Bradbury Stories (78 page)

“‘Mark me . . . my hour is almost come . . . when I to sulfurous and tormenting flames . . . must render up myself . . .'”

And then she read:

“‘I am thy father's spirit,/Doomed for a certain term to walk the night . . .'”

And again:

“‘. . . If thou didst ever thy dear father love . . . O, God! . . . Revenge his foul and most unnatural murder . . .'”

And yet again:

“‘. . . Murder most foul . . .'”

And the train ran in the night as she spoke the last words of Hamlet's father's ghost:

“‘. . . Fare thee well at once . . .'”

“‘. . . Adieu, adieu! Remember me.'”

And she repeated:

“‘. . . remember me!'”

And the Orient ghost quivered. She pretended not to notice but seized a further book:

“‘. . . Marley was dead, to begin with . . .'”

As the Orient train thundered across a twilight bridge above an unseen stream.

Her hands flew like birds over the books.

“‘I am the Ghost of Christmas Past!'”

Then:

“‘The Phantom Rickshaw glided from the mist and clop-clopped off into the fog—'”

And wasn't there the faintest echo of a horse's hooves behind, within the Orient ghost's mouth?

“‘The beating beating beating, under the floorboards of the Old Man's Telltale Heart!'” she cried, softly.

And
there
! like the leap of a frog. The first faint pulse of the Orient ghost's heart in more than an hour.

The Germans down the corridor fired off a cannon of disbelief.

But
she
poured the medicine:

“‘The Hound bayed out on the Moor—'”

And the echo of that bay, that most forlorn cry, came from her traveling companion's soul, wailed from his throat.

And the night grew on and the moon arose and a Woman in White crossed a landscape, as the old nurse said and told, and a bat that became a wolf that became a lizard scaled a wall on the ghastly passenger's brow.

And at last the train was silent with sleeping, and Miss Minerva Halliday let the last book drop with the thump of a body to the floor.

“Requiescat in pace?”
whispered the Orient traveler, eyes shut.

“Yes.” She smiled, nodding.
“Requiescat in pace.”
And they slept.

And at last they reached the sea.

And there was mist, which became fog, which became scatters of rain, like a proper drench of tears from a seamless sky.

Which made the ghastly passenger open, ungum his mouth, and murmur thanks for the haunted sky and the shore visited by phantoms of tide as the train slid into the shed where the mobbed exchange would be made, a full train becoming a full boat.

The Orient ghost who stood well back, the last figure on a now self-haunted train.

“Wait,” he cried, softly, piteously. “That boat! There's no place on it to hide! And the
customs
!”

But the customs men took one look at the pale face snowed under the dark cap and earmuffs, and swiftly flagged the wintry soul on to the ferry.

To be surrounded by dumb voices, ignorant elbows, layers of people shoving as the boat shuddered and moved and the nurse saw her fragile icicle melt yet again.

It was a mob of children shrieking by that made her say: “Quickly!”

And she all but lifted and carried the wicker man in the wake of the boys and girls.

“No,” cried the old passenger. “The noise!”

“It's special!” The nurse hustled him through a door. “A medicine! Here!”

The old man stared around.

“Why,” he murmured. “This is—a playroom.”

And she steered him into the midst of all the screams and running.

“Children!” she called.

The children froze.

“Story-telling time!”

They were about to run again when she added, “
Ghost
story-telling time!”

She pointed casually to the ghastly passenger, whose pale moth fingers grasped the scarf about his icy throat.

“All fall
down
!” said the nurse.

The children plummeted with squeals to the floor. All about the Orient traveler, like Indians around a tepee, they stared up along his body to where blizzards ran odd temperatures in his gaping mouth.

He wavered. She quickly said:

“You
do
believe in ghosts,
yes
?”

“Oh,
yes
!” was the shout. “Yes!”

It was as if a ramrod had shot up his spine. The Orient traveler stiffened. The most brittle of tiny flinty sparks fired his eyes. Winter roses budded in his cheeks. And the more the children leaned, the taller he grew, and the warmer his complexion. With one icicle finger he pointed at their faces.

