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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/4387-0.txt b/4387-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0e0d213 --- /dev/null +++ b/4387-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2288 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Present at a Hanging, by Ambose Bierce + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most +other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of +the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have +to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. + + + + +Title: Present at a Hanging + and Other Ghost Stories + + +Author: Ambose Bierce + + + +Release Date: August 5, 2019 [eBook #4387] +[This file was first posted on January 20, 2002] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PRESENT AT A HANGING*** + + +Transcribed from the 1918 Boni and Liveright’s “Can Such Things Be?” +edition by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org + + [Picture: Public domain cover] + + + + + + PRESENT AT A HANGING AND OTHER GHOST STORIES + + + By + Ambrose Bierce + + + + +CONTENTS + +THE WAYS OF GHOSTS PAGE + PRESENT AT A HANGING 327 + A COLD GREETING 331 + A WIRELESS MESSAGE 335 + AN ARREST 340 +SOLDIER-FOLK + A MAN WITH TWO LIVES 345 + THREE AND ONE ARE ONE 350 + A BAFFLED AMBUSCADE 356 + TWO MILITARY EXECUTIONS 361 +SOME HAUNTED HOUSES + THE ISLE OF PINES 369 + A FRUITLESS ASSIGNMENT 377 + A VINE ON A HOUSE 383 + AT OLD MAN ECKERT’S 389 + THE SPOOK HOUSE 393 + THE OTHER LODGERS 400 + THE THING AT NOLAN 405 + THE DIFFICULTY OF CROSSING A FIELD 415 + AN UNFINISHED RACE 419 + CHARLES ASHMORE’S TRAIL 421 + + + + +THE WAYS OF GHOSTS + + +_My peculiar relation to the writer of the following narratives is such +that I must ask the reader to overlook the absence of explanation as to +how they came into my possession_. _Withal_, _my knowledge of him is so +meager that I should rather not undertake to say if he were himself +persuaded of the truth of what he relates_; _certainly such inquiries as +I have thought it worth while to set about have not in every instance +tended to confirmation of the statements made_. _Yet his style_, _for +the most part devoid alike of artifice and art_, _almost baldly simple +and direct_, _seems hardly compatible with the disingenuousness of a +merely literary intention_; _one would call it the manner of one more +concerned for the fruits of research than for the flowers of expression_. +_In transcribing his notes and fortifying their claim to attention by +giving them something of an orderly arrangement_, _I have conscientiously +refrained from embellishing them with such small ornaments of diction as +I may have felt myself able to bestow_, _which would not only have been +impertinent_, _even if pleasing_, _but would have given me a somewhat +closer relation to the work than I should care to have and to avow_.—_A. +B._ + + + +PRESENT AT A HANGING + + +AN old man named Daniel Baker, living near Lebanon, Iowa, was suspected +by his neighbors of having murdered a peddler who had obtained permission +to pass the night at his house. This was in 1853, when peddling was more +common in the Western country than it is now, and was attended with +considerable danger. The peddler with his pack traversed the country by +all manner of lonely roads, and was compelled to rely upon the country +people for hospitality. This brought him into relation with queer +characters, some of whom were not altogether scrupulous in their methods +of making a living, murder being an acceptable means to that end. It +occasionally occurred that a peddler with diminished pack and swollen +purse would be traced to the lonely dwelling of some rough character and +never could be traced beyond. This was so in the case of “old man +Baker,” as he was always called. (Such names are given in the western +“settlements” only to elderly persons who are not esteemed; to the +general disrepute of social unworth is affixed the special reproach of +age.) A peddler came to his house and none went away—that is all that +anybody knew. + +Seven years later the Rev. Mr. Cummings, a Baptist minister well known in +that part of the country, was driving by Baker’s farm one night. It was +not very dark: there was a bit of moon somewhere above the light veil of +mist that lay along the earth. Mr. Cummings, who was at all times a +cheerful person, was whistling a tune, which he would occasionally +interrupt to speak a word of friendly encouragement to his horse. As he +came to a little bridge across a dry ravine he saw the figure of a man +standing upon it, clearly outlined against the gray background of a misty +forest. The man had something strapped on his back and carried a heavy +stick—obviously an itinerant peddler. His attitude had in it a +suggestion of abstraction, like that of a sleepwalker. Mr. Cummings +reined in his