"No, I never really believed in ghosts," I said, taking a drag from my cigar. "But I was always kind of afraid of them."
"Have you ever seen one?" one of the other guys asked me.
I took the cigar out of my mouth and looked at the ash for a moment before answering. The weight of memory hung heavy in the silence.
"I've had some pretty startling experiences," I finally admitted, after a pause during which the others exchanged glances. They knew me well enough to understand I had seen a lot in my medical career, and I didn't mind sharing stories in good company. "Want to hear one of them? It still gives me chills to talk about it."
They nodded eagerly, and I took a quick drink to steady myself before starting my story.
"You remember George Carson, who played for the university a few years back? Big guy with a light mustache? Well, I hung out with him a lot before he got married, while he was studying for the bar in town. Right after he got engaged to Miss Stonor, who's now Mrs. Carson, he invited me to visit a place his family had rented in the country. Miss Stonor was going to be there and he wanted me to meet her. I couldn't make it for Christmas Day since I'd promised to be with my family. But since I'd been working too hard and needed a break, I decided to head down for a few days around New Year's.
"Woodcote was a nice enough place. There were two hunting grounds nearby, and it wasn't so far from a train station that you couldn't get the morning papers. The Carsons lucked out, I thought, finding such a good house at such a reasonable price. George told me the owner had to go abroad for health reasons and didn't want to leave the place empty all winter.
"It was an old house, with big gables and weird corners everywhere, and you couldn't walk ten steps along any hallway without having to go up or down some stairs. But it had been fixed up over time and, among other improvements, a big billiard room had been built onto the back. A country house in winter without a billiard room, when the frost stops all the hunting, is just—well, it's barely livable.
"It was a small gathering; besides George and his parents, there were only a couple of Carson sisters, who were young teenagers so they hardly counted, and Miss Stonor, who definitely counted, and lastly, me.
"Miss Stonor should have been happy. George Carson was not only a great guy all around, but also a pretty good catch, being an only son with solid prospects. But for some reason, she didn't look very well or very happy. She seemed like she had something on her mind, which made her either jumpy or completely checked out. George noticed it too, I think, and was confused by it, because I caught him watching her with a worried, questioning look several times. Since I wasn't there as her doctor, it wasn't really my business, though I found out what was going on before I left Woodcote.
"The second night after I arrived—we'd been playing pool as a family; everyone else had gone up to bed—George and I went to a kind of study he'd set up upstairs for a final smoke and chat before turning in. The study was next to his bedroom, separated only by curtains. As we were settling in, I realized I'd left my pipe in the billiard room. I never smoke someone else's pipe on principle, so I lit a candle, since the house was dark, and headed off to find mine.
"The house looked super creepy in the flickering light of just one candle, and the stairs creaked in a seriously eerie way behind me, almost like someone was following right at my heels. I found my pipe right where I expected in the billiard room and came back maybe a little faster than I needed to. Which probably explains why I tripped in the dim light over a couple of unexpected stairs and dropped my candle.
"It went out, of course, and after fumbling around I found it again. But since I didn't have any matches, I had to feel my way along the banister, because it was so dark I couldn't see my hand in front of my face. And as I slowly moved forward, sliding my hand along the wide railing, suddenly my hand slid over something cold and clammy that definitely wasn't the banister. I stopped dead, and closing my fingers around it for a second, I realized I was holding another hand—a skinny, bony hand that slowly twisted out of my grip. And though I couldn't hear or see anything, I somehow knew that something was brushing past me and going up the stairs.
"'Hey—what's that? Who are you?' I called out.
"No answer.
"I admit I was freaking out. It must have shown on my face.
"'What's wrong?' George asked when I stumbled into his study.
"'Nothing,' I answered. 'Just dropped my candle and got lost.'
"'But who were you talking to?'
"'I was just cursing at the candle,' I said.
"'Oh! I thought maybe you'd seen—somebody,' George replied.
"For some reason I didn't want to tell him the truth, afraid he'd laugh at how jumpy I was. But I made a mental note to watch my liver and take a couple weeks of complete rest. That night I woke up several times with the feeling of that damn hand under my own—that clammy hand that writhed when my fingers closed on it.
"The next morning after breakfast, I was in the billiard room practicing shots while Carson was over at the stables. Then the door opened, and Miss Stonor looked in.
"'Come in,' I said. 'George will be back from the stables in a few minutes. Meanwhile we can play a quick game.'
"'I wanted to talk to you,' she said.
"She looked exhausted and unwell, and I started thinking I wouldn't get much of a vacation after all.
"'Do you believe in ghosts?' she asked after closing the door and coming up to the table, where she stood leaning with both hands on it.
"'No,' I replied, missing an easy shot as I remembered what happened the night before, 'but I believe in imagination.'
"'And if a person imagines they see things, is there any way to fix that?'
"'What do you mean, Miss Stonor?' I asked, looking at her with surprise. 'Are you saying that you imagine—'
"I stopped because Miss Stonor turned away, sat down in one of the armchairs by the wall, and burst into tears.
