The Ghost-extinguisher





BY GELETT BURGESS





My attention was first called to the possibility of manufacturing a

practicable ghost-extinguisher by a real-estate agent in San Francisco.



"There's one thing," he said, "that affects city property here in a

curious way. You know we have a good many murders, and, as a

consequence, certain houses attain a very sensational and undesirable

reputation. These houses it is almost impossible to let; you can

scarcely get a decent family to occupy them rent-free. Then we have a

great many places said to be haunted. These were dead timber on my hands

until I happened to notice that the Japanese have no objections to

spooks. Now, whenever I have such a building to rent, I let it to Japs

at a nominal figure, and after they've taken the curse off, I raise the

rent, the Japs move out, the place is renovated, and in the market

again."



The subject interested me, for I am not only a scientist, but a

speculative philosopher as well. The investigation of those phenomena

that lie upon the threshold of the great unknown has always been my

favorite field of research. I believed, even then, that the Oriental

mind, working along different lines than those which we pursue, has

attained knowledge that we know little of. Thinking, therefore, that

these Japs might have some secret inherited from their misty past, I

examined into the matter.



I shall not trouble you with a narration of the incidents which led up

to my acquaintance with Hoku Yamanochi. Suffice it to say that I found

in him a friend who was willing to share with me his whole lore of

quasi-science. I call it this advisedly, for science, as we Occidentals

use the term, has to do only with the laws of matter and sensation; our

scientific men, in fact, recognize the existence of nothing else. The

Buddhistic philosophy, however, goes further.



According to its theories, the soul is sevenfold, consisting of

different shells or envelopes--something like an onion--which are shed

as life passes from the material to the spiritual state. The first, or

lowest, of these is the corporeal body, which, after death, decays and

perishes. Next comes the vital principle, which, departing from the

body, dissipates itself like an odor, and is lost. Less gross than this

is the astral body, which, although immaterial, yet lies near to the

consistency of matter. This astral shape, released from the body at

death, remains for a while in its earthly environment, still preserving

more or less definitely the imprint of the form which it inhabited.



It is this relic of a past material personality, this outworn shell,

that appears, when galvanized into an appearance of life, partly

materialized, as a ghost. It is not the soul that returns, for the soul,

which is immortal, is composed of the four higher spiritual essences

that surround the ego, and are carried on into the next life. These

astral bodies, therefore, fail to terrify the Buddhists, who know them

only as shadows, with no real volition. The Japs, in point of fact, have

learned how to exterminate them.



There is a certain powder, Hoku informed me, which, when burnt in their

presence, transforms them from the rarefied, or semi-spiritual,

condition to the state of matter. The ghost, so to speak, is

precipitated into and becomes a material shape which can easily be

disposed of. In this state it is confined and allowed to disintegrate

slowly where it can cause no further annoyance.



This long-winded explanation piqued my curiosity, which was not to be

satisfied until I had seen the Japanese method applied. It was not long

before I had an opportunity. A particularly revolting murder having been

committed in San Francisco, my friend Hoku Yamanochi applied for the

house, and, after the police had finished their examination, he was

permitted to occupy it for a half-year at the ridiculous price of three

dollars a month. He invited me to share his quarters, which were large

and luxuriously furnished.



For a week, nothing abnormal occurred. Then, one night, I was awakened

by terrifying groans followed by a blood-curdling shriek which seemed

to emerge from a large closet in my room, the scene of the late

atrocity. I confess that I had all the covers pulled over my head and

was shivering with horror when my Japanese friend entered, wearing a

pair of flowered-silk pajamas. Hearing his voice, I peeped forth, to see

him smiling reassuringly.



"You some kind of very foolish fellow," he said. "I show you how to fix

him!"



He took from his pocket three conical red pastils, placed them upon a

saucer and lighted them. Then, holding the fuming dish in one

outstretched hand, he walked to the closed door and opened it. The

shrieks burst out afresh, and, as I recalled the appalling details of

the scene which had occurred in this very room only five weeks ago, I

shuddered at his temerity. But he was quite calm.



Soon, I saw the wraith-like form of the recent victim dart from the

closet. She crawled under my bed and ran about the room, endeavoring to

escape, but was pursued by Hoku, who waved his smoking plate with

indefatigable patience and dexterity.



At last he had her cornered, and the specter was caught behind a curtain

of odorous fumes. Slowly the figure grew more distinct, assuming the

consistency of a heavy vapor, shrinking somewhat in the operation. Hoku

now hurriedly turned to me.



"You hully up, bling me one pair bellows pletty quick!" he commanded.



I ran into his room and brought the bellows from his fireplace. These

he pressed flat, and then carefully inserting one toe of the ghost into

the nozzle and opening the handles steadily, he sucked in a portion of

the unfortunate woman's anatomy, and dexterously squirted the vapor into

a large jar, which had been placed in the room for the purpose. Two more

operations were necessary to withdraw the phantom completely from the

corner and empty it into the jar. At last the transfer was effected and

the receptacle securely stoppered and sealed.



"In formeryore-time," Hoku explained to me, "old pliests sucked ghost

with mouth and spit him to inside of vase with acculacy. Modern-time

method more better for stomach and epiglottis."



"How long will this ghost keep?" I inquired.



"Oh, about four, five hundled years, maybe," was his reply. "Ghost now

change from spilit to matter, and comes under legality of matter as

usual science."



"What are you going to do with her?" I asked.



"Send him to Buddhist temple in Japan. Old pliest use him for high

celemony," was the answer.