horse when he arrived in front of him, gave him a pleasant +salutation and invited him to a seat in the vehicle—“if you are going my +way,” he added. The man raised his head, looked him full in the face, +but neither answered nor made any further movement. The minister, with +good-natured persistence, repeated his invitation. At this the man threw +his right hand forward from his side and pointed downward as he stood on +the extreme edge of the bridge. Mr. Cummings looked past him, over into +the ravine, saw nothing unusual and withdrew his eyes to address the man +again. He had disappeared. The horse, which all this time had been +uncommonly restless, gave at the same moment a snort of terror and +started to run away. Before he had regained control of the animal the +minister was at the crest of the hill a hundred yards along. He looked +back and saw the figure again, at the same place and in the same attitude +as when he had first observed it. Then for the first time he was +conscious of a sense of the supernatural and drove home as rapidly as his +willing horse would go. + +On arriving at home he related his adventure to his family, and early the +next morning, accompanied by two neighbors, John White Corwell and Abner +Raiser, returned to the spot. They found the body of old man Baker +hanging by the neck from one of the beams of the bridge, immediately +beneath the spot where the apparition had stood. A thick coating of +dust, slightly dampened by the mist, covered the floor of the bridge, but +the only footprints were those of Mr. Cummings’ horse. + +In taking down the body the men disturbed the loose, friable earth of the +slope below it, disclosing human bones already nearly uncovered by the +action of water and frost. They were identified as those of the lost +peddler. At the double inquest the coroner’s jury found that Daniel +Baker died by his own hand while suffering from temporary insanity, and +that Samuel Morritz was murdered by some person or persons to the jury +unknown. + + + +A COLD GREETING + + +THIS is a story told by the late Benson Foley of San Francisco: + +“In the summer of 1881 I met a man named James H. Conway, a resident of +Franklin, Tennessee. He was visiting San Francisco for his health, +deluded man, and brought me a note of introduction from Mr. Lawrence +Barting. I had known Barting as a captain in the Federal army during the +civil war. At its close he had settled in Franklin, and in time became, +I had reason to think, somewhat prominent as a lawyer. Barting had +always seemed to me an honorable and truthful man, and the warm +friendship which he expressed in his note for Mr. Conway was to me +sufficient evidence that the latter was in every way worthy of my +confidence and esteem. At dinner one day Conway told me that it had been +solemnly agreed between him and Barting that the one who died first +should, if possible, communicate with the other from beyond the grave, in +some unmistakable way—just how, they had left (wisely, it seemed to me) +to be decided by the deceased, according to the opportunities that his +altered circumstances might present. + +“A few weeks after the conversation in which Mr. Conway spoke of this +agreement, I met him one day, walking slowly down Montgomery street, +apparently, from his abstracted air, in deep thought. He greeted me +coldly with merely a movement of the head and passed on, leaving me +standing on the walk, with half-proffered hand, surprised and naturally +somewhat piqued. The next day I met him again in the office of the +Palace Hotel, and seeing him about to repeat the disagreeable performance +of the day before, intercepted him in a doorway, with a friendly +salutation, and bluntly requested an explanation of his altered manner. +He hesitated a moment; then, looking me frankly in the eyes, said: + +“‘I do not think, Mr. Foley, that I have any longer a claim to your +friendship, since Mr. Barting appears to have withdrawn his own from +me—for what reason, I protest I do not know. If he has not already +informed you he probably will do so.’ + +“‘But,’ I replied, ‘I have not heard from Mr. Barting.’ + +“‘Heard from him!’ he repeated, with apparent surprise. ‘Why, he is +here. I met him yesterday ten minutes before meeting you. I gave you +exactly the same greeting that he gave me. I met him again not a quarter +of an hour ago, and his manner was precisely the same: he merely bowed +and passed on. I shall not soon forget your civility to me. Good +morning, or—as it may please you—farewell.’ + +“All this seemed to me singularly considerate and delicate behavior on +the part of Mr. Conway. + +“As dramatic situations and literary effects are foreign to my purpose I +will explain at once that Mr. Barting was dead. He had died in Nashville +four days before this conversation. Calling on Mr. Conway, I apprised +him of our friend’s death, showing him the letters announcing it. He was +visibly affected in a way that forbade me to entertain a doubt of his +sincerity. + +“‘It seems incredible,’ he said, after a period of reflection. ‘I +suppose I must have mistaken another man for Barting, and that man’s cold +greeting was merely a stranger’s civil acknowledgment of my own. I +remember, indeed, that he lacked Barting’s mustache.’ + +“‘Doubtless it was another man,’ I assented; and the subject was never +afterward mentioned between us. But I had in my pocket a photograph of +Barting, which had been inclosed in the letter from his widow. It had +been taken a week before his death, and was without a mustache.” + + + +A WIRELESS MESSAGE + + +IN the summer of 1896 Mr. William Holt, a wealthy manufacturer of +Chicago, was living temporarily in a little town of central New York, the +name of which the writer’s memory has not retained. Mr. Holt had had +“trouble with his wife,” from whom he had parted a year before. Whether +the trouble was anything more serious than “incompatibility of temper,” +he is probably the only living person that knows: he is not addicted to +the vice of confidences. Yet he has related the incident herein set down +to at least one person without exacting a pledge of secrecy. He is now +living in Europe. + +One evening he had left the house of a brother whom he was visiting, for +a stroll in the country. It may be assumed—whatever the value of the +assumption in connection with what is said to have occurred—that his mind +was occupied with reflections on his domestic infelicities and the +distressing changes that they had wrought in his life. + +Whatever may have been his thoughts, they so possessed him that he +observed neither the lapse of time nor whither his feet were carrying +him; he knew only that he had passed far beyond the town limits and was +traversing a lonely region by a road that bore no resemblance to the one +by which he had left the village. In brief, he was “lost.” + +Realizing his mischance, he smiled; central New York is not a region of +perils, nor does one long remain lost in it. He turned about and went +back the way that he had come. Before he had gone far he observed that +the landscape was growing more distinct—was brightening. Everything was +suffused with a soft, red glow in which he saw his shadow projected in +the road before him. “The moon is rising,” he said to himself. Then he +remembered that it was about the time of the new moon, and if that +tricksy orb was in one of its stages of visibility it had set long +before. He stopped and faced about, seeking the source of the rapidly +broadening light. As he did so, his shadow turned and lay along the road +in front of him as before. The light still came from behind him. That +was surprising; he could not understand. Again he turned, and again, +facing successively to every point of the horizon. Always the shadow was +before—always the light behind, “a still and awful red.” + +Holt was astonished—“dumfounded” is the word that he used in telling +it—yet seems to have retained a certain intelligent curiosity. To test +the intensity of the light whose nature and cause he could not determine, +he took out his watch to see if he could make out the figures on the +dial. They were plainly visible, and the hands indicated the hour of +eleven o’clock and twenty-five minutes. At that moment the mysterious +illumination suddenly flared to an intense, an almost blinding splendor, +flushing the entire sky, extinguishing the stars and throwing the +monstrous shadow of himself athwart the landscape. In that unearthly +illumination he saw near him, but apparently in the air at a considerable +elevation, the figure of his wife, clad in her night-clothing and holding +to her breast the figure of his child. Her eyes were fixed upon his with +an expression which he afterward professed himself unable to name or +describe, further than that it was “not of this life.” + +The flare was momentary, followed by black darkness, in which, however, +the apparition still showed white and motionless; then by insensible +degrees it faded and vanished, like a bright image on the retina after +the closing of the eyes. A peculiarity of the apparition, hardly noted +at the time, but afterward recalled, was that it showed only the upper +half of the woman’s figure: nothing was seen below the waist. + +The sudden darkness was comparative, not absolute, for gradually all +objects of his environment became again visible. + +In the dawn of the morning Holt found himself entering the village at a +point opposite to that at which he had left it. He soon arrived at the +house of his brother, who hardly knew him. He was wild-eyed, haggard, +and gray as a rat. Almost incoherently, he related his night’s +experience. + +“Go to bed, my poor fellow,” said his brother, “and—wait. We shall hear +more of this.” + +An hour later came the predestined telegram. Holt’s dwelling