Gibbler's Ghost and Other Tales of Woe | Podcast - Nightshade Diary

Episode Transcript
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Speaker 1 (00:00):
Do you feel a shier up your spine from fear. Yes,
it's another story from the Night's Shade Diary. You know
what that means. Check under the bed and make sure
no one or nothing is there. Is the closet door
securely shut. Then leave your disbelief behind, amp up your
imagination and hang on tight for another ride into terror

(00:22):
and mystery. And like all good horror stories, just imagine
it's a dark and stormy night, and remember screaming like
a little girl is permitted. Gibblers goes by William F. Nolan.

(00:43):
Clippity PLoP a girl a night, Rainbow Chicks, Blonde on Monday,
Brunette on Tuesday, redhead on Wednesday, Falling like soft ripe
plumb into dusk a hill's bed. Deaths shook the tree,
and down they came. Clippity PLoP, Ole Dez, the makeout King, Cahill,

(01:06):
the cool mister Codpiece. Remember how it was every young
stud in the country envied him, walk like Des in
his guccy buckle clips, wore his hair with the same
cool curl over one eye thumb, crushed his SIGs after
three quick pups the same savage way Des did. Sure,

(01:28):
who could forget, but now he's gone. No more movies
or TV specials or Broadway guest shots in the nude.
Women and a lot of men paid scalpers up to
one hundred bucks to get a front row peak at
Cahill's equipment, and they were never disappointed. So what happened?

(01:48):
How come at the top of the ladder he walks,
does the big fade and is seen no more. I
can tell you. I figure his public deserves to have
the real wrap laid down on Dez Cahill. I was
his best friend if he ever had one. My name
is Albert. I took care of his income tax problems

(02:10):
and leant him my shoulder for crying on, and believe me,
des had plenty to cry about. It begins with a ghost.
Dez liked to swing high. His pad was in Benedict Canyon,
rafters crackling fire, mild deep rugs, a bear's head on
the wall. Cozy. I was working in the back of

(02:32):
the house late one night and a capital gains tax
dodge for Dez my first time over to his place,
when I hear this agonized female shriek of fear from
the master bedroom as I rushed toward the room. Out
the door comes this pneumatic blonde wearing midnight hush I
make up and a really terrified expression. She snakes, shakes

(02:55):
into her clothes, looking great doing it, and does a
quick exit. Then she misses three gears on her MG
going down the hill. Des is standing by the bed,
wearing a rumpled pair of tigers eye shorts and looking bereffed.
That's the only word for how he looked. Bereft. It
was him again, he says, softly. Who's him? The freakin ghost?

(03:19):
Who the hell else would I have in there? Right away?
I take his word. Then you've seen this spook before,
and my question does chuckles. He laughs. He throws back
his head and howls. He falls down on the rug,
breaking up. Then he stops and looks at me, Albert.
He says, I'm going to tell you something I have

(03:39):
never told anybody else in this living world. I'm twenty five,
loaded with bread up to my ass and fame, with
maybe ten thousand cuddly little numbers, ready to make the
sex in anytime I lift a pinky. And you know
what what, Albert, I'm a virgin. We have a drink,

(04:01):
two drinks. We're on a third vodka martinis with hair
on their chests. When Dez lays it out for me.
First time, I tried to make it all the way
with the chick. I was fifteen, and that's when I
saw him, the ghost and broad daylight at the beach
on a Saturday afternoon, an old geezer dressed in full armor,

(04:22):
looming right above us with this horse over his head.
I stopped Ez there and he tells me that whenever
the ghost appears, he is always holding up a horse,
holding it in the air like he's about to throw
it at you, says Dez. Anyhow, the chick fainted and
I was very disturbed. It happened again the following Friday

(04:44):
with me and the mayor's daughter. And that's the way
it's been ever since I got a chick into the hay,
and we are at the absolute moment of truth, you know,
I know. And that's when the ghost comes on with
a horse. Naturally, it scares to shit out of my date. Naturally,
no matter where I am. It happens a location down

(05:07):
in Pennsylvania last summer for the coal mine, flick at
every precious young available female in town, panting at my
motel door. So I took him on one per night
and always got up to the grand moment. You know,
I know when out he pops with his goddamn overhead
horse and the scene is blown. Thirty six days on location,

(05:30):
thirty six chicks, thirty six blow ups. He knuckles his eyes,
rolls his head. Albert, I cannot go on. I've got
the hottest sex rep and showbiz and I haven't made
it once. He sobs a broken, terrible sound. Not once.
That's when I give him my shoulder to cry on.

