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Joseph, a story by Catherine Rickford. They were sitting round the fire after

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dinner. Not an ordinary fire,
one of those fires that has a little

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room all to itself, with seats
at each side of it to hold a

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couple of people or three. The
big dining room was paneled with oak.

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At the far end was a handsome
dresser that dated back for generations. One's

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imagination ran riot when one pictured the
people who must have laid those pewter plates

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on the long, narrow, solid
table. Massive medieval chests stood against the

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walls. Arms and parts of armor
hung against the paneling. But one noticed

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few of these things, for there
was no light in the rooms save what

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the fire gave. It was Christmas
Eve. Games had been played, the

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old had vied with the young,
snatching raisins from the burning snapdragon. The

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children had long since gone to bed. It was time their elders followed them.

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But they lingered round the fire,
taking turns at telling stories. Nothing

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very weird had been told. No
one had felt any wish to peep over

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his shoulder or try to penetrate the
darkness of the far end of the room.

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The omission caused a sensation of something
wanting from each one there this thought

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went out, and so a sudden
silence fell upon the party. It was

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a girl who broke it, a
mere child. She wore her hair up

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that night for the first time,
and that seemed to give her the right

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to sit up. So late,
mister Grady is going to tell one,

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she said. All eyes were turned
to a middle aged man in a deep

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arm chair, placed straight in front
of the fire. He was short,

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inclined to be fat, with a
bald head and a pointed beard, like

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the beards that sailors wear. It
was plain that he was deeply conscious of

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the sudden turning of so much strained
yet forceful thought upon himself. He was

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restless in his chair, as people
are in a room that is overheated.

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He blinked his eyes as he looked
round the company. His lips twitched in

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a nervous manner. One side of
him seemed to be endeavoring to restrain another

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side of him from a feverish desire
to speak. It was this room that

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made me think of him, he
said thoughtfully. There was a long silence,

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but it occurred to no one to
prompt him. Every one seemed to

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understand that he was going to speak, or rather that something inside him was

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going to speak, some force that
craved expression and was using him as a

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medium. The little old man's pink
face grew strangely calm. The animation that

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usually lit it was gone. One
would have said that the girl who had

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started him already regretted the impulse and
now wanted to stop him. She was

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breathing heavily, and once or twice
made as though she would speak to him,

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but no words came. She must
have abandoned the idea, for she

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fell to studying the company. She
examined them carefully, one by one.

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This one, she told herself,
is so and so, and that one

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there just another so and so.
She stared at them, knowing that she

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could not turn them to herself with
her stare. They were just bodies,

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kept working, so to speak,
by some subtle sort of sentry left behind

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by the real selves that streamed out
in pent up. Thought to the little

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old man in the chair in front
of the fire. His name was Joseph,

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at least they called him Joseph.
He dreamed, you understand dreams.

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He was an extraordinary lad in many
ways. His mother I knew her very

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Well had three children in quick succession
soon after marriage. Then ten years went

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by, and Joseph was born,
quiet and reserved. He always was contained

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child whose only friend was his mother. People said things about him, you

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know how people talk. Some said
he was not Clara's child at all,

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but that she had adopted him.
Others that her husband was not his father,

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and these put her change of manner
down to a perpetual struggle to keep

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her husband comfortably in the dark.
I always imagined that the boy was in

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some way aware of all this gossip, for I noticed that he took a

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dislike to the people who spread it
most. The little man rested his elbows

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on the arms of his chair and
let the tips of his fingers meet in

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front of him. A smile played
about his mouth. He seemed to be

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searching among his reminiscences for the one
that would give the clearest portrait of Joseph

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Well. Anyway, he said at
last, the boy was odd. There

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is no gainsaying the fact. I
suppose he was eleven when Clara came down

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here with her family for Christmas.
The Conningtons owned the place then, Missus

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Connington was Clara's sister. It was
Christmas Eve, as it is now many

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years ago, we had spent a
normal Christmas Eve, a little happier perhaps

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than usual, by reason of the
family reunion, and because of the presence

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of so many children. We had
eaten and drank, laughed and played,

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and gone to bed. I woke
in the middle of the night from sheer

