Authors: Clark Ashton Smith
Tags: #General Fiction
"For only three months?" I asked.
"Yes, before that there was nothing the matter with the chamber. It was as good and comfortable an apartment as any man might wish. I keep it open even now, except at night, there is nothing there that seems out of the ordinary. It is my private bed-chamber and I am loath to give it up on account of the things that take place there. Up to a few days ago I had used it but was, on account of what occurred unable to sleep. Last week I abandoned it and keep it locked."
"What have you seen", I asked.
"Stranger things than you think. I am loath to tell you of them."
"And why?" I asked, "Should you not impart the secret to me?"
He hesitated—"You are so incredulous," was his answer.
"I would like to occupy this haunted chamber for a few nights," said I.
"I am curious to see for myself the things that you have beheld. Therefore, you need not tell me now. I like to be surprised."
"I know your nature well, Robert," said he, "but I do not wish you to expose yourself to unnecessary danger. Strong as my nerves are, they have been shaken by the strange occurrences within that triply accursed room. I firmly believe that it is haunted by something."
I sternly pooh-poohed this idea, and after more persuading, wrung from my cousin a reluctant promise to allow me to occupy the haunted chamber for the night at least.
By now his fear had worked on me a little so I announced my intention of retiring for the night. I provided myself with a stout Irish shillelagh, picked up during my residence a few years ago in the Emerald Isle. As I was well skilled in its use, I held myself to be a match for any ghost or spirit that might choose to disturb me.
We ascended a long oaken staircase to the upper floor of the building. There are two stories to this house, and a large attic in the very top. It was on the upper floor that the haunted chamber was situated. We went thru two rooms, and found ourselves before a heavy oaken door. My cousin unlocked it and we entered. The apartment was little different from any other, save that it was furnished with rare and antique furniture. There was a large tapestried bedstead of the time of Charles the first, and a few heavy chairs of the same kind, with a large bureau, and various other articles.
There was but one window to the room—a lattice of the Queen Anne style.
The moonlight strained, dim shining made a streak of white light on the floor, and a slight breeze entering, cold and frosty, made the tapestries on the walls of the apartment waft slightly. I made haste to close the window, as it was very cold with the breeze coming in. My cousin then bade me farewell, after giving me some words of advice, and then went out, locking the door behind him as I had requested.
There was a strange, eerie feeling in the cold air, by no means pleasant. I presently found my teeth chattering and my eyes roving about in a nervous manner. I laughed at myself and made haste to disrobe. Once within the bed my feelings changed. I drew the curtains together, clutched my cudgel, and prepared myself for sleep.
But sleep would not come to me. I lay for a long time with my ears strained for the slightest sound. My eyes vainly trying to pierce the Stygian darkness. I finally cursed myself for a fool, turned about, shut my eyes and began to count the sheep leaping over the stone wall. But my sheep were singularly unusual. No sooner were they thru than they began again and soon were so numerous I lost all count of them. I should have given up as the effort caused me to strain every sense and nerve.
The hours dragged by like aeons. There was apparently no end to them. Half-past ten, eleven, half past eleven—then came the deep strokes of twelve. I sat up, startled at the sound, but finding out what it was, was about to lay down again.
Suddenly, as I sat there, every muscle rigid, the curtains slowly parted, seemingly by no human agency. With sickly swiftness they swept back, letting in a broad band of moonlight across the bed. And in the very centre of that band, its hands upon the bed—shall I ever forget the horror of that sight!—a ghostly figure, the figure, apparently of a Hindu, clothed in white. It was very distinct, tho to my disordered mind it seemed to be misty in outline. It was a dark, scarce human face that peered down upon me with fanatic eyes, and wild, leering, demoniac expression. The figure was clothed in white, close-clinging trousers and Indian jacket, with a white turban on the head. The figure seemed to me at the moment, to be beyond nature. I sat frozen with horror for a few moments, possibly fascinated by the baleful eyes of the apparition. Then my skepticism on the question of the existence of ghosts stirred and I swung my cudgel at the unlucky apparition.
Whack! Whack! Whack! went the shillelagh, landing on something more substantial than air. The erstwhile spirit yelled and shrieked, and begged for mercy in a voice that I seemed sometime to have heard before.
I soon secured my prisoner, and tearing off his Oriental guise, disclosed the features of my cousin's old servant, the Indian soldier of whom I spoke in an earlier part of this story.
Hardly had I unmasked the captive when the door opened and my Charles rushed in with a lighted taper in his hand. He found me standing over the ghost with shillelagh in hand, delivering a lecture punctuated by sundry flourishes of the stick, on the subject of deceiving.
Burleigh's astonishment was beyond bounds when he saw his servant. He scarcely knew what to say. At last he managed to stammer out, addressing the ghost.
"What does this mean, Ruggles?"
He was silent, and though threatened, sat there refusing to answer, eyeing us sullenly. Neither would he afterwards explain, tho we pestered him with questions the remainder of the night.
"What do you think of it?" I asked my cousin.
"I am greatly puzzled," replied Charles. "What reason could the man possibly have for playing such a trick on me."
I could only shrug my shoulders.
In the morning the servant was gone. He had been confined by his master in one of the upper rooms of the house; a bruised and broken ivy vine testified to the manner of his escape.
On the table was found a badly written note, which, stripped of bad spelling and phrasing, was substantially as follows:
"Mr. Burleigh:
"I have cherished a grudge against you for many years, but showed no sign of it. Within the last few months I have endeavored to be revenged by trying to drive the people from this house by playing ghost at night in your bed-chamber. I have failed. You shall never see nor hear of me again.