"'Please help me,' she sobbed. 'I think I'm going crazy.'
"I put down my cue and went over to her.
"'Look, Miss Stonor,' I said, taking her hand, which felt hot and feverish, 'I'm a doctor, and a friend of George's. Tell me what's happening, and I'll do my best to help.'
"She was pretty hysterical, and she kept sobbing between words. But gradually I got her to explain that nearly every night since coming to Woodcote, she'd been woken up mysteriously and had seen a horrible face staring at her from over a screen by her bedroom door. Whenever she moved, the face vanished, which convinced her the apparition was just in her imagination. That seemed to upset her even more than if she'd thought it was a real ghost, because she was afraid her mind was failing.
"I told her she was only experiencing a common symptom of nervous disorder, which was true, and promised to send someone to the village to get a prescription filled for her. After making me swear not to tell anyone about it, especially George, she left feeling somewhat better. But I wasn't entirely convinced my diagnosis was right. I'd been pretty freaked out myself just hours earlier.
"George took longer at the stable than I expected, and I was about to go find him when I ran into Mrs. Carson at the door.
"'Can you spare a moment?' she asked as I held the door for her. 'I wanted to catch you alone.'
"'Of course, Mrs. Carson. Take all the time you need,' I replied.
"'It's so convenient having a doctor in the house,' she said with a nervous laugh. 'I need you to prescribe me a sleeping pill. My nerves are acting up, and I'm not sleeping well.'
"'Do you see faces—or other things when you wake up?' I asked.
"'How did you know?' she asked quickly.
"'I just inferred from the other symptoms. Doctors have to notice all kinds of little details.'
"'Well, of course I know it's just my imagination, but it feels just as bad as if it were real. It's making me sick, honestly, and I didn't want to mention it to Mr. Carson or George. They'd think I was losing my mind.'
"I gave Mrs. Carson the same prescription I'd written for Miss Stonor, though by then I was starting to believe there was something wrong that medicine couldn't fix. Still, I decided not to tell George about it yet. I couldn't betray the confidence Miss Stonor and Mrs. Carson had placed in me. And my own experience from the night before wouldn't have convinced him anyway. But I made up my mind that the next day—which was Sunday—I'd make an excuse to stay home from church and explore the house. Something weird was clearly going on that needed to be figured out.
"We all stayed up pretty late that night. Nobody seemed eager to go to bed. We hung out in the billiard room until almost midnight, then lingered in the hall, making pointless small talk. Finally Mrs. Carson said goodnight with a secretive nod to me, and Miss Stonor whispered, 'Thanks so much, I got it,' and they both went upstairs. George and I parted ways in the upstairs hallway. Our rooms were across from each other.
"I didn't start getting undressed right away but sat down trying to piece together some explanation for all the weird stuff. But the more I thought, the more confusing it got. There was absolutely no doubt that I'd touched something very alive and very unpleasant the night before. Just remembering it made me shiver. What living thing could be sneaking around the house in the dark? It was definitely a man's hand. I was sure of that from the size. George Carson couldn't have done it since he was in his room the whole time. And Mr. Carson wouldn't be creeping around his own house in socks refusing to answer when spoken to. The only other man in the house was the butler, who looked extremely respectable, and his hand, which I'd specifically noticed when he poured my wine at dinner, was plump and soft, while the mysterious hand on the banister was thin and bony.
"And then, what was really going on with the face that both women had seen? Indigestion might explain one case. Weird coincidences do happen sometimes, but it seemed too strange that two women—one old and one young—would have the exact same indigestion symptoms in the same house at the same time. Overall, I felt pretty uneasy, and I carefully checked all the closets and corners, plus under the bed, before I started to undress.
"Then I went to the door, planning to lock it. Just as my hand touched the key, I heard soft footsteps in the hallway outside, along with a sound somewhere between a sigh and a groan. Very faint, but definitely there, and pretty disturbing under the circumstances. It could be George, I supposed. Anyway, I decided to look and see. I turned the handle gently and opened the door. There was nothing in the hallway. But across the way I saw a door open, and George's head poking around the corner.
"'Hey!' he said.
"'Hey!' I answered.
"'Was that you walking down the hall?' he asked.
"'No,' I said, 'I thought it might be you.'
"'Then who the hell was it?' he said. 'I swear I heard someone.'
"We were quiet for a few moments. I was wondering if I should tell him about the scare I'd already had when he spoke again:
"'Listen, come over here for a bit. I want to talk to you.'
"I crossed the hallway, and we went into the small study next to his bedroom.
"'Look,' he said, stirring up the fire which was burning low, 'don't you think there's something really weird about this house?'
"'You mean—'
"'I wouldn't mention it to my parents or Miss Stonor because I don't want to scare them. But almost every night I hear strange footsteps on the stairs. You've heard them too, right?'
"'Now that you mention it,' I admitted, 'yeah, I have.'
