‘Never tell me that it was my fancy, or that it was any other sound which I mistook for that I tell you of. I heard the wind whistle through the arches of the church. I heard the steeple strain and creak. I heard the rain as it came driving against the walls. I felt the bells shake. I saw the ropes sway to and fro. And I heard that voice.’
‘What did it say?’ asked Tom Cobb.
‘I don’t know what; I don’t know that it spoke. It gave a kind of cry, as any one of us might do, if something dreadful followed us in a dream, and came upon us unawares; and then it died off: seeming to pass quite round the church.’
‘I don’t see much in that,’ said John, drawing a long breath, and looking round him like a man who felt relieved.
‘Perhaps not,’ returned his friend, ‘but that’s not all.’
‘What more do you mean to say, sir, is to come?’ asked John, pausing in the act of wiping his face upon his apron. ‘What are you a-going to tell us of next?’
‘What I saw.’
‘Saw!’ echoed all three, bending forward.
‘When I opened the church-door to come out,’ said the little man, with an expression of face which bore ample testimony to the sincerity of his conviction, ‘when I opened the church-door to come out, which I did suddenly, for I wanted to get it shut again before another gust of wind came up, there crossed me—so close, that by stretching out my finger I could have touched it—something in the likeness of a man. It was bare-headed to the storm. It turned its face without stopping, and fixed its eyes on mine. It was a ghost—a spirit.’
‘Whose?’ they all three cried together.