night's rest, too. You're very busy. Why don't you sit over there in the other big chair? I'm sure you'd find it easier to sew in the chair than on that footstool. Aren't you uncomfortable? No, she said, I'm all right. And besides, that's The Major's chair. The Major, said I. Oh, I haven't met the Major. Does he come for walks this way? And rest in the summer house? The child's face was serious. He doesn't come for walks, she said, because he's dead. This was so unexpected that my face must have shown bewilderment, for the child went on, you mustn't mind him. He won't do you any harm. He just likes to sit here. I've often seen him. But how can that be if you say that he's dead? I don't know, said, said the child. I don't know how it can be. But he does sit here because I've seen him. There's no answer to this, so I said nothing. Presently the child folded her needlework, got to her feet, and walked to the door. I shan't be long, she said, and then she was through the door with one of those quick movements which children make when they're eager to be off doing something else, and I heard the sound of her little feet on the path of bricks which led to the back of the house. Strange might of a child, I thought. A strange waif indeed. And I found myself looking at the other old chair in the room with a new interest because of what she'd said about the Major. It was certainly a very old chair, older than the one in which I was sitting, and yet somehow it looked as if someone had recently been sitting in it. Who was this major? What on earth had the child been getting at? That's the Major's chair. He doesn't come for walks because he's dead, but he likes to sit here. I closed my eyes. The sound of the lapping of the water below the window sill was setting my head a nodding again. In a couple of moments I'd have been off in another doze when something opened my eyes. My fingers gripped the arms of the chair and I felt a tingling in the palms of my hands. My body was suddenly rigid, my senses all alert. There was no doubt whatever of the fact that the other chair was now occupied and not by any insubstantial form. No ghostly wraith was this, no transparency, no apparition. Here was a solid shape, a creature of flesh and blood. A man. I was too astonished to reason with myself as to how the man had got himself into the chair without entering the room by the door. I sat motionless, taking in the details of his appearance. A grizzled head lay back on the cushions of the chair, and the eyes in that head were Staring out at the blue sky and the fluffy white clouds that floated above the trees. There was an expression of peace and contentment on the features of the old man. And as I watched him, the breeze ruffled his side whiskers and caught a stray wisp of hair that fell across his forehead. He was wearing a tunic of a dark green material, and his legs were thrust into jack boots. The leather was old, but polished. Again and again it must have been, for it gleamed with a rich ebony lustre. The trousers were piped at the side and the sleeves of the tunic were braided. Everything bespoke. The military man here undoubtedly was the major. But. And by now, the shock of my first great surprise having worn off, my powers of reasoning were coming into play. How. How had he got here? What was he doing here, dressed in that costume of a bygone age? Why, he himself was no contemporary. Those side whiskers. Nobody wore them today. Certainly nobody wore them in such profusion. Such was the fashion. How long ago? 1850. 1860. And yet here was the man himself. And I assure you that nobody could have mistaken the major for a ghost. He was as substantial as the chair he sat in. He was a living, breathing human being. I expected him at any moment to turn his head and address me. There was a light footfall at the door, and a figure came running into the summer house. It was the child. She stopped abruptly as soon as she saw the major. Then she turned to me. You see, she said. I told you it was the major's chair. Somehow I found my voice. Yes, you were quite right, I said. And I waited for the old man to incline his head, to make some movement, some acknowledgement of the sound of our voices. The child must have divined my thoughts, for she said, he can't see or hear us. I told you, he is dead. There was something quite gruesome in this matter of fact statement by a slip of a child when the man in the chair was obviously so very much alive. You're frightened of him, aren't you? Said she. I wish you wouldn't be frightened of him. I'm not. And she sat down upon her stool with great composure. And pulling her needlework from her pocket, she bent her head over her task and resumed her sewing. The minutes went by. I was convinced that I was part of a dream. I simply had to prove to myself that I really was awake, that I was alive, that I could exert myself. So I got up. The child said nothing. I walked to the door. The child didn't look up. From her work. The major was still staring into space. I stepped out of the summer house into the sweet scented garden and drew the fresh air into my lungs in great gulps. I was not dreaming then. I walked briskly through the garden to the door of the white cottage. The countrywoman was gathering sweet peas, and her arms were full of flowers. Tell me, I said, how was it that I didn't see your daughter last night? My daughter, sir? I have no daughter. But the little one in the summer house, about seven or eight years old. Surely she's your daughter. The woman looked at me with puzzled eyes. Then her expression changed and she laughed. Oh, you've been having a nap down there, sir, she said. You've been dreaming, that's what it is. And the major? I said. What of the major? Major, sir. Again those puzzled eyes. It's all right, I said. I must have been dreaming. Her face cleared again. There's a nice leg of lamb for your midday dinner, sir. I hope you'll be feeling hungry. Yes, rather, I said. Then I'll be picking a bit of mint for the sauce. She smiled and left me standing at the door. On an impulse, I ran back to the summer house. As I'd half expected, it was empty.