The Mammoth Book of Modern Ghost Stories

“Oh, by the way, he must be downstairs! No, he was only incidental. So, I suppose, was the woman in the shawl. Did you stay all night?”

“Not entirely. I came away before dawn. What did you do?”

“Don’t shout. I came home long before dawn.” And she seemed to hear the long, low laughter.

“Why, what’s the matter!” he said curiously. “What have you been doing?”

“I don’t quite know. Why? – are you going to call me to account?”

“Did you hear that laughing?”

“Oh, yes. And many more things. And saw things too.”

“Have you seen the paper?”

“No. Don’t shout, I can hear.”

“There’s been a great storm, blew out the windows and doors of the church outside here, and pretty well wrecked the place.”

“I saw it. A leaf of the church Bible blew right in my face: from the Book of Job –” she gave a low laugh.

“But what else did you see?” he cried loudly.

“I saw him.”

“Who?”

“Ah, that I can’t say.”

“But what was he like?”

“That I can’t tell you. I don’t really know.”

“But you must know. Did your policeman see him too?”

“No, I don’t suppose he did. My policeman!” And she went off into a long ripple of laughter. “He is by no means mine. But I must go downstairs and see him.”

“It’s certainly made you very strange,” Marchbanks said. “You’ve got no soul, you know.”

“Oh, thank goodness for that!” she cried. “My policeman has one, I’m sure. My policeman!” And she went off again into a long peal of laughter, the canaries pealing shrill accompaniment.

“What’s the matter with you?” he said.

“Having no soul. I never had one really. It was always fobbed off on me. Soul was the only thing there was between you and me. Thank goodness it’s gone. Haven’t you lost yours? The one that seemed to worry you, like a decayed tooth?”

“But what are you talking about?” he cried.

“I don’t know,” she said. “It’s all so extraordinary. But look here, I must go down and see my policeman. He’s downstairs in the sitting-room. You’d better come with me.”

They went down together. The policeman, in his waistcoat and shirt-sleeves, was lying on the sofa, with a very long face.

“Look here!” said Miss James to him. “Is it true you’re lame?”

“It is true. That’s why I’m here. I can’t walk,” said the fair-haired young man as tears came to his eyes.

“But how did it happen? You weren’t lame last night,” she said.

“I don’t know how it happened – but when I woke up and tried to stand up, I couldn’t do it.” The tears ran down his distressed face.

“How very extraordinary!” she said. “What can we do about it?”

“Which foot is it?” asked Marchbanks. “Let us have a look at it.”

“I don’t like to,” said the poor devil.

“You’d better,” said Miss James.

He slowly pulled off his stocking, and showed his white left foot curiously clubbed, like the weird paw of some animal. When he looked at it himself, he sobbed.

And as he sobbed, the girl heard again the low, exulting laughter. But she paid no heed to it, gazing curiously at the weeping young policeman.

“Does it hurt?” she asked.

“It does if I try to walk on it,” wept the young man.

“I’ll tell you what,” she said. “We’ll telephone for a doctor, and he can take you home in a taxi.”

The young fellow shamefacedly wiped his eyes.

“But have you no idea how it happened?” asked Marchbanks anxiously.

“I haven’t myself,” said the young fellow.

At that moment the girl heard the low, eternal laugh right in her ear. She started, but could see nothing.

She started round again as Marchbanks gave a strange, yelping cry, like a shot animal. His white face was drawn, distorted in a curious grin, that was chiefly agony but partly wild recognition. He was staring with fixed eyes at something. And in the rolling agony of his eyes was the horrible grin of a man who realizes he has made a final, and this time fatal, fool of himself.

“Why,” he yelped in a high voice, “I knew it was he!” And with a queer shuddering laugh he pitched forward on the carpet and lay writhing for a moment on the floor. Then he lay still, in a weird, distorted position, like a man struck by lightning.

Miss James stared with round, staring brown eyes.

“Is he dead?” she asked quickly.

The young policeman was trembling so that he could hardly speak. She could hear his teeth chattering.

“Seems like it,” he stammered.

There was a faint smell of almond blossom in the air.

The Visit to the Museum

Vladimir Nabokov

Location:  Montisert, France.

Time:  November, 1939.