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restlessness. Clara, knowing my weakness, had given me a fire in my

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room. I lit a cigarette,
played with the book, and then,

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purely from curiosity, opened the door
and looked down the passage. From my

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door, I could see the head
of the staircase in the distance. The

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opposite wing of the house, or
the passage rather beyond the stairs, was

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in darkness. The reason I saw
the staircase at all was that the window

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you passed coming downstairs allowed the moon
to throw an uncertain light upon it,

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a weird light because of the stained
glass. I was arrested by the curious

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effect of this patch of light in
so much darkness. When suddenly some one

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came into it, turned and went
downstairs. It was just like a scene

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in a theater. Something was about
to happen that I was going to miss.

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I ran, as I was barefooted
to the head of the stairs and

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looked over the banister. I was
excited, strung up, too strung up

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to feel the fright that I knew
must be with me. I remember this

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sensation perfectly. I knew that I
was afraid, Yet I did not feel

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fright. On the stairs, nothing
moved. The little hall down here was

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lost in darkness. Looking over the
banister, I was facing the stained glass

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window. You know how the stairs
run around three sides of the hall.

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Well, it occurred to me that
if I went half way down and stood

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under the window, I should be
able to keep the top of the stairs

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in sight and see anything that might
happen in the hall. I crept down

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very cautiously and waited under the window. First of all, I saw the

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suit of empty armor just outside the
door here. You know how a thing

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like that, if you stare at
it in a poor light, appears to

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move. Well. It moved sure
enough, and the illusion was enhanced by

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clouds being blown across the moon by
the fire. Like this, one can

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talk of these things rationally, but
in the dead of night it is a

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different matter. So I went down
a few steps to make sure of that

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armor, when suddenly something passed me
on the stairs. I did not hear

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it, I did not see it. I sensed it in no way.

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I just knew that something had passed
me on its way upstairs. I realized

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that my retreat was cut off,
and with the knowledge, fear came upon

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me. I had seen someone come
down the stairs that at any rate was

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definite. Now I wanted to see
him again. Any ghost is bad enough,

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but a ghost that one can see
is better than one that one can

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I managed to get past the suit
of armor, but then I had to

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feel my way to these double doors. Here he indicated the direction of the

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doors by a curious wave of his
hand. He did not look toward them,

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nor did any of the party.
Both men and women were completely absorbed

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in his story. They seemed to
be mesmerized by the earnestness of his manner.

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Only the girl was restless. She
gave an impression of impatience with the

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slowness with which he came to his
point. One would have said that she

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was apart from her fellows, an
alien among strangers. So dense was the

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darkness that I made sure of finding
the first door closed. But it was

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not. It was wide open,
and standing between them, I could feel

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that the other was open too.
I was literally standing in the wall of

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the house, and as I peered
into the room, trying to make out

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some familiar object, thoughts ran through
my mind of people who had been bricked

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up in walls and left there to
die. For a moment, I caught

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the spirit of the inside of a
thick wall. Then suddenly I felt the

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sensation I've often read about but never
experienced before. I knew there was some

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one in the room. You are
surprised, yes, But wait, I

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knew more. I knew that some
one was conscious of my presence. It

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occurred to me that whoever it was, might want to get out of the

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door. I made room for him
to pass. I waited for him,

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made sure of him, began to
feel giddy, and then a man's voice,

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deep and clear. There is some
one there. Who is it?

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I answered mechanically, George Grady.
I'm Joseph. A match was drawn across

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a match box, and I saw
the boy bending over a candle, waiting

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for the wick to catch. For
a moment I thought he must be walking

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in his sleep. But he turned
to me quite naturally and said in his

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own boyish voice, lost anything.
I was amazed at the lad's complete calm.

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I wanted to share my fright with
someone. Instead, I had to

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hide it from this boy. I
was conscious of a curious sense of shame.

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I had watched him grow, taught
him, praised him, scolded him,

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and yet here he was waiting for
an explanation of my presence in the

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dining room at that odd hour of
the night. Soon he repeated the question,

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lost anything, No, I said, and then I stammered, have

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you no? He said, with
a little laugh, it's that room.

