Like “Some Haunted Houses,” “The Ways of Ghosts” is an anthology of spook stories: while the earlier collection focused on haunted buildings, this one is primarily interested in the curious means by which ghosts make an effort to communicate from beyond the grave.
Often derided by critics as artless indulgences, it is true to say that there is less literary merit in them than in many of his supernatural tales, and that by and large it is simply a collection of first-rate campfire tales. That being said, they continue to foster the themes of “S.H.H.” in that the general thesis ponders the potency of the human will and the fanning shock waves of evil actions which hound the guilty and pester the innocent.
Although “The Ways of Ghosts” is not Bierce’s best poetic effort, it contains some of his most memorable campfire tales, and no critic’s disapproval will be able to take the chill out of these eerie episodes.
SUMMARY
PRESENT AT A HANGING
The first entry describes the story of Daniel Baker, an Iowan hermit who was suspected – though without evidence – of having murdered Samuel Morritz, a travelling salesman, in 1853. All that was known is that the peddler was last known to have been stopping off at the infamous curmudgeon’s house before he – and his valuable wares – disappeared without a word or clue, and rumors spread that Baker was involved.
Seven years later, a minister named Mr. Cummings was riding past Baker’s farm one bright night, when he saw something dark standing in the road in front of him. It was outlined against the misty forest beyond, and standing on a small bridge that crossed a ravine. It seemed to be a man wearing a heavy pack and carrying a large walking stick – presumably a peddler – and Mr. Cummings tried to hail him, but instead the man peered into his face and pointed over the side of the bridge. Cummings looked down into the darkness but saw nothing noteworthy, only that the stranger had disappeared. Suddenly, his horse reared and with “a snort of terror” ran off into the darkness beyond. Looking behind him, he was surprised to see the stranger standing where he had last seen him, pointing down over the bridge.
Unsettled and suspecting the paranormal, he returned to the spot with two neighbors, who – upon venturing into the ravine – found Baker’s corpse hanging by a rope from the rafters. Upon examining the bridge, they found it covered in dust, but only Cummings’ horse’s hoofprints were to be found. In cutting the corpse down, the authorities disturbed a shallow grave in the slope below it, where the body of the missing salesman was finally found and identified.
A double inquest rules that Baker died by suicide, while Morritz was “murdered by some person or persons to the jury unknown.”
A COLD GREETING
The second tale is related by Benson Foley of San Francisco who describes his friendship with James H. Conway of Franklin, Tennessee, and of their mutual friend, Lawrence Barting, who served with Foley in the Union Army and settled in Franklin where he met Conway. Conway had been introduced to Foley by Barting while Barting was visiting San Francisco for his health.
One day Foley and Conway were discussing their old friend when Conway shared an eccentric agreement that the two had agreed to: whichever one of them who dies first, if he finds it possible, will communicate with the other in “some unmistakable way.”
Soon after this conversation, Foley meets Conway on the street and is surprised when his new friend responds in an unusually cold, distracted manner with a terse nod. The next day he repeats this chilly affectation, and Foley calls him on it. Conway explains that he no longer assumes that he has a right to Foley’s friendship since he suspects that Barting – their only real shared connection – has withdrawn his friendship from Conway.
Indeed, Conway assumes that Foley must know this already, because Barting’s treatment of him was so openly insulting. On the contrary, Foley has not heard from Barting at all. Flabbergasted, Conway explains that he saw Barting in person, just moments before meeting Foley the previous day. Barting – Conway himself admits – had treated him just as coldly as he, Conway, had treated Barting: “he merely bowed and passed on.” Conway thanks Foley for his understanding bids him a good day “or – as it may please you – farewell.”
Foley goes on to explain that it wasn’t long after that he learned that Barting was, in fact, dead in Tennessee at the moment he snubbed Conway, and had been for four days. Upon sharing this news with Conway, the startled Tennessean explains it away by saying that he must have mistaken a stranger for his friend. After all, he notes, the rude man lacked Barting’s trademark handlebar mustache.
Foley agrees with this assessment and departs. He does not show him the recent photograph of Barting which his widow had included in the letter announcing his death – a photograph which showed him clean shaven.
A WIRELESS MESSAGE
The third story tells the tragic tale of William Holt a recently separated Chicagoan who was living with his brother in central New York while his wife and child stayed in Illinois. One beautiful evening he was taking a walk in the countryside and his mind was consumed with thoughts of his family troubles, when he realized that he had become lost.
He slowly became aware of a reddish glow behind him, which he first takes to be the rising moon, before he recalls that it is a new moon night. It is so bright that it projects his shadow in stark relief. Stunned by the intensity of this “still and awful red” light, he pulls out his watch, and see that he is even able to read the dial by its glow (it is 11:25).
He turns around as “the mysterious illumination suddenly flared to an intense, an almost blinding splendor, flushing the entire sky, extinguishing the stars and throwing the monstrous shadow of himself athwart the landscape.” In the center of the “unearthly illumination,” he sees a vision of his wife from the waist up in her nightgown, with their child wrapped in her arms. She makes unmistakable eye contact with him with an inexplicable expression which he can only describe as “not of this life,” then all is followed by darkness.
Holt makes his way home, and one hour later a wireless telegram is delivered explaining that his wife and child had died in a housefire. She had been seen clutching the babe in her arms at a window with the flames behind her, before the floor gave out under her. The time of this tragedy had been 11:25.
AN ARREST
The final story is that of Kentuckian Orrin Brower, who had escaped from prison after being arrested for murdering his brother-in-law, by using an iron bar to knock out the jailer, Burton Duff, and taking his keys. He rushed out to the forest beyond the jail, and hurried to outrun the inevitable posse which would soon be on his heels.
He begins to cross a woodland road when he notices “the figure of a man, motionless in the gloom” staring at him. The clouds part from the moon and its rays reveal a policeman pointing authoritatively back into the woods, towards the jail. Assuming that the man is armed, Brower obeys, and marches back to prison.
Silently, they retrace Brower’s steps through the forest, and only once does Brower turn around – briefly enough to recognize Duff, complete with the ugly bruise on his forehead. He is surprised that Brower was able to cut him off so quickly, but continues on until they get back to the jail.
When he enters the door, he is surprised to see the posse standing around a table. He turns around but no one is behind him, then he looks down at the table, which is supporting the dead body of Burton Duff.
ANALYSIS
While not artistically sophisticated, the stories in “The Ways of Ghosts” explore the potential of the human will to reach beyond the grave and accomplish unfinished business.
The ghost in “Present at a Hanging” indicts his murderer while the man strangles below him under a bridge; the apparition in “A Cold Greeting” keeps his promise to greet his friend after death, while the vision in “A Wireless Message” reaches out metaphysically to her husband as she and her child burn to death; in “An Arrest,” the murdered man personally ensures that his killer is brought to justice.
These stories speak to Bierce’s deep desire for justice and balance – that a killer be uncovered, a promise be kept, or a plea for rescue be communicated. As cynical as Bierce was, this misanthropy rose from a deeply repressed disappointment, and a barely breathing hope for moral parity. The tales in “Ways of Ghosts” speak to a deep but impossible desire for cosmic justice.
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