THE SPECTRE
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In which a man confronts the ghost of a young woman who urges him to comb and braid her long hair.
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The Spectre
Guy de Maupassant
One day as I was
walking I met a friend I had not seen in years, and he told me of the misfortune
which had shattered his life.
Having fallen madly in love with a young girl, he
had married her, but after a year of more than earthly happiness she died
suddenly of an affection of the heart. He left his country home on the very day
of her burial and came here to the city, where he lived now, alone and unhappy,
sad and wretched.
I promised to do him a slight favor he asked, to go to
his country home and get out of the desk in his bedroom–their bedroom–some
papers of which he had urgent need. For nothing on earth, he said, would induce
him to reenter that house. He gave me the key to the room, which he himself had
locked on leaving.
He explained to me exactly what I had to do. It was
very simple. I must take two packages of letters and a roll of papers from the
first right-hand drawer of the desk.
I took leave of him to accomplish my mission. It was
simply the matter of a ride which I could make in an hour on horseback, his country
property being but a few miles distant from the city.
* * *
The manor looked as if it had been abandoned for
twenty years. The open gate was falling from its hinges, the walks were
overgrown with grass and the flower beds were no longer distinguishable.
The noise I made by kicking at a shutter brought out
an old man from a side door. He seemed stunned with astonishment at seeing me.
“Then you are going in–into her room?” he asked me.
“But–but it has not been opened since–since the - death.
If you will be kind enough to wait five minutes I will go and–and see if–”
I interrupted him angrily, and he no longer
objected.
Pushing him aside, I went into the house.
I first went through the kitchen, then two rooms
occupied by this man and his wife. I then crossed a large hall, mounted a
staircase and recognized the door described by my friend.
I easily opened it, and entered the apartment. It
was so dark that at first I could distinguish nothing. I stopped short,
disagreeably affected by that disagreeable, musty odor of closed, unoccupied
rooms. As my eyes slowly became accustomed to the darkness I saw plainly enough
a large and disordered bedroom, the bed without sheets but still retaining its
mattresses and pillows, on one of which was a deep impression, as though an
elbow or a head had recently rested there.
The chairs all seemed out of place. I noticed that a
door of a closet, had remained half open.
I first went to the window, which I opened to let in
the light, but the fastenings of the shutters had grown so rusty that I could
not move them. I even tried to break them with my sword, but without success.
As I was growing irritated over my useless efforts and could now see fairly
well in the semi-darkness, I gave up the hope of getting more light, and went
over to the writing desk.
I seated myself in an armchair and, letting down the
lid of the desk, I opened the drawer designated. It was full to the top. I
needed but three packages, which I knew how to recognize, and began searching
for them.
I was straining my eyes in the effort to read the
superscriptions when I seemed to hear, or, rather, feel, something rustle in back
of me. I paid no attention, believing that a draught from the window was moving
some drapery. But in a minute or so another movement, almost imperceptible,
sent a strangely disagreeable little shiver over my skin. It was so stupid to
be affected, even slightly, that self-respect prevented my turning around. I
had just found the second package I needed and was about to lay my hand on the
third when a long and painful sigh, uttered just at my shoulder, made me bound
like a madman from my seat and land several feet off. As I jumped I had turned
round my hand on the hilt of my sword, and, truly, if I had not felt it at my
side I should have taken to my heels like a coward.
A tall woman dressed in white, stood gazing at me
from the back of the chair where I had been sitting an instant before.
Such a shudder ran through all my limbs that I
nearly fell backward. No one who has not experienced it can understand that
frightful, unreasoning terror! The mind becomes vague, the heart ceases to
beat, the entire body grows as limp as a sponge.
I do not believe in ghosts, nevertheless I collapsed
from a hideous dread of the dead, and I suffered, oh! I suffered in a few
moments more than in all the rest of my life from the irresistible terror of
the supernatural. If she had not spoken I should have died perhaps. But she
spoke, she spoke in a sweet, sad voice that set my nerves vibrating. I dare not
say that I became master of myself and recovered my reason. No! I was terrified
and scarcely knew what I was doing. But a certain innate pride, a remnant of
soldierly instinct, made me, almost in spite of myself, maintain a bold front.
She said:
“Oh, sir, you can render me a great service.”
I wanted to reply, but it was impossible for me to
pronounce a word. Only a vague sound came from my throat. She continued:
“‘Will you? You can save me, cure me. I suffer
frightfully. I suffer, oh! how I suffer! ”, and she slowly seated herself in my
armchair, still looking at me.
“‘Will you? ” she said.
I nodded in assent, my voice still being paralyzed.
Then she held out to me a tortoise-shell comb and
murmured:
“Comb my hair, oh! comb my hair; that will cure me;
it must be combed. Look at my head–how I suffer; and my hair pulls so! ”
Her hair, unbound, very long and very black, it
seemed to me, hung over the back of the armchair and touched the floor.
Why did I promise? Why did I take that comb with a
shudder, and why did I hold in my hands her long black hair that gave my skin a
frightful cold sensation, as though I were handling snakes? I cannot tell.
That sensation has remained in my fingers, and I
still tremble in recalling it.
I combed her hair. I handled, I know not how, those
icy locks. I twisted, knotted, and unknotted, and braided them. She sighed,
bowed her head, seemed happy.
Suddenly she said, “Thank you!”, snatched the comb from my hands and fled through
the closet door that I had noticed ajar.
Left alone, I experienced for several seconds the
horrible agitation of one who awakens from a nightmare. At length I regained my
senses. I ran to the window and with a mighty effort burst open the shutters,
letting a flood of light into the room. Immediately I sprang to the door by
which that being had departed. I found it closed and utterly immovable!
Then the mad desire to flee overcame me like a panic
the panic which soldiers know in battle. I seized the three packets of letters
on the open desk, ran from the room, dashed down the stairs four steps at a
time, found myself outside, I know not how, and, perceiving my horse a few
steps off, leaped into the saddle and galloped away.
I stopped only when I reached my lodgings.
Throwing the reins to my orderly, I fled to my room and shut myself in to
reflect. For an hour I anxiously asked myself if I were not the victim of a
hallucination. Undoubtedly I had had one of those incomprehensible nervous
attacks, those exaltations of mind that give rise to visions and are the
stronghold of the supernatural. And I was about to believe I had seen a vision,
had a hallucination, when, as I approached the window, my eyes fell, by chance,
upon my breast. My cape was covered with long black hairs!
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