It was Christmas at Lac Seul Post, that historic place, well known to
men of the North. Quite a number of the Outpost managers had come in to
spend Christmas with the Post Manager and his family. The last to arrive
was Mr. R. He had travelled over 200 miles by dog team and cariole to
get there. After the hand-shaking was over, Mr. M., the Post Manager,
drew Mr. R. aside and asked if he believed in ghosts. Mr. R. laughed and
said he didn't believe in any kind of spirits, except the kind they used
to have at Christmas in the old days, but wanted to know what the joke
was. The Post Manager told him that he had only one room left vacant,
and nobody had slept in that room for years as it was supposed to be
haunted.
The story was that on two different occasions at the usual Christmas
gathering of the Outpost managers, there had been tragic endings to
several guests who had occupied that room. Both had died from having
their throats cut from ear to ear--and no one had slept there since. Mr.
R. said he didn't believe in such nonsense as ghosts, and wanted to be
shown to the room, as he wanted to get a shave and clean-up before
dinner. He said any kind of a room would look good to him after sleeping
in the snow for the past week.
The Post Manager showed him to the room which was situated at the rear
of the large dwelling house, away from the rest of the guests. Mr. R.
had just laid out his "glad rags" and was commencing to shave--he had
the razor in his hand--when a feeling came over him that _he was not
alone in the room_. Looking into the mirror, he was horrified to see
there the reflection of a horrible face peering over his shoulder. He
felt his wrist grasped by a claw-like hand. His hand was being forced
slowly up and up, towards his throat. Mr. R. tried to call out for help,
but he was powerless to utter a sound. The hand was still forcing the
razor towards his victim's throat, then it started to draw it across.
Mr. R. gave himself up for lost, when he felt the grip on his wrist
loosen and a baffled expression came over the horrible face. That ghost
was up against modern science. _Mr. R. was using a safety razor._