The Ghost Makers

Maxwell Grant The Ghost Makers

Chapter I — The Laugh of a Ghost

"I am Little Flower!"

A thin, piping voice was babbling amid the eerie darkness. As the shrill tones ended, a spectral silence prevailed.

"I am Little Flower!"

The repeated cry was like a weird echo of the first ghostly call. Then, when the call was no longer uttered, a low, quavering question came from among the sitters in the darkened circle. "Have you a message for me?"

It was a woman who made the query. Her tone was one that denoted a sincere believer. The listeners waited. The voice of Little Flower broke the gloom.

"I have message from J.H.," it said. "He wish to speak to some one that is here. Some one he cannot see. Someone who love him on the earthly plane. He say he is J.H. He say the one who love him will know—"

"I recognize J.H.," came the woman's voice. "I am the one to whom he would speak. Please, Little Flower, please bring me his message—"

The beseeching voice ended with a choking sob. The woman in the circle could speak no more. She was overcome with emotion.

The tenseness of the group continued. The low sobbing of the woman who had spoken was the only sign that people were in this darkened room — waiting— listening.

"He say he will try to speak," babbled Little Flower. "He say he will try, because she wish. He say he feel that she is worry. That she need him to tell—"

"I do need him, Little Flower," pleaded the woman. "Tell him that since he went to the spirit world I have been alone. I need his advice."

"He is talking now," piped Little Flower. "He tell me more now. He say his name is J — J — it is like John, he say—"

"That is right, Little Flower!" exclaimed the woman. "He has told you right. Oh, my dear Jonathan! He knew so much about the world — he was so successful — and now, without him to tell me what to do—"

"He see your trouble," pattered Little Flower. "He say his name is Jonathan. He see you worry about the money that you have. You are afraid you are not wise—"

"Jonathan knows!" bemoaned the woman. "He is speaking from the dead — from the spirit plane. Tell him that I sold — that I did what he advised — but that now—"

The speaker paused, for the voice of Little Flower was commencing to talk again.

"Jonathan he speak to me," came the shrill utterance. "He say he understand. He tell you all through me. He say you do well to sell the stock he say to sell."

"That is true, Little Flower!" gasped the sitter. "Only Jonathan could know about it. Speak to him again, Little Flower. I know it is my Jonathan!"

"He say that you have sold, but you worry about how to buy. You are afraid without him to tell. You wish to know what you must buy to be sure."

"That is true! That is true!" the woman exclaimed.

"He is on the spirit plane," continued Little Flower's voice, "but he can see earthly plane, too. He see something that you must buy.

"Yes, he tell me you must buy. It will make you have much money. Very much money, he say. It is a long name — too long for Little Flower to remember. She cannot understand such big word."

"Please, Little Flower! Please try to understand!"

"Little Flower she cannot say big words. But he say letters. Listen, while Little Flower try to say the letters: C-O-R-N-A-D-O—"

"Coronado!"

"That is what he say — the same word John — Jonathan, he say. There is one more word. It start like the first. Little Flower cannot say. She try to spell again: C-O-P—"

The piping voice broke and seemed confused. It became babbling and incoherent; then the spelling recommenced, laboriously, letter by letter:

"C-O-P-P—"

"Copper!" gasped the eager woman. "Coronado Copper. Is that what he told you, Little Flower?"

"That is what he say. What you say. The same funny big words, that Little Flower find too big to say. Jon-a-than — he say you must buy it quick. It must be quick — before it come too late—"

"Ask him how much to buy, Little Flower!" exclaimed the woman breathlessly. "How much!"

"I talk to him. Wait. He has hear. Through the ear of Little Flower, he has hear. I tell what he say." The piping voice became still. There was a long, breathless pause. Then an incoherent jabber of the shrill voice, and words that were meaningless. Finally, the tones of Little Flower:

"He is say one — one something — one — some-thing — some funny number, he say—" AS the voice dwindled, and the breathlessness increased, a new sound pervaded the seance room. It seemed to begin from nowhere, and grow to a terrifying crescendo.

It was the sound of an uncanny, mirthless laugh. A whispered laugh, it lost its eerie shudder and rose to a loud, mocking peal that drowned the babbling of Little Flower.

Sharp gasps came from the members of the circle. The linked hands of the sitters trembled. That laugh had sounded like a dooming knell uttered by some fierce power of another world!

The laugh died away; then came a low reverberation, as though the tones had echoed back from space itself.