in one of +the suburbs of Chicago had been destroyed by fire. Her escape cut off by +the flames, his wife had appeared at an upper window, her child in her +arms. There she had stood, motionless, apparently dazed. Just as the +firemen had arrived with a ladder, the floor had given way, and she was +seen no more. + +The moment of this culminating horror was eleven o’clock and twenty-five +minutes, standard time. + + + +AN ARREST + + +HAVING murdered his brother-in-law, Orrin Brower of Kentucky was a +fugitive from justice. From the county jail where he had been confined +to await his trial he had escaped by knocking down his jailer with an +iron bar, robbing him of his keys and, opening the outer door, walking +out into the night. The jailer being unarmed, Brower got no weapon with +which to defend his recovered liberty. As soon as he was out of the town +he had the folly to enter a forest; this was many years ago, when that +region was wilder than it is now. + +The night was pretty dark, with neither moon nor stars visible, and as +Brower had never dwelt thereabout, and knew nothing of the lay of the +land, he was, naturally, not long in losing himself. He could not have +said if he were getting farther away from the town or going back to it—a +most important matter to Orrin Brower. He knew that in either case a +posse of citizens with a pack of bloodhounds would soon be on his track +and his chance of escape was very slender; but he did not wish to assist +in his own pursuit. Even an added hour of freedom was worth having. + +Suddenly he emerged from the forest into an old road, and there before +him saw, indistinctly, the figure of a man, motionless in the gloom. It +was too late to retreat: the fugitive felt that at the first movement +back toward the wood he would be, as he afterward explained, “filled with +buckshot.” So the two stood there like trees, Brower nearly suffocated +by the activity of his own heart; the other—the emotions of the other are +not recorded. + +A moment later—it may have been an hour—the moon sailed into a patch of +unclouded sky and the hunted man saw that visible embodiment of Law lift +an arm and point significantly toward and beyond him. He understood. +Turning his back to his captor, he walked submissively away in the +direction indicated, looking to neither the right nor the left; hardly +daring to breathe, his head and back actually aching with a prophecy of +buckshot. + +Brower was as courageous a criminal as ever lived to be hanged; that was +shown by the conditions of awful personal peril in which he had coolly +killed his brother-in-law. It is needless to relate them here; they came +out at his trial, and the revelation of his calmness in confronting them +came near to saving his neck. But what would you have?—when a brave man +is beaten, he submits. + +So they pursued their journey jailward along the old road through the +woods. Only once did Brower venture a turn of the head: just once, when +he was in deep shadow and he knew that the other was in moonlight, he +looked backward. His captor was Burton Duff, the jailer, as white as +death and bearing upon his brow the livid mark of the iron bar. Orrin +Brower had no further curiosity. + +Eventually they entered the town, which was all alight, but deserted; +only the women and children remained, and they were off the streets. +Straight toward the jail the criminal held his way. Straight up to the +main entrance he walked, laid his hand upon the knob of the heavy iron +door, pushed it open without command, entered and found himself in the +presence of a half-dozen armed men. Then he turned. Nobody else +entered. + +On a table in the corridor lay the dead body of Burton Duff. + + + + +SOLDIER-FOLK + + +A MAN WITH TWO LIVES + + +HERE is the queer story of David William Duck, related by himself. Duck +is an old man living in Aurora, Illinois, where he is universally +respected. He is commonly known, however, as “Dead Duck.” + +“In the autumn of 1866 I was a private soldier of the Eighteenth +Infantry. My company was one of those stationed at Fort Phil Kearney, +commanded by Colonel Carrington. The country is more or less familiar +with the history of that garrison, particularly with the slaughter by the +Sioux of a detachment of eighty-one men and officers—not one +escaping—through disobedience of orders by its commander, the brave but +reckless Captain Fetterman. When that occurred, I was trying to make my +way with important dispatches to Fort C. F. Smith, on the Big Horn. As +the country swarmed with hostile Indians, I traveled by night and +concealed myself as best I could before daybreak. The better to do so, I +went afoot, armed with a Henry rifle and carrying three days’ rations in +my haversack. + +“For my second place of concealment I chose what seemed in the darkness a +narrow cañon leading through a range of rocky hills. It contained many +large bowