Ghosts I Have Met and Some Others

When Barker and I parted that day it was for a longer period than either of us dreamed, for upon my arrival at my lodgings I found there a cable message from New York, calling me back to my labors.  Three days later I sailed for home, and five years elapsed before I was so fortunate as to renew my acquaintance with foreign climes.  Occasionally through these years Parton and I discussed Barker, and at no time did my companion show anything but an increased animosity towards our strange Keswick acquaintance.  The mention of his name was sufficient to drive Parton from the height of exuberance to a state of abject depression.

“I shall not feel easy while that man lives,” he said.  “I think he is a minion of Satan.  There is nothing earthly about him.”

“Nonsense,” said I.  “Just because a man has a bad face is no reason for supposing him a villain or a supernatural creature.”

“No,” Parton answered; “but when a man’s veins hold blood that saturates and leaves no stain, what are we to think?”

I confessed that this was a point beyond me, and, by mutual consent, we dropped the subject.

One night Parton came to my rooms white as a sheet, and so agitated that for a few minutes he could not speak.  He dropped, shaking like a leaf, into my reading-chair and buried his face in his hands.  His attitude was that of one frightened to the very core of his being.  When I questioned him first he did not respond.  He simply groaned.  I resumed my reading for a few moments, and then looking up observed that Parton had recovered somewhat and was now gazing abstractedly into the fire.

“Well,” I said, “feeling better?”

“Yes,” he answered, slowly.  “But it was a shock.”

“What was?” I asked.  “You’ve told me nothing as yet.”

“I’ve seen Barker.”

“No!” I cried.  “Where?”

“In a back alley down-town, where I had to go on a hospital call.  There was a row in a gambling-hell in Hester Street.  Two men were cut and I had to go with the ambulance.  Both men will probably die, and no one can find any trace of the murderer; but I know who he is.  He was Carleton Barker and no one else.  I passed him in the alley on the way in, and I saw him in the crowd when I came out.”

“Was he alone in the alley?” I asked.  Parton groaned again.

“That’s the worst of it,” said he.  “He was not alone.  He was with Carleton Barker.”

“You speak in riddles,” said I.

“I saw in riddles,” said Parton; “for as truly as I sit here there were two of them, and they stood side by side as I passed through, alike as two peas, and crime written on the pallid face of each.”

“Did Barker recognize you?”

“I think so, for as I passed he gasped—­both of them gasped, and as I stopped to speak to the one I had first recognized he had vanished as completely as though he had never been, and as I turned to address the other he was shambling off into the darkness as fast as his legs could carry him.”

I was stunned.  Barker had been mysterious enough in London.  In New York with his double, and again connected with an atrocity, he became even more so, and I began to feel somewhat towards him as had Parton from the first.  The papers next morning were not very explicit on the subject of the Hester Street trouble, but they confirmed Parton’s suspicions in his and my own mind as to whom the assassins were.  The accounts published simply stated that the wounded men, one of whom had died in the night and the other of whom would doubtless not live through the day, had been set upon and stabbed by two unknown Englishmen who had charged them with cheating at cards; that the assailants had disappeared, and that the police had no clew as to their whereabouts.

Time passed and nothing further came to light concerning the Barkers, and gradually Parton and I came to forget them.  The following summer I went abroad again, and then came the climax to the Barker episode, as we called it.  I can best tell the story of that climax by printing here a letter written by myself to Parton.  It was penned within an hour of the supreme moment, and while it evidences my own mental perturbation in its lack of coherence, it is none the less an absolutely truthful account of what happened.  The letter is as follows: 

“LONDON, July 18, 18—.

“My Dear Parton,—­You once said to me that you could not breathe easily while this world held Carleton Barker living.  You may now draw an easy breath, and many of them, for the Barker episode is over.  Barker is dead, and I flatter myself that I am doing very well myself to live sanely after the experiences of this morning.

“About a week after my arrival in England a horrible tragedy was enacted in the Seven Dials district.  A woman was the victim, and a devil in human form the perpetrator of the crime.  The poor creature was literally hacked to pieces in a manner suggesting the hand of Jack the Ripper, but in this instance the murderer, unlike Jack, was caught red-handed, and turned out to be no less a person than Carleton Barker.  He was tried and convicted, and sentenced to be hanged at twelve o’clock to-day.

