The Fading Ghost by Willis nap Jones. The stranger entered my office and dropped
wearily into a chair, covering his face with his hands. I'm dead,
doctor, he groaned. I agreed that it was quite a climb from the
street to my office, But soon, a month or so, I expect
to move to a ground floor. That will be too late. It won't
do me any good. Then, no, but your trouble, he stared
straight at me as he answer, trouble. I have none. Dead people
have no troubles, and I've been dead half an hour. I committed suicide.
I looked at him, startled. He was rather pale, I noticed,
and the brilliant red necktie he was wearing gave the impression of a deep
and bleeding wound. He seemed very nervous, his hands continually stroking the creased
trousers of the light gray suit he was wearing. I committed suicide, he
repeated, I've shot myself through the heart. He indicated the spot with a
long, slender finger on one knuckle, of which I saw just such a
stain as dried blood makes. I thought he meant for me to examine him,
so I arose and took a step toward him. He motioned me back.
Don't touch me, he commanded. It's no use, you can't feel
me. I wonder whether you can even see me plainly. I'm getting more
ethereal all the time. I what was I saying? That I couldn't see
you, but I can plainly? Oh, my clothes, perhaps my coat,
my necktie. Yes, that red necktie was very much in evidence,
I agreed, wondering whether he were insane. He seemed to read my mind.
You think I'm crazy, don't you, doc I'm not. My nerves
are frazzled, and I thought I would go insane when Polly turned me down.
But I didn't. I know, I didn't. I had my knee
tapped and have had all sorts of tests. Finally I couldn't stand the agony
and made an end of myself this afternoon. He looked at the clock.
Just twenty eight minutes ago my soul left my body. I studied him carefully.
His eyes had none of the stare peculiar to the insane. I was
near enough to be sure that he was not intoxicated. Yet I could not
determine just what ailed him. Perhaps if he talked longer he would help me
to diagnose his condition. Tell me about it, I urged. I knew
you'd be interested. The day I read your book, The Dead Survive,
I said to myself, I wonder whether he ever saw a ghost. Then,
just before I snatched up my revolver, I looked up your office in
the telephone book, so that if I did live after death, I could
come to call on you and tell you how correct your assumptions were. So
after the shot, and I felt myself grow more aerial and ghost like,
I left my body lying dead on the floor and hurried here to speak to
you before I became entirely invisible. Your book, page one hundred forty seven
speaks of the process you call it fading. If you will remember, I
was becoming more and more confused. He sounded far from rational. I knew
that I was not dreaming, and that this could not be a practical joke.
I had never seen the Fellow before, yet there was no apparent solution
as hackwork. I had written a book on spiritualism, voicing my belief that
death was not the end of everything. But I had never expected to have
a ghost come to my counseling room. In the middle of the afternoon to
prove it to me. You are sure you were dead? I asked inamely.
I had to repeat my question before he came out of the sort of
stupor into which he had fallen. Then he jerked himself together. Absolutely sure,
I stood before a mirror like that one. He pointed to the full
length mirror beside my instrument. Captain, Oh, those knives are so glittering.
Do you think I made a mistake in using a revolver? Would poison
have been easier? Well, I'm not an authority on suicide, I had
to confess. Still, the shot did not hurt. I didn't feel any
pain at all, just the exp and the momentary vibration. Where was I
standing before a mirror? I prompted, Yes. I've been having worries love,
you know, couldn't sleep at night and all. When the thought of
suicide came, I took my revolver from the bureau drawer, grasped it close
to my heart, and without waiting a second, pulled the trigger and fell
dead on the floor. Then I left myself lying there and came here.
Nobody seemed to notice me along the street. Perhaps they can't see me,
can't you? I nodded, But you said you were lying on the floor.
Yes, I looked back to make sure just before I closed the door,
remembering your warning on page three hundred and forty three against retention of psychic
visions. I tested myself carefully, but I know my body is there.
This is my astral self. It was a terrifying sight. Blood trickling from
the wound. He suddenly became conscious of the stain on his knuckle. He
raised his right hand as if to wipe the mark away, thought better of
it and dropped his hand. Terrifying sight, he repeated, It must have
been. You're the first astral body i've seen. Is there anything unusual about
your earthly body? I didn't stop to see. But would you care to
go and look? Yes, indeed I had hoped you would. He gave
me the address, but he refused to accompany me. I'll stay here,
he promised. I may not last till you get back. I'm fading fast,
but if I'm entirely a ghost when you return, I'll move that paper
he pointed to a temperature agraph hanging partly over the edge of my desk.
But hurry, I'll be back in an hour, I promised. I was
better than my word. Forty minutes later, I puffed up the stairs.
He was still there, lost in thought. Did you find me, he
asked immediately, Yes, just as you said, lying beside the bureau with
a bullet in your heart. But I don't understand one thing how I came
here. That was because I was materialized embodied. Chapter seven of your book
is entirely right with its assertions. No, that's not it. I am
interested in that, of course, and i'd appreciate it if you would take
off your shirt and let me see whether materialized ghosts have the wounds of the
original body. I'll confess I'm confused. I just realized something that completely upsets
my theory. He had been about to remove his coat, but he stopped.
What is that, doctor, He asked, the fact that although you
are wearing a red necktie, your earthly body exactly like you in every other
respect. Where's a modest black one. He gave a shriek of agony and
jumped up, horror depicted on his countenance. Oh, doctor, don't tell
me that the body was wearing black. Yes, indeed, same colored gray
suit and shirt, but a black necktie. He sank his face in his
hands, and I heard a heartbroken moan. Oh, I see it all.
What a villain I am. It's all the fault of this nervous trouble
I've been having. I'm not a suicide, then I'm a fratricide. I
lived with my twin brother, and we were dressed exactly alike, except that
he did not share my love of pretty ties. I've shot my brother instead
of myself. The End of the Fading Ghosts by Willis Nap Jones