“I,” he whispered, “I,” a pause. “Shall tell you a frightful tale. About a
real
ghost!”

“Oh,
yes
!” cried the children.

And he began to talk and as the fever of his tongue conjured fogs, lured mists and invited rains, the children hugged and crowded close, a bed of charcoals on which he happily baked. And as he talked Nurse Halliday, backed off near the door, saw what he saw across the haunted sea, the ghost cliffs, the chalk cliffs, the safe cliffs of Dover and not so far beyond, waiting, the whispering towers, the murmuring castle-keeps, where phantoms were as they had always been, with the still attics waiting. And staring, the old nurse felt her hand creep up her lapel toward her thermometer. She felt her own pulse. A brief darkness touched her eyes.

And then one child said: “Who
are
you?”

And gathering his gossamer shroud, the ghastly passenger whetted his imagination, and replied.

It was only the sound of the ferry landing whistle that cut short the long telling of midnight tales. And the parents poured in to seize their lost children, away from the Orient gentleman with the ghastly eyes whose gently raving mouth shivered their marrows as he whispered and whispered until the ferry nudged the dock and the last boy was dragged, protesting, away, leaving the old man and his nurse alone in the children's playroom as the ferry stopped shuddering its delicious shudders, as if it had listened, heard, and deliriously enjoyed the long-before-dawn tales.

At the gangplank, the Orient traveler said, with a touch of briskness, “No. I'll need no help going down. Watch!”

And he strode down the plank. And even as the children had been tonic for his color, height and vocal cords, so the closer he came to England, pacing, the firmer his stride, and when he actually touched the dock, a small happy burst of sound erupted from his thin lips and the nurse, behind him, stopped frowning, and let him run toward the train.

And seeing him dash, like a child before her, she could only stand, riven with delight and something more than delight. And he ran and her heart ran with him and suddenly knew a stab of amazing pain, and a lid of darkness struck her, and she swooned.

Hurrying, the ghastly passenger did not notice that the old nurse was not beside or behind him, so eagerly did he go.

At the train he gasped, “There!” safely grasping the compartment handle. Only then did he sense a loss, and turned.

Minerva Halliday was not there.

And yet, an instant later, she arrived, looking paler than before, but with an incredibly radiant smile. She wavered and almost fell. This time it was he who reached out.

“Dear lady,” he said, “you have been so kind.”

“But,” she said, quietly, looking at him, waiting for him to truly see her, “I am not leaving.”

“You . . .?”

“I am going with you,” she said.

“But your plans?”

“Have changed. Now, I have nowhere
else
to go.”

She half-turned to look over her shoulder.

At the dock, a swiftly gathering crowd peered down at someone lying on the planks. Voices murmured and cried out. The word “doctor” was called several times.

The ghastly passenger looked at Minerva Halliday. Then he looked at the crowd and the object of the crowd's alarm lying on the dock: a medical thermometer lay broken under their feet. He looked back at Minerva Halliday, who still stared at the broken thermometer.

“Oh, my dear kind lady,” he said, at last. “Come.”

She looked into his face. “Larks?” she said.

He nodded and said, “Larks!”

And he helped her up into the train, which soon jolted and then dinned and whistled away along the tracks toward London and Edinburgh and moors and castles and dark nights and long years.

“I wonder who she was?” said the ghastly passenger looking back at the crowd on the dock.

“Oh, Lord,” said the old nurse. “I never really knew.”

And the train was gone.

It took a full twenty seconds for the tracks to stop trembling.

I
T WAS THE SENSATION OF SILENCE
that was the most notable aspect of the house. As Mr. Greppin came through the front door the oiled silence of it opening and swinging closed behind him was like an opening and shutting dream, a thing accomplished on rubber pads, bathed in lubricant, slow and unmaterialistic. The double carpet in the hall, which he himself had so recently laid, gave off no sound from his movements. And when the wind shook the house late of nights there was not a rattle of eave or tremor of loose sash. He had himself checked the storm windows. The screen doors were securely hooked with bright new, firm hooks, and the furnace did not knock but sent a silent whisper of warm wind up the throats of the heating system that sighed ever so quietly, moving the cuffs of his trousers as he stood, now, warming himself from the bitter afternoon.

