THE GHOST OF DEATH
Editor of The Cauldron: There are those who are as firmly convinced in the existence of ghosts as they are that day follows night. I have heard intelligent men and women discuss ghosts seriously and tell of this and that spiritualistic seance that they attended where, before their very eyes, misty forms of long departed dead have been materialized before their very eyes. To me all this appears more or less ridiculous. During the past fifteen years I have made a very thorough study of the "phenomena" of spiritualism, and my findings have resulted in my becoming skeptical on this subject. It is because of my emphatic disbelief in the supernatural, as far as its direct relation to human man is concerned, that I submit the following as one of the most inexplicable and terrifying things that has ever occurred to me:
During the summer of 1906, my wife and I were residing in the township of North Lamoine, Maine, a fishing village situated on Frenchman's Bay, an arm of the Atlantic which extends some miles inland. Our first born, then twenty months old, had not been well for some time, and we thought perhaps a summer in the open country close to the sea would be beneficial.
For a time the little one appeared to rally, but failed to put on the weight or to assume the healthy look that a normal baby of her age should. Then came a day when my wife struck terror to my heart by telling me that she had a premonition that something would happen—that the child would not live.
I scoffed at the notion and cheered her as best I could, but there was a great weight on my heart. I had begun to feel the same way, and the fact that my wife mentioned it only intensified my grief.
Just two days after this conversation there occurred the manifestation of which I write. My work kept me up later than usual, and it was not until after midnight that I finally retired. Worn out as I was from the activities of the day, and though late the hour, it was some time before I could compose myself to sleep.
The baby, who slept with my wife at the other end of the room, moaned. A heavy electrical storm raged outside—the wind lashing the rain against the window panes in unabating fury—and my thoughts were in a turmoil.
Finally I began to doze and, I believe, was about to fall asleep when, with a start, I found myself staring wide eyed at the ceiling. No one had spoken, and, save for the baby's moans and the storm, there had been no sound, but something had impelled me to open my eyes. A moment later a cold perspiration broke out over my body.
At first, nothing was visible and then, ever in the almost pitch darkness of the room, s filmy though strangely luminous grayish white object began to take form close to the ceiling just above my wife's bed. It became clearer and clearer until finally it moved.
As rigid as a marble statue I lay. Though not exactly afraid, to have saved my life I don't believe I could have moved at that moment. Gradually this indescribable object began to settle over the other bed. Just as it seemed to merge itself with the faint whiteness of the covers, the baby cried out, to be followed an instant later by a piercing scream from my wife.
"Back! back!" she gasped. "No! no! you shall not! For God's sake back!"
I remained motionless but an instant, long enough, however, to see the specter gather itself into a compact form, flash upward and disappear. Then, with a mighty effort, I pulled myself together and bounded out of bed.
"Oh," my wife cried, sitting up, "did you see it?"
"See what, dear?" I asked.
"Just now something white seemed to come down, with arms outstretched, as if to take little Helen away. I am sure I was not asleep."
"You must have been," I answered. "I was wide awake all along and did not see anything. The room is quite empty."
"Ugh," she shuddered, "what a terrible dream!"
There was no sleep for me the rest of that night. For hours I sat in the living-room, trying to fathom the mystery that I had beheld. I knew it could not have been imagination, for my wife had seen it also. There was no accounting for it.
And I am just as much in the dark now as I was then. God only knows what it was that my wife and I saw that night! Perhaps it was a matriculated spirit from the Valley of Death, after all.
In any event, Baby Helen died the next day. OWEN KING.
Editor of The Cauldron: During the street car strike in Denver in 1919, I was a reporter on the Times. On the night when the strikers and "Black Jack" Jerome's "breakers" met in deadly conflict, I was assigned to the East Denver barns, in which Jerome's men were fortified.
Toward midnight, the strikers stormed en masse and, during the melée, I dropped with a bullet in my chest. Regaining consciousness, I found myself in the City Hospital. Kneeling beside my bed was my wife—Estelle. I tried to move.
"Lie still, dear," she said, rising. "You must keep very quiet. They are going to probe for the bullet."
Upon reaching the operating room, the ether instantly choked me into unconsciousness, Then occurred the strangest thing I have ever experienced. I seemed suddenly transported into a great hall, will tall, shining pillars. All around me were people clothed in white. From afar came the sound of soft music.
But what attracted me was a raised section at one end on which sat a benevolent-looking old gentleman. In his eyes there seemed to be all the sorrow and suffering of a wicked world's countless centuries. He beckoned to me. When I had come before him he spoke, and in his voice there was the golden ring of perfectly tuned chimes.
"My son," he said, "you have been brought to judgment. At present yon are no longer a part of the earth's sphere. Back there science is fighting for your life. Whether science succeeds is determined by this court of justice. What have you to say for yourself?"
I trembled and became afraid. Where was, I? Was I dead and in some spiritual sphere far removed from the earth?
Then I spoke. I recall, distinctly, that I rambled on at great length, attempting to make a good impression. As I spoke he listened intently, occasionally nodding his head slowly and sadly.
When I finished, he resumed:
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