The Spirit's Whisper Page #4

"The Spirit's Whisper" is a short story by Joseph Thomas Sheridan Le Fanu, renowned for his contributions to Gothic literature. In this tale, the narrative explores themes of the supernatural, haunting, and the delicate boundary between the living and the dead. Set against a richly atmospheric backdrop, the story delves into the encounters of characters with ghostly apparitions and the emotional turmoil that accompanies their experiences. Le Fanu's signature style blends suspense and melancholy, creating a chilling yet captivating exploration of human fear, desire, and the mysteries of the afterlife.

• Horror

								

suddenly Mary started.

"The noise of the latchkey in the lock!" she cried, alarmed; "He has
returned; he must not see you; you must come another time. Here, here,
be quick! I'll manage him."

And before I could utter another word she had pushed me into the back
drawing-room and closed the door. A man's step on the stairs; then
voices. The man was begging Mary to come out with him, as the day was so
fine. She excused herself; he would hear no refusal. At last she
appeared to consent, on condition that the man would assist at her
toilet. There was a little laughter, almost hysterical on the part of
Mary, whose voice evidently quivered with trepidation.

Presently both mounted the upper stairs. Then the thought stuck me that
I had left my hat in the front room--a sufficient cause for the woman's
alarm. I opened the door cautiously, seized my hat, and was about to
steal down the stairs, when I was again spellbound by that numb cold.

"Stay!" said the voice. I staggered back to the other room with my hat,
and closed the door.

Presently the couple came down. Mary was probably relieved by
discovering that my hat was no longer there, and surmised that I had
departed; for I heard her laughing as they went down the lower flight.
Then I heard them leave the house.

I was alone in that back drawing-room. Why? what did I want there? I was
soon to learn. I felt the chill invisible presence near me; and the
voice said, "Search!"

The room belonged to the common representative class of back
drawing-rooms in "apartments" of the better kind. The only one
unfamiliar piece of furniture was an old Indian cabinet; and my eye
naturally fell on that. As I stood and looked at it with a strange
unaccountable feeling of fascination, again came the voice--"Search!"

I shuddered and obeyed. The cabinet was firmly locked; there was no
power of opening it except by burglarious infraction; but still the
voice said, "Search!"

A thought suddenly struck me, and I turned the cabinet from its position
against the wall. Behind, the woodwork had rotted, and in many portions
fallen away, so that the inner drawers were visible. What could my
ghostly monitor mean--that I should open those drawers? I would not do
such a deed of petty treachery. I turned defiantly, and addressing
myself to the invisible as if it were a living creature by my side, I
cried, "I must not, will not, do such an act of baseness."

The voice replied, "Search!"

I might have known that, in my state of what I deemed insanity,
resistance was in vain. I grasped the most accessible drawer from
behind, and pulled it toward me. Uppermost within it lay letters: they
were addressed to "Captain Cameron,"--"Captain George Cameron." That
name!--the name of Julia's husband, the man with whom she had eloped;
for it was he who was the object of my pursuit.

My shuddering fit became so strong that I could scarce hold the papers;
and "Search!" was repeated in my ear.

Below the letters lay a small book in a limp black cover. I opened this
book with trembling hand; it was filled with manuscript--Julia's
well-known handwriting.

"Read!" muttered the voice. I read. There were long entries by poor
Julia of her daily life; complaints of her husband's unkindness,
neglect, then cruelty. I turned to the last pages: her hand had grown
very feeble now, and she was very ill. "George seems kinder now," she
wrote; "he brings me all my medicines with his own hand." Later on: "I
am dying; I know I am dying: he has poisoned me. I saw him last night
through the curtains pour something in my cup; I saw it in his evil eye.
I would not drink; I will drink no more; but I feel that I must die."

These were the last words. Below were written, in a man's bold hand, the
words "Poor fool!"

This sudden revelation of poor Julia's death and dying thoughts unnerved
me quite. I grew colder in my whole frame than ever.

"Take it!" said her voice. I took the book, pushed back the cabinet into
its place against the wall, and, leaving that fearful room, stole down
the stairs with trembling limbs, and left the house with all the
feelings of a guilty thief.

For some days I perused my poor lost Julia's diary again and again. The
whole revelation of her sad life and sudden death led but to one
conclusion,--she had died of poison by the hands of her unworthy
husband. He had insured her life, and then----

It seemed evident to me that Mary Simms had vaguely shared suspicions of
the same foul deed. On my own mind came conviction. But what could I do
next? how bring this evil man to justice? what proof would be deemed to
exist in those writings? I was bewildered, weak, irresolute. Like
Hamlet, I shrank back and temporized. But I was not feigning madness; my
madness seemed but all too real for me. During all this period the
wailing of that wretched voice in my ear was almost incessant. O, I must
have been mad!

I wandered about restlessly, like the haunted thing I had become. One
day I had come unconsciously and without purpose into Oxford Street. My
troubled thoughts were suddenly broken in upon by the solicitations of a
beggar. With a heart hardened against begging impostors, and under the
influence of the shock rudely given to my absorbing dreams, I answered
more hardly than was my wont. The man heaved a heavy sigh, and sobbed
forth, "Then Heaven help me!" I caught sight of him before he turned
away. He was a ghastly object, with fever in his hollow eyes and sunken
cheeks, and fever on his dry, chapped lips. But I knew, or fancied I
knew, the tricks of the trade, and I was obdurate. Why, I asked myself,
should the cold shudder come over me at such a moment? But it was so
strong on me as to make me shake all over. It came--that maddening
voice. "Succor!" it said now. I had become so accustomed already to
address the ghostly voice that I cried aloud, "Why, Julia, why?" I saw
people laughing in my face at this strange cry, and I turned in the
direction in which the beggar had gone. I just caught sight of him as he
was tottering down a street toward Soho. I determined to have pity for
this once, and followed the poor man. He led me on through I know not
what streets. His steps was hurried now. In one street I lost sight of
him; but I felt convinced he must have turned into a dingy court. I made
inquiries, but for a time received only rude jeering answers from the
rough men and women whom I questioned. At last a little girl informed me
that I must mean the strange man who lodged in the garret of a house she
pointed out to me. It was an old dilapidated building, and I had much
repugnance on entering it. But again I was no master of my will. I
mounted some creaking stairs to the top of the house, until I could go
no further. A shattered door was open; I entered a wretched garret; the
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