Speaker 1: 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