Conversation tends, particularly on long winter evenings like these, to drift toward matters of the supernatural. My hockey team and I were gathered around the fireplace in the locker room enjoying our post-game brandy and smoking our pipes while debating whether a soul was capable of remaining on this Earth after departing the body. Many of us answered staunchly in the negative, while some conceded the possibility, however unlikely, but it was Ashburdle who had this to say:
"Gentleman, you will not find a less superstitious person than I, and yet, the incredible events I am about to relate are not superstition, but fact!"
We continued listening as we were wont to do when one of our number was speaking.
"Years ago, on a night much like this, except the air was full of thunder and lightning, rather than snow, for it was summertime, you see, I found myself driven by the storm to seek shelter at a lonely inn well out in the country. The food was terrible and not long after I had supped, I realized I was in for a long night of 'Sunday's Business,' if you catch my meaning. I asked the proprietress, a stout woman, only recently arrived from France, if she had anything suitable to read.
She replied, 'No' much, yer honor, bu' a gennelman lef' behin' his di-ree in one o' th' rooms. Ye're we'come ta't.'
As the situation in my nethers was reaching a critical juncture, I took the diary and set about my urgent task. What was contained therein made such a singular impression on me that I committed it to memory and I shall now tell you word for word what it said."
"8th, Aug. 19__, I'm not one to keep a diary, but I must set down the events of this past evening. Some important business took me to the town of R____ to meet with a solicitor by the name of L____. In the course of things, he told me of the following curious business he had just attended with a man named S____:"
"A young man visited my office, asking to be disinherited from his uncle's will.
'As your lawyer, Mr. Swinthorn, I can certainly assist you with this,' I said, 'but may I ask why? Your uncle, Albert Swinthorn, was a dear friend of mine and his house house at 1313 Mockingbird Lane NW is one of the most charming, not to mention valuable, properties here in Riverbury.'
The young man replied, 'I know it's unusual, Mr. Lerthersen, but perhaps I should tell you the whole, horrible story.'
And so he did:"
"The day before the funeral I went to Uncle Al's house to pick out an appropriate suit for him to be buried in. When I opened the door to his closet, a ghost jumped out and went, 'Boo!'"
"I stared at the young man for an unseemly amount of time. I could detect no trace of trickery, mental disorder, or even jest in his features. I need not add that I drew up the paperwork immediately."
"'What do you make of that?' asked the lawyer. I, of course, was too s____ to make anything of it. Well, that's all for now, will write again soon."
"Thus ended the final entry in the diary," said Ashburdle.
Following this story, silence reigned for a long while. I, for one, was too soaked with urine (much of it my own!) to speak.
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