My next desire was to obtain some of Hoku Yamanochi's ghost-powder and

analyze it. For a while it defied my attempts, but, after many months of

patient research, I discovered that it could be produced, in all its

essential qualities, by means of a fusion of formaldehyde and

hypophenyltrybrompropionic acid in an electrified vacuum. With this

product I began a series of interesting experiments.



As it became necessary for me to discover the habitat of ghosts in

considerable numbers, I joined the American Society for Psychical

Research, thus securing desirable information in regard to haunted

houses. These I visited persistently, until my powder was perfected and

had been proved efficacious for the capture of any ordinary house-broken

phantom. For a while I contented myself with the mere sterilization of

these specters, but, as I became surer of success, I began to attempt

the transfer of ghosts to receptacles wherein they could be transported

and studied at my leisure, classified and preserved for future

reference.



Hoku's bellows I soon discarded in favor of a large-sized bicycle-pump,

and eventually I had constructed one of my own, of a pattern which

enabled me to inhale an entire ghost at a single stroke. With this

powerful instrument I was able to compress even an adult life-sized

ghost into a two-quart bottle, in the neck of which a sensitive valve

(patented) prevented the specter from emerging during process.



My invention was not yet, however, quite satisfactory. While I had no

trouble in securing ghosts of recent creation--spirits, that is, who

were yet of almost the consistency of matter--on several of my trips

abroad in search of material I found in old manor houses or ruined

castles many specters so ancient that they had become highly rarefied

and tenuous, being at times scarcely visible to the naked eye. Such

elusive spirits are able to pass through walls and elude pursuit with

ease. It became necessary for me to obtain some instrument by which

their capture could be conveniently effected.



The ordinary fire-extinguisher of commerce gave me the hint as to how

the problem could be solved. One of these portable hand-instruments I

filled with the proper chemicals. When inverted, the ingredients were

commingled in vacuo and a vast volume of gas was liberated. This was

collected in the reservoir provided with a rubber tube having a nozzle

at the end. The whole apparatus being strapped upon my back, I was

enabled to direct a stream of powerful precipitating gas in any desired

direction, the flow being under control through the agency of a small

stopcock. By means of this ghost-extinguisher I was enabled to pursue my

experiments as far as I desired.



So far my investigations had been purely scientific, but before long the

commercial value of my discovery began to interest me. The ruinous

effects of spectral visitations upon real estate induced me to realize

some pecuniary reward from my ghost-extinguisher, and I began to

advertise my business. By degrees, I became known as an expert in my

original line, and my professional services were sought with as much

confidence as those of a veterinary surgeon. I manufactured the Gerrish

Ghost-Extinguisher in several sizes, and put it on the market, following

this venture with the introduction of my justly celebrated Gerrish

Ghost-Grenades. These hand-implements were made to be kept in racks

conveniently distributed in country houses for cases of sudden

emergency. A single grenade, hurled at any spectral form, would, in

breaking, liberate enough formaldybrom to coagulate the most perverse

spirit, and the resulting vapor could easily be removed from the room by

a housemaid with a common broom.



This branch of my business, however, never proved profitable, for the

appearance of ghosts, especially in the United States, is seldom

anticipated. Had it been possible for me to invent a preventive as well

as a remedy, I might now be a millionaire; but there are limits even to

modern science.



Having exhausted the field at home, I visited England in the hope of

securing customers among the country families there. To my surprise, I

discovered that the possession of a family specter was considered as a

permanent improvement to the property, and my offers of service in

ridding houses of ghostly tenants awakened the liveliest resentment. As

a layer of ghosts I was much lower in the social scale than a layer of

carpets.



Disappointed and discouraged, I returned home to make a further study of

the opportunities of my invention. I had, it seemed, exhausted the

possibilities of the use of unwelcome phantoms. Could I not, I thought,

derive a revenue from the traffic in desirable specters? I decided to

renew my investigations.



The nebulous spirits preserved in my laboratory, which I had graded and

classified, were, you will remember, in a state of suspended animation.

They were, virtually, embalmed apparitions, their inevitable decay

delayed, rather than prevented. The assorted ghosts that I had now

preserved in hermetically sealed tins were thus in a state of unstable

equilibrium. The tins once opened and the vapor allowed to dissipate,

the original astral body would in time be reconstructed and the

warmed-over specter would continue its previous career. But this

process, when naturally performed, took years. The interval was quite

too long for the phantom to be handled in any commercial way. My problem

was, therefore, to produce from my tinned Essence of Ghost a specter

that was capable of immediately going into business and that could haunt

a house while you wait.



It was not until radium was discovered that I approached the solution of

my great problem, and even then months of indefatigable labor were

necessary before the process was perfected. It has now been well

demonstrated that the emanations of radiant energy sent forth by this

surprising element defy our former scientific conceptions of the

constitution of matter. It was for me to prove that the vibratory

activity of radium (whose amplitudes and intensity are undoubtedly

four-dimensional) effects a sort of allotropic modification in the

particles of that imponderable ether which seems to lie halfway between

matter and pure spirit. This is as far as I need to go in my

explanation, for a full discussion involves the use of quaternions and

the method of least squares. It will be sufficient for the layman to

know that my preserved phantoms, rendered radio-active, would, upon

contact with the air, resume their spectral shape.



The possible extension of my business now was enormous, limited only by

the difficulty in collecting the necessary stock. It was by this time

almost as difficult to get ghosts as it was to get radium. Finding that

a part of my stock had spoiled, I was now possessed of only a few dozen

cans of apparitions, many of these being of inferior quality. I

immediately set about replenishing my raw material. It was not enough

for me to pick up a ghost here and there, as one might get old mahogany;

I determined to procure my phantoms in wholesale lots.



