The Mammoth Book of Modern Ghost Stories

“I felt I didn’t want to sleep in that room on the north side so, heat or no heat, I moved back to my own quarters. Well, exactly four weeks later, about two in the morning, I was waked up by the madman’s chuckle. It was almost at my elbow. I don’t mind telling you that my nerve was a bit shaken by then, so next time the blighter was due to have an attack, next time the moon was full, I mean, I got Fernandez to come and spend the night with me. I didn’t tell him anything. I kept him up playing cards till two in the morning, and then I heard it again. I asked him if he heard anything. ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘There’s somebody laughing,’ I said. ‘You’re drunk, man,’ he said, and he began laughing too. That was too much. ‘Shut up, you fool,’ I said. The laughter grew louder and louder. I cried out. I tried to shut it out by putting my hands to my ears, but it wasn’t a damned bit of good. I heard it and I heard the scream of pain. Fernandez thought I was mad. He didn’t dare say so, because he knew I’d have killed him. He said he’d go to bed, and in the morning I found he’d slunk away. His bed hadn’t been slept in. He’d taken himself off when he left me.

“After that I couldn’t stop in Ecija. I put a factor there and went back to Seville. I felt myself pretty safe there, but as the time came near I began to get scared. Of course I told myself not to be a damned fool, but you know, I damned well couldn’t help myself. The fact is, I was afraid the sounds had followed me, and I knew if I heard them in Seville I’d go on hearing them all my life. I’ve got as much courage as any man, but damn it all, there are limits to everything. Flesh and blood couldn’t stand it. I knew I’d go stark staring mad. I got in such a state that I began drinking, the suspense was so awful, and I used to lie awake counting the days. And at last I knew it’d come. And it came. I heard those sounds in Seville – sixty miles away from Ecija.”

I didn’t know what to say. I was silent for a while.

“When did you hear the sounds last?” I asked.

“Four weeks ago.”

I looked up quickly. I was startled.

“What d’you mean by that? It’s not full moon tonight?”

He gave me a dark, angry look. He opened his mouth to speak and then stopped as though he couldn’t. You would have said his vocal cords were paralysed, and it was with a strange croak that at last he answered.

“Yes, it is.”

He stared at me and his pale blue eyes seemed to shine red. I have never seen in a man’s face a look of such terror. He got up quickly and stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

I must admit that I didn’t sleep any too well that night myself.

The Last Laugh

D. H. Lawrence

Location:  Hampstead, London.

Time:  December, 1927.

Eyewitness Description:  “The whirling, snowy air seemed full of presences, full of strange unheard voices. She was used to the sensation of noises taking place which she could not hear. The sensation became very strong. She felt something was happening in the wild air.”

Author:  David Herbert Lawrence (1885–1930), the frail son of a Nottinghamshire miner and former schoolteacher turned writer, is forever associated with Lady Chatterley’s Lover, first published in Florence in 1928. In this he attempted to interpret human emotions on a deeper level of consciousness than his contemporaries and found himself prosecuted for obscenity on the one hand, but becoming a massive influence on the young intellectuals of his time on the other. Like Somerset Maugham, he lived in various parts of the world including Germany, Austria, Italy and Capri before settling in Mexico for the sake of his health. Although often attacked for his eroticism, Lawrence was capable of brilliantly descriptive short stories and three of these demonstrate a typically challenging approach to the supernatural: “The Rocking Horse Winner” featuring a boy who can predict winning horses; “The Woman Who Rode Away” about Native American supernaturalism; and “The Last Laugh” which, with its chilling setting, wild pagan mood and unexpected finale, is undoubtedly one of the finest conte cruel tales of the “Golden Era”.

There was a little snow on the ground, and the church clock had just struck midnight. Hampstead in the night of winter for once was looking pretty, with clean white earth and lamps for moon, and dark sky above the lamps.