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Speaker 1: Joseph, a story by Catherine Rickford. They were sitting round

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the fire after dinner. Not an ordinary fire, one of

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those fires that has a little room all to itself,

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with seats at each side of it to hold a

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couple of people or three. The big dining room was

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paneled with oak. At the far end was a handsome

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dresser that dated back for generations. One's imagination ran riot

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when one pictured the people who must have laid those

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pewter plates on the long, narrow, solid table. Massive medieval

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chests stood against the walls. Arms and parts of armor

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hung against the paneling. But one noticed few of these things,

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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,

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the old had vied with the young, snatching raisins from

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the burning snapdragon. The children had long since gone to bed.

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It was time their elders followed them. But they lingered

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round the fire, taking turns at telling stories. Nothing very

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weird had been told. No one had felt any wish

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to peep over his shoulder or try to penetrate the

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darkness of the far end of the room. The omission

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caused a sensation of something wanting from each one there

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this thought went out, and so a sudden silence fell

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upon the party. It was a girl who broke it,

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a mere child. She wore her hair up that night

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for the first time, and that seemed to give her

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the right to sit up. So late, mister Grady is

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going to tell one, she said. All eyes were turned

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to a middle aged man in a deep arm chair,

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

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inclined to be fat, with a bald head and a

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pointed beard, like the beards that sailors wear. It was

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plain that he was deeply conscious of the sudden turning

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of so much strained yet forceful thought upon himself. He

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was restless in his chair, as people are in a

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room that is overheated. He blinked his eyes as he

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looked round the company. His lips twitched in a nervous manner.

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One side of him seemed to be endeavoring to restrain

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another side of him from a feverish desire to speak.

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It was this room that made me think of him,

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he said thoughtfully. There was a long silence, but it

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occurred to no one to prompt him. Every one seemed

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to understand that he was going to speak, or rather

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that something inside him was going to speak, some force

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that craved expression and was using him as a medium.

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

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animation that usually lit it was gone. One would have

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said that the girl who had started him already regretted

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the impulse and now wanted to stop him. She was

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breathing heavily, and once or twice made as though she

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would speak to him, but no words came. She must

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have abandoned the idea, for she fell to studying the company.

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She examined them carefully, one by one. This one, she

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told herself, is so and so, and that one there

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just another so and so. She stared at them, knowing

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that she could not turn them to herself with her stare.

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They were just bodies, kept working, so to speak, by

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some subtle sort of sentry left behind by the real

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selves that streamed out in pent up. Thought to the

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little old man in the chair in front of the fire.

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His name was Joseph, at least they called him Joseph.

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He dreamed, you understand dreams. He was an extraordinary lad

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in many ways. His mother I knew her very Well

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had three children in quick succession soon after marriage. Then

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ten years went by, and Joseph was born, quiet and reserved.

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He always was contained child whose only friend was his mother.

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People said things about him, you know how people talk.

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Some said he was not Clara's child at all, but

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that she had adopted him. Others that her husband was

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not his father, and these put her change of manner

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down to a perpetual struggle to keep her husband comfortably

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in the dark. I always imagined that the boy was

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in some way aware of all this gossip, for I

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noticed that he took a dislike to the people who

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spread it most. The little man rested his elbows on

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the arms of his chair and let the tips of

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his fingers meet in front of him. A smile played

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about his mouth. He seemed to be searching among his

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reminiscences for the one that would give the clearest portrait

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of Joseph Well. Anyway, he said at last, the boy

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was odd. There is no gainsaying the fact. I suppose

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he was eleven when Clara came down here with her

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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

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is now many years ago, we had spent a normal

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Christmas Eve, a little happier perhaps than usual, by reason

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of the family reunion, and because of the presence of

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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

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the night from sheer restlessness. Clara, knowing my weakness, had

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given me a fire in my room. I lit a cigarette,

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played with the book, and then, purely from curiosity, opened

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the door and looked down the passage. From my door,

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I could see the head of the staircase in the distance.

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The opposite wing of the house, or the passage rather

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beyond the stairs, was in darkness. The reason I saw

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the staircase at all was that the window you passed

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coming downstairs allowed the moon to throw an uncertain light

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upon it, a weird light because of the stained glass.

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I was arrested by the curious effect of this patch

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of light in so much darkness. When suddenly some one

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

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like a scene in a theater. Something was about to

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happen that I was going to miss. I ran, as

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I was barefooted to the head of the stairs and

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

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strung up to feel the fright that I knew must

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be with me. I remember this sensation perfectly. I knew

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that I was afraid, Yet I did not feel fright.

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

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was lost in darkness. Looking over the banister, I was

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facing the stained glass window. You know how the stairs

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run around three sides of the hall. Well, it occurred

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to me that if I went half way down and

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stood under the window, I should be able to keep

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the top of the stairs in sight and see anything

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that might happen in the hall. I crept down very

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

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saw the suit of empty armor just outside the door here.