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I can't sleep in it. Oh, I said, what's the matter with

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the room? It's the room I
was killed in, he said, quite

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simply. Of course I had heard
about his dreams, but I had had

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no direct experience of them. When
therefore he said that he had been killed

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in his room, I took it
for aunted that he had been dreaming again.

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I was at a loss to know
quite how to tackle him, whether

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to treat the whole thing as absurd
and laugh it off as such, or

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whether to humor him and hear his
story. I got him upstairs to mine

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room, sat him in a big
arm chair, and poked the fire into

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a blaze. You've been dreaming again, I said, bluntly, Oh no,

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I haven't. Don't you run away
with that idea. His whole manner

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was so grown up that it was
quite unthinkable to treat him as the child

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he really was. In fact,
it was a little uncanny, this man

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in a child's frame. I was
killed there, he said again. How

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do you mean killed? I asked
him, why? Killed? Murdered?

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Course, it was years and years
ago. I can't say when. Still

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I remember the room. I suppose
it was the room that reminded me of

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the incident. Incident, I exclaimed, what else? Being killed is only

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an incident in the existence of any
one. One makes a fuss about it

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at the time, of course,
but really, when you come to think

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of it, tell me about it, I said, lighting a cigarette.

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He lit one too, that child, and began. You know, my

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room is the only modern one in
this old house. Nobody knows why it

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is modern. The reason is obvious, of course, it was made modern

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after I was killed there. The
funny thing is that I should have been

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put there. I suppose it was
done for a purpose. Because I I

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He looked at me so fixedly,
I knew he would catch me if I

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lied what I asked, dream,
Yes, I said, that is why

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you were put there. I thought
so. And yet of all the rooms,

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but then, of course no one
knew anyhow. I did not recognize

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the room until after I was in
bed. I had been asleep some time,

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and then I woke. Suddenly there
was an old wheelback chair in there,

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the only old thing in the room. It is standing facing the fire,

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as it must have stood the night
I was killed. The fire was

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burning brightly. The pattern of the
back of the chair was thrown into shadow

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across the ceiling. Now, the
night I was murdered, the conditions were

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exactly the same. So directly I
saw that pattern on the ceiling, I

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remembered the whole thing. I was
not dreaming, don't think it. I

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was not. What happened that night
was this. I was lying in bed,

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counting the parts of the back of
that chair in shadow on the ceiling.

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I probably could not get to sleep, you know, the sort of

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thing count up to a thousand and
remember in the morning where you got to

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Well. I was counting those pieces
when suddenly they were all obliterated. The

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whole back became a shadow. Someone
was sitting in the chair. Now,

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surely you understand that directly I saw
the shadow of that chair on the ceiling

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tonight. I realized that I had
not a moment to lose. At any

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moment, that same person might come
back to that same chair, and escape

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would be impossible. I slipped from
my bed as quickly as I could and

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ran downstairs. But were you not
afraid? I asked downstairs that she might

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follow me? It was a woman? You know, No, I don't

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think I was. She does not
belong downstairs anyhow, She didn't No,

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I said, no, My voice
must have been out of control, for

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he caught me up at once.
You don't mean to say you saw her,

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he said, vehemently. Oh no, you felt her. She passed

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me as I came downstairs. I
said, what can I have done to

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her that she follows me? So
he buried his face in his hands,

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as though searching for an answer to
his thought. Suddenly he looked up and

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stared at me. Where had I
got to? Oh, yes, the

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murder. I can remember how startled
I was to see that shadow in the

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chair. Startled, you know,
but not really frightened. I leaned up

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in bed and looked at the chair, and sure enough a woman was sitting

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in it, a young woman.
I watched her with profound interest until she

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began to turn in her chair as
I felt to look at me. When

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she did that, I shrank back
in bed. I dared not meet her

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eyes. She might not have had
eyes, she might not have had a

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face. You know, the sort
of pictures that one sees when one glances

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back at all one's soul has ever
thought. I got back in the bed

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as far as I could, and
peeped over the sheets at the shadow on

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the ceiling. I was tired,
frightened to death. I grew weary of

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watching. I must have fallen asleep, for suddenly the fire was almost out,

