Latest / Sandman Stories Presents / EP 305: Halloween- The Invisible Hand; Present at a Hanging; A Cold Greeting

Transcript

EP 305: Halloween- The Invisible Hand; Present at a Hanging; A Cold Greeting · Sandman Stories Presents

• 0:26
  Welcome back, listeners, to Sam Man's Story Presents.
• 0:29
  We're on the second installment of the Halloween series with
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  three stories. There's some talk of death and
• 0:34
  spookiness, so I'd be cautious with the easily spooked.
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  The first story talks about the horror of an incomplete
• 0:40
  handshake, the second about the troubles of being on the road,
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  and the final story is about messages from beyond the grave.
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  Are you ready to get spooky? OK, let's begin.
• 0:54
  The Invisible Hand The following account was sent to the Ghost
• 0:59
  Hunter Society. Ghosts are usually seen,
• 1:02
  sometimes they are heard, but they are very rarely felt.
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  The account which follows is an example of the latter class, in
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  which the ghost was not only seen but felt.
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  After saying that she was visiting a friend of hers when
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  the event occurred, the narrator proceeds.
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  We went upstairs together. I was perhaps a couple steps
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  behind my friend when on reaching the topmost step, I
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  felt something suddenly slipped behind me from an empty room on
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  the left of the stairs. I thought it must be my
• 1:36
  imagination. No one was in the house except
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  for the widow and the serpent who were somewhere else at the
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  time. I didn't tell my friend who had
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  gone into a room on the right, but instead quickly walked into
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  my room, still feeling like a tall figure was bending over me.
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  I turned on the gas, struck a match and was in the act of
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  lighting it when I felt a heavy hand grasp my arm.
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  It seemed to be missing something.
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  Part of the hand was gone, the middle finger was missing.
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  At this I shouted, which brought my friend, the widow, and the
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  servant into my room to ask for the cause of my alarm.
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  The widow and the servant turned very pale on hearing the story.
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  The house was searched thoroughly, but nothing was
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  discovered. A few weeks passed and I'd
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  recovered from the incident when I happened to mention it.
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  While spending the afternoon with some of my friends, a
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  gentleman asked me if I'd ever heard a description or seen a
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  picture of the lady's late husband.
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  On hearing a no, he said he was tall, had a slight stoop, and
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  had lost the middle finger on his hand.
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  On my return, I asked the servant who had been with the
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  family from childhood if it were true, and learned that it was
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  quite correct, and that she had once, as a girl, had awakened to
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  the feeling of someone pressing down on her knees and opening
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  her eyes, saw her late master by the bedside.
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  Then she fainted and never dared to enter that room since after
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  dark. She is not an imaginative girl,
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  nor am I. When I was grasped, however, I
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  didn't see anything, but worse was to follow.
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  It so happened that I had to sleep in that room once more, as
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  the house was full of company and there was nowhere else for
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  me to sleep. By this time, I'd gotten over my
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  fears and hardly minded the idea of sleeping in that room at all.
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  I left the room door open, turned out the light, and was
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  soon sound asleep. Sometime in the early hours of
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  the morning I awoke with an indescribable feeling.
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  I was suddenly wide awake without the slightest trace of
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  sleep, yet I did not know what woke me, and did not have any
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  recollection of waking up. But there I was, wide awake and
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  staring up at the ceiling with my eyes wide open.
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  My right hand was hanging over the side of the bed, so that
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  fell outwards into the room. Imagine my horror then, and
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  feeling a hand suddenly grasped my hand, and I felt distinctly
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  that it was missing the middle finger.
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  The hand was icy cold and of a peculiar hardness.
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  I hung on to the hand, determined to get to the bottom
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  of this mystery. I gripped it tightly and still
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  held the hand in my grip. Bending over, I stretched out my
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  left hand and with the fingers of that hand, felt over the hand
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  and wrist that I was holding. Then I began to trace up the
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  arm. I had about reached the elbow or
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  a little below, when the arm suddenly ended.
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  It came to nothing. There was no more, yet the hand
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  in mine was as solid as ever. This gave me such a shock that I
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  let go of the hand that I was holding and sank back into my
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  pillows. Then a terror took possession of
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  me, and I do not know what happened.
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  I only know that I had a fever which laid me low for several
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  weeks. The occurrence has never been
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  explained. The end.
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  OK, And the next story present at a hanging warning.
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  There is a hanging in this one. An old man named Daniel Baker,
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  living near Lebanon, Iowa, was suspected by his neighbors of
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  having murdered a peddler who had obtained permission to pass
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  the night at his house. This was in 1853, when peddling
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  was more common in the West than it is now, and was fraught with
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  considerable danger. The peddler traversed the
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  country by all manner of lonely roads, and was compelled to rely
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  upon the country people for hospitality.
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  This brought him into contact with some real odd characters,
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  some of whom were not altogether scrupulous in their methods of
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  making a living, with murder being an acceptable means to
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  that end. It occasionally happened that a
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  peddler with a light suitcase and a heavy purse would be
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  traced to the lonely dwelling of some rough character, never to
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  be seen again. This was so in the case of Old
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  Man Baker, as he was always called.
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  Such names are given in the West only to elderly persons who are
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  not held in high esteem. A peddler came to his house, and
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  none went away. That is all anybody knew.
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  Seven years later, the Reverend Mr. Cummings, a Baptist
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  minister, well known in that part of the country, was driving
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  by Baker's farm one night. It was not very dark.
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  There was a bit of moon somewhere above the light veil
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  of mist that lay along the earth.
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  Mr. Cummings, who was at all times a cheerful person, was
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  whistling a tune which he would occasionally interrupt to say a
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  word of friendly encouragement to his horse.