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You know how a thing like that, if you stare

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at it in a poor light, appears to move. Well.

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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,

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one can talk of these things rationally, but in the

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dead of night it is a different matter. So I

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went down a few steps to make sure of that armor,

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when suddenly something passed me on the stairs. I did

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not hear it, I did not see it. I sensed

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it in no way. I just knew that something had

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passed me on its way upstairs. I realized that my

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retreat was cut off, and with the knowledge, fear came

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upon me. I had seen someone come down the stairs

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that at any rate was definite. Now I wanted to

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see him again. Any ghost is bad enough, but a

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ghost that one can see is better than one that

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one can I managed to get past the suit of armor,

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but then I had to feel my way to these

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double doors. Here he indicated the direction of the doors

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by a curious wave of his hand. He did not

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look toward them, nor did any of the party. Both

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men and women were completely absorbed in his story. They

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seemed to be mesmerized by the earnestness of his manner.

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Only the girl was restless. She gave an impression of

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impatience with the slowness with which he came to his point.

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One would have said that she was apart from her fellows,

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an alien among strangers. So dense was the darkness that

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I made sure of finding the first door closed. But

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it was not. It was wide open, and standing between them,

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I could feel that the other was open too. I

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was literally standing in the wall of the house, and

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as I peered into the room, trying to make out

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some familiar object, thoughts ran through my mind of people

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who had been bricked up in walls and left there

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to die. For a moment, I caught the spirit of

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the inside of a thick wall. Then suddenly I felt

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the sensation I've often read about but never experienced before.

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I knew there was some one in the room. You

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are surprised, yes, But wait, I knew more. I knew

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that some one was conscious of my presence. It occurred

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to me that whoever it was, might want to get

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out of the door. I made room for him to pass.

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I waited for him, made sure of him, began to

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feel giddy, and then a man's voice, deep and clear.

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There is some one there. Who is it? I answered mechanically,

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George Grady. I'm Joseph. A match was drawn across a

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

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waiting for the wick to catch. For a moment I

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thought he must be walking in his sleep. But he

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turned to me quite naturally and said in his own

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

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complete calm. I wanted to share my fright with someone. Instead,

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I had to hide it from this boy. I was

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conscious of a curious sense of shame. I had watched

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him grow, taught him, praised him, scolded him, and yet

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here he was waiting for an explanation of my presence

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in the dining room at that odd hour of the night.

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Soon he repeated the question, lost anything, No, I said,

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and then I stammered, have you no? He said, with

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a little laugh, it's that room. I can't sleep in it. Oh,

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I said, what's the matter with the room? It's the

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room I was killed in, he said, quite simply. Of

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course I had heard about his dreams, but I had

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had no direct experience of them. When therefore he said

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that he had been killed in his room, I took

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it for aunted that he had been dreaming again. I

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

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whether to treat the whole thing as absurd and laugh

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it off as such, or whether to humor him and

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hear his story. I got him upstairs to mine room,

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sat him in a big arm chair, and poked the

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fire into a blaze. You've been dreaming again, I said, bluntly,

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Oh no, I haven't. Don't you run away with that idea.

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His whole manner was so grown up that it was

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quite unthinkable to treat him as the child he really was.

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In fact, it was a little uncanny, this man in

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

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

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

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Still I remember the room. I suppose it was the

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room that reminded me of the incident. Incident, I exclaimed,

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what else? Being killed is only an incident in the

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existence of any one. One makes a fuss about it

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

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to think of it, tell me about it, I said,

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lighting a cigarette. He lit one too, that child, and began.

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You know, my room is the only modern one in

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this old house. Nobody knows why it is modern. The

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reason is obvious, of course, it was made modern after

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I was killed there. The funny thing is that I

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should have been put there. I suppose it was done

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for a purpose. Because I He looked at me so fixedly,

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I knew he would catch me if I lied what

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I asked, dream, Yes, I said, that is why you

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were put there. I thought so. And yet of all

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the rooms, but then, of course no one knew anyhow.

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I did not recognize the room until after I was

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in bed. I had been asleep some time, and then

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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

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facing the fire, as it must have stood the night

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I was killed. The fire was burning brightly. The pattern

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of the back of the chair was thrown into shadow

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

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conditions were exactly the same. So directly I saw that

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pattern on the ceiling, I remembered the whole thing. I

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was not dreaming, don't think it. I was not. What

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happened that night was this. I was lying in bed,

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counting the parts of the back of that chair in

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shadow on the ceiling. I probably could not get to sleep,

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you know, the sort of thing count up to a

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thousand and remember in the morning where you got to Well.

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

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The whole back became a shadow. Someone was sitting in

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the chair. Now, surely you understand that directly I saw

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the shadow of that chair on the ceiling tonight. I

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realized that I had not a moment to lose. At

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any moment, that same person might come back to that

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same chair, and escape would be impossible. I slipped from

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my bed as quickly as I could and ran downstairs.

