The Mammoth Book of Modern Ghost Stories

The cops were reluctant to leave without getting their hands on somebody besides grandfather; the night had been distinctly a defeat for them. Furthermore, they obviously didn’t like the “layout”; something looked – and I can see their viewpoint – phony. They began to poke into things again. A reporter, a thin-faced, wispy man, came up to me. I had put on one of mother’s blouses, not being able to find anything else. The reporter looked at me with mingled suspicion and interest. “Just what the hell is the real lowdown here, Bud?” he asked. I decided to be frank with him. “We had ghosts,” I said. He gazed at me a long time as if I were a slot machine into which he had, without results, dropped a nickel. Then he walked away. The cops followed him, the one grandfather shot holding his now-bandaged arm, cursing and blaspheming. “I’m gonna get my gun back from that old bird,” said the zither-cop. “Yeh,” said Joe. “You – and who else?” I told them I would bring it to the station house the next day.

“What was the matter with that one policeman?” mother asked, after they had gone. “Grandfather shot him,” I said. “What for?” she demanded. I told her he was a deserter. “Of all things!” said mother. “He was such a nice-looking young man.”

Grandfather was fresh as a daisy and full of jokes at breakfast next morning. We thought at first he had forgotten all about what had happened, but he hadn’t. Over his third cup of coffee, he glared at Herman and me. “What was the idee of all them cops tarryhootin’ round the house last night?” he demanded. He had us there.

Sir Tristram Goes West

Eric Keown

Location:  Ararat, Florida, USA.

Time:  Autumn, 1934.

Eyewitness Description:  “The story goes that his father, a fire-eating old Royalist, got so bored at always finding his son mooning about in the library when he might have been out trailing Cromwell, that when he was dying he laid a curse on Tristram which can only be expunged by a single-handed act of valour . . .”

Author:  Eric Oliver Dilworth Keown (1860–1963) was born in Mobile, Alabama, where his family were involved in the oil industry. After majoring in literature at Alabama University, he began writing humorous stories and sketches for American magazines. At the turn of the century Keown moved to Britain, settled in the pretty Surrey village of Worplesdon and became a regular contributor to Punch magazine. He wrote numerous comic sketches, scripts for several British comedy films and biographies of two popular English actresses, Peggy Ashcroft and Margaret Rutherford. Keown’s hilarious tale of a ghost being shipped across the Atlantic when the family mansion is transported to Florida was spotted in Punch in 1935 by producer Alexander Korda, fresh from his triumph filming H. G. Wells’ Things To Come, and adapted for the screen as The Ghost Goes West. Directed by Rene Clair, the picture starred Robert Donat in the dual role of clan chief and ghost and Eugene Pallete as the American millionaire. The script by Geoffrey Kerr got in some sly digs at American imperialism and with Special Effects designer Ned Mann creating a series of convincing supernatural illusions, the result was a classic ghost movie, a big success at the box office and one still regularly reshown on late night TV.

Three men sat and talked at the long table in the library of Moat Place. Many dramatic conversations had occurred in that mellow and celebrated room, some of them radically affecting whole pages of English history; but none so vital as this to the old house itself. For its passport was being viséd to the United States.

Lord Mullion sighed gently. He was wondering whether, if a vote could be taken amongst his ancestors – most of whose florid portraits had already crossed the Atlantic – they would condemn or approve his action. Old Red Roger, his grandfather, would have burnt the place round him rather than sell an inch of it. But then Red Roger had never been up against an economic crisis. And at that moment, the afternoon sun flooding suddenly the great oriel window, a vivid shaft of light stabbed the air like a rapier and illuminated Mr Julius Plugg’s chequebook, which was lying militantly on the table.

“Would you go to forty thousand?” asked Lord Mullion.

Mr Plugg’s bushy eyebrows climbed a good half-inch. When they rose further a tremor was usually discernible in Wall Street.

“I’ll say it’s a tall price for an old joint,” he said. “Well – I might.”

Lord Mullion turned to the Eminent Architect. “You’re absolutely certain that the house can be successfully replanted in Mr Plugg’s back garden, like a damned azalea?”