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  As he came to a little bridge across a dry ravine, he saw the
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  figure of a man standing upon it, clearly outlined against the
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  grey background of a misty forest.
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  The man had something strapped on his back and carried a heavy
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  stick. Obviously an itinerant peddler,
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  he wobbled a bit and had an unsteady gait like that of a
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  sleepwalker. Mr. Cummings slowed his horse
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  when he arrived in front of him, gave him a pleasant salutation
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  and invited him to have a seat in the vehicle.
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  If you're going my way, he added.
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  The man raised his head, looked him full in the face, but
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  neither answered nor made any other further movement.
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  The minister, in his good-natured persistence,
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  repeated his invitation. At this the man threw his right
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  hand forward from his side, and pointed downward as he stood on
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  the extreme edge of the bridge. Mr. Cummings looked past him
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  over into the ravine, and saw nothing unusual, and withdrew
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  his eyes to address the man again, but he had disappeared.
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  The horse, which all this time had been uncommonly restless,
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  gave a snort of terror and started to run away.
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  Before he had regained control of the animal.
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  The minister was at the top of a hill 100 yards off.
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  He looked back and saw the figure again at the same place
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  and in the same manner as he had first observed it.
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  Then, for the first time, he was aware of a sense of the
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  supernatural and drove home as rapidly as his willing horse
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  would go. Arriving at home, he related his
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  adventure to his family, and early the next morning,
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  accompanied by two neighbors, John White Corwell and Admiral
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  Razor, returned to the spot. They found the body of Old Man
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  Baker hanging by the neck from one of the beams of the bridge,
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  immediately beneath the spot where the apparition had stood.
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  A thick coating of dust, slightly dampened by the mist,
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  covered the floor of the bridge, but the only prints were those
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  of Mr. Cummings Horse. In taking down the body, the men
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  disturbed the loose earth of the slope below it, disclosing human
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  bones that had already been nearly uncovered by the water
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  and frost. They were identified as those of
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  the lost peddler. At the double inquest, the
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  coroner's jury found that Daniel Baker died by his own hand while
• 9:44
  suffering from temporary insanity, and that Samuel Moritz
• 9:48
  was murdered by some unknown person.
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  The End. OK, and the third story, a cold
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  greeting. This is a story told by the late
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  Benson Foley of San Francisco. In the summer of 1881, I met a
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  man named James H Conway, a resident of Franklin, TN.
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  He was visiting San Francisco for his health, and brought me a
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  note of introduction from Mr. Lawrence Barting.
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  I had known Barting as a captain in the Federal Army during the
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  Civil War. At its close he had settled in
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  Franklin, and in time had become a somewhat prominent lawyer.
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  Barting had always seemed to me an honourable and truthful man,
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  and the warm friendship which he expressed in his note from Mr.
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  Conway was to me sufficient evidence that the latter was in
• 11:00
  every way worthy of my confidence and esteem.
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  At dinner one day Conway told me that it had been solemnly agreed
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  between him and Barding that the one who died should first, if
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  possible, communicate with the other from beyond the grave in
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  some unmistakable way. Just how they had left it
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  wisely, it seemed to me, to be decided by the deceased.
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  A few weeks after the conversation in which Mr. Conway
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  spoke of this agreement, I met him one day.
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  He was walking slowly down Montgomery St. apparently from
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  his distracted air, in deep thought.
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  He greeted me coldly with barely a nod and kept leaving me
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  standing on the walk with half proffered hand, surprised and
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  naturally somewhat intrigued. The next day I met him again in
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  the office of the Palace Hotel, and seeing him about to greet me
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  in the same half assed way as before, I intercepted him in the
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  doorway with a friendly greeting and bluntly asked for an
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  explanation of his altered manner.
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  He hesitated a moment, and then, looking me frankly in the eyes,
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  said, I do not think, Mr. Foley, that I have any longer acclaimed
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  to your friendship, since Mr. Barting appears to withdraw on
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  his own from me. For what reason I do not know.
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  If he has not already informed you, he probably will do so.
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  But I replied, I have not heard from Mr. Barting.
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  Heard from him, he repeated with apparent surprise.
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  Why he is here. I met him yesterday 10 minutes
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  before meeting you. I gave you exactly the same
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  greeting that he gave me. I met him again not 1/4 of an
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  hour ago and his manner was precisely the same.
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  He merely bowed and passed on. I shall not soon forget your
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  civility to me. Good morning or as it may please
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  you, farewell. All this seemed to me very
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  considerate and delicate behaviour on the part of Mr.
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  Conway, as dramatic situations and literary effects are foreign
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  to my purpose. I will explain it once that
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  Mister Barding is dead. He died in Nashville four days
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  before this conversation. Calling on Mr. Conway, I
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  informed him of our friend's death, showing him the letters
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  announcing it. He was shaken in a way that
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  forbade me to doubt his sincerity.
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  It seems incredible, he said, after a long period of
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  reflection. I suppose I must have mistaken
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  another man for Barting, and that man's cold greeting were
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  merely a stranger's acknowledgement of my own.
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  I remember, indeed, that he lacked Barting's mustache.
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  Doubtless it was another man. I agreed, and the subject was
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  never brought up between us again.
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  But I had a photograph of Barting in my pocket, which had
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  been enclosed in the letter from his widow.
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  It had been taken a week before his death and he was without
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  mustache. The end.
• 14:16
  Three creepy stories. If you want more spooky stuff,
• 14:20
  check out Filipino Campfire Stories hosted by Earl.
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  This works better if you speak Tagalog.
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  Thank you and happy Halloween.