The Signal-Man Page #3

"The Signal-Man" is a chilling short story by Charles Dickens that explores themes of foreboding, isolation, and the supernatural. Set in a lonely railway cutting, the narrative follows an unnamed narrator who encounters a troubled signal-man. The signal-man confesses to being haunted by a ghostly figure that foretells disaster on the tracks. As the story unfolds, the interplay between reality and the supernatural leads to a tragic climax, delving into the anxieties of the industrial age while raising questions about fate and human agency. Dickens masterfully builds tension and atmosphere, making this tale a classic of Gothic literature.

• Fiction
• Short story

								

often troubled patients, some of whom had become conscious of the nature
of their affliction, and had even proved it by experiments upon
themselves.  “As to an imaginary cry,” said I, “do but listen for a
moment to the wind in this unnatural valley while we speak so low, and to
the wild harp it makes of the telegraph wires.”

That was all very well, he returned, after we had sat listening for a
while, and he ought to know something of the wind and the wires,—he who
so often passed long winter nights there, alone and watching.  But he
would beg to remark that he had not finished.

I asked his pardon, and he slowly added these words, touching my arm,—

“Within six hours after the Appearance, the memorable accident on this
Line happened, and within ten hours the dead and wounded were brought
along through the tunnel over the spot where the figure had stood.”

A disagreeable shudder crept over me, but I did my best against it.  It
was not to be denied, I rejoined, that this was a remarkable coincidence,
calculated deeply to impress his mind.  But it was unquestionable that
remarkable coincidences did continually occur, and they must be taken
into account in dealing with such a subject.  Though to be sure I must
admit, I added (for I thought I saw that he was going to bring the
objection to bear upon me), men of common sense did not allow much for
coincidences in making the ordinary calculations of life.

He again begged to remark that he had not finished.

I again begged his pardon for being betrayed into interruptions.

“This,” he said, again laying his hand upon my arm, and glancing over his
shoulder with hollow eyes, “was just a year ago.  Six or seven months
passed, and I had recovered from the surprise and shock, when one
morning, as the day was breaking, I, standing at the door, looked towards
the red light, and saw the spectre again.”  He stopped, with a fixed look
at me.

“Did it cry out?”

“No.  It was silent.”

“Did it wave its arm?”

“No.  It leaned against the shaft of the light, with both hands before
the face.  Like this.”

Once more I followed his action with my eyes.  It was an action of
mourning.  I have seen such an attitude in stone figures on tombs.

“Did you go up to it?”

“I came in and sat down, partly to collect my thoughts, partly because it
had turned me faint.  When I went to the door again, daylight was above
me, and the ghost was gone.”

“But nothing followed?  Nothing came of this?”

He touched me on the arm with his forefinger twice or thrice giving a
ghastly nod each time:—

“That very day, as a train came out of the tunnel, I noticed, at a
carriage window on my side, what looked like a confusion of hands and
heads, and something waved.  I saw it just in time to signal the driver,
Stop!  He shut off, and put his brake on, but the train drifted past here
a hundred and fifty yards or more.  I ran after it, and, as I went along,
heard terrible screams and cries.  A beautiful young lady had died
instantaneously in one of the compartments, and was brought in here, and
laid down on this floor between us.”

Involuntarily I pushed my chair back, as I looked from the boards at
which he pointed to himself.

“True, sir.  True.  Precisely as it happened, so I tell it you.”

I could think of nothing to say, to any purpose, and my mouth was very
dry.  The wind and the wires took up the story with a long lamenting
wail.

He resumed.  “Now, sir, mark this, and judge how my mind is troubled.
The spectre came back a week ago.  Ever since, it has been there, now and
again, by fits and starts.”

“At the light?”

“At the Danger-light.”

“What does it seem to do?”

He repeated, if possible with increased passion and vehemence, that
former gesticulation of, “For God’s sake, clear the way!”

Then he went on.  “I have no peace or rest for it.  It calls to me, for
many minutes together, in an agonised manner, ‘Below there!  Look out!
Look out!’  It stands waving to me.  It rings my little bell—”

I caught at that.  “Did it ring your bell yesterday evening when I was
here, and you went to the door?”

“Twice.”

“Why, see,” said I, “how your imagination misleads you.  My eyes were on
the bell, and my ears were open to the bell, and if I am a living man, it
did NOT ring at those times.  No, nor at any other time, except when it
was rung in the natural course of physical things by the station
communicating with you.”

He shook his head. “I have never made a mistake as to that yet, sir.  I
have never confused the spectre’s ring with the man’s.  The ghost’s ring
is a strange vibration in the bell that it derives from nothing else, and
I have not asserted that the bell stirs to the eye.  I don’t wonder that
you failed to hear it.  But I heard it.”

“And did the spectre seem to be there, when you looked out?”

“It WAS there.”

“Both times?”

He repeated firmly: “Both times.”

“Will you come to the door with me, and look for it now?”

He bit his under lip as though he were somewhat unwilling, but arose.  I
opened the door, and stood on the step, while he stood in the doorway.
There was the Danger-light.  There was the dismal mouth of the tunnel.
There were the high, wet stone walls of the cutting.  There were the
stars above them.

“Do you see it?” I asked him, taking particular note of his face.  His
eyes were prominent and strained, but not very much more so, perhaps,
than my own had been when I had directed them earnestly towards the same
spot.

“No,” he answered.  “It is not there.”

“Agreed,” said I.

We went in again, shut the door, and resumed our seats.  I was thinking
how best to improve this advantage, if it might be called one, when he
took up the conversation in such a matter-of-course way, so assuming that
there could be no serious question of fact between us, that I felt myself
placed in the weakest of positions.

“By this time you will fully understand, sir,” he said, “that what
troubles me so dreadfully is the question, What does the spectre mean?”

I was not sure, I told him, that I did fully understand.

“What is its warning against?” he said, ruminating, with his eyes on the
fire, and only by times turning them on me.  “What is the danger?  Where
is the danger?  There is danger overhanging somewhere on the Line.  Some
dreadful calamity will happen.  It is not to be doubted this third time,
after what has gone before.  But surely this is a cruel haunting of me.
What can I do?”

He pulled out his handkerchief, and wiped the drops from his heated
forehead.

“If I telegraph Danger, on either side of me, or on both, I can give no
reason for it,” he went on, wiping the palms of his hands.  “I should get
into trouble, and do no good.  They would think I was mad.  This is the
way it would work,—Message: ‘Danger!  Take care!’  Answer: ‘What Danger?
Where?’  Message: ‘Don’t know.  But, for God’s sake, take care!’  They

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