(05:52):
Later I give him advice. Hire a class ghostbreaker who
knows his books and go after the bastard with a horse.
This he does. The ghost breaker is a nervous, kinky
little guy, but he guarantees his work they will be
no longer a ghost when he is through this weekend
bank on. He goes the full route with powders that

(06:13):
flash and explode, with chalk circles around the bed and
invocations and curses and a lot of arm waving with
incense that really stinks, and hand clapping and plenty of yelling.
But each time, just as Dez and the particular lady
of his choice reached the ultimate moment, Wow, the ghost
is there. Naturally, all the stinking incense and exploding powders

(06:35):
and yelling and hand clapping not exactly delight the young
thing who happens to be sharing the sheets with des
and she always demands to know just what the hell
is going on with this creepy guy hopping nervously around
their bed. But Dez is able to calm her down,
and she's usually okay until the ghost shows, at which
point she bolts like they all bolts straight out of

(06:58):
the room, shrieking. This goes on for three weeks, a
Dez getting thinner and more rough looking by the week.
Finally I ask him if he'd mind if I joined
the group to kind of size up the ghosts for
myself and maybe come in with some fresh ideas. Sure,
he says, and that night there's Dez and the uneasy
ghostbreaker and a redhead with an immense heaving bosom and me,

(07:21):
all of us in the master bedroom. Sex under these
conditions is never good, but Dez manages to thrash himself
into a damn remarkable performance until Zambo, there's the ghost
right on the old button. I give him the careful
once over a seedy old gink scowling inside a cheapy

(07:42):
suit of back lot armor with a crazy eyed palumino
above his head. I concentrate on the fate. Suddenly I
let out a whoop. I know the bum that's Joey Gibler.
It's Gibbler. I tell you. The ghost looks startled and vanishes,
But by then the girl is shrieking and the nervous
ghostbreakers exploding more powder, and Dez is in no real

(08:04):
condition to listen to me after when things are more settled,
I spell it out. Gibbler was an extra back in
the days of the Silence. I tell Dez, I remember
reading about how he and this parliamento horse both broke
their necks doing a battle scene for the Queen's Cute Question,
one of those lapstick historicals they used to grind out

(08:26):
at Monarch. Dez shoots up an eyebrow. Dad directed that one.
I know he did. It was his last picture, exactly
an He died of a stroke the following week, which
explains everything, not to me. It doesn't. Joey was sore
over getting his neck broke, and he blamed your pop
for it, but he didn't have time to haunt him.

(08:48):
The stroke beat him out, so Gibbler decides to haunt
you instead. He waits until you're old enough to taste
the sweet fruits of life, and then he cunningly denies
them to you and keep on until we play Katum.
But how how do you play Kato sore Spook? The
key is Joey Gibbler Junior. The kid must be about

(09:09):
thirty by now, not bad looking. I've seen his name
in the trades and extra trying to make it as
an actor, right, So set it up for him, Throw
around some weight at the studio and get him into
a picture. Junior clicks and his old man stops haunting you.
Out of sheer gratitude. You can do it, Albert, he says,

(09:30):
I can do it. He does it. Joey winds up
with a fat part in the Big Bottom, and overnight
the way it can happen, Joey Gibbler Junior is a star,
and overnight des makes it all the way through the
moment of truth, no ghost. Old des Cahill is diviginized.
He hugs me, dances me around the room, thrust sign

(09:52):
checks at me, insists that I accept his mother's wedding ring.
It is a tearful Joy's occasion. The next night, I
get a jingle at my place. Dez on the horn,
sounding terribly rereft. What's wrong, I ask, a new wind showed,
He says, another ghost, Albert, it can't be, but it is.
It's Joey Junior. I buzz over to Benedict Canyon in

