“Four miles,” Kent thought, “four miles from the main-line town of Kempster to the railwayless village of Agan.” At least, he remembered that much.
He remembered the hill, too, and the farm at the foot of it. Only it hadn’t been deserted when he saw it last.
He stared at the place as the hotel car edged down the long hill. The buildings showed with a curious, stark bleakness. All the visible windows of the farmhouse itself were boarded up. And great planks had been nailed across the barn door.
The yard was a wilderness of weeds and – Kent experienced an odd sense of shock – the tall, dignified old man who emerged abruptly from behind the house, seemed as out of place in that desolate yard as . . . as life itself.
Kent was aware of the driver leaning toward him, heard him say above the roar of the ancient engine:
“I was wondering if we’d see the ghost, as we passed; and yep, there he is, taking his morning walk.”
“The ghost!” Kent echoed.
It was as if he had spoken a key word. The sun burst brilliantly from behind an array of dark clouds and flooded the valley with warm light. The blaze of it illuminated the drab old buildings – and wrought changes. The over-all grayness of the house showed in that bright illumination as a faded green.
The old man walked slowly toward the gate that led to the main highway. Nearer now, he seemed taller, thinner, a gaunt caricature of a human being; his black frock coat glinted in the sun.
Kent found his voice. “Ghost!” he said again. “Why, that’s old Mr Wainwright. He doesn’t look a day older than when I left this part of the world fifteen years ago.”
The old, square-fronted car ground queasily to a stop before the farm gate. The driver turned. It struck Kent that the man was smugly enjoying the moment.
“See that gate?” the fellow asked. “Not the big one; the little one. It’s padlocked, eh?”
Kent nodded. “What about it?”
“Watch!”
The old man stood fumbling at the gate less than ten feet away. It was like gazing at a pantomime, Kent thought; for the man paid no attention to the padlock, but seemed absorbed with some simpler catch.
Abruptly, the patriarch straightened, and pushed at the gate. Kent had no real sense of alienness. Without having given the matter any thought, he believed it was the gate that was going to open, and that it was some unusual aspect of the opening that he had been admonished to watch.
The gate didn’t. It did not so much as stir; not a creak came from its rusty hinges. It remained solid, held in position by the uncompromising padlock.
The old man walked through it.
Finally, apparently satisfied, he faced the car again; and, for the first time, saw it and its occupants. His long, finely wrinkled face lighted.
“Hello, there!” he said.
Kent hadn’t expected speech. The words caught him like a blow. He felt a chill; his mind whirled with a queer, twisting motion that momentarily wrecked the coherence of his thought. He half leaned, half fell back against the seat because his muscles wouldn’t support him.
“Ghost,” he thought finally, dizzily. Good heavens, what was going on here?
The world began to right itself. The land and the horizon straightened; and there was the house and the barn, an almost colorless, utterly lifeless background to the beanpole of an old, old man and the magic gate through which he had stepped.
“Hello!” Kent said shakily. “Hello!”
The old man came nearer, peered; and an expression of surprise flitted across his face. “Why, it’s Mr Kent. I thought you’d left the Agan Hotel.”
“Eh!” Kent began.
Out of the corner of his eyes he saw the driver make a sharp movement with one hand. The man whispered hastily:
“Don’t act surprised at anything the ghost says. It confuses him.”
Ghost! There it was again. Kent swallowed hard. “Am I mad?” he thought. “The last time I saw this old fellow was when I was twenty. He didn’t know my name then. How—”
The old man was speaking again, in bewilderment: “I distinctly remember Mr Jenkins, the proprietor, informing me that you had found it necessary to leave at once. He said something about a prophecy coming out exactly to the day, 17 August. People are always talking to me about prophecies. But that was the date he said it was, 17 August.”
He looked up, unscrewing the frown from his thin, worn face. “I beg your pardon, young sir. It is very remiss of me to stand here mumbling to myself. May I say that I am glad that the report was untrue, as I have very much enjoyed our several conversations.”
He raised his hat. “I would invite you in for tea, but Mrs Carmody is not in the best of moods this morning. Poor woman! Looking after an old man must be a great trial; and I dare not add to her afflictions. Good morning to you, Mr Kent. Good morning, Tom.”
Kent nodded, unable to speak. He heard the driver say:
“S’long, Mr Wainwright.”
Kent watched, as the tall, frail figure walked slowly across the road behind the car, and moved unhurriedly across the open pasture land to the south. His mind and gaze came back to the car, as the driver, Tom, said:
“Well, Mr Kent, you’re lucky. You know how long you’re staying at the Agan Hotel.”
“What do you mean?”
“Mr Jenkins will have your bill ready for you 17 August.”
Kent stared at him, uncertain whether he ought to laugh, or – what! “You’re not trying to tell me that the ghost also tells the future. Why, today’s only 8 July, and I intend to stay till the end of Septem—”
He stopped. The eyes that were staring into his were utterly earnest, humorless: “Mr Kent, there never was anyone like Mr Wainwright in the world before. When he tells the future, it happens; it was that way when he was alive, and it’s the same now that he’s dead.
“The only thing is that he’s old. He’s over ninety, and weak in the head. He gets confused; he always mixes the future with the past. To him it is the past, and it’s all equally blurred. But when he says anything as clear as a date, it’s so. You wait and see.”
There were too many words; and the concreteness of them, the colloquial twang of them on the still air, built an oddly insubstantial picture. Kent began to feel less startled. He knew these country folk; and the conviction was suddenly strong in him that, in some obscure way, he was being made the victim of a practical joke.
It wouldn’t do, of course, to say so. Besides, there was the unaccountable episode of the gate.
“This Mrs Carmody,” he said finally. “I don’t recall her. Who is she?”
“She came to look after the farm when her sister-in-law, the old man’s grand-daughter, died. No blood relation, but—” The driver drew a deep breath, tried hard to look casual, and said: “She’s the one, you know, who murdered old Wainwright five years ago. They put her in the crazy house at Peerton for doing it.”
“Murdered!” Kent said. “What is this – the local ghost story?” He paused; then: “Just a minute. He talked as if he was still living with her.”
“Look, Mr Kent” – the man was pitying – “let’s not go into why the ghost says what he says. People have tried figuring out what’s going on, and have ended with their brains twisted into seventeen knots.”
“There must be a natural explanation.”
The driver shrugged. “Well, then, you find it.” He added: “I was the one who drove Mrs Carmody and her two kids from Kempster to the farm here. Maybe you’d like to hear as much of the story as I can tell you the rest of the way to the hotel.”
Kent sat quietly as gears shifted; and the machine moved heavily off. He turned finally to look at the farm. It was just passing out of sight behind a long spread of trees.
That last look showed – desolation, deadness. He shuddered involuntarily, and did not look again. He said:
