Groping about quietly with my hands on the shelf, for fear of knocking down some article or another, and wondering where on earth the match-box had gone to, I was interrupted by a groan. A dismal groan, coming from the middle of the church.
It nearly made me start out of my skin. My shirt-sleeves went damp. Down with us, the ghosts of the buried dead are popularly supposed to haunt the churches at night.
“It must have been the pulpit creaking,” said I, gravely to myself. “Oh, here’s the match——”
An awful groan! Another! Three groans altogether! I stood as still as death; calling up the recollection that God was with me inside the church as well as out of it. Frightened I was, and it is of no use to deny it.
“I wonder what the devil is to be the ending of this!”
The unorthodox words burst upon my ears, bringing a reassurance, for dead people don’t talk, let alone their natural objection (as one must suppose) to mention the arch-enemy. The tones were free and distinct; and—I knew them for Fred Westerbrook’s.
“Fred, is that you?” I asked in a half-whisper, as I went forward.
No sound; no answer.
“Fred! it’s only I.”
Not a word or a breath. I struck a match, and lighted a candle.