(10:15):
my Porsche. Dez meets me at the door. Crazy. I
like the Palomino. We get it all. On the eleven
o'clock News, actor dies in a freak set accident. Rising
star Joey Gibler Junior suffers a broken neck when a
delicatesten set falls on him during a Jewish film sequence. Wow.
Des signs that accounts for the white butcher's apron he's

(10:39):
wearing in when he holds above his head, which is
a display case full of mostly bagels and cream cheese.
I'm sorry to tell you, but this story has no
happy ending. Dez, who swears he'll never resign himself to celibacy,
has quit the acting game and is on the move.
Last I heard, he covered most of Europe, Asia and
the Middle East and was in the Australian backcountry. What

(11:02):
he's looking for is a very brave chick whilst ACKed
eighteen to twenty five, who isn't afraid of seeing each
night a scowling spook and a butcher's apron way a
display case full of mostly bagels and cream cheese above
his head. And they just don't hardly make that kind anymore.

(11:24):
Victoria by Ogden Nash. Victoria was an attractive new girl
at the Missus Mallison's Female Seminary. Such an attractive new girl, indeed,
it is a pity she never grew to be an
old girl. Perhaps she would have if the Missus Mallison
had established her seminary a little closer to Newberry Port,

(11:46):
or at least a little further from Salem. Victoria was
good enough at games and not too good at lessons.
Her mouth was wide enough to console the homely girls,
and her eyes bright enough to include her among the
pretty ones. She could weep over the death of a
horse and a story, and remain composed at the death
of an aunt in the hospital. She would rather eat

(12:07):
between meals than at them. She wrote to her parents
once a week if in need of anything, and she
truly meant to do the right thing. Only so often
the wrong thing was easier. In short, Victoria was an
ideal candidate for the Three D's, the night Blooming Sorority, which,
like had the Serrus, flourished after dark for many years,

(12:30):
unscented by the precise noses of the Missus Mallinson, so
felt the three D's, so felt Victoria, and the only
obstacle to her admission lay in the very title of
the club itself, which members knew signified that none could
gain entrance without the accomplishment of a feat daring, deadly

(12:51):
and done never before. Victoria was competent at daring feats,
unsurpassable at deadly feats. But where we shul to discover
feet never done before? Of the present membership, Amanda had
leaped into a cold bath with her clothes on. Miranda
had climbed the roof in her nightgown to drop a

(13:12):
garter snake down the Missus Mallison's chimney. Amelia had eaten
cold spaghetti blindfolded, thinking they were worms, and Cordelia had
eaten worms blindfolded thinking they were cold spaghetti. What was
left for Victoria? It was Amanda who, at a meeting
of the Steering Committee wiped the fudge from her fingers
on the inside of her dressing gown and spoke the

(13:33):
name of Eliza Katzpaw. Who was she asked Miranda, pouring
honey on a slice of coconut cake. A witch, said Amanda.
She was burned, said Amelia. Hanged, said Cordelia. And she
couldn't get into the churchyard, so they buried her in
the meadow behind the old slaughterhouse, said Amanda. The gravestone

(13:54):
is still there, said Amelia. Oh, bother, the cake's all gone.
Never mind, I'll eat caramel. There's writing on it, too,
said Cordelia, who was not hungry. But you can't read
it in the daytime, only by moonlight. I'd forgotten how
good currant jelly is on marshmallows, said Amanda. The three
d's must tell Victoria about Eliza Katzpaw. Late next evening,

(14:18):
Victoria took her pen in hand. Dear father and mother,
She wrote, I hope you are well. I am doing
well in algebra, but miss Hattie's unfair about my French
irregular verbs. I am doing well in grammar, but miss
Meddie has chosen me to pick on dear father. Everybody
else's father sends them one dollar every week. I have

(14:40):
lots of things to write, but the bella's ringing for supper.
Lots of love, your loving daughter, Victoria. Victoria knew that
in ten minutes, Miss Hattie Mallison would open the door, slightly,
peer at the bed, murmur good night Victoria's sweet dreams,
and disappear. It took Victoria's se minutes to construct a

