W. A. Cornish

Ghost Stories (1927-02)

Summary

W. A. Cornish Ghost Stories (1927-02)

After what seemed an eternity—it was exactly eleven minutes—the inert, rubber-swathed Slim was hauled over the side. The moment that we let go our hold, the suit, crumpling like an empty grain sack, sloughed to the deck in a heap.
The visor was hurriedly unclamped. A pallid face, drained of blood and with wide-open staring eyes, lay beneath. The eyes seemed all white; the pupils had shrunk to mere pin pricks of jet. An expression of rigid terror was frozen on the man’s countenance.
There was no need for a pulmotor. Death—ghastly, stark, horrible—leered from beneath the copper helmet.
Source: Wikisource

W. A. Cornish Ghost Stories (1927-02)

Lieutenant Blake, as if challenging my very thoughts, looked over at me and grinned reassuringly.
Superstition!” he said, and grimaced. “Lightning never strikes twice. . . .”
I did not hear any more. I was busy helping him with the heavy boots.
As he stood on the sea ladder fumbling with the air valve in his helmet, he leaned suddenly towards me and began to speak in dry hard cadences that were strangely reminiscent of a night on a North Sea patrol when we had dropped a depth bomb, and afterwards had watched together as a turgid black oil film slowly formed on the surface of the water.
Source: Wikisource

W. A. Cornish Ghost Stories (1927-02)

Slim, a tall, sharp-featured fellow, was our ace diver. Diving—like every other game, including flying and baseball—has its aces. Slim was our Guynemeier, our Walter Johnson. A twin-hitch, ex-service diver, Slim could have pointed to a fancy string of upside-down altitude records as long as your arm.
Source: Wikisource

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