The Ghost Farm by Susan Andrews Rice. When Stephen was killed, we did
not know it until thirty days afterwards. He went overseas in April, and
it was the last of June before we knew. He went out with a
party of engineers to repair a railroad track and was blown to pieces by a
German shell. We could not tell Maytie the truth. She knew he was
dead, but concerning the manner of his going, she was ignorant. They
were engaged. Her love for him amounted to adoration. She was an intense,
emotional girl, bound to be unhappy because of her sensitive nature and strong
feelings. She was under my professional care for several weeks, the latter part
of the summer, suffering from a broken ankle. It is the silence,
the awful blank wall between Stephen and me, that drives me frantic. She
burst out one day when I was making her a visit. She had been
reading a letter from Stephen and it lay on her lap. She had a
little package of his letters always near her. I know, I returned with
a sigh. I too had lost my nearest and dearest. I wish I
could consult a medium, she said, lowering her voice. How wonderful it
would be to receive a message from him. I could hardly bear it.
I'm afraid. Don't do it, Matie, I said, better leave such
people alone the Luigi board. Then it seems rather like a silly game.
But I shook my head that way. Madness lives, I quoted. I
wouldn't, Matie, Stephen lives in your heart, in your memories of him.
She smiled that pathetic little smile she had worn when she wished to appear
cheerful. You are right, she answered, and changed the subject. In
spite of what she had said. I discovered that she was reading everything she
could find about spirit communication, although I never heard of her making any attempt
to reach Stephen in that way. I was very busy that fall with influenza
cases, and Madie went into Red crosswork, and when the epidemic was over,
I heard she had gone to California. She returned early the following summer,
looking haggard and ill. I prescribed for her, but could find nothing
really wrong with her. She took long walks, and her mother told me
she always went alone and resented any offer of companionship. She thought it queer,
and said she feared Madie was drifting into melancholia. Madie came into my
office one afternoon, and I was struck with a change in her expression.
She looked happy and young. The strained misery had vanished from her face.
I was puzzled. Could she have fallen in love? I ran over in
my mind a list of her young men acquaintances, but none of them could
I see as Maidie's lover. Her mother had informed me that her walks were
always in one direction. Thinking of that, I asked, why do you
always walk along the river road? Matie? She turned a vivid pink.
You wouldn't understand, I know, but I'm going to tell you, she
replied, twisting her gloves in her hands. In the first place, you
must know, Stephen and I used to plan that when we were married,
we would own a little farm, just a little summer place, you know.
He used to say, every man wanted to have a farm. Doctor.
When I go up the river road, just past the schoolhouse, on
the bank, where the road turns into the woods, I see a little
farm. The fields are neat and cultivated. The house is painted white with
green blinds, and the door is open into the hall as if people live
there. Hollyhocks are growing around the kitchen door on a table, Milk pans
are turned up to dry in the sun. There are some dish towels drying
on a line. And at any moment, I expect to see Stephen come
around the corner of the house. I feel he is there out of my
sight. I wait and listen. He hasn't come yet, but he will
some day, and when he comes, I shall go with him. Her
face was luminous with joy. What could I say? What ought I to
say? Do you think I could see the farm if I were with you,
I asked, speaking slowly. I'm afraid you couldn't. She replied.
No one knows it is there but Stephen and me. Then, my dear
Mattie, it exists only in your imagination, I told her. She smiled
as one smiles at a child who doubts one's word, and she went away.
I studied her case carefully. A good psychanalyst might be able to help
her, but I was not skillful in that method of treatment. I see
now that we did wrong in circumventing her. In accordance with my advice,
her friends attempted to divert her attention from her daily walk. She was taken
on automobile excursions. Visitors came at that hour of the day. She was
invited to go to moving pictures. Duties were crowded upon her in the hope
of altering the fixed idea in her mind of Stephen's waiting at the ghost farm.
She was very sweet about acceding to the demands and requests, though sometimes
she could obstinately refuse used to listen to them. August brought hot weather.
The extreme heat wore upon our nerves. Everybody relaxed, released from vigilant watchfulness.
Mattie left the house unnoticed. A terrific thunderstorm came up, and Mattie's
mother was beside herself. She had been lying down taking a nap when Mattie
slipped away. She telephoned to me when the shower was over. As Mattie
was not missed until then, I got out my car and started up the
river road, a sense of foreboding in the back of my mind. I
had not proceeded far when a tire blew out. Impatiently, I left the
machine and hurried on foot past the weather beaten old schoolhouse a short distance.
Then Suddenly I stopped in my tracks. The sun had come out, and
I saw the Ghost Farm cause exactly as Matie had described it. A stretch
of green fields, a small white house with green blinds, hollyhocks growing by
the kitchen door, milk pads glittering in the sun, drying on a table,
cowls fluttering on a line. I was struck dumb and stood motionless,
hardly able to draw my breath at the strangeness of the scene. In a
few minutes, the vision or mirage vanished. Then I perceived a tall oak
tree split in half by a bolt of lightning. At the foot of the
tree lay Matie on the wet ground, a smile of rapture on her upturned
face. I knelt beside her and examined hard and pulse. Nothing could be
done. Her spirit had left its earthly body. She had gone to be
with Stephen. The End of the Ghost Farm by Susan Andrews, Rice