(15:01):
dummy out of a mop a nightgown and several pillows
and blankets. As she lowered herself to the ground, she
heard the door open, heard Miss Hattie's murmur, heard the
door close. The soaring moon ran through Victoria. She marched
as she skipped. As she pranced towards the old slaughter house.
She had for company her high moon spirits and her

(15:21):
long shadow, the shadow, which was a Victoria that no
Miss Malleson could ever cage. No girl has ever had
a taller, livelier companion than my shadow, thought Victoria. As
she breathed deeply in spread her arms, and her shadow
breithed with her, and spread crooked arms of the walls

(15:42):
and across the roof of the slaughter house. The moon
grew brighter with each birr that Victoria struggled against on
her way across the meadows had been abandoned to burrs.
The meadow where no beasts fed, the meadow wore. Victoria's
shadow strengthened at each proud and adventurous step. Where the
birds grew thickest were her loyalty to the three d's

(16:04):
or the thinnest she came upon the gravestone. How hard
the moonshine as Victoria leaned against the crooked slab, perhaps
to catch her breath, perhaps to stand on one foot
and pluck the birds off. When the stone quivered and
rot behind her, and the ground trembled beneath her feet,
she bravely remembered her purpose, that at midnight in the moonlight,

(16:24):
she was to prove herself a worthy companion of Amanda
and Miranda, Amelia and Cordelia. Unwillingly she turned, and wilfully
she read the lines which the rays of the moon
lifted from the stone, so obscured by rain and moss.
Here waits Eliza Kat's paw, who touches this stone on
moonlight Meadow, shall live no longer than his shadow. The

(16:49):
job of memorizing was done. The imitation into the three
d's handsibly undergone. Gracious is that all there is to it,
thought Victoria, and set out for the seminary. It was
it's natural that she should hurry, so perhaps it was
natural that she did not miss the exuberant shadow which
should have escorted her home. The moon was bright behind Victoria,

(17:10):
who couldn't tell how she forgot that there should have
been a shadow to lead the way, But there was
no shadow. Her shadow had dwindled as she ran, as
though Victoria grew shoulder, or perhaps the moon grew more remote.
And if she did not miss her shadow, neither did
she hear or see whatever it may have been that
rustled and scuttled past her and ahead of her. I hope,

(17:34):
my dear little dummy is still there, thought Victoria, as
she climbed through the window. I hope miss Hattie hasn't
been unfair and shaken me. She tiptoed across the room
in the dark, to the bed and bent to remove
the dummy. But as she reached down, the dummy, which
was no longer a dummy, reached up its dusty fingers.

(17:55):
First Ghost of Bucks by Arnold M. Anderson. Several travel
worn drummers sat in the lobby, exchanging yarns. It was
Rodney Green's turn, and he looked wise and began his tale.
I don't claim by any means that the belief in
ghosts is a general thing in Arkansas, but I do

(18:17):
say that I had an experience out there a few
years ago. It was late in the fall, and I
happened to be in the village of Buckstown, which desecrates
a very limited portion of the state. The town is
about as small and dirty a place as ever I saw,
and the Buckstown Inn is not much above the general
character of the place. The region is inhabited by natives

(18:39):
who still cling to all sorts of foolish superstitions. The
inn in the Antebellum days was kept by one who
was said to be the meanest and most crabbed of mortals.
The old Demon was as miserly as he was mean,
and all his narrow life he hoarded his filthy lucre
with fiendish greed. Report had it also that he had

(19:02):
even murdered his patrons in their beds for their money.
What the facts actually were, I don't know. Even to
this day, the Old Inn is held in suspicion a
lingering effect of former horrors still clouds its memory. The
present proprietor, Bunk Watson, his real name is Bunker, I believe,
is an altogether different sort of chap, a Southern type,

(19:25):
in fact, one of those shiftless, heedless, happy, gold lucky
mortals who loves strong whiskey in who choose an enormous
quid of black tobacco and smokes a corn cob pipe.
At the same time, when the former keeper shuffled off,
his property fell to a distant relative, the present keeper,
who with his family immediately moved in from a neighboring

