Jerry Bundler by

everybody comes back

Isn't that sir?

You tried to get into the locked drawer today, didn't you?

How do the dead come back, mother?

Jerry Bundler by W.W. Jacobs

It wanted a few nights to Christmas, a festival for which the small market town of Torchester

was making extensive preparations. The narrow streets which had been thronged with people were now almost deserted.

The cheap Jack from London, with the remnant of breath left in him after his evening's exertions,

was making feeble attempts to blow out his naphther lamp, and the last shops open were rapidly

closing for the night. In the comfortable coffeeroom of the old boar's head half a dozen guests principally commercial travellers sat talking by the light of the fire

the talk adrifted from trade to politics from politics to religion, and so, by easy stages, to the supernatural.

Three ghost stories never known to fail before had fallen flat.

There was too much noise outside, too much light within.

The fourth story was told by an old hand with more success.

The streets were quiet, and he had turned the gas out.

In the flickering light of the fire, as it shone on the glasses and danced with shadows on the walls,

the story proved so enthralling that George, the waiter, whose presence had been

forgotten, created a very disagreeable sensation by suddenly starting up from a dark corner

and gliding silently from the room.

That's what I call a good story, said one of the men, sipping his hot whiskey.

Of course it's an old idea that spirits like to get into the company of human beings.

...