Whereupon we covered him over with the
tablecloth, and he went to sleep.
And then Uncle told us a story.
Uncle said his was a real story.
THE GHOST OF THE BLUE CHAMBER
(My Uncle's Story)
"I don't want to make you fellows nervous," began my uncle in a
peculiarly impressive, not to say blood-curdling, tone of voice,
"and if you would rather that I did not mention it, I won't; but,
as a matter of fact, this very house, in which we are now sitting,
is haunted."
"You don't say that!" exclaimed Mr. Coombes.
"What's the use of your saying I don't say it when I have just said
it?" retorted my uncle somewhat pettishly. "You do talk so
foolishly. I tell you the house is haunted. Regularly on
Christmas Eve the Blue Chamber [they called the room next to the
nursery the 'blue chamber,' at my uncle's, most of the toilet
service being of that shade] is haunted by the ghost of a sinful
man--a man who once killed a Christmas wait with a lump of coal."
"How did he do it?" asked Mr. Coombes, with eager anxiousness.
"Was it difficult?"
"I do not know how he did it," replied my uncle; "he did not
explain the process. The wait had taken up a position just inside
the front gate, and was singing a ballad.
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