(19:47):
hamlet into possession. It was well known that the old
proprietor had accumulated considerable wealth during his sojourn among the living,
but all efforts to discover any treasure upon the premises
had failed, and now the idea of ever finding it
was practically given up. As far as Bunk was concerned,
the matter troubled him little. He had a hard working

(20:09):
wife who ran things the best she could under the circumstances,
and saw that his meals were forthcoming at their respective intervals.
What more could he wish? Why should he care? If
there was a treasure buried upon his place. Indeed, it
would have been a sore puzzle for him to know
what to do with the fortune, unless perhaps his wife
came to his aid. Among the stories at Howard in

(20:32):
the history of the Bookstown Inn was one which involved
a ghost in the room where the former keeper had died.
Peculiar noises were heard at unearthly hours, sighing, moaning, and
in fact all the other indications which point to the
existence of ghosts were said to be present. On account
of this, the chamber had long since been abandoned. I

(20:56):
listened with keen interest to the wonderful tales about the
haunted room, and then suddenly resolved to investigate, to sleep
in that chamber that very night and see for myself
all that was to be seen. I told Buck of
my purpose. He shook his head, shrugged his shoulders, but
instead of warning me and offering a flood of protest
as I expected, he merely took his pipe from his mouth,

(21:17):
let fly a quarter or so yellowish juice from between
a pair of bound, stained lips, and, opening one corner
of his wide mouth, lazily called out Jane. His wife appeared,
and he intimated that I should settled the matter with
the old woman. The prospect of a pea persuaded the wife,
and off she went to arrange my bed in that

(21:38):
ill fated room. At nine o'clock that evening, I bid
the family good night, took my candle, ascended the rickety stairs,
and entered the Chamber of horrors. The atmosphere was heavy
and had a peculiar odor that was not at all pleasing. However,
I latched the door and was soon in bed. Having
propped myself up with pillows, I was prepared to wait

(22:00):
the coming of the ghost. Overhead, the dusty rafters, which
once had experienced a sensation of being whitewashed, but which
were now a dirty yellowish color, were hung with a
fantastic array of cobwebs. The flickering light of the candle
reflected upon the walls and against the seething a pyramid
of grotesque shapes, and, with this effect being continually disturbed

(22:24):
by the swaying cobwebs, the whole cause a room to
appear rather ghostly after all, and especially so to an
imaginative mine. I waited and waited for hours, it seemed,
but still no ghost. Perhaps it was afraid of my candlelight,
so I blew it out. No sooner had I done
this and settled back in bed again than a white
hand appeared through the door, than a whole figure. At last,

(22:47):
the ghost had come, a white and sheeted ghost. It
had come right through the door, although it was locked
and no advanced toward the bed. Raising its long white arm,
it pointed a bony face, grabbed me, and then commanded,
come with me. Thereupon it turned to the door. While
instantly I jumped out of bed to follow, some unseen

(23:09):
power compelled me to obey. The door flew open, and
the ghosts led me down the stairs, through long halls,
into the cellar, through mysterious underground quarters, upstairs again, in
and out of a room which I never dreamed were
to be found, and that old rambling in. Finally through
a small door in the rear, we left the house.

(23:30):
I was in my sleeping garments, but no matter. I
had to follow. The white form with a slow and
measured tread, and as silent as death, led the way
into the orchard. There under a tree at the further end.
It pointed to the ground, and the same ghostly tones
before said here you will find a great treasure buried.
The ghost then disappeared, and I saw it no more.

