R. Lafferty - The 7th Ghost Story Megapack

“‘Caught!’ I cried, throwing my arms around the figure. And I had made the acquaintance of a real live ghost.

“The white robes fell, and I saw revealed my hostess of Buckstown Inn.

“Next morning, when I threatened to call the police, she confessed to me that she masqueraded as a ghost to draw visitors to the out-of-the-way old place, and that she found its tale of being haunted highly profitable to her.”

Gordon whimpered when Nurse Rawlins came into his private room with his dinner. Nurse Rawlins was a brisk well-scrubbed little dynamo. That smile of hers seemed to be forever saying, We’re going to stop all this nonsense, aren’t we, Mr. Keel ? We’re going to stop it today .

“Good evening!” she chirped, setting down his tray on the bedstand. “Shall we get ready for our dinner now, Mr. Keel?”

He managed a weak smile. She plumped up his pillows briskly and cranked up the hospital bed. He thought, she means well, damn her . She unfolded the tray legs and set it across him on the bed.

“You’re looking ever so much better today, Mr. Keel,” she said briskly.

“I look like hell and you know it!” Gordon cried. “I’m skin and bones. Take a good look at my face. I look like death. I’m as good as dead right now and you know it!” His effort sent him shuddering back against the pillows with a strangled sob. He shut his eyes savagely.

Nurse Rawlins took a few seconds to look hurt, then she became brisk and efficient again. She smiled. “Nonsense!” She lifted the aluminum heat jacket off his entree dish. “Now if you will just try a bite of this veal scaloppini. Cook’s wonderful at veal scaloppini. He made it for you because it’s your favorite dish.”

Gordon’s eyes flicked open in spite of himself. The aroma of the tender, succulent pieces of meat swimming in the rich sauce was torment. He looked at the side dish of creamed asparagus, also a favorite, at the mound of mashed potatoes into which a liberal square of yellow butter had been thrust, at the tossed salad, each green fragment of which sparkled with carefully blended French dressing. There were condiments, too, and a silver pot of coffee.

Everything was chosen to tempt the most picayunish appetite, down to the freshly baked rolls. Everything was exactly as Gordon might have ordered it at his favorite restaurant.

Nurse Rawlins sniffed and couldn’t help mentioning the thin lamb chop she had just finished downstairs. “It was all right, but not veal scaloppini! Cook went to special pains, Mr. Keel. Dr. Green said spare no expense. The meat was hand-picked at Schwartz’s and you know how expensive they are. The chef at Tivoli’s made the salad dressing and rushed it over to the hospital by special messen—”

“Shut up!” Gordon groaned. “Will you shut up!”

“Certainly, Mr. Keel,” Nurse Rawlins said cheerfully. “I know you’re anxious to eat your wonderful dinner.” She hummed and stepped to the window, where she pretended to be engrossed in the summer sunset.

“Go away!” Gordon cried weakly.

“I was supposed to stay until you ate every—”

“Take it away!” Gordon sobbed. “Take it out of my sight before I throw it at you!”

Nurse Rawlins whirled anxiously.

“What’s wrong, Mr. Keel? Don’t you like veal scaloppini any more? According to your case records you used to be very fond—”

Gordon swallowed hard. His stomach felt as if someone with hands like steel was wringing it. “Please take it away!” he sobbed harshly.

His tears brought all of Nurse Rawlins’ dormant pity to the fore, she had to force herself to remember that this was only a phobia Patient Keel had, a psychotic delusion regarding food of any kind. But he had to eat! Dr. Green said he’d die if he didn’t. The glucose injections didn’t seem to help. Patient Keel’s system had developed a curious immunity to artificial feeding.

“Won’t you just eat something, Mr. Keel?”

“No!”

“Suppose I feed you.” She stepped around the bed.

“ No !” Gordon flung out his hands so violently that he spilled sauce across the white tray napkin. He wrenched around and buried his sobs in the pillows. “Go away! Take it away!”

“All right, I’ll go,” Nurse Rawlins sighed. “But I’ll just leave the tray here on the stand where you can reach it.” At the door she turned. “I’ll have to tell Dr. Green you wouldn’t eat your dinner again, Mr. Keel.”

After a while Gordon opened his gaunt, hungry eyes and stared at the white ceiling. He wouldn’t look at that tray. He wouldn’t! Why in hell hadn’t she taken it away like he told her? Why did they torture him like this?

She thought that he wasn’t hungry. My God!

How long had it been? How long was it since he’d eaten a decent uninterrupted, meal? How long? A week, a month, a year? No. It couldn’t be a year. He’d be dead by now. A year ago he was in Denver. Cousin Grey Ellis hadn’t been dead a year. It was actually only a few weeks since Esther brought him to Dr, Green’s hospital for treatment. They’d just got back from Honolulu, from their honeymoon. Honeymoon! Esther had been so regular about everything. Not that she understood what was really wrong. How could he tell her? If he told her anything at all, then he would have to tell her everything. And then she would shrink away from him, the soft love-light in her clear blue eyes would harden into hatred. He did it for Esther, so they could be married, so Esther could have all the things she should have. But Esther was sweet and good. The fact remained that he had done it and she could no longer love him if she knew.

Another thing was ironic. That was Gordon’s fetishistic attitude toward food. Ever since he was a child Gordon had revered food. Not that he was a glutton. It was merely a delicious over-emphasis on the pleasures of the table. He loved to eat, to talk about food, to read about it.

His mind flitted back to his childhood in Grantyille, a little mining town in southern Colorado. His father couldn’t work, having contracted tuberculosis from long years spent underground. His mother took in washing. They were hideously poor, so poor that hamburger was a luxury. Every once in a while, between racking coughs, his father would mention Cousin Grey Ellis out in California. His voice used to be pinched and bitter.

As a child Gordon had never had much or the best of anything. Maybe that’s what did it. He worked hard in school and after school, picking up and delivering heavy sacks of laundry. There was nothing extraordinary about Gordon. He had fair looks, a fair mind. But he wasn’t brilliant in any department. He had to work and he did work, hard, to climb up from that pit of poverty.

He was in charge of men’s dry goods at Tilson’s Mercantile in Denver when he met Esther Craig. He had worked his way up from stock boy, and was now next to Mr. Chambers, the floor walker. Mr. Chambers liked Gordon because he was decently subservient; it was whispered around Tilson’s that one day Gordon might be floor walker. All this paled into insignificance when he met Esther. His hunger for food was nothing compared to his hunger for Esther. But Esther Craig lived with an uncle and a grandmother, both of whom enjoyed wealth and social position. Esther was femininely fragile and sweet, he was sure money didn’t matter to her. But it did to her uncle and her grandmother. They would never consent to Esther marrying a store clerk—well, department head—and Esther was too feminine to defy them.

Gordon spent many sleepless nights brooding, over his unfortunate position before that letter came—the letter telling him Cousin Grey Ellis in California had died.