Part 1

THE RADIO GHOST

By Otis Adelbert Kline

Author of “The Malignant Entity.”

This remarkable story, made so principally by the fact that radio enters into it, is one of the most ingenious we have ever read. The best part about the story, however, is that the radio principles throughout the story are quite accurate. There is nothing fantastic about it, and the thing can be duplicated by any good radio man today.

Here, then, is a scientifiction story, thrilling, mysterious, and breathtaking, that we know you will enjoy.

[Illustration: “...As I bent over to examine the spot, I heard a cry of warning from the girl and a quick movement behind me. I turned, but could not move in time to avoid the heavy chair which was rushing toward me. It knocked me over and came back, apparently bent on my destruction.”]

Dr. Dorp looked up in annoyance when Mrs. Bream came into the room. As was my weekly custom, I had dropped into his study for a short Saturday afternoon’s visit, and the talk had turned to our mutual hobby, psychic phenomena. The learned doctor’s look of vexation had followed the unobtrusive entrance of his housekeeper during a somewhat heated discussion of that physically elusive but psychologically evident substance which has come to be known as ectoplasm.

“What is it, Mrs. Bream?” he asked, petulantly.

“Sorry to interrupt you, sir, but there’s a young lady to see you.”

“What is she selling?”

“I believe she wants to consult you professionally, sir.”

“Like the book agent who called Wednesday, I suppose. Wanted my opinion of the twelve volumes he was peddling. Well, show her in. We’ll soon see.”

I rose to leave the room, but the doctor raised his hand.

“Keep your seat, Evans,” he said. “I don’t expect this interview to be either important or protracted.”

I resumed my seat, but rose again immediately as a neatly dressed girl entered the room. She was small, golden-haired, and quite pretty. For a moment she glanced at both of us, standing beside our chairs--then evidently decided in favor of the doctor’s grizzled Van Dyke.

“I am Greta Van Loan, doctor,” she said, addressing him as if sure she had spoken to the right man.

“You recognize me, then?” he asked, drawing a chair forward for her.

She sat down lightly, and with exquisite grace.

“To be sure. I have seen your picture in the papers ever so many times, usually in connection with your investigations of spiritistic phenomena.”

The doctor did not appear to feel flattered. In fact, his look was rather one of boredom, as if he expected something unpleasant to grow out of this subtle blandishment. His voice, however, was quite pleasant as he replied.

“Indeed. Will you tell me how I may be of service to you?”

She looked at me, and I developed a most unnecessary feeling. I rose once more, this time firmly resolved to take my leave, but again the doctor detained me.

“Miss Van Loan,” he said, “allow me to present Mr. Evans, my friend and colleague. Like me, he is an investigator of the supernormal in psychic phenomena.”

Her acknowledgment of the introduction was accompanied by a charming smile that immediately put me at my ease.

“I have heard of your work in connection with that of Dr. Dorp,” she said. “How fortunate that I find you two together--especially as my reason for coming to see the doctor has a direct bearing on the very subject that seems to be of interest to both of you. Won’t you stay?”

I relapsed once more into my chair.

The doctor, I observed, had pricked up his ears like a hound on a hot trail. He leaned forward in his chair and pressed the tips of his fingers together--an attitude he always assumed when absorbed in a problem that was of intense interest to him.

“Miss Van Loan,” he began, “you are not by any chance a relative of my old friend and fellow worker, Gordon Van Loan?”

“I am his niece.”

“Indeed. I begin to understand your interest in spiritistic phenomena. Dense of me not to have thought of it before.”

“But, doctor, I am not interested in spiritistic phenomena.”

“Eh? Not interested? I’m afraid I don’t--”

“I have always feared and detested the very thought of meeting or communicating with the disembodied spirits.”

“Really, Miss Van Loan, you surprise me,” said the doctor. “Your uncle, up to the very time of his death, was an ardent supporter of the spiritistic hypothesis. I have had many a private debate with him on the subject.”

“I am aware of that. I, too, have argued the subject with him when it was forced on me. Until three days ago I was as firm an unbeliever as you. But now--I don’t know what to think. It seems that my uncle, even in death, has resolved to force his belief upon me.”

“You mean that he has appeared to you?”

“I’m not sure, but strange things--terrible, enervating things--have happened since I began to carry out the provisions of my uncle’s will.”

“He left his entire fortune to you, did he not?”

“Yes, but with a provision which I am afraid I won’t be able to carry out. He stipulated that I must live in his old home in Highland Park continuously for one year, and that if I should fail to do so everything would revert to my cousin, Ernest Hegel, or in the event of his failure to carry out the provision, to the Society for Psychical Research.”

“Your uncle was reputed to be quite wealthy.”

“He left something over half a million, most of which was in first mortgage real estate bonds, in addition to the home and estate, which is estimated to be worth at least a hundred thousand.”