"'And what's more,' he continued, 'I was sitting here two nights ago half asleep, and—this sounds ridiculous, I know, but it's true—I suddenly saw a horrible face staring at me from between those curtains behind you. It disappeared instantly, but I saw it as clearly as I see you now.'
"I shifted uncomfortably in my seat.
"'Did you check your bedroom or the hallway?' I asked.
"'Right away,' he said. 'There was nothing there, but twice more that night I heard footsteps passing—holy shit!'
"He jumped up in his chair, staring right over my shoulder. I turned quickly and saw the curtains that divided off the bedroom swing shut.
"'What is it?' I asked, breathless.
"'I saw it again—the same face—between the curtains.'
"I ripped the curtains aside and rushed into the next room. It was empty. The lamp was lit on a side table, and the door was open, just as George had left it. The hallway outside was quiet. I came back to the study and found George running his fingers through his hair, totally confused.
"'There's clearly one person too many in this house,' I said. 'We should search the place and find out who it is.'
"'OK,' he said, grabbing the poker from the fireplace. 'If it's something made of flesh and blood, this will come in handy, and if not—'
"He stopped short because right then the most horrific scream of terror echoed through the house—a shriek of wild, uncontrollable fear, unlike anything I'd ever heard before or hope to hear again. For a moment we just stared at each other, shocked. Then George Carson bolted out of the room and down the hallway to the stairs. I followed right behind him. We both knew only a woman in absolute terror would scream like that, and that woman was Miss Stonor.
"We tumbled down the stairs in the darkness. But before I reached the landing below, where Miss Stonor's room was, I felt something brush past me swiftly, just like the night before. As I ran, I turned and grabbed at it in the dark. But my hand caught nothing but air. I was about to turn back and follow it when I heard George yell, and looking down, I saw him standing over Miss Stonor's collapsed body. Her door was open, and by the moonlight streaming into the room I could see her lying in her white nightgown across the threshold.
"What happened in the next few minutes is a blur. The whole house was woken by the poor woman's terrible scream. She was completely unconscious when we found her, but she came around somewhat after Mrs. Carson and one of the terrified servants got her back into bed. We couldn't get any clear information from her about what had scared her; she just kept repeating hysterically:
"'The face, the face!'
"When I realized I couldn't help her anymore at the moment, I grabbed George's arm and led him out of the room.
"'Listen, George,' I said, 'we need to figure this out right now. I'm positive I felt something pass me on the stairs. Does that staircase lead anywhere besides our rooms?'
"George thought for a moment.
"'Yes,' he said. 'There's a door at the end of the hallway that goes up to a sort of storage room.'
"'Then let's check it out,' I said. 'I can't sleep until we get to the bottom of this. Have your butler bring a lantern.'
"The butler looked like he really didn't want to do it, and honestly, neither did I. It was the creepiest job I've ever taken on. But we set off, the three of us. First we searched the rooms on our floor, where George and I slept. Everything was just as we'd left it. Then I pushed open the door at the end of the hallway. A rickety-looking staircase led up into darkness. We went up carefully, me first with a candle, then George, and finally the butler with a lantern.
"At the top we entered a large, low-ceilinged room with beams across the ceiling and a rough, uneven floor. Our lights cast strange shadows in the corners, and more than once I jumped at what looked like a crouching human figure. We searched every corner and found nothing but some old boxes, a couple rolls of matting, and some broken chairs. But in the far corner George pointed out a wobbly ladder that ended at a closed trapdoor. Just then I clearly heard that weird half-groaning, half-sighing sound that had already freaked me out in the hallway below. We froze and looked at each other. We all heard it.
"'Whatever it is, it's up there,' I said. 'So who's going up?'
"George put his candle down on the floor and stepped onto the ladder. It creaked under his weight. He stopped.
"'Get down; it won't hold you,' I said. 'I'll have to go.'
"I don't think I've ever been as scared as I was while slowly climbing that ladder and pushing open the trapdoor. I had no clear idea what I might find. I definitely wasn't prepared for what happened. As soon as the trapdoor was fully open, something—literally—fell on me from the darkness above, a human-shaped thing that kicked and spat and clawed at me as I clung to the ladder. It lasted only a moment, but in that moment I lived through a lifetime of terror. The ladder swayed and cracked beneath me, and I fell to the floor with the thing gripping my throat like a vise. The next instant George had knocked it out with a blow from the poker and pulled it off me. It lay on its back on the floor—a ragged, hideous, disgusting shape. And just like that, the mystery was solved."
"But you haven't told us what it actually was," one of my listeners interrupted.
I smiled grimly, remembering that night.
"It was the owner of the house," I replied. "He hadn't gone abroad at all. He'd been sent to a private psychiatric hospital because he had homicidal mania. About two weeks before all this, he'd managed to escape, and finding his way back to his former home, he'd hidden himself in the attic with the cunning that people with mental illness often show. I guess he found enough to eat during his nightly wanderings around the house. The real wonder is that he didn't kill someone before we caught him."