Accident favored my design. In an old volume of Blackwood's Magazine I

happened, one day, to come across an interesting article upon the battle

of Waterloo. It mentioned, incidentally, a legend to the effect that

every year, upon the anniversary of the celebrated victory, spectral

squadrons had been seen by the peasants charging battalions of ghostly

grenadiers. Here was my opportunity.



I made elaborate preparations for the capture of this job lot of

phantoms upon the next anniversary of the fight. Hard by the fatal ditch

which engulfed Napoleon's cavalry I stationed a corps of able

assistants provided with rapid-fire extinguishers ready to enfilade the

famous sunken road. I stationed myself with a No. 4 model magazine-hose,

with a four-inch nozzle, directly in the path which I knew would be

taken by the advancing squadron.



It was a fine, clear night, lighted, at first, by a slice of new moon;

but later, dark, except for the pale illumination of the stars. I have

seen many ghosts in my time--ghosts in garden and garret, at noon, at

dusk, at dawn, phantoms fanciful, and specters sad and spectacular--but

never have I seen such an impressive sight as this nocturnal charge of

cuirassiers, galloping in goblin glory to their time-honored doom. From

afar the French reserves presented the appearance of a nebulous mass,

like a low-lying cloud or fog-bank, faintly luminous, shot with

fluorescent gleams. As the squadron drew nearer in its desperate charge,

the separate forms of the troopers shaped themselves, and the galloping

guardsmen grew ghastly with supernatural splendor.



Although I knew them to be immaterial and without mass or weight, I was

terrified at their approach, fearing to be swept under the hoofs of the

nightmares they rode. Like one in a dream, I started to run, but in

another instant they were upon me, and I turned on my stream of

formaldybrom. Then I was overwhelmed in a cloud-burst of wild warlike

wraiths.



The column swept past me, over the bank, plunging to its historic fate.

The cut was piled full of frenzied, scrambling specters, as rank after

rank swept down into the horrid gut. At last the ditch swarmed full of

writhing forms and the carnage was dire.



My assistants with the extinguishers stood firm, and although almost

unnerved by the sight, they summoned their courage, and directed

simultaneous streams of formaldybrom into the struggling mass of

fantoms. As soon as my mind returned, I busied myself with the huge

tanks I had prepared for use as receivers. These were fitted with a

mechanism similar to that employed in portable forges, by which the

heavy vapor was sucked off. Luckily the night was calm, and I was

enabled to fill a dozen cylinders with the precipitated ghosts. The

segregation of individual forms was, of course, impossible, so that men

and horses were mingled in a horrible mixture of fricasseed spirits. I

intended subsequently to empty the soup into a large reservoir and allow

the separate specters to reform according to the laws of spiritual

cohesion.



Circumstances, however, prevented my ever accomplishing this result. I

returned home, to find awaiting me an order so large and important that

I had no time in which to operate upon my cylinders of cavalry.



My patron was the proprietor of a new sanatorium for nervous invalids,

located near some medicinal springs in the Catskills. His building was

unfortunately located, having been built upon the site of a once-famous

summer hotel, which, while filled with guests, had burnt to the ground,

scores of lives having been lost. Just before the patients were to be

installed in the new structure, it was found that the place was haunted

by the victims of the conflagration to a degree that rendered it

inconvenient as a health resort. My professional services were

requested, therefore, to render the building a fitting abode for

convalescents. I wrote to the proprietor, fixing my charge at five

thousand dollars. As my usual rate was one hundred dollars per ghost,

and over a hundred lives were lost at the fire, I considered this price

reasonable, and my offer was accepted.



The sanatorium job was finished in a week. I secured one hundred and two

superior spectral specimens, and upon my return to the laboratory, put

them up in heavily embossed tins with attractive labels in colors.



My delight at the outcome of this business was, however, soon

transformed to anger and indignation. The proprietor of the health

resort, having found that the specters from his place had been sold,

claimed a rebate upon the contract price equal to the value of the

modified ghosts transferred to my possession. This, of course, I could

not allow. I wrote, demanding immediate payment according to our

agreement, and this was peremptorily refused. The manager's letter was

insulting in the extreme. The Pied Piper of Hamelin was not worse

treated than I felt myself to be; so, like the piper, I determined to

have my revenge.



I got out the twelve tanks of Waterloo ghost-hash from the storerooms,

and treated them with radium for two days. These I shipped to the

Catskills billed as hydrogen gas. Then, accompanied by two trustworthy

assistants, I went to the sanatorium and preferred my demand for payment

in person. I was ejected with contumely. Before my hasty exit, however,

I had the satisfaction of noticing that the building was filled with

patients. Languid ladies were seated in wicker chairs upon the piazzas,

and frail anemic girls filled the corridors. It was a hospital of

nervous wrecks whom the slightest disturbance would throw into a panic.

I suppressed all my finer feelings of mercy and kindness and smiled

grimly as I walked back to the village.



That night was black and lowering, fitting weather for the pandemonium I

was about to turn loose. At ten o'clock, I loaded a wagon with the tanks

of compressed cohorts, and, muffled in heavy overcoats, we drove to the

sanatorium. All was silent as we approached; all was dark. The wagon

concealed in a grove of pines, we took out the tanks one by one, and

placed them beneath the ground-floor windows. The sashes were easily

forced open, and raised enough to enable us to insert the rubber tubes

connected with the iron reservoirs. At midnight everything was ready.