Weighing the silence with the remarkable instruments of pitch and balance in his small ears, he nodded with satisfaction that the silence was so unified and finished. Because there
had
been nights when rats had walked between wall-layers and it had taken baited traps and poisoned food before the walls were mute. Even the grandfather clock had been stilled, its brass pendulum hung frozen and gleaming in its long cedar, glass-fronted coffin.

They
were waiting for him in the dining room.

He listened. They made no sound. Good. Excellent, in fact. They had learned, then, to be silent. You had to teach people, but it was worthwhile—there was not a rattle of knife or fork from the dining table. He worked off his thick gray gloves, hung up his cold armor of overcoat and stood there with an expression of urgency yet indecisiveness . . . thinking of what had to be done.

Mr. Greppin proceeded with familiar certainty and economy of motion into the dining room, where the four individuals seated at the waiting table did not move or speak a word. The only sound was the merest allowable pad of his shoes on the deep carpet.

His eyes, as usual, instinctively, fastened upon the lady heading the table. Passing, he waved a finger near her cheek. She did not blink.

Aunt Rose sat firmly at the head of the table and if a mote of dust floated lightly down out of the ceiling spaces, did her eye trace its orbit? Did the eye revolve in its shellacked socket, with glassy cold precision? And if the dust mote happened upon the shell of her wet eye did the eye batten? Did the muscles clinch, the lashes close?

No.

Aunt Rose's hand lay on the table like cutlery, rare and fine and old; tarnished. Her bosom was hidden in a salad of fluffy linen.

Beneath the table her stick legs in high-buttoned shoes went up into a pipe of dress. You felt that the legs terminated at the skirt line and from there on she was a department store dummy, all wax and nothingness responding, probably, with much the same chill waxen movements, with as much enthusiasm and response as a mannequin.

So here was Aunt Rose, staring straight at Greppin—he choked out a laugh and clapped hands derisively shut—there were the first hints of a dust mustache gathering across her upper lip!

“Good evening, Aunt Rose,” he said, bowing. “Good evening, Uncle Dimity,” he said, graciously. “No, not a word,” he held up his hand. “Not a word from any of you.” He bowed again. “Ah, good evening, cousin Lila, and you, cousin Sam.”

Lila sat upon his left, her hair like golden shavings from a tube of lathed brass. Sam, opposite her, told all directions with
his
hair.

They were both young, he fourteen, she sixteen. Uncle Dimity, their father (but “father” was a nasty word!) sat next to Lila, placed in this secondary niche long, long ago because Aunt Rose said the window draft might get his neck if he sat at the head of the table. Ah, Aunt Rose!

Mr. Greppin drew the chair under his tight-clothed little rump and put a casual elbow to the linen.

“I've something to say,” he said. “IT's very important. This has gone on for weeks now. It can't go any further. I'm in love. Oh, but I've told you that long ago. On the day I made you all smile, remember?”

The eyes of the four seated people did not blink, the hands did not move. Greppin became introspective. The day he had made them smile. Two weeks ago it was. He had come home, walked in, looked at them and said, “I'm to be married!”

They had all whirled with expressions as if someone had just smashed the window.

“You're WHAT?” cried Aunt Rose.

“To Alice Jane Ballard!” he had said, stiffening somewhat.

“Congratulations,” said Uncle Dimity. “I guess,” he added, looking at his wife. He cleared his throat. “But isn't it a little early, son?” He looked at his wife again. “Yes. Yes, I think it's a little early. I wouldn't advise it yet, not just yet, no.”

“The house is in a terrible way,” said Aunt Rose. “We won't have it fixed for a year yet.”

“That's what you said last year and the year before,” said Mr. Greppin. “And anyway,” he said bluntly, “this is
my
house.”