“Quite a sizeable bequest, and, it seems to me, an ample recompense for the condition imposed with it.”

“So I thought too, until I spent a night in that awful house. It was then that I began to realize the full import of his explanation of the reasons for his unusual provision.”

“Just what was his explanation?”

“I can give you his exact words. In the last three days they have burned themselves into my very soul. He said: ‘--for when I return to prove the reality of life after death it is not unreasonable to ask the person who benefits so materially by this will to be on hand to greet me, and to receive and transmit my message of hope and good cheer to the misguided scoffers, who, by their very attitude, prevent their departed loved ones from communicating with them.’”

“Hem. And have you received the message, or something purporting to be the message?”

“Not exactly, but there have been indications of a strange and terrible presence in that house--an elusive, disembodied entity that, while not a creature of flesh and blood, exercises an uncanny power over material objects as well as living creatures.”

“I see. And the manifestations?”

“Ghostly raps, shuffling footsteps in rooms that are untenanted, overturned furniture and broken china, strange sickening odors suggestive of the dank mustiness of the tomb, lights darkened and suddenly lighted again with no evidence of switches or of fuses having been tampered with, the touch of cold hands in the dark, doors opening and closing in the dead of night, the icy breath--”

“The icy breath? What is that?”

“It is the most convincing evidence of my uncle’s presence in the house. Although the last three days and nights have been exceptionally warm, even for August, I have felt it, and the servants have felt it--a moving current of air with a dank, charnel odor, as cold as a wind from the ice-bound Arctic circle. As you are no doubt aware, my uncle was an ardent admirer of the famous Italian medium, Eusapia Palladino. One of the most baffling manifestations which she is said to have produced time and again in the presence of investigating scientists, was the icy breath--a cold breeze that appeared to come from her forehead when she was in a trance. Many scoffed, but none could explain this remarkable phenomenon. My uncle often referred to it in his lectures. He has written several papers regarding it for spiritistic publications.”

“And living creatures, you say, have been affected?”

“Yes, Sandy, my Airedale terrier, has not been himself since he entered the house. He has bristled and growled repeatedly, for no apparent reason. Although he has always been a most friendly and playful pet, he now slinks about the house like some vicious creature of the jungle, or mopes in corners, avoiding all human companionship and barely tasting food and water. This morning he snapped at my hand when I attempted to pat his head--something he has never done before. The servants, too, have seen, heard, and felt the things that have affected me, but being spiritualists, they glory in them rather than fear them. Man and wife they have worked for my uncle for the past ten years, the man acting as gardener, chauffeur and butler, the woman as cook and housekeeper.”

“And your cousin, Ernest Hegel. Is he, too, stopping with you at present?”

“No. Cousin Ernest sailed for Germany last Saturday. He is American representative for a Berlin dye and chemical manufacturer, and was sent for by his concern.”

“Then he is a German citizen?”

“His father was German, but he was born in America, hence he is an American citizen. His mother, like my father and Uncle Gordon, was American, of Holland Dutch descent. Part of his education was received at Heidelberg, and he took a postgraduate course in chemistry and bacteriology in Vienna. When the war broke out, his sympathy for the land of his father was what turned my uncle against him.”

“And consequently made you the preferred heir?”

“I think that has something to do with it, although I disagreed as thoroughly with Uncle Gordon in his pet hobby, spiritism, as Ernest did on questions of our international relations.”

“Do any of the manifestations you speak of occur in the daytime?”

“None, except the queer behavior of my dog.”

“Hem. You have stated a very interesting case, Miss Van Loan. I, for one, will be very glad to investigate the phenomena which have been troubling you.”

“And I will be glad to go, too, if you want me,” I said.

The young lady seemed pleased.

“I hope that I may have the help of both of you--and soon,” she said earnestly.

The doctor turned to me.

“How about going this evening?” he asked.

“Suits me.”

“Good. We can drive out easily in an hour. You may expect us about dusk, Miss Loan.”

“You know the address?”

“I have visited your uncle several times, and he has also been my guest here.”

“To be sure. I have heard Uncle Gordon speak of you. Goodby, until dusk--and thank you, much...”

* * * * *

Our drive, that evening, through the red-gold light of the waning afternoon, was both pleasant and uneventful. After a sultry day in the loop, it was refreshing to ride through the cool, tree-shaded north shore suburbs. Dr. Dorp, as was his wont when on the trail of a new mystery, was in the best of spirits--laughing and chatting gaily.

We arrived in Highland Park just at dusk, and presently turned into a narrow driveway which circled through a heavily wooded estate. At first no house was visible, but presently, as we wound through the darkest and gloomiest copse we had yet encountered, it came unexpectedly into view--an ancient brick homestead of the Dutch Colonial type, with gables that drooped despondently, and chimneys surmounted by double tiles that stood out against the background of gray sky like headless torsos with arms upraised to heaven.

