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diary on my desk in the schoolroom。 she must have slipped down very quietly to put it there； i did not see her go past the library door to the schoolroom even though i left the door open deliberately。 but it was returned。 so there is no room for doubt； is there？
i am so tired and yet i cannot sleep。 i hear steps in the night； but when i go to my door and look into the corridor there is no one there。
i confess it made me uneasy—makes me uneasy still—to think that this little book was out of my possession even for two days。 the thought of another person reading my words is most disforting。 i cannot help but think how another person would interpret certain things i have written； for when i write for myself only； and know perfectly well the truth of what i write； i am perhaps less careful of my expression； and writing at speed； may sometimes express myself in a way that could be misinterpreted by another who would not have my insight into what i really mean。 thinking over some of the things i have written （the doctor and the pencil—such an insignificant event— hardly worth writing about at all really）； i can see that they might appear to a stranger in a light rather different from what i intended； and i wonder whether i should tear out these pages and destroy them。 only i do not want to； for these are the pages that i most want to keep； to read later； when i am old and gone from here； and think back to the happiness of my work and the challenge of our great project。
why should a scientific friendship not be a source of joy？ it is no less scientific for that； is it？
but perhaps the answer is to stop writing altogether； for when i do write； even now as i write this very sentence； this very word； i am aware of a ghost reader who leans over my shoulder watching my pen； who twists my words and perverts my meaning； and makes me unfortable in the privacy of my own thoughts。
it is very aggravating to be presented to oneself in a light so different from the familiar one； even when it is clearly a false light。
i will not write any more。
endings
．。
THE GHOST IN THE TALE
生小说＿网
thoughtfully i lifted my eyes from the final page of hester’s diary。 a number of things had struck my attention as i had been reading it； and now that i had finished； i had the leisure to consider them more methodically。
oh； i thought。
oh。
and then； oh！
how to describe my eureka？ it began as a stray what if； a wild conjecture； an implausible notion。 it was； well； not impossible perhaps； but absurd！ for a start—
about to begin marshaling the sensible counterarguments； i stopped dead in my tracks。 for my mind； racing ahead of itself in a momentous act of premonition； had already submitted to this revised version of events。 in a single moment； a moment of vertiginous； kaleidoscopic bedazzlement； the story miss winter had told me unmade and remade itself； in every event identical； in every detail the same—yet entirely； profoundly different。 like those images that reveal a young bride if you hold the page one way； and an old crone if you hold it the other。 like the sheets of random dots that disguise teapots or clown faces or rouen cathedrals if you can only learn to see them。 the truth had been there all along； only now had i seen it。
there followed a long hour of musing。 one element at a time； taking all the different angles separately； i reviewed everything i knew。 everything i had been told and everything i had discovered。 yes； i thought。 and yes； again。 that； and that； and that； too。 my new knowledge blew life into the story。 it began to breathe。 and as it did so； it began to mend。 the jagged edges smoothed themselves。 the gaps filled themselves in。 the missing parts were regenerated。 puzzles explained themselves； and mysteries were mysteries no longer。
at last； after all the tale telling and all the yarn spinning； after the smoke screens and the trick mirrors and the double bluffs； i knew。
i knew what hester saw that day she thought she saw a ghost。
i knew the identity of the boy in the garden。
i knew who attacked mrs。 maudsley with a violin。
i knew who killed john…the…dig。
i knew who emmeline was looking for underground。
details fell into place。 emmeline talking to herself behind a closed door； when her sister was at the doctor’s house。 jane eyre； the book that appears and reappears in the story； like a silver thread in a tapestry。 i understood the mysteries of hester’s wandering bookmark； the appearance of the turn of the screw and the disappearance of her diary。 i understood the strangeness of john…the…dig’s decision to teach the girl who had once desecrated his garden how to tend it。
i understood the girl in the mist； and how and why she came out of it。 i understood how it was that a girl like adeline could melt away and leave miss winter in her place。
‘i am going to tell you a story about twins；“ miss winter had called after me that first evening in the library； when i was on the verge of leaving。 words that with their unexpected echo of my own story attached me irresistibly to hers。
once upon a time there were two baby girls…
except that now i knew better。
she had pointed me in the right direction that very first night； if i had only known how to listen。
‘do you believe in ghosts； miss lea？“ she had asked me。 ”i am going to tell you a ghost story。“
and i had told her； “some other time。”
but she had told me a ghost story。
once upon a time there were two baby girls…
or alternatively： once upon a time there were three。
once upon a time there was a house and the house was haunted。
the ghost was； in the usual way of ghosts； mostly invisible； and yet not quite invisible。 there was the closing of doors that had been left open； and the opening of doors left shut。 the flash of movement in a mirror that made you glance up。 the shimmer of a draft behind a curtain when there was no window open。 the little ghost was there in the unexpected movement of books from one room to another； and in the mysterious movement of bookmark from page to page。 it was her hand that lifted a diary from one place and hid it in another； her hand that replace