I gave the word, and my assistants ran from tank to tank, opening the

stopcocks. With a hiss as of escaping steam the huge vessels emptied

themselves, vomiting forth clouds of vapor, which, upon contact with the

air, coagulated into strange shapes as the white of an egg does when

dropped into boiling water. The rooms became instantly filled with

dismembered shades of men and horses seeking wildly to unite themselves

with their proper parts.



Legs ran down the corridors, seeking their respective trunks, arms

writhed wildly reaching for missing bodies, heads rolled hither and yon

in search of native necks. Horses' tails and hoofs whisked and hurried

in quest of equine ownership until, reorganized, the spectral steeds

galloped about to find their riders.



Had it been possible, I would have stopped this riot of wraiths long ere

this, for it was more awful than I had anticipated, but it was already

too late. Cowering in the garden, I began to hear the screams of

awakened and distracted patients. In another moment, the front door of

the hotel was burst open, and a mob of hysterical women in expensive

nightgowns rushed out upon the lawn, and huddled in shrieking groups.



I fled into the night.



I fled, but Napoleon's men fled with me. Compelled by I know not what

fatal astral attraction, perhaps the subtle affinity of the creature for

the creator, the spectral shells, moved by some mysterious mechanics of

spiritual being, pursued me with fatuous fury. I sought refuge, first,

in my laboratory, but, even as I approached, a lurid glare foretold me

of its destruction. As I drew nearer, the whole ghost-factory was seen

to be in flames; every moment crackling reports were heard, as the

over-heated tins of phantasmagoria exploded and threw their supernatural

contents upon the night. These liberated ghosts joined the army of

Napoleon's outraged warriors, and turned upon me. There was not enough

formaldybrom in all the world to quench their fierce energy. There was

no place in all the world safe for me from their visitation. No

ghost-extinguisher was powerful enough to lay the host of spirits that

haunted me henceforth, and I had neither time nor money left with which

to construct new Gatling quick-firing tanks.



It is little comfort to me to know that one hundred nervous invalids

were completely restored to health by means of the terrific shock which

I administered.









"DEY AIN'T NO GHOSTS"



BY ELLIS PARKER BUTLER



From the Century Magazine, November, 1911. By permission of the

Century Company and Ellis Parker Butler.









Humorous Ghost Stories Dey Ain't No Ghosts



BY ELLIS PARKER BUTLER





Once 'pon a time dey was a li'l' black boy whut he name was Mose. An'

whin he come erlong to be 'bout knee-high to a mewel, he 'gin to git

powerful 'fraid ob ghosts, 'ca'se dat am sure a mighty ghostly location

whut he lib' in, 'ca'se dey 's a grabeyard in de hollow, an' a

buryin'-ground on de hill, an' a cemuntary in betwixt an' between, an'

dey ain't nuffin' but trees nowhar excipt in de clearin' by de shanty

an' down de hollow whar de pumpkin-patch am.



An' whin de night come erlong, dey ain't no sounds at all whut kin be

heard in dat locality but de rain-doves, whut mourn out,

"Oo-oo-o-o-o!" jes dat trembulous an' scary, an' de owls, whut mourn

out, "Whut-whoo-o-o-o!" more trembulous an' scary dan dat, an' de

wind, whut mourn out, "You-you-o-o-o!" mos' scandalous' trembulous an'

scary ob all. Dat a powerful onpleasant locality for a li'l' black boy

whut he name was Mose.



'Ca'se dat li'l' black boy he so specially black he can't be seen in de

dark at all 'cept by de whites ob he eyes. So whin he go' outen de

house at night, he ain't dast shut he eyes, 'ca'se den ain't nobody

can see him in de least. He jes as invidsible as nuffin'. An' who know'

but whut a great, big ghost bump right into him 'ca'se it can't see him?

An' dat shore w'u'd scare dat li'l' black boy powerful' bad, 'ca'se

yever'body knows whut a cold, damp pussonality a ghost is.



So whin dat li'l' black Mose go' outen de shanty at night, he keep' he

eyes wide open, you may be shore. By day he eyes 'bout de size ob

butter-pats, an' come sundown he eyes 'bout de size ob saucers; but whin

he go' outen de shanty at night, he eyes am de size ob de white chiny

plate whut set on de mantel; an' it powerful' hard to keep eyes whut am

de size ob dat from a-winkin' an' a-blinkin'.



So whin Hallowe'en come' erlong, dat li'l' black Mose he jes mek' up he

mind he ain't gwine outen he shack at all. He cogitate he gwine stay

right snug in de shack wid he pa an' he ma, 'ca'se de rain-doves tek

notice dat de ghosts are philanderin' roun' de country, 'ca'se dey mourn

out, "Oo-oo-o-o-o!" an' de owls dey mourn out, "Whut-whoo-o-o-o!"

an' de wind mourn out, "You-you-o-o-o!" De eyes ob dat li'l' black

Mose dey as big as de white chiny plate whut set on de mantel by side de

clock, an' de sun jes a-settin'.



So dat all right. Li'l' black Mose he scrooge' back in de corner by de

fireplace, an' he 'low' he gwine stay dere till he gwine to bed. But

byme-by Sally Ann, whut live' up de road, draps in, an' Mistah Sally

Ann, whut is her husban', he draps in, an' Zack Badget an' de

school-teacher whut board' at Unc' Silas Diggs's house drap in, an' a

powerful lot ob folks drap in. An' li'l' black Mose he seen dat gwine be

one s'prise-party, an' he right down cheerful 'bout dat.



