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| exception of a few strands which were still caught up in hairpins. And her hands! I could see the blue, lifeless veins running beneath that tissue paper skin. Her nails were long, jagged, and yellow, and her fingers were so thin that her knuckles looked like unnatural growths. Her face was drawn and worried, her eyes even darker than they had been on her last visit. I don't mean to sound as if she were a repulsive sight, for she was not. She was still Catherine, but to one who had loved her, and knew her, these changes were frightful. I suppose she was still almost as charming as she had been in life, but there was still something more to these changes that I can not put my finger on. It was eerie . . . and unsettling. Her behavior, too, had changed, not only from that of Catherine the woman, but also from that of Catherine the apparition of two years ago. She moved with fluidity, and seemed far more detatched, not only from me, but from the physical world in general. She did not look directly at me, save once. I think she may have been crying, but I can not be certain, as a transparent tear on a transparent countenance is quite difficult to discern. She seemed tired, and kept licking her lower lip --- a habit which she had never had in life. I found it, too, unnerving. It seemed a symbol of her sadness, and it greatly disturbed me. I would like to write of the actual occurrence now, despite its unsettling nature, for I feel that it is important to document such happenings. I awoke from a deep sleep in time to hear the clock chime two. I had fallen asleep with the window open, and the room had become considerably colder; thus I rose to close it. It was then that I saw her. She was crouched down beside my bureau, staring with an intensity the likeness of which I had never seen. Slowly, she began to move coloser and closer to the bureau until she had actually passed inside of it. A moment later, she emerged on the other side looking even more melancholy than she had before. She stood up and looked at the items on top of the bureau. Her face seemed to light up with hope as her eyes fell upon a dusty old copy of "Ali Baba and the Forty Theives" in French. She slowly placed her hand on the top cover and moved it through the book. A faint smile appeared on her face for a breif instant, as if she were reading with her hand, and recalling happy childhood days; but the smile quickly vanished, and the spirit began to weep uncontrollably. If she had not been crying when I first saw her, she certainly was now. "Catherine?" I said. "Emma, please," she retorted, looking at me for the first and last time, "The Book." "What book, Catherine?" "The Book!" She looked away and, again, searched the top of my bureau in her ghostly manner. What book could she have meant? She had asked with such urgency . . . such pleading. What other book could she have meant but the Bible? Oh, I fear I have done so wrong! I fear Catherine is in Hell, and that I have made it worse for her! Have I served the Devil in bringing my dear friend a Bible? I was so certain that she was requesting one, but surely it added to the pain of Hell. Oh, what have I done? It was clearly the most horrid thing I have witnessed in all my life. When she asked for "the Book," what else could I assume but that she wanted a Bible? I therefore retrieved my Bible from the drawing room and placed it next to "Ali Baba." Catherine looked at it with an odd mixture of fear and determination. Timidly, she reached toward it with a single finger. I don't want to write of what I witnessed tonight, but I must. The horror must be told, lest it be forgotten. She reached out and just as her finger touched the Book, she let out a scream so fierce and dreadful that I though I, too, was in Hell. She pulled back her finger with such force and . . . Oh, it was so horrid . . . it was on fire! Her finger was on fire! The sight alone was enough to make me ill, but the smell! It was aputrid mixture of burning flesh and sulphur, and as the flame died, I could see that it had left its charred black mark on her finger. Sobs racked her fragile frame, and as I went to comfort her, my hand passed through her shoulder without her notice. Catherine was still crying as she drifted out of the window. I am still tearful as I write this. I wonder if I shall ever see her again, and if she will ever get out of Hell, if indeed she is in Hell. I wonder if she thinks I did it on purpose. I wonder if she thinks at all . . . . Before she left from her first appearance, she asked that I pray for her, which I did. I don't think she was coherent enough to ask again tonight, and after the things I've seen, I don't know if it will do any good at all, but certainly it can do no harm. God be with Catherine. * * * |
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