(23:53):
I stood dazed and trembling. Upon recovering my woods, I
started to dig, but to chill. The night air and
the skaniness of my night robes made such labor impractical,
so I decided to leave some mark to identify the
place and come around again. At daybreak, I reached up
and broke off a limb. Overcome with my night's exertions,
I slept the next morning until a loud rapping on

(24:15):
my door and a croaking voice warmed me that it
was noon. I had intended to leave Buckstown end that day,
but prompted by curiosity and anxious to investigate, I unpacked
my gripsack for a comfortable stay. You must understand that
this was my first experience with a ghost, and I
feared I might never see another. At breakfast, my landlady

(24:36):
waited on me in silence, though once I detected her
eyes following me with a peculiar expression. She wanted to
ask me how I enjoyed the night, but I would
not gratify her by volunteering a word. My host was
more outspoken. I reckon, you didn't get much sleep, said he,
with a queer smile. Did you hear anything, I asked, Well,
I did, yes, he said, with a drawl. But you

(24:59):
didn't disturb me. Annie, I knew you'd have trouble when
you went in that room to sleep. That afternoon, I
slipped out to the tree, but to my amazement, I
found that the twiger had broken from the branches was gone. Finally,
I found under the lower trunk of an apple tree
an open place from which a small branch had evidently
been rested. But on looking further, I discovered that every

(25:22):
apple training orchard had been similarly disfigured. More mysterious than ever,
I said, But tonight shall decide. That night I pleaded weariness,
which no one seemed inclined to question, and stopped my
couch earlier going to try it again, asked my host, Yes,
and I'll stay all winter. But I'll get even with

(25:43):
that ghost, I said. That night, I kept the candle
burning until my night, when I blew it out. Instantly,
the room was flooded with a soft light, and at
the foot of the bed stood my ghost, the identical
ghost of last night. Again, the bony finger beckoned as
separakle voice whispered follow me. I sprang from the bed,

(26:03):
but the figure darted ahead of me. It flew through
the doorway and down the stairs, and I after it.
At the foot of the staircase, an unseen hand reached
toward and caught my foot, and I fell, sprawling headlong.
But in a second I was on my feet in
pursuing the ghost. It had gained on me a few yards,
but I was quicker, and just as we reached the

(26:23):
outside door, I nearly touched its robes. They sent a
child to my frame, and I nearly gave up the pursuit.
As it passed through the doorway, it turned and gave
me one look, and I caught the same malignant light
in its eyes that I remembered from the night before
in the open orchard. I felt sure I could catch it,
but my ghost had no intention of allowing me any

(26:45):
such opportunity. Till my disgust, it darted backward and into
the house, slamming the door in my face. My frenzy
of fear and chagrin, I threw myself against the oaken
door with such force that its rusty old hinges yielded,
and I landed in the big front room of the inn,
just in time to see the white skirts of the
ghosts flit up the stairs upstairs. I flew after it

(27:07):
and into an old chamber there, huddled in a corner.
I saw it in a minute's delay, and had secured
a lighted candle. As I entered it, it advanced to
dop me, with bony arm upraised to great height. Cot
I cried, throwing my arms around the figure, and I
had made the acquaintance of a real life ghost. The

(27:27):
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 old place,
and as she found its tale of being haunted highly
profitable to her. We are the Dead by Henry Kutner.

(27:50):
Senator Kennicott was grateful for the cool night went on
his flushed face, he wished Hobson, walking slowly at his side,
Wood stopped his inturnmuile argument about the bill. The man's
high pitch, rather unpleasant voice seemed out of place, incongruous,
and the peaceful hush of Arlington's cemetery. Hobson was panting
a little, his fleshy, well massaged face creased in annoyance.

(28:15):
The walk through the cemetery had been no hardship to
the slim whipcort body the senator, but Hobson was not
used to walking. Kennicott had felt that a stroll homeward
from the banquet would calm as turbulent thoughts excited by
the innumerable activities of Memorial Day, and Hobson, anxious to
settle the matter of the bill, had rather unwillingly decided

(28:36):
to accompany him. It may bring us closer to war,
the senator said, breaking in sharply, and Hobson's involved explanation.
Not at all, it's merely preparedness. Hobson's sharp little eyes
searched the other's face. We must protect American interest in
foreign countries, surely, but this is very aggressive, Kennicott objected,

(28:59):
After all, we don't want the hatred of other countries. Oh, come, now,
that's going, it added a bit strong. I've already explained how,
But war, the Senator said, looking absently at a tombstone
in the distance. There'll be no war, Hobson insisted, somewhat. Really,
if I thought this bill were really dangerous, I'd be

(29:21):
the first to demand its withdrawal. How much do you
stand to make out of it, the senator asked abruptly, Well,
never mind, that's scarcely a fair question. Can't we let
this go till tomorrow? Hobson? I'm so utterly tired. Hobson
stared at him for a moment, then, choosing his words
with care, he said, the bill really should go through, Senator.