So all dem folks shake dere hands an' 'low "Howdy," an' some ob dem say:

"Why, dere's li'l' Mose! Howdy, li'l' Mose?" An' he so please' he jes

grin' an' grin', 'ca'se he ain't reckon whut gwine happen. So byme-by

Sally Ann, whut live up de road, she say', "Ain't no sort o' Hallowe'en

lest we got a jack-o'-lantern." An' de school-teacher, whut board at

Unc' Silas Diggs's house, she 'low', "Hallowe'en jes no Hallowe'en at

all 'thout we got a jack-o'-lantern." An' li'l' black Mose he stop'

a-grinnin', an' he scrooge' so far back in de corner he 'mos' scrooge

frough de wall. But dat ain't no use, 'ca'se he ma say', "Mose, go on

down to de pumpkin-patch an' fotch a pumpkin."



"I ain't want to go," say' li'l' black Mose.



"Go on erlong wid yo'," say' he ma, right commandin'.



"I ain't want to go," say' Mose ag'in.



"Why ain't yo' want to go?" he ma ask'.



"'Ca'se I's afraid ob de ghosts," say' li'l' black Mose, an' dat de

particular truth an' no mistake.



"Dey ain't no ghosts," say' de school-teacher, whut board at Unc' Silas

Diggs's house, right peart.



"'Co'se dey ain't no ghosts," say' Zack Badget, whut dat 'fear'd ob

ghosts he ain't dar' come to li'l' black Mose's house ef de

school-teacher ain't ercompany him.



"Go 'long wid your ghosts!" say li'l' black Mose's ma.



"Wha' yo' pick up dat nomsense?" say' he pa. "Dey ain't no ghosts."



An' dat whut all dat s'prise-party 'low: dey ain't no ghosts. An' dey

'low dey mus' hab a jack-o'-lantern or de fun all sp'iled. So dat li'l'

black boy whut he name is Mose he done got to fotch a pumpkin from de

pumpkin-patch down de hollow. So he step'outen de shanty an' he stan' on

de doorstep twell he get' he eyes pried open as big as de bottom ob he

ma's wash-tub, mostly, an' he say', "Dey ain't no ghosts." An' he put'

one foot on de ground, an' dat was de fust step.



An' de rain-dove say', "OO-oo-o-o-o!"



An' li'l' black Mose he tuck anudder step.



An' de owl mourn' out, "Whut-whoo-o-o-o!"



An' li'l' black Mose he tuck anudder step.



An' de wind sob' out, "You-you-o-o-o!"



An' li'l' black Mose he tuck one look ober he shoulder, an' he shut he

eyes so tight dey hurt round de aidges, an' he pick' up he foots an'

run. Yas, sah, he run' right peart fast. An' he say': "Dey ain't no

ghosts. Dey ain't no ghosts." An' he run' erlong de paff whut lead' by

de buryin'-ground on de hill, 'ca'se dey ain't no fince eround dat

buryin'-ground at all.



No fince; jes' de big trees whut de owls an' de rain-doves sot in an'

mourn an' sob, an' whut de wind sigh an' cry frough. An byme-by somefin'

jes' brush' li'l' Mose on de arm, which mek' him run jes a bit more

faster. An' byme-by somefin' jes brush' li'l' Mose on de cheek, which

mek' him run erbout as fast as he can. An' byme-by somefin' grab' li'l'

Mose by de aidge of he coat, an' he fight' an' struggle' an' cry out:

"Dey ain't no ghosts. Dey ain't no ghosts." An' dat ain't nuffin' but de

wild brier whut grab' him, an' dat ain't nuffin' but de leaf ob a tree

whut brush' he cheek, an' dat ain't nuffin' but de branch ob a

hazel-bush whut brush' he arm. But he downright scared jes de same, an'

he ain't lose no time, 'ca'se de wind an' de owls an' de rain-doves dey

signerfy whut ain't no good. So he scoot' past dat buryin'-ground whut

on de hill, an' dat cemuntary whut betwixt an' between, an' dat

grabeyard in de hollow, twell he come' to de pumpkin-patch, an' he

rotch' down an' tek' erhold ob de bestest pumpkin whut in de patch. An'

he right smart scared. He jes' de mostest scared li'l' black boy whut

yever was. He ain't gwine open he eyes fo' nuffin', 'ca'se de wind go,

"You-you-o-o-o!" an' de owls go, "Whut-whoo-o-o-o!" an' de

rain-doves go, "Oo-oo-o-o-o!"



He jes speculate', "Dey ain't no ghosts," an' wish' he hair don't stand

on ind dat way. An' he jes cogitate', "Dey ain't no ghosts," an' wish'

he goose-pimples don't rise up dat way. An' he jes 'low', "Dey ain't no

ghosts," an' wish' he backbone ain't all trembulous wid chills dat way.

So he rotch' down, an' he rotch' down, twell he git' a good hold on dat

pricklesome stem of dat bestest pumpkin whut in de patch, an' he jes

yank' dat stem wid all he might.



"Let loosen my head!" say' a big voice all on a suddent.



Dat li'l' black boy whut he name is Mose he jump' 'most outen he skin.

He open' he eyes, an' he 'gin to shake like de aspen-tree, 'ca'se whut

dat a-standin' right dar behint him but a 'mendjous big ghost! Yas, sah,

dat de bigges', whites' ghost whut yever was. An' it ain't got no head.

Ain't got no head at all! Li'l' black Mose he jes drap' on he knees

an' he beg' an' pray':



"Oh, 'scuse me! 'Scuse me, Mistah Ghost!" he beg'. "Ah ain't mean no

harm at all."



