The Second Ghost Story MEGAPACK®. M.R. James

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      The Classic Humor Megapack

      The Dog Megapack

      The Military Megapack

      WESTERNS

      The B.M. Bower Megapack

      The Max Brand Megapack

      The Buffalo Bill Megapack

      The Cowboy Megapack

      The Zane Grey Megapack

      The Western Megapack

      The Second Western Megapack

      The Wizard of Oz Megapack

      YOUNG ADULT

      The Boys’ Adventure Megapack

      The Dan Carter, Cub Scout Megapack

      The G.A. Henty Megapack

      The Rover Boys Megapack

      The Tom Corbett, Space Cadet Megapack

      The Tom Swift Megapack

      AUTHOR MEGAPACKS

      The Achmed Abdullah Megapack

      The Edward Bellamy Megapack

      The B.M. Bower Megapack

      The E.F. Benson Megapack

      The Second E.F. Benson Megapack

      The Max Brand Megapack

      The First Reginald Bretnor Megapack

      The Wilkie Collins Megapack

      The Guy de Maupassant Megapack

      The Philip K. Dick Megapack

      The Jacques Futrelle Megapack

      The Randall Garrett Megapack

      The Anna Katharine Green Megapack

      The Zane Grey Megapack

      The Second Randall Garrett Megapack

      The Dashiell Hammett Megapack

      The M.R. James Megapack

      The Murray Leinster Megapack

      The Second Murray Leinster Megapack

      The George Barr McCutcheon Megapack

      The Talbot Mundy Megapack

      The Andre Norton Megapack

      The H. Beam Piper Megapack

      The Mack Reynolds Megapack

      The Rafael Sabatini Megapack

      The Saki Megapack

      The Robert Sheckley Megapack

      THE SIGNAL-MAN, by Charles Dickens

      “Halloa! Below there!”

      When he heard a voice thus calling to him, he was standing at the door of his box, with a flag in his hand, furled round its short pole. One would have thought, considering the nature of the ground, that he could not have doubted from what quarter the voice came; but instead of looking up to where I stood on the top of the steep cutting nearly over his head, he turned himself about, and looked down the Line. There was something remarkable in his manner of doing so, though I could not have said for my life what. But I know it was remarkable enough to attract my notice, even though his figure was foreshortened and shadowed, down in the deep trench, and mine was high above him, so steeped in the glow of an angry sunset, that I had shaded my eyes with my hand before I saw him at all.

      “Halloa! Below!”

      From looking down the Line, he turned himself about again, and, raising his eyes, saw my figure high above him.

      “Is there any path by which I can come down and speak to you?”

      He looked up at me without replying, and I looked down at him without pressing him too soon with a repetition of my idle question. Just then there came a vague vibration in the earth and air, quickly changing into a violent pulsation, and an oncoming rush that caused me to start back, as though it had force to draw me down. When such vapour as rose to my height from this rapid train had passed me, and was skimming away over the landscape, I looked down again, and saw him refurling the flag he had shown while the train went by.

      I repeated my inquiry. After a pause, during which he seemed to regard me with fixed attention, he motioned with his rolled-up flag towards a point on my level, some two or three hundred yards distant. I called down to him, “All right!” and made for that point. There, by dint of looking closely about me, I found a rough zigzag descending path notched out, which I followed.

      The cutting was extremely deep, and unusually precipitate. It was made through a clammy stone, that became oozier and wetter as I went down. For these reasons, I found the way long enough to give me time to recall a singular air of reluctance or compulsion with which he had pointed out the path.

      When I came down low enough upon the zigzag descent to see him again, I saw that he was standing between the rails on the way by which the train had lately passed, in an attitude as if he were waiting for me to appear. He had his left hand at his chin, and that left elbow rested on his right hand, crossed over his breast. His attitude was one of such expectation and watchfulness that I stopped a moment, wondering at it.

      I resumed my downward way, and stepping out upon the level of the railroad, and drawing nearer to him, saw that he was a dark, sallow man, with a dark beard and rather heavy eyebrows. His post was in as solitary and dismal a place as ever I saw. On either side, a dripping-wet wall of jagged stone, excluding all view but a strip of sky; the perspective one way only a crooked prolongation of this great dungeon; the shorter perspective in the other direction terminating in a gloomy red light, and the gloomier entrance to a black tunnel, in whose massive architecture there was a barbarous, depressing, and forbidding air. So little sunlight ever found its way to this spot, that it had an earthy, deadly smell; and so much cold wind rushed through it, that it struck chill to me, as if I had left the natural world.

      Before he stirred, I was near enough to him to have touched him. Not even then removing his eyes from mine, he stepped back one step, and lifted his hand.

      This was a lonesome post to occupy (I said), and it had riveted my attention when I looked down from up yonder. A visitor was a rarity, I should suppose; not an unwelcome rarity, I hoped? In me, he merely saw a man who had been shut up within narrow limits all his life, and who, being at last set free, had a newly-awakened interest in these great works. To such purpose I spoke to him; but I am far from sure of the terms I used; for, besides that I am not happy in opening any conversation, there was something in the man that daunted me.

      He directed a most curious look towards the red light near the tunnel’s mouth, and looked all about it, as if something were missing from it, and then looked at me.

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