(29:44):
I think it will assure you're securing the nomination next year.
Kennicott looked at him, keenly, little lines bracketing his mouth.
Hobson's support was valuable, in fact, indispensable if you were
to withdraw it. Glancing side was at his companion, the
senator almost walked into a shadowy, slim figure that stood

(30:04):
quietly in the darkness beneath a tall elm. A drawn
white face was turned to Kennicott, and he felt a
sudden sense of shock at the agony and the dark,
brooding eyes. It was a young man, almost a boy,
with deep lines of pain etched in his face. I'm sorry,
the senator said, quickly, glancing at the boy's faded, worn
cocky uniform. I didn't see you. The boy made no answer,

(30:28):
and the senator made a tentive movement to pass on. Abruptly.
The youthful, haggard face was turned away, and the boy said,
in a muffled tone, I can't sleep. What Kennicott stared,
I say, I can't sleep, The boy repeated, his voice
dull with pain. Hobson made a clucking sound of commiseration

(30:51):
and glanced at the senator. Kennicott felt a surge of sympathy.
The obvious youthfulness of the boy was so incongreous with
his taut face, the white, tortured line of his lips.
I know, Kennicott said, it can be terrible. I had
insomnia for almost a week, once a week. The other said, scornfully,

(31:11):
that's nothing. It's been ages. Kennicott was scribbling something on
the back of an envelope. BE with you in a minute,
he said, under his breath to Hobson, who was chafing.
And the delay here. Any druggist can fill this, he said,
giving the paper to the boy. It will fix you up,
if anything can. I know how you feel, he ended, sympathetically.

(31:33):
The youth took it skeptically and thrust it into a pocket.
Thanks just the same, he said, oddly, it's always like
this a Memorial day. It's worse than you know. Hobson
moved impatiently, his eyes flickering uneasily over the boy's form. Oh,
the senator said, understandingly, I see, But look here. Aren't

(31:54):
you rather young too? Am i? The youth asked, I'm
not so young as I look. I was in a war,
all right. Hobson gave a grunt of disbelief. Even the
senator felt that the boy was lying. True, his face
was worn haggard, but he couldn't be over twenty five
at most. Probably he didn't mean the World War. There

(32:15):
were always battles going on Manchuria, South America, Africa. Well,
you get those powders, the senator said, after an awkward pause.
I'm sure they'll do the trick. He cleared his throat.
Can you use He drew out his wallet rather hesitantly,
but the boy was not offended. No thanks, he said.
A boy's grinned suddenly appearing on his face. Then it

(32:37):
was gone, replaced by that strained expression of pain. He
suddenly seemed to notice a low gray tombstone near by,
and took a few steps toward it. Poor fool, he murmured,
very softly. The senator looked quickly away. It was a
shock to hear Hobson's high pitched, rasping voice. Had the
manned no intelligence, no decency. Kennicott put up a restraining hand,

(33:02):
but it was too late. Oh, come, come, Hobson was saying.
Don't say a thing like that, son, It isn't right.
Come on. Kennicott urged under his breath, but the boy
interrupted him. Why not, he asked a sharp note in
his tired, young voice. Wasn't he a fool, Hobson? We'll

(33:22):
try to argue with the boy, the senator thought, hopelessly.
Couldn't he see that you're too young? You don't understand
what he died for? What his comrades died for? Hobson said,
his plump face, very earnest. Does it matter, the boy asked,
very quietly. They died, They died for something very real.
Hobson plowed on. If they could, for God's sake, come on,

(33:45):
Kennicott snapped, grasping Hobson's arm. Leave him alone. Can't you
see all right? The boy said, suddenly, maybe you're right,
But let me tell you a little story. He came closer,
his eyes dark, and tortured about a fellow who went
over to France in seventeen, Just an ordinary fellow, I
guess who was scared stiff when the shell started bursting

(34:07):
around and the machine guns were making their racket in
the dark. But he was like the rest of the fellows.
He didn't dare show how much he was afraid. A
sniper got him in eighteen. The Senator was uncomfortable and
showed it, but to his disgust, he saw that Hobson
was preparing to answer. The boy. Wait, let me finish.

(34:28):
A sniper got him, I said, And that was fine.
He didn't hear the bullets screaming over the trench, or
the groaning of dying men. All the horrors were gone,
and he was resting forgetting. The darkness was kind. And
then one day he awoke What that was, Hobson frankly staring,
I say, he woke up glory, woke him up splendor

(34:50):
in a stone monument that was very heavy, bitter glory
and squalid splendor. The boy went on fiercely. They tortured
and shamed him. See, he was awake now, and he
wanted God, how he wanted to forget. There were tears
in the tortured eyes, and the boy brushed them away
roughly with his sleeve. Then, catching his breath in a

(35:12):
little gaspy he turned suddenly began to walk quickly away.
For heart beat, Senator stood silent, unmoving, staring at the slim,
khaki figure receding into the gloom. Wait, he called, let
him go. Hobson said, an angry undercurrent in his voice.
You can't. But Kennicott was remembering that white drawn face,
those brooding eyes from which all the youthfulness had been drained. No,

(35:36):
I've got to, he said in an inarticulate aside to Homson,
and took a few hasty steps forward. He saw the
pale blur that was the boy's face turned toward him briefly,
and the slender figure increased its pace. Ignoring Hompson's remonstrances,
the Senator began to hurry after the boy. Kennicott had
to exert himself to overtake his quarry, and was glad

(35:59):
that his mulsos were still firm and elastic. He saw
the boy turned hastily down a side path and broke
into a run for a hundred feet or so. The
path was very dark, and then it broughtened out into
a large clearing. At its edge. Kennicott swept a searching
glance around and jerked abruptly to a halt. His jaw dropped.

(36:21):
A moment later, Hobson pounded up, wheezing a little. He paused,
scrutinizing Kennicott's face. What's the matter, he asked quickly. The
senator did not answer, and Hobson repeated his question. Then
Kennicott turned a startled, almost frightened face to his companion.
Did did you see that? He asked us steadily. What.

(36:41):
Hobson glanced around the boy. He's gone. He's yes, he's gone. Hobson,
I saw he brushed a hand across his eyes. Hobson,
can a man vanish what? Hobson stared at his mouth
open a man? But I saw it, the senator said, earnestly,
as though pleading for belief that boy wasn't. He pointed

(37:02):
toward a great white block in the center of the clearing.
It was right there I saw he could not finish.
What are you talking about? Hobson's voice was purposely crisp
and peremptory. You're all unnerved. Come on, the boy's gone.
We can't stay here. You go on, Kennicott said, suddenly,
I'm going to stay here for a while. Hobson hesitated, Then,

(37:27):
making up his mind, he drew a paper from his pocket,
held it out. Here's the bill. Then I'll phone you tomorrow.
Kennicott made no move. He said, Dolly, the bill. No, No,
I can't look here, Hobson said, furiously. You're not going
to act like a damn fool, are you? What the
devil's the matter? The senator turned to him, a face

(37:48):
of white marble, and said nothing. Hobson hesitated, and, at
his rage, pushed aside his diplomacy his caution, because by Heaven,
I can break you, he snarled. You're not president yet.
I can ruin your career. And you know it. I
know it, the senator said, quietly, but that bill won't
pass while I'm in the Senate. He turned his back

(38:09):
on Hobson and stood silently, gazing at the gaunt white
mausoleum in the clearing. He had spoken patriotically and at
length there not six hours before. It was the tomb
of the Unknown Soldier

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.css-14f5ked{margin:0;word-break:break-word;display:-webkit-box;-webkit-box-orient:vertical;box-orient:vertical;-webkit-line-clamp:2;overflow:hidden;}Gibbler's Ghost and Other Tales of Woe | Podcast