Speaker 1: The Fading Ghost by Willis Knapp 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,
what's your trouble? He stared straight at me as he answered, 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 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 and 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 in namely. 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 cabinet. 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 explos and the momentary vibration. I
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, pressed 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 look 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 sense. 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
I'll move that paper he pointed to a temperature a
graph 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'm 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, wear'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 have shot my brother
instead of myself. The End of the Fading Ghost by
Willis Knapp Jones