As we drew up before the entrance, the noise of the doctor’s motor ceased, and from just beyond the background of trees, there came a throbbing, pulsating murmur which had not previously been audible to us, announcing the proximity of Lake Michigan.

Scarcely had we set foot on the porch, when the door opened silently and a gray haired, white jacketed man with burning gray eyes that looked out from hollow recesses in a pale, wrinkled, and cadaverous countenance, stood aside, hand on latch, for us to enter. So loathsome in appearance was this deathlike creature that I had a feeling of repugnance even at the thought of permitting him to take my hat in his bony, claw-like hands.

After disposing of our hats, he conducted us to a commodious living room, tastily furnished, where we were greeted by our charming hostess. Then he silently withdrew, closing the door after him.

Although she maintained a brave, calm demeanor, I noticed that the hand of Miss Van Loan was trembling as I took it in mine. The doctor, also, must have noticed this, for he quickly transferred his long, slim fingers to her pulse.

“Has anything happened?” he asked consulting his watch.

“Nothing yet, but I have been oppressed by a horrible feeling which I cannot explain. I have worried, too, for fear something might prevent your coming.”

“You are a very brave young woman,” he said, pocketing his watch and releasing her wrist, “but you have been under exceptionally severe nervous strain. Just now you are beginning to feel the reaction. Your heart, however, is good, and I believe another night of it can do you no permanent injury. Were this not the case, I should advise you to immediately leave this house, despite the tremendous financial stake involved.”

“But, doctor, do you think the--the presence, can be driven out in one night?”

“That is my hope. I have a theory--”

His speech was suddenly interrupted by a noisy rattling of the doorknob--the very door which the servant had silently closed a few minutes before.

“It is coming!” said the girl breathlessly, a note of terror in her voice.

The three of us watched the door silently--intently. It opened, revealing the dimly lighted hallway, in which no living creature was visible. For a moment it remained open as if someone were standing there with a hand on the knob. Then it closed with a bang.

I felt a prickly sensation in my scalp, then started from my tracks at the sound of a throaty rumble behind me.

“That is Sandy, my Airedale,” explained the girl, “hiding in the corner behind the davenport. He always growls when it comes.”

“I believe he scared me worse than _it_,” I said with a nervous laugh, sinking back on the davenport, relieved by the realization that the noise, at least, had been earthly.

“It is now in the room,” said the girl. “Don’t you feel a strange presence?”

“Not yet,” said the doctor gravely.

We waited breathlessly for the next manifestation. For several minutes the only sounds I could hear were those which drifted through the two open windows, one on each side of the fireplace--the clatter of frogs, the piping of nocturnal insects, the incessant muffled roar of the surf on the beach, and the occasional call of a night bird. Then a heavy poker, which had been leaning against the fireplace, clattered to the tiles, slid across them, and progressed with a queer jerky motion across the rug to the center of the room. It remained there for a moment, then twirled around and came straight toward me, still with the same jerky motion. When it seemed about to strike my feet I drew them up, half-expecting the thing to leap at me.

Despite this singular and, to me, inexplicable phenomenon, Dr. Dorp maintained, unruffled, his look of complete absorption. The girl, however, was manifestly alarmed.

“Be careful, Mr. Evans,” she said tensely. “I’m afraid it may hurt you.”

Somehow I did not want to appear cowardly in the eyes of this girl. The heavy poker which had performed such amazing antics now lay quiescent, and apparently quite harmless, at my feet.

Simulating a calmness which I was far from feeling, I bent over and picked the thing up. I was examining it minutely, half-expecting to find some mechanical attachment which would prove the whole thing a hoax, when it was suddenly and forcibly jerked from my grasp. It thumped to the floor, then spun half around and traveled jerkily back to the fireplace.

“What made you drop it?” asked the doctor. “Wasn’t hot, was it?”

When I told him that it had been jerked from my hands, he seemed surprised.

“Are you sure you didn’t just drop it from--ah--nervousness?”

“Positive.”

“Hem. Strange.”

We sat for several minutes without incident. Then I noticed that the lights were growing dim. I concentrated my gaze on the filaments of the reading lamp beside me. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, they were losing their incandescence.

Presently the room was in darkness, save for the dim twilight which came through the two windows. I could barely discern the figures of my two companions, blending with the shadowy outlines of the chairs in which they sat. A strange, musty odor assailed my nostrils. I felt a cold touch on the back of my hand, and automatically jerked it away. Then a breeze, icy cold, chilled me to the marrow. The dog growled ominously.

A light thud, as if some object had fallen, attracted my attention to the center of the room. Scarcely crediting the evidence of my senses, I saw a pale, luminous figure rising from the floor. The thing was irregular in outline, and swayed this way and that as if wafted by eddying air currents. Taller and taller it grew, until, when it had reached a height of nearly six feet, it bore some resemblance to a human figure shrouded in a white, filmy material.

