Charles Dickens

Three Ghost Stories Charles Dickens

WHEN I established myself in the triangular garret which had gained so distinguished areputation, my thoughts naturally turned to Master B. My speculations about him wereuneasy and manifold. Whether his Christian name was Benjamin, Bissextile (from hishaving been born in Leap Year), Bartholomew, or Bill. Whether the initial letter belongedto his family name, and that was Baxter, Black, Brown, Barker, Buggins, Baker, orBird. Whether he was a foundling, and had been baptized B. Whether he was a lionhearted boy, and B. was short for Briton, or for Bull. Whether he could possibly have beenkith and kin to an illustrious lady who brightened my own childhood, and had come of theblood of the brilliant Mother Bunch?With these profitless meditations I tormented myself much. I also carried the mysteriousletter into the appearance and pursuits of the deceased; wondering whether he dressed inBlue, wore Boots (he couldn't have been Bald), was a boy of Brains, liked Books, was goodat Bowling, had any skill as a Boxer, even in his Buoyant Boyhood Bathed from a Bathingmachine at Bognor, Bangor, Bournemouth, Brighton, or Broadstairs, like a BoundingBilliard Ball?So, from the first, I was haunted by the letter B. It was not long before I remarked that I never by any hazard had a dream of Master B., or ofanything belonging to him. But, the instant I awoke from sleep, at whatever hour of thenight, my thoughts took him up, and roamed away, trying to attach his initial letter tosomething that would fit it and keep it quiet. For six nights, I had been worried thus in Master B.'s room, when I began to perceive thatthings were going wrong. The first appearance that presented itself was early in the morning when it was but justdaylight and no more. I was standing shaving at my glass, when I suddenly discovered, tomy consternation and amazement, that I was shaving-not myself-I am fifty-but aboy. Apparently Master B.!I trembled and looked over my shoulder; nothing there. I looked again in the glass, anddistinctly saw the features and expression of a boy, who was shaving, not to get rid of abeard, but to get one. Extremely troubled in my mind, I took a few turns in the room, andwent back to the looking-glass, resolved to steady my hand and complete the operation inwhich I had been disturbed. Opening my eyes, which I had shut while recovering myfirmness, I now met in the glass, looking straight at me, the eyes of a young man of four orfive and twenty. Terrified by this new ghost, I closed my eyes, and made a strong effort torecover myself. Opening them again, I saw, shaving his cheek in the glass, my father, whohas long been dead. Nay, I even saw my grandfather too, whom I never did see in my life.