The White Invaders

THE colored boy gazed at Don and me with a look of terror.

ÒBut I tell you I seen it!Ó he insisted. ÒAnÕ itÕs down there now. A ghost! ItÕs all white anÕ shininÕ!Ó

ÒNonsense, Willie,Ó Don turned to me. ÒI say, Bob, what do you make of this?Ó

ÒI seen it, I tell you,Ó the boy broke in. ÒIt ainÕt a mile from here if you want to go look at it.Ó

Don gripped the colored boy whose coffee complexion had taken on a greenish cast with his terror.

I fired at an oncoming white figure.

ÒStop saying that, Willie. ThatÕs absolute rot. ThereÕs no such thing as a ghost.Ó

ÒBut I seenÑÓ

ÒWhere?Ó

ÒOver on the north shore. Not far.Ó

ÒWhat did you see?Ó Don shook him. ÒTell us exactly.Ó

ÒA man! I seen a man. He was up on a cliff just by the golf course when I first seen him. I was cominÕ along the path down by the Fort Beach anÕ I looked up anÕ there he was, shininÕ all white in the moonlight. AnÕ then before I could run, he came floatinÕ down at me.Ó

ÒFloating?Ó

ÒYes. He didnÕt walk. He came down through the rocks. I could see the rocks of the cliff right through him.Ó

Don laughed at that. But neither he nor I could set this down as utter nonsense, for within the past week there had been many wild stories of ghosts among the colored people of Bermuda. The Negroes of Bermuda are not unduly superstitious, and certainly they are more intelligent, better educated than most of their race. But the little islands, this past week, were echoing with whispered tales of strange things seen at night. It had been mostly down at the lower end of the comparatively inaccessible Somerset; but now here it was in our own neighborhood.

ÒYouÕve got the fever, Willie,Ó Don laughed. ÒI say, who told you you saw a man walking through rock?Ó

ÒNobody told me. I seen him. It ainÕt far if youÑÓ

ÒYou think heÕs still there?Ó

ÒMaybe so. Mr. Don, he was standinÕ still, with his arms folded. I ran, anÕÑÓ

ÒLetÕs go see if heÕs there,Ó I suggested. ÒIÕd like to have a look at one of these ghosts.Ó

BUT even as I lightly said it, a queer thrill of fear shot through me. No one can contemplate an encounter with the supernatural without a shudder.

ÒRight you are,Ó Don exclaimed. ÒWhatÕs the use of theory? Can you lead us to where you saw him, Willie?Ó

ÒYe-es, of course.Ó

The sixteen-year-old Willie was shaking again. ÒW-whatÕs that for, Mr. Don?Ó

Don had picked up a shotgun which was standing in a corner of the room.

ÒAinÕt noÑno use of that, Mr. Don.Ó

ÒWeÕll take it anyway, Willie. Ready, Bob?Ó

A step sounded behind us. ÒWhere are you going?Ó

It was Jane Dorrance, DonÕs cousin. She stood in the doorway. Her long, filmy white summer dress fell nearly to her ankles. Her black hair was coiled on her head. In her bodice was a single red poinsettia blossom. As she stood motionless, her small slight figure framed against the dark background of the hall, she could have been a painting of an English beauty save for the black hair suggesting the tropics. Her blue-eyed gaze went from Don to me, and then to the gun.