Mr Corbett's Ghost Read Free Page A

the worst of the wind. But in its place was a wretched dampness that crept and clung about him. Likewise, there was a continual breathing rustling that seemed to inhabit the various darknesses that lay about the path.
    Several times he paused, as if debating whether or not to abandon his purpose and fly back to the high road and on to the inn. This path was disquieting, and it was growing worse. But each time he seemed to see Mister Corbett’s face before him, mouthing, ‘Heart and soul, Master Partridge. I want ’em.’ And BenjaminPartridge went on: for hatred, though it may harden the heart, softens the brain, renders it insensible to danger, and leads it in the way of darkness, madness, and evil . . . At the end of this terrible path, there stood a terrible house.
    It was a tall, even a genteel house, often glimpsed from the high road from where it looked like a huge undertaker, discreetly waiting among the trees.
    What was then so terrible about it that even the whispering darkness, the crooked trees, and the crooked sky were small things beside it? The visitors it had.
    Old gentlemen with ulcers of the soul for which there was no remedy but—revenge! Ruined gamblers, discredited attorneys, deceivers and leavers, treacherous soldiers, discharged hangmen, venomous servants, murderous constables . . . coming chiefly at dusk, furtively grinning for—revenge. In this grim regiment Benjamin Partridge now numbered himself.
    The path grew level. One by one the glinting eyes winked shut as scrubs obscured them.
    â€˜And so may your eyes shut, Mister Corbett: just like that! Ah!’
    Benjamin Partridge stopped. Before him stood the house. Three pairs of windows it had, but they were dark. An iron lantern swung in the porch making queer grunting sounds as it swung against its hook.
Ugh . . . ugh . . . ugh
 . . . But the three candles within burned untroubled.
    There was a lion’s head knocker on the door. A good brass knocker such as might have cost five pounds in the shop by Aldgate Forge. (Or had it been cast in a deeper forge than Aldgate, even?)
    The boy shivered . . . most likely from the damp. He knocked on the door. A harsh and desolate sound. Came a flap of footsteps: very quick. Then they stopped.
    The boy made as if to draw back—maybe to make off, even at this late stage?
No.
He knocked again.
    â€˜Nails in your coffin, Mister Corbett.’
    The door opened. The boy cried out. Candle in hand, peering out with unnaturally bright eyes, was the queer customer! He said: ‘I thought you’d call here first—’

C HAPTER T HREE
    IT WAS SAID there was a room at the top of the house where certain transactions took place. The windows of this room were sometimes pointed out, for they could be seen from the high road, staring coldly through the trees.
    It was rumoured that this room, ordinary enough in all its furnishings, held an item so disagreeable that it chilled the soul. Visitors had been known to stare at it, lose their tongues, fidget, then leave in haste never to return.
    Benjamin peered past the old man into the dark of the house. His eyes glanced upward. Catching this look, the old man dropped his gaze in an oddly embarrassed fashion.
    â€˜Are you—are you sure, young man?’
    (Was there truly such a room? Or was it all a tale told by apprentices at dead of night?)
    The old man sniffed.
    â€˜Forgive me, young man—but are you sure? I must know. We don’t want to waste our time do we? You’ve considered? You’ve thought? If you change your mind now, I won’t be offended. Far from it! In a way, I’ll be pleased. There, young man! I see you bite your lip. So why not turn about and forget it all? I’ll not say anything. All will be forgot. We’ve never met! Come, young man—that’s what you really want, ain’t it? It was all a foolish idea—the black thought of