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But were you not afraid? I asked downstairs that she

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might follow me? It was a woman? You know, No,

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I don't think I was. She does not belong downstairs anyhow,

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She didn't No, I said, no, My voice must have

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been out of control, for he caught me up at once.

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You don't mean to say you saw her, he said, vehemently.

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Oh no, you felt her. She passed me as I

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

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her that she follows me? So he buried his face

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in his hands, as though searching for an answer to

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his thought. Suddenly he looked up and stared at me.

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Where had I got to? Oh, yes, the murder. I

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can remember how startled I was to see that shadow

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in the chair. Startled, you know, but not really frightened.

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I leaned up in bed and looked at the chair,

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and sure enough a woman was sitting in it, a

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young woman. I watched her with profound interest until she

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began to turn in her chair as I felt to

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look at me. When she did that, I shrank back

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in bed. I dared not meet her eyes. She might

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

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You know, the sort of pictures that one sees when

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one glances back at all one's soul has ever thought.

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I got back in the bed as far as I could,

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and peeped over the sheets at the shadow on the ceiling.

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I was tired, frightened to death. I grew weary of watching.

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I must have fallen asleep, for suddenly the fire was

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almost out, the pattern of the chair barely discernible. The

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shadow had gone. I raised myself with a sense of

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huge relief. Yes, the chair was empty, but just think

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of it. The woman was on the floor, on her

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

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stricken with terror. Very soon I felt a gentle pull

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at the counterpane. I thought I was in a nightmare,

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but too lazy or too uncomfortable to try to wake

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

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but nothing seemed to be happening. In fact, I had

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just persuaded myself that the movement of the counterpane was fancy.

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When a hand brushed softly over my knee, there was

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no mistaking it. I could feel the long, thin fingers.

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Now was the time to do something. I tried to

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rouse myself, but all my efforts were futile. I was

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stiff from head to foot. Although the hand was lost

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to me outwardly, it now came within my range of knowledge,

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if you know what I mean. I knew that it

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was groping its way along the bed, feeling for some

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other part of me. At any moment, I could have

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said exactly where it had got to. When it was

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hovering just over my chest, another hand knocked lightly against

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my shoulder, I fancied it lost and wandering in search

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of its fellow. I was lying on my back, staring

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at the ceiling when the hands met. The weight of

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their presence brought a feeling of oppression to my chest.

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I seemed to be completely cut off from my body.

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I had no sort of connection with any part of it.

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Nothing about me would respond to my will to make

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it move. There was no sound at all anywhere. I

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fell into a state of indifference, a sort of patient

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indifference that can wait for an appointed time to come.

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How long I waited I cannot say. But when the

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

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by surprise. There was a great upward rush of pent

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up force released. It was like a mighty mass of

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men who have been lost in prayer rising to their feet.

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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

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her distinctly. My whole attention was concentrated on her hands

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at the time I felt those fingers itching for my throat.

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At last, they moved slowly at first, then quicker, and

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

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over bold wave that has broken too far up the

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beach and is sweeping back to join the sea. The

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boy was silent for a moment. Then he stretched out

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

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asked him, No, he said. The next thing I remember

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clearly is deliberately breaking the nursery window because it was

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raining and mother would not let me go out. There

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

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and everyone seemed to be speaking at once. The rector

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was taking the story seriously. Tell me, grady, he said,

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how long do you suppose elapsed between the boy's murder

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and his breaking the nursery window. But a young married woman,

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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.

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She was drawing the majority to her way of thinking.

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When from the corner where the girl sat a hollow

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sounding voice and the boy where is he? The tone

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of the girl's voice inspired horror, that fear that does

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not know what it is. It fears. One could see

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it on every face, on every face, that is, except

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the face of the bald headed man. There was no

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horror on his face. He was smiling serenely as he

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

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he said, alife. She cried, Why not, said the little

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old man, rubbing his hands together. She tried to rise,

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but her frock had got caught between the chairs and

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pulled her to her seat again. The man next her

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put out his hand to steady her, but she dashed

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it away. Roughly. She looked round the party for an instant,

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for all the world, like an animal at bay. Then

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she sprang to her feet and charged blindly. They crowded

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round her to prevent her falling. At the touch of

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their hands, she stopped. She was out of breath, as

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though she had been running. All right, she said, pushing

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their hands from her. All right, I'll come quietly. I

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did it. They caught her as she fell, and laid

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her on the sofa, watching the color fade from her face.

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The hostess, an old woman with white hair and a

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kind face, approached the little old man. For once in

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her life. She was roused to anger. I can't think

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how you could be so stupid, she said, See what

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you have done. I did it for a purpose. He said,

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for a purpose. I have always thought that girl was

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the culprit. I have to thank you for the opportunity

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you have given me of making sure end of Joseph,

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a story