the scene of our lives till the end of Time?
As the day of my death draws nearer, the intense horror that all living
flesh feels toward escaped spirits from beyond the grave grows more and
more powerful. It is an awful thing to go down quick among the dead with
scarcely one-half of your life completed. It is a thousand times more
awful to wait as I do in your midst, for I know not what unimaginable
terror. Pity me, at least on the score of my "delusion," for I know you
will never believe what I have written here. Yet as surely as ever a man
was done to death by the Powers of Darkness I am that man.

In justice, too, pity her. For as surely as ever woman was killed by
man, I killed Mrs. Wessington. And the last portion of my punishment is
ever now upon me.

MY OWN TRUE GHOST STORY

As I came through the Desert thus it was--
As I came through the Desert.
--_The City of Dreadful Night._

Somewhere in the Other World, where there are books and pictures and
plays and shop windows to look at, and thousands of men who spend their
lives in building up all four, lives a gentleman who writes real stories
about the real insides of people; and his name is Mr. Walter Besant.
But he will insist upon treating his ghosts--he has published half
a workshopful of them--with levity. He makes his ghost-seers talk
familiarly, and, in some cases, flirt outrageously, with the phantoms.
You may treat anything, from a Viceroy to a Vernacular Paper, with
levity; but you must behave reverently toward a ghost, and particularly
an Indian one.

There are, in this land, ghosts who take the form of fat, cold, pobby
corpses, and hide in trees near the roadside till a traveler passes.
Then they drop upon his neck and remain. There are also terrible ghosts
of women who have died in child-bed. These wander along the pathways at
dusk, or hide in the crops near a village, and call seductively. But to
answer their call is death in this world and the next. Their feet are
turned backward that all sober men may recognize them. There are ghosts
of little children who have been thrown into wells. These haunt well
curbs and the fringes of jungles, and wail under the stars, or catch
women by the wrist and beg to be taken up and carried. These and the
corpse ghosts, however, are only vernacular articles and do not attack
Sahibs. No native ghost has yet been authentically reported to have
frightened an Englishman; but many English ghosts have scared