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the pattern of the chair barely discernible. The shadow had gone. I

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raised myself with a sense of huge
relief. Yes, the chair was empty,

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but just think of it. The
woman was on the floor, on

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her hands and knees, crawling toward
the bed. I fell back, stricken

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with terror. Very soon I felt
a gentle pull at the counterpane. I

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thought I was in a nightmare,
but too lazy or too uncomfortable to try

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to wake myself from it. I
waited in an agony of suspense, but

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nothing seemed to be happening. In
fact, I had just persuaded myself that

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the movement of the counterpane was fancy. When a hand brushed softly over my

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knee, there was no mistaking it. I could feel the long, thin

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fingers. Now was the time to
do something. I tried to rouse myself,

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but all my efforts were futile.
I was stiff from head to foot.

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Although the hand was lost to me
outwardly, it now came within my

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range of knowledge, if you know
what I mean. I knew that it

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was groping its way along the bed, feeling for some other part of me.

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At any moment, I could have
said exactly where it had got to.

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When it was hovering just over my
chest, another hand knocked lightly against

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my shoulder, I fancied it lost
and wandering in search of its fellow.

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I was lying on my back,
staring at the ceiling when the hands met.

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The weight of their presence brought a
feeling of oppression to my chest.

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I seemed to be completely cut off
from my body. I had no sort

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of connection with any part of it. Nothing about me would respond to my

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will to make it move. There
was no sound at all anywhere. I

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fell into a state of indifference,
a sort of patient indifference that can wait

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for an appointed time to come.
How long I waited I cannot say.

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But when the time came, it
found me ready. I was not taken

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by surprise. There was a great
upward rush of pent up force released.

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It was like a mighty mass of
men who have been lost in prayer rising

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to their feet. I can't remember
clearly, but I think the woman must

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have got on to my bed.
I could not follow her distinctly. My

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whole attention was concentrated on her hands
at the time I felt those fingers itching

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for my throat. At last,
they moved slowly at first, then quicker,

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and then a long, drawn swish, like the sound of an over

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bold wave that has broken too far
up the beach and is sweeping back to

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join the sea. The boy was
silent for a moment. Then he stretched

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out his hand for the cigarettes.
You remember nothing else, I asked him,

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No, he said. The next
thing I remember clearly is deliberately breaking

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the nursery window because it was raining
and mother would not let me go out.

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There was a moment's tension, then
the strain of listening past, and

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everyone seemed to be speaking at once. The rector was taking the story seriously.

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Tell me, grady, he said, how long do you suppose elapsed

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between the boy's murder and his breaking
the nursery window. But a young married

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woman, in the first flush of
her happiness, broke in between them.

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She ridiculed the whole idea. Of
course, the boy was dreaming. She

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was drawing the majority to her way
of thinking. When from the corner where

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the girl sat a hollow sounding voice
and the boy where is he? The

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tone of the girl's voice inspired horror, that fear that does not know what

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it is. It fears. One
could see it on every face, on

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every face, that is, except
the face of the bald headed man.

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There was no horror on his face. He was smiling serenely as he looked

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the girl straight in the eyes.
He's a man now, he said,

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alife. She cried, Why not, said the little old man, rubbing

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his hands together. She tried to
rise, but her frock had got caught

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between the chairs and pulled her to
her seat again. The man next her

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put out his hand to steady her, but she dashed it away. Roughly.

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She looked round the party for an
instant, for all the world,

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like an animal at bay. Then
she sprang to her feet and charged blindly.

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They crowded round her to prevent her
falling. At the touch of their

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hands, she stopped. She was
out of breath, as though she had

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been running. All right, she
said, pushing their hands from her.

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All right, I'll come quietly.
I did it. They caught her as

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she fell, and laid her on
the sofa, watching the color fade from

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her face. The hostess, an
old woman with white hair and a kind

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face, approached the little old man. For once in her life. She

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was roused to anger. I can't
think how you could be so stupid,

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she said, See what you have
done. I did it for a purpose.

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He said, for a purpose.
I have always thought that girl was

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the culprit. I have to thank
you for the opportunity you have given me

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of making sure end of Joseph,
a story