Free Ghost Story by Peter Straub Page B
Authors: Peter Straub
heard you mention his name."
"You must be mistaken, Mr. James," she said, dripping honey.
"I do not feel charitable to liars," I said. "Tell me about this Gregory person."
Of course they all assumed that I was threatening her with a caning. Another girl came to her rescue. "We were saying that Gregory fixed that gutter," she said, and pointed to the side of the school. One of the rain gutters was obviously new.
"Well, he'll never come around this school again if I can help it," I said, and left them to their infuriating giggling.
After school that day I thought I'd visit the lion's den, as it were, and walk up to the Bate home. I knew it was about as far out of town as Lewis's house is from Milburn. I set off on the most likely road, and walked quite a way, three or four miles, when I realized I'd probably gone too far. I hadn't passed any houses, so the Bate home had to be actually in the woods themselves, instead of on their edge as I had imagined. I took a likely-looking trail, and thought I would simply tack back and forth toward town until I found them.
Unfortunately, I got lost. I went into ravines and up hills and through scrub until I couldn't have told you where even the road was anymore. It all looked appallingly alike. Then, just at dusk, I was aware of being watched. It was a remarkably uncanny feeling—it was like knowing a tiger was behind me, about to pounce. I turned around and put my back against a big elm. And then I saw something. A man stepped into a clearing about thirty yards from me—the man I had seen before. Gregory, or so I thought. He said nothing, and neither did I. He just gazed at me, absolutely silent, with that wild hair and that ivory face. I felt hatred, absolute hatred, streaming from him. An air of utter unreasonable violence hung about him, along with that peculiar freedom I had sensed earlier—he was like a madman. He could have killed me off in those woods, and no one would have known. And trust me, what I saw in his face was murder, nothing else. Just as I expected him to come forward and attack me, he stepped behind a tree.
I went forward very slowly. "What do you want?" I called, simulating bravery. There was no answer. I went forward a bit more. Finally I got to the tree where I had seen him, and there wasn't a trace of him—he had just melted away.
I was still lost, and I still felt threatened. For that was the meaning of his appearance, I knew—it was a threat. I took a few steps off in a random direction, passed through another thick stand of trees, and stopped short. For a moment I was scared. Right before me, closer than that apparition had been, was a thin shabbily dressed girl with stringy blond hair: Constance Bate.
"Where's Fenny?" I asked.
She raised one bony arm and pointed off to the side. Then he too rose up like a—"like a snake from a basket," I must admit, is the metaphor that comes to mind. On his face, when he stood up in the tall weeds, was that characteristic Fenny Bate expression of sullen guilt.
"I was looking for your home," I said, and they both pointed at once in the same direction, again without speaking. Looking through a chink in the woods, I saw a tarpaper shack with one greasepaper window and a stingy little pipe of a chimney. You used to see a lot of tarpaper shacks here and there, though thank goodness they have disappeared now, but that one was the most sordid I ever did see. I know I have the reputation of being a conservative, but I've never equated virtue with money, nor poverty with vice, yet that mean stinking little shack—looking at it, you knew it stank—somehow for me appeared to breathe foulness. No, it was worse than that. It wasn't merely that the lives within would be brutalized by poverty, but that they would be twisted, malformed ... my heart fell, I looked away and saw an emaciated black dog nosing at a dead cushion of feathers that must have been a chicken once. This surely, I thought, must be how Fenny
"You must be mistaken, Mr. James," she said, dripping honey.
"I do not feel charitable to liars," I said. "Tell me about this Gregory person."
Of course they all assumed that I was threatening her with a caning. Another girl came to her rescue. "We were saying that Gregory fixed that gutter," she said, and pointed to the side of the school. One of the rain gutters was obviously new.
"Well, he'll never come around this school again if I can help it," I said, and left them to their infuriating giggling.
After school that day I thought I'd visit the lion's den, as it were, and walk up to the Bate home. I knew it was about as far out of town as Lewis's house is from Milburn. I set off on the most likely road, and walked quite a way, three or four miles, when I realized I'd probably gone too far. I hadn't passed any houses, so the Bate home had to be actually in the woods themselves, instead of on their edge as I had imagined. I took a likely-looking trail, and thought I would simply tack back and forth toward town until I found them.
Unfortunately, I got lost. I went into ravines and up hills and through scrub until I couldn't have told you where even the road was anymore. It all looked appallingly alike. Then, just at dusk, I was aware of being watched. It was a remarkably uncanny feeling—it was like knowing a tiger was behind me, about to pounce. I turned around and put my back against a big elm. And then I saw something. A man stepped into a clearing about thirty yards from me—the man I had seen before. Gregory, or so I thought. He said nothing, and neither did I. He just gazed at me, absolutely silent, with that wild hair and that ivory face. I felt hatred, absolute hatred, streaming from him. An air of utter unreasonable violence hung about him, along with that peculiar freedom I had sensed earlier—he was like a madman. He could have killed me off in those woods, and no one would have known. And trust me, what I saw in his face was murder, nothing else. Just as I expected him to come forward and attack me, he stepped behind a tree.
I went forward very slowly. "What do you want?" I called, simulating bravery. There was no answer. I went forward a bit more. Finally I got to the tree where I had seen him, and there wasn't a trace of him—he had just melted away.
I was still lost, and I still felt threatened. For that was the meaning of his appearance, I knew—it was a threat. I took a few steps off in a random direction, passed through another thick stand of trees, and stopped short. For a moment I was scared. Right before me, closer than that apparition had been, was a thin shabbily dressed girl with stringy blond hair: Constance Bate.
"Where's Fenny?" I asked.
She raised one bony arm and pointed off to the side. Then he too rose up like a—"like a snake from a basket," I must admit, is the metaphor that comes to mind. On his face, when he stood up in the tall weeds, was that characteristic Fenny Bate expression of sullen guilt.
"I was looking for your home," I said, and they both pointed at once in the same direction, again without speaking. Looking through a chink in the woods, I saw a tarpaper shack with one greasepaper window and a stingy little pipe of a chimney. You used to see a lot of tarpaper shacks here and there, though thank goodness they have disappeared now, but that one was the most sordid I ever did see. I know I have the reputation of being a conservative, but I've never equated virtue with money, nor poverty with vice, yet that mean stinking little shack—looking at it, you knew it stank—somehow for me appeared to breathe foulness. No, it was worse than that. It wasn't merely that the lives within would be brutalized by poverty, but that they would be twisted, malformed ... my heart fell, I looked away and saw an emaciated black dog nosing at a dead cushion of feathers that must have been a chicken once. This surely, I thought, must be how Fenny