"Sampson Ruggles"
THE HAUNTED GONG
Among the many queer shops in San Francisco's Chinatown is that of a Japanese dealer in antiques—Takamoto Satsuma. Satsuma himself is a puzzle, but his place of business is, above all others, one of the strangest collections of the odd, the weird, and the unexpected that I have ever run across. Satsuma is brown and wrinkled—an epitome of his native land—of all that is mysterious, incomprehensible and exclusively Japanese, and his shop is likewise. There you may see all the gods of the East, deities of Buddhist and Shinto theology, squat images that look at you with the accumulated wisdom of long years and of a land and people essentially foreign. There, too, are swords and weapons of which I do not know the names, painted fans, lacquer work, Japanese armor, and a thousand and one other articles all resplendent of Japan.
Satsuma, who is invariably smiling and polite, as condescending if you leave without making a purchase as if you had bought twenty dollars worth, showed me about, exhibiting his treasures and extolling them in English which appeared peculiarly his own.
"You buy Matsuma sword?" he said, "I assure you most exceedingly ancient, and razor-blade keen. Matsuma mighty sword maker—forge devilblades." The dealer was about to enlarge on the diabolical qualities of Matsuma when I espied a Japanese gong, decorated with figures of gods, halfhuman, half-animal, which lay on a counter between a miniature Kurannon and the "getting up little god" Daruma. "How much?" I inquired. I was informed that the price was two dollars, which, considering
the age of the gong, made out by Matsuma to be three hundred years, was not exorbitant. The money being produced, I soon departed, much delighted with my purchase, and followed by many thanks from the dealer in antiques.
The gong was hung near my writing desk, and added, I thought, greatly to ornamentation of the room. I am by nature a collector of the odd, the picturesque, and particularly the Oriental, and my apartments show unmistakable traces of this predilection. Few have fairer Turkish rugs than mine or a more extensive collection of miscellaneous Oriental articles
I was seated at my desk several weeks later, engaged, if I recollect rightly, in an article [on] the Chinese Immigration Question. Anyway, it was of a practical every-day nature. Just as I had got well-started, I was suddenly interrupted by the sound of the gong striking. The sound, I may remark, was strangely deep and mellow, and different in tone from the ordinary gong. Five strokes followed each other in rapid succession, and when, much startled, I turned about, the instrument was still vibrating. My first thought was that some friend, wishing to play a joke, had stolen into the room and struck the gong. Great was my surprise to find myself absolutely alone. To my knowledge, no one was in the house. The sound having ceased, it was followed by unbroken silence. broken only by the beating of my heart
Much puzzled and perturbed, I examined the instrument closely, wondering if there was any internal arrangement mechanism which could have been responsible. This being without result, I looked about for some external agency, such as the proximity of some other articl My search was fruitless; I could find no agency which could have produced the sound.
The affair was so mysterious and perplexing that had it happened other than in broad daylight in the very heart of bustling, matter-of-fact San Francisco, I should surely have put it down to supernatural agency. But that was impossible. However, the more I thought of it, the greater more inexplicable the mystery grew. But everything has its solution. Determined to solve the mystery it, I went to Satsuma and told him the story. The dealer thereupon told a tale, which in plain English, runs thus:
Several centuries ago the feudal Lord Takamura Jiro ruled over a great portion of Kyoto. Jiro, had raised himself to that position beginning life as a common soldier under a former ruler, had, by a combination of circumstances, and his genuine abilities, raised himself to this high position, and displaced his displacing supplanting his master. Juster and more humane than his predecessor, whose cruelty had been instrumental in displacing dethroning him, he was beloved of his people, and ruled over them ruled in peace and prosperity.
Over another and larger portion of Kyoto, the Prince Umetsu Hakone held sway. Between Jiro and Hakone there had been smothered enmity originating many years before in the sheltering by Jiro of certain fugitives of justice from his neighbor. Though not resenting it at the time, Hakone had long nursed this grudge against Jiro, patiently awaiting the time when some excuse should arise for paying it off.
Seven years passed, and during these years the prosperity wealth prosperity abode in all Kyoto, the crops seasons being propitious and the crops abundant. Then, when least expected, there came a drouth, and after it a famine. Seven years had nature lavished her gifts over-generously, and now, as if in the balance of things, she withheld those gifts them.
The famine fell heaviest in that part ruled by Jiro, visiting but lightly the realm of Hakone. And Hakone, more far sighted than his neighbor, foreseeing perceiving that these this time must arrive, had stored up an abundance of food grain in preparation. During the famine he sold this to his people at an enormous profit, being both humanitarian and financier!
Seven years passed before his opportunity came. Jiro, then becoming engaged in a war with a neighboring prince, Hakone took advantage of the absence of his army to advance at the head of his troops into Jiro's territory. Jiro, having been wounded, was at that time abiding in his castle surrounded by a few soldiers, while his army was perhaps fifty miles away engaged in carrying on the war.
Hakone, advancing by forced marches found himself at nightfall near Jiro's castle. So swiftly and stealthily had he come that Jiro was not unaware of his presence in the neighborhood.
Knowing this, and also that the castle was practically ungarrisoned, Hakone, in the dead of night, attacked, carrying the outer gates and meeting with little resistance. Jiro's men, astonished and confused, were driven into the castle.
Jiro made preparations for a determined resistance. At first he thought that the prince whom he was fighting had stolen a march on him, but he soon became apprised aware that it was his old foe, Hakone.