Do you believe in ghosts? All right, go ahead and laugh, but I’m not kidding. As a rule, I can take ’em or leave ’em, and the only kind of spirits I’m familiar with come in bottles. But this has got me thinking.
Maybe it never happened. Maybe it was only the heat playing tricks. Or maybe it did happen and maybe you’ll think so, too, when I tell you about it.
The tenement was in a narrow back street. Not a pleasant street but a dirty, smelly, forgotten part of the city, it’s odors heightened and exaggerated by the searing heat of a relentless noonday sun.
A dog foraged among the garbage in the side alley. The shrill chatter of children playing in the street, and the occasional sound of rumbling buses were the only noises. But the heat was terrific and even these subsided or became less noticeable.
The pavement burned underfoot and the interior of the tenement house was almost as bad, especially on the top floor just under the iron roof.
Martin lay spread-eagled on the bed, his lank hair matted to his forehead and his face glistening with sweat. He lay on his back, his mouth agape. His was not a peaceful sleep. It was a drugged, summer sleep, fitful and exhausting.
A fly played about the corner of his mouth. His lips twitched and it rose in flight, flying to the window where it buzzed and bumped against the dusty window panes, the only sound of movement in that stifling room.
But then came another sound, a strange sound, like the murmur of wind in high branches. A long lonely sighing, full of sadness and despair.
Martin heard it and thought he was having another nightmare.
“My damned conscience again,” he mumbled, tossing fitfully. “Why can’t it leave me alone?”
He thought it was just a bad dream, he hoped it was only a dream. But he heard it again and this time a voice called his name. It was a woman’s voice, barely above a whisper, that seemed to come from far off, as though echoing down a long passage to reach him.
Wearily, reluctantly he dragged heavy-lidded eyes open and stared at the grimy ceiling.
He heard the voice again, this time nearer and more insistent. His heart thumped, he could hear it pounding, driving hot blood through his veins.
He was awake, and he could still hear the voice! Had he gone mad? Was he still dreaming or was it really happening? He lay inert, in strained silence, listening.
Downstairs someone slammed a door. He heard the raucous voice of a woman abusing a man. Then silence. The strong smell of cabbage cooking downstairs in the kitchen had permeated the building. It hung heavy on the landings and stairways. Even in the locked privacy of his room it assailed his nostrils with its suffocating odor.
So too did other odors. The smell of stale sweat from his clothes tossed aside. Body smells, sticky, overpowering, nauseating and the perfume of fresh roses!
He started and the short hairs on the back of his neck tingled. An icy shiver traced its way down his spine. He was not alone!
Someone or something else was in the room! The perfume of roses became overpowering.
Fearfully his bloodshot gaze roved across the ceiling, moved down the opposite wall and focused at the foot of the bed. Through a mist he saw a figure standing there, the figure of a woman!
Frantically he rubbed his bleary eyes and looked again. His eves bulged and his throat constricted with fear.
“You!” he screamed. “It can’t be! It – can’t – be – !”
The woman approached the foot of the bed and rested slender white hands on the rail. She smiled, but there was no humor in her glowing dark eyes. Her eyes burned right through his soul.
“But it is me, Martin,” she said softly. ‘I’ve come back for you!”
The man recoiled away from her “No, NO! Don’t touch me! Don’t come near me!” His voice bubbled with fear. “You’re dead. Do you hear? Dead. I killed vou! I watched them fill your grave! You can’t come back now !”
She was still smiling. “But I have come back. Martin, I was your wife once. You murdered me, remember? You made it look like suicide and nobody thought any different. You wanted my money very badly, didn’t you? But it’s all gone now and it didn’t do you any good.”
“That other woman ran out on you, didn’t she? She got all the money out of you and left you flat. You’re sorry now, but that won’t help you. Justice must be done. You’ll have to pay for the crime you committed, and that is why I’m here.” She moved slowly around the end of the bed.
Martin cringed away from her. “You’re trying to frighten me.” he croaked hoarsely. “You don’t look like a ghost, maybe you didn’t die. Maybe you tricked me and let me think you were dead . . .!”
“You’d like to believe that, wouldn’t you?” She still moved slowly towards him. He looked about desperately.
“You’re wearing a white street frock and a corsage of roses,” he babbled suddenly, “Ghosts don’t dress like that! You’re alive!”
She was still smiling. “I’m not a member of the union yet.” she answered drily, “so I can dress as I please.” She was standing beside him. He lay in a cringing, quivering heap against the head of the bed.
Slowly she reached out and laid her long tapering fingers lightly on his forehead. They were icy cold, so cold that they seared like fire!
Martin’s scream burst from his lungs and re-echoed from the walls. The room heaved and spun crazily before his eyes, his heart was trying to beat it’s way out of his chest with its pounding. His eyes dilated with fear, the scream bubbled and died in his throat. He fell back across the bed and did not move.
The doctor turned to Inspector Grant. “Frankly, I’m puzzled,” he said. “It’s a clear case of heart failure, and it may have been caused by the terrific heat we’re having today. But this man seems to have had a terrible shock of some kind. Do you suspect foul play?”
Grant mopped his brow. “I don’t know,” he replied. “The door was locked from the inside, and there is a sheer drop of 3 storeys from that window. I don’t see how anyone could have been in here.”
“Then it must have been the heat,” the doctor answered. “I’ll make out the certificate to read that way.”
“Yes.” Grant said slowly. “It must have been the heat.”
But he was not looking at the doctor. He was looking at 3 fresh rose petals lying on the dusty floor near the foot of the bed.
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