"Whut for you try to take my head?" ask' de ghost in dat fearsome voice

whut like de damp wind outen de cellar.



"'Scuse me! 'Scuse me!" beg' li'l' Mose. "Ah ain't know dat was yo'

head, an' I ain't know you was dar at all. 'Scuse me!"



"Ah 'scuse you ef you do me dis favor," say' de ghost. "Ah got somefin'

powerful important to say unto you, an' Ah can't say hit 'ca'se Ah

ain't got no head; an' whin Ah ain't got no head, Ah ain't got no mouf,

an' whin Ah ain't got no mouf, Ah can't talk at all."



An' dat right logical fo' shore. Can't nobody talk whin he ain't got no

mouf, an' can't nobody have no mouf whin he ain't got no head, an' whin

li'l' black Mose he look', he see' dat ghost ain't got no head at all.

Nary head.



So de ghost say':



"Ah come on down yere fo' to git a pumpkin fo' a head, an' Ah pick' dat

ixact pumpkin whut yo' gwine tek, an' Ah don't like dat one bit. No,

sah. Ah feel like Ah pick yo' up an' carry yo' away, an' nobody see you

no more for yever. But Ah got somefin' powerful important to say unto

yo', an' if yo' pick up dat pumpkin an' sot it on de place whar my head

ought to be, Ah let you off dis time, 'ca'se Ah ain't been able to talk

fo' so long Ah right hongry to say somefin'."



So li'l' black Mose he heft up dat pumpkin, an' de ghost he bend' down,

an' li'l' black Mose he sot dat pumpkin on dat ghostses neck. An' right

off dat pumpkin head 'gin' to wink an' blink like a jack-o'-lantern, an'

right off dat pumpkin head 'gin' to glimmer an' glow frough de mouf like

a jack-o'-lantern, an' right off dat ghost start' to speak. Yas, sah,

dass so.



"Whut yo' want to say unto me?" inquire' li'l' black Mose.



"Ah want to tell yo'," say' de ghost, "dat yo' ain't need yever be

skeered of ghosts, 'ca'se dey ain't no ghosts."



An' whin he say dat, de ghost jes vanish' away like de smoke in July. He

ain't even linger round dat locality like de smoke in Yoctober. He jes

dissipate' outen de air, an' he gone intirely.



So li'l' Mose he grab' up de nex' bestest pumpkin an' he scoot'. An'

whin he come' to de grabeyard in de hollow, he goin' erlong same as

yever, on'y faster, whin he reckon' he'll pick up a club in case he

gwine have trouble. An' he rotch' down an' rotch' down an' tek' hold of

a likely appearin' hunk o' wood whut right dar. An' whin he grab' dat

hunk of wood----



"Let loosen my leg!" say' a big voice all on a suddent.



Dat li'l' black boy 'most jump' outen he skin, 'ca'se right dar in de

paff is six 'mendjus big ghostes an' de bigges' ain't got but one leg.

So li'l' black Mose jes natchully handed dat hunk of wood to dat bigges'

ghost, an' he say':



"'Scuse me, Mistah Ghost; Ah ain't know dis your leg."



An' whut dem six ghostes do but stand round an' confabulate? Yas, sah,

dass so. An' whin dey do so, one say':



"'Pears like dis a mighty likely li'l' black boy. Whut we gwine do fo'

to reward him fo' politeness?"



An' annuder say':



"Tell him whut de truth is 'bout ghostes."



So de bigges' ghost he say':



"Ah gwine tell yo' somefin' important whut yever'body don't know: Dey

ain't no ghosts."



An' whin he say' dat, de ghostes jes natchully vanish away, an' li'l'

black Mose he proceed' up de paff. He so scared he hair jes yank' at de

roots, an' whin de wind go', "Oo-oo-o-o-o!" an' de owl go',

"Whut-whoo-o-o-o!" an' de rain-doves go, "You-you-o-o-o-!" he jes

tremble' an' shake'. An' byme-by he come' to de cemuntary whut betwixt

an' between, an' he shore is mighty skeered, 'ca'se dey is a whole

comp'ny of ghostes lined up along de road, an' he 'low' he ain't gwine

spind no more time palaverin' wid ghostes. So he step' offen de road fo'

to go round erbout, an' he step' on a pine-stump whut lay right dar.



"Git offen my chest!" say' a big voice all on a suddent, 'ca'se dat

stump am been selected by de captain ob de ghostes for to be he chest,

'ca'se he ain't got no chest betwixt he shoulders an' he legs. An' li'l'

black Mose he hop' offen dat stump right peart. Yes, sah; right peart.



"'Scuse me! 'Scuse me!" dat li'l' black Mose beg' an' plead', an' de

ghostes ain't know whuther to eat him all up or not, 'ca'se he step on

de boss ghostes's chest dat a-way. But byme-by they 'low they let him go

'ca'se dat was an accident, an' de captain ghost he say', "Mose, you

Mose, Ah gwine let you off dis time, 'ca'se you ain't nuffin' but a

misabul li'l' tremblin' nigger; but Ah want you should remimimber one

thing mos' particular'."



"Ya-yas, sah," say' dat li'l' black boy; "Ah'll remimber. Whut is dat Ah

got to remimber?"



De captain ghost he swell' up, an' he swell' up, twell he as big as a

house, an' he say' in a voice whut shake' de ground:



"Dey ain't no ghosts."



So li'l' black Mose he bound to remimber dat, an' he rise' up an' mek' a

bow, an' he proceed' toward home right libely. He do, indeed.