“When I heard of Barker’s trouble I went, as a matter of curiosity solely, to the trial, and discovered in the dock the man you and I had encountered at Keswick.  That is to say, he resembled our friend in every possible respect.  If he were not Barker he was the most perfect imitation of Barker conceivable.  Not a feature of our Barker but was reproduced in this one, even to the name.  But he failed to recognize me.  He saw me, I know, because I felt his eyes upon me, but in trying to return his gaze I quailed utterly before him.  I could not look him in the eye without a feeling of the most deadly horror, but I did see enough of him to note that he regarded me only as one of a thousand spectators who had flocked into the court-room during the progress of the trial.  If it were our Barker who sat there his dissemblance was remarkable.  So coldly did he look at me that I began to doubt if he really were the man we had met; but the events of this morning have changed my mind utterly on that point.  He was the one we had met, and I am now convinced that his story to me of his double was purely fictitious, and that from beginning to end there has been but one Barker.

“The trial was a speedy one.  There was nothing to be said in behalf of the prisoner, and within five days of his arraignment he was convicted and sentenced to the extreme penalty—­that of hanging—­and noon to-day was the hour appointed for the execution.  I was to have gone to Richmond to-day by coach, but since Barker’s trial I have been in a measure depressed.  I have grown to dislike the man as thoroughly as did you, and yet I was very much affected by the thought that he was finally to meet death upon the scaffold.  I could not bring myself to participate in any pleasures on the day of his execution, and in consequence I gave up my Richmond journey and remained all morning in my lodgings trying to read.  It was a miserable effort.  I could not concentrate my mind upon my book—­no book could have held the slightest part of my attention at that time.  My thoughts were all for Carleton Barker, and I doubt if, when the clock hands pointed to half after eleven, Barker himself was more apprehensive over what was to come than I. I found myself holding my watch in my hand, gazing at the dial and counting the seconds which must intervene before the last dreadful scene of a life of crime.  I would rise from my chair and pace my room nervously for a few minutes; then I would throw myself into my chair again and stare at my watch.  This went on nearly all the morning—­in fact, until ten minutes before twelve, when there came a slight knock at my door.  I put aside my nervousness as well as I could, and, walking to the door, opened it.

“I wonder that I have nerve to write of it, Parton, but there upon the threshold, clad in the deepest black, his face pallid as the head of death itself and his hands shaking like those of a palsied man, stood no less a person than Carleton Barker!

“I staggered back in amazement and he followed me, closing the door and locking it behind him.

“‘What would you do?’ I cried, regarding his act with alarm, for, candidly, I was almost abject with fear.

“‘Nothing—­to you!’ he said.  ’You have been as far as you could be my friend.  The other, your companion of Keswick’—­meaning you, of course—­’was my enemy.’

“I was glad you were not with us, my dear Parton.  I should have trembled for your safety.

“‘How have you managed to escape?’ I asked.

“‘I have not escaped,’ returned Barker.  ’But I soon shall be free from my accursed double.’

“Here he gave an unearthly laugh and pointed to the clock.

“‘Ha, ha!’ he cried.  ’Five minutes more—­five minutes more and I shall be free.’

“‘Then the man in the dock was not you?’ I asked.

“‘The man in the dock,’ he answered, slowly, ’is even now mounting the gallows, whilst I stand here.’

“He trembled a little as he spoke, and lurched forward like a drunken man; but he soon recovered himself, grasping the back of my chair convulsively with his long white fingers.

“‘In two minutes more,’ he whispered, ’the rope will be adjusted about his neck; the black cap is even now being drawn over his cursed features, and—­’

“Here he shrieked with laughter, and, rushing to the window, thrust his head out and literally sucked the air into his lungs, as a man with a parched throat would have drank water.  Then he turned and, tottering back to my side, hoarsely demanded some brandy.

“It was fortunately at hand, and precisely as the big bells in Westminster began to sound the hour of noon, he caught up the goblet and held it aloft.

“‘To him!’ he cried.

“And then, Parton, standing before me in my lodgings, as truly as I write, he remained fixed and rigid until the twelfth stroke of the bells sounded, when he literally faded from my sight, and the goblet, falling to the floor, was shattered into countless atoms!”

THE END