Although my flesh crept and chills chased each other up and down my spine, I remembered that I was here to investigate this thing, and rising, forced myself to walk stealthily toward the center of the room. As I approached the grim wraith it grew taller, towering menacingly above me, and a queer, sickening odor became momentarily stronger--an odor which might have been produced by a combination of the fumes of brimstone with the offensive effluvium of putrefying flesh.

By the time I was within two feet of the thing I was nearly strangled by its horrible stench, but I had made up my mind to test its solidity at last, and stretched out my hand to touch it. The hand encountered no resistance. Moving it horizontally, I passed my hand clear through it from side to side. By this time my eyes were watering so badly from the effect of the acrid fumes that I was scarcely able to see. Then the lights flashed on, completely blinding me for a moment with their brilliance. A moment later I was able to see clearly.

* * * * *

A cry from Dr. Dorp aroused me.

“Quick, Evans,” he said, ”the girl has fainted. We must get her into the open air.”

He was endeavoring to lift her himself, but found her weight too much for him. Being his junior by some thirty-five years and of a rather more substantial build, I found her slight form no burden whatever.

“Open the doors, doctor,” I said. “I’ll do the rest.”

I had lifted the girl from the chair, and was turning toward the door, the doctor meanwhile advancing to open it. Before he could do so, however, the latch rattled, and the door swung open by itself. Quick as a flash, the doctor sprang out into the hall, peering this way and that.

“Nobody here,” he said. “Come on.”

I followed him down the hallway, this time close at his heels, with the girl still lying limply in my arms. He extended his hand, about to open the door which led to the front porch, when the knob turned, and this second door was opened as if by some invisible presence. Once more the doctor sprang forward, only to find the porch untenanted.

I laid the still unconscious girl in the porch swing, at the behest of the doctor, who informed me that she would regain consciousness more quickly in a reclining position.

“Now fan her with this magazine, Evans,” he instructed, handing me a copy of “_Science and Invention_” which he had taken from the porch table. He felt her pulse for a moment. “She’ll be all right in a few minutes. I’m going back to that room and have a look around. Keep fanning until she is fully revived.”

Interested as I was in the phenomena which were taking place, I was glad of this brief respite and a chance to inhale some fresh air. The girl, unconscious, was free from the sway of fear for the time being, and I knew from the reassuring manner of the doctor that she was in no danger. While I continued to ply the improvised fan I could hear the doctor, or someone, moving about the house.

Presently the girl’s eyelids fluttered, and she began talking--her words disconnected and broken like those of one in a dream.

“Saw it--saw--spirit--Uncle Gordon. Must be--be his--ghost. Saw--put arm--through it.”

Lightly I placed my hand on the smooth, cool forehead. Then she opened her eyes and looked earnestly into mine.

“What--what was I saying?” she asked, apparently quite bewildered.

“You fainted,” I replied. “Don’t worry. Everything is all right.”

“But where is Dr. Dorp?”

“Just went in the house to look around. He’ll be out in a few minutes, no doubt.”

We waited a full twenty minutes, but still the doctor did not appear. Miss Van Loan had taken one of the wicker porch chairs, assuring me that she had fully recovered. I was sitting in another. All sounds in the house had ceased, and I began to feel some apprehension for the doctor’s safety.

“Do you mind staying alone for a few minutes?” I asked. “I should like to go and see if my friend is all right.”

“I’ll go with you,” she replied, rising.

“Are you sure you are strong enough?”

“Of course. Oh, I do hope nothing happened to him. I should never forgive myself.”

We met the pale houseman in the hall.

“Where is the doctor, Riggs?” she asked.

“I don’t know, ma’am. I heard someone goin’ up the stairs a while ago. Might have been him.”

“You haven’t seen him?”

“No ma’am. I come in just now to ask if you would be a-needin’ of me any more this evenin’. I feel sort of tired like, after--”

“I know, Riggs. You haven’t had much rest for the last three nights. You may go.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

We ascended the stairs, the steps of which creaked weirdly under our weight. I could readily understand why Riggs had been able to hear them from the service quarters.

At the top was a long hallway with a door at one end, a window at the other, and two doors on either side.

Miss Van Loan opened the first door at our right, and we entered a bedroom daintily furnished in cane and ivory, with light blue hangings and spreads.

“This is my room,” she informed me. “We have four bedrooms, each with a private bath and clothes closet.”

I looked into the bath and clothes closet, but both were untenanted. Then we passed to the next room. This was furnished in burled walnut, with light green the prevailing color. No sign of the doctor here. The next room, which was just across the hall, was furnished in massive oak, with a taupe and maroon color scheme. Somehow it seemed thoroughly a man’s room.

“This belonged to Uncle Gordon,” said the girl. “It was in that bed that he died.”