An' he gwine along jes as fast as he kin, whin he come' to de aidge ob

de buryin'-ground whut on de hill, an' right dar he bound to stop,

'ca'se de kentry round about am so populate' he ain't able to go frough.

Yas, sah, seem' like all de ghostes in de world habin' a conferince

right dar. Seem' like all de ghosteses whut yever was am havin' a

convintion on dat spot. An' dat li'l' black Mose so skeered he jes fall'

down on a' old log whut dar an' screech' an' moan'. An' all on a suddent

de log up and spoke:



"Get offen me! Get offen me!" yell' dat log.



So li'l' black Mose he git' offen dat log, an' no mistake.



An' soon as he git' offen de log, de log uprise, an' li'l' black Mose he

see' dat dat log am de king ob all de ghostes. An' whin de king uprise,

all de congergation crowd round li'l' black Mose, an' dey am about leben

millium an' a few lift over. Yas, sah; dat de reg'lar annyul Hallowe'en

convintion whut li'l' black Mose interrup'. Right dar am all de sperits

in de world, an' all de ha'nts in de world, an' all de hobgoblins in de

world, an' all de ghouls in de world, an' all de spicters in de world,

an' all de ghostes in de world. An' whin dey see li'l' black Mose, dey

all gnash dey teef an' grin' 'ca'se it gettin' erlong toward dey-all's

lunch-time. So de king, whut he name old Skull-an'-Bones, he step' on

top ob li'l' Mose's head, an' he say':



"Gin'l'min, de convintion will come to order. De sicretary please note

who is prisint. De firs' business whut come' before de convintion am:

whut we gwine do to a li'l' black boy whut stip' on de king an' maul'

all ober de king an' treat' de king dat disrespictful'."



An li'l' black Mose jes moan' an' sob':



"'Scuse me! 'Scuse me, Mistah King! Ah ain't mean no harm at all."



But nobody ain't pay no attintion to him at all, 'ca'se yevery one

lookin' at a monstrous big ha'nt whut name Bloody Bones, whut rose up

an' spoke.



"Your Honor, Mistah King, an' gin'l'min an' ladies," he say', "dis am

a right bad case ob lasy majesty, 'ca'se de king been step on. Whin

yivery li'l' black boy whut choose' gwine wander round at night an'

stip on de king ob ghostes, it ain't no time for to palaver, it ain't no

time for to prevaricate, it ain't no time for to cogitate, it ain't no

time do nuffin' but tell de truth, an' de whole truth, an' nuffin' but

de truth."



An' all dem ghostes sicond de motion, an' dey confabulate out loud

erbout dat, an' de noise soun' like de rain-doves goin',

"Oo-oo-o-o-o!" an' de owls goin', "Whut-whoo-o-o-o!" an' de wind

goin', "You-you-o-o-o!" So dat risolution am passed unanermous, an' no

mistake.



So de king ob de ghostes, whut name old Skull-an'-Bones, he place' he

hand on de head ob li'l' black Mose, an' he hand feel like a wet rag,

an' he say':



"Dey ain't no ghosts."



An' one ob de hairs whut on de head of li'l' black Mose turn' white.



An' de monstrous big ha'nt whut he name Bloody Bones he lay he hand on

de head ob li'l' black Mose, an' he hand feel like a toadstool in de

cool ob de day, an' he say':



"Dey ain't no ghosts."



An' anudder ob de hairs whut on de head ob li'l' black Mose turn' white.



An' a heejus sperit whut he name Moldy Pa'm place' he hand on de head ob

li'l' black Mose, an' he hand feel like de yunner side ob a lizard, an'

he say':



"Dey ain't no ghosts."



An' anudder ob de hairs whut on de head ob li'l' black Mose turn white

as snow.



An' a perticklar bend-up hobgoblin he put' he hand on de head ob li'l'

black Mose, an' he mek' dat same remark, an' dat whole convintion ob

ghostes an' spicters an' ha'nts an' yiver'thing, which am more 'n a

millium, pass by so quick dey-all's hands feel lak de wind whut blow

outen de cellar whin de day am hot, an' dey-all say, "Dey ain't no

ghosts." Yas, sah, dey-all say dem wo'ds so fas' it soun' like de wind

whin it moan frough de turkentine-trees whut behind de cider-priss. An'

yivery hair whut on li'l' black Mose's head turn' white. Dat whut

happen' whin a li'l' black boy gwine meet a ghost convintion dat-a-way.

Dat's so he ain' gwine forgit to remimber dey ain't no ghostes. 'Ca'se

ef a li'l' black boy gwine imaginate dey is ghostes, he gwine be

skeered in de dark. An' dat a foolish thing for to imaginate.



So prisintly all de ghostes am whiff away, like de fog outen de holler

whin de wind blow' on it, an' li'l' black Mose he ain' see no ca'se for

to remain in dat locality no longer. He rotch' down, an' he raise' up de

pumpkin, an' he perambulate' right quick to he ma's shack, an' he lift'

up de latch, an' he open' de do', an' he yenter' in. An' he say':



"Yere's de pumpkin."



An' he ma an' he pa, an' Sally Ann, whut live up de road, an' Mistah

Sally Ann, whut her husban', an' Zack Badget, an' de school-teacher whut

board at Unc' Silas Diggs's house, an' all de powerful lot of folks whut

come to de doin's, dey all scrooged back in de cornder ob de shack,

'ca'se Zack Badget he been done tell a ghost-tale, an' de rain-doves

gwine, "Oo-oo-o-o-o!" an' de owls am gwine, "Whut-whoo-o-o-o!" and

de wind it gwine, "You-you-o-o-o!" an' yiver'body powerful skeered.

'Ca'se li'l' black Mose he come' a-fumblin' an' a-rattlin' at de do' jes

whin dat ghost-tale mos' skeery, an' yiver'body gwine imaginate dat he a

ghost a-fumblin' an' a-rattlin' at de do'. Yas, sah. So li'l' black Mose

he turn' he white head, an' he look' roun' an' peer' roun', an' he say':



"Whut you all skeered fo'?"



'Ca'se ef anybody skeered, he want' to be skeered too. Dat's natural.

But de school-teacher, whut live at Unc' Silas Diggs's house, she say':



"Fo' de lan's sake, we fought you was a ghost!"



So li'l' black Mose he sort ob sniff an' he sort ob sneer, an' he 'low':



"Huh! dey ain't no ghosts."



Den he ma she powerful took back dat li'l' black Mose he gwine be so

uppetish an' contrydict folks whut know 'rifmeticks an' algebricks an'

gin'ral countin' widout fingers, like de school-teacher whut board at

Unc' Silas Diggs's house knows, an' she say':



"Huh! whut you know 'bout ghosts, anner ways?"



An' li'l' black Mose he jes kinder stan' on one foot, an' he jes kinder

suck' he thumb, an' he jes kinder 'low':



"I don't know nuffin' erbout ghosts, 'ca'se dey ain't no ghosts."



So he pa gwine whop him fo' tellin' a fib 'bout dey ain' no ghosts whin

yiver'body know' dey is ghosts; but de school-teacher, whut board at

Unc' Silas Diggs's house, she tek' note de hair ob li'l' black Mose's

head am plumb white, an' she tek' note li'l' black Mose's face am de

color ob wood-ash, so she jes retch' one arm round dat li'l' black boy,

an' she jes snuggle' him up, an' she say':



"Honey lamb, don't you be skeered; ain' nobody gwine hurt you. How you

know dey ain't no ghosts?"



An' li'l' black Mose he kinder lean' up 'g'inst de school-teacher whut

board at Unc' Silas Diggs's house, an' he 'low':



"'Ca'se--'ca'se--'ca'se I met de cap'n ghost, an' I met de gin'ral

ghost, an' I met de king ghost, an' I met all de ghostes whut yiver was

in de whole worl', an' yivery ghost say' de same thing: 'Dey ain't no

ghosts.' An' if de cap'n ghost an' de gin'ral ghost an' de king ghost

an' all de ghostes in de whole worl' don't know ef dar am ghostes, who

does?"



"Das right; das right, honey lamb," say' de school-teacher. And she

say': "I been s'picious dey ain' no ghostes dis long whiles, an' now I

know. Ef all de ghostes say dey ain' no ghosts, dey ain' no ghosts."



So yiver'body 'low' dat so 'cep' Zack Badget, whut been tellin' de

ghost-tale, an' he ain' gwine say "Yis" an' he ain' gwine say "No,"

'ca'se he right sweet on de school-teacher; but he know right well he

done seen plinty ghostes in he day. So he boun' to be sure fust. So he

say' to li'l' black Mose:



"'T ain't likely you met up wid a monstrous big ha'nt whut live' down de

lane whut he name Bloody Bones?"



"Yas," say' li'l' black Mose; "I done met up wid him."



"An' did old Bloody Bones done tol' you dey ain' no ghosts?" say Zack

Badget.



"Yas," say' li'l' black Mose, "he done tell me perzackly dat."



"Well, if he tol' you dey ain't no ghosts," say' Zack Badget, "I got

to 'low dey ain't no ghosts, 'ca'se he ain' gwine tell no lie erbout it.

I know dat Bloody Bones ghost sence I was a piccaninny, an' I done met

up wif him a powerful lot o' times, an' he ain't gwine tell no lie

erbout it. Ef dat perticklar ghost say' dey ain't no ghosts, dey ain't

no ghosts."



So yiver'body say':



"Das right; dey ain' no ghosts."



An' dat mek' li'l' black Mose feel mighty good, 'ca'se he ain' lak

ghostes. He reckon' he gwine be a heap mo' comfortable in he mind sence

he know' dey ain' no ghosts, an' he reckon' he ain' gwine be skeered of

nuffin' never no more. He ain' gwine min' de dark, an' he ain' gwine

min' de rain-doves whut go', "Oo-oo-o-o-o!" an' he ain' gwine min' de

owls whut go', "Who-whoo-o-o-o!" an' he ain' gwine min' de wind whut

go', "You-you-o-o-o!" nor nuffin', nohow. He gwine be brave as a lion,

sence he know' fo' sure dey ain' no ghosts. So prisintly he ma say':



"Well, time fo' a li'l' black boy whut he name is Mose to be gwine up de

ladder to de loft to bed."



An' li'l' black Mose he 'low' he gwine wait a bit. He 'low' he gwine jes

wait a li'l' bit. He 'low' he gwine be no trouble at all ef he jes

been let wait twell he ma she gwine up de ladder to de loft to bed, too.

So he ma she say':



"Git erlong wid yo'! Whut yo' skeered ob whin dey ain't no ghosts?"



An' li'l' black Mose he scrooge', and he twist', an' he pucker' up de

mouf, an' he rub' he eyes, an' prisintly he say' right low:



"I ain' skeered ob ghosts whut am, 'ca'se dey ain' no ghosts."



"Den whut am yo' skeered ob?" ask he ma.



"Nuffin," say' de li'l' black boy whut he name is Mose; "but I jes feel

kinder oneasy 'bout de ghosts whut ain't."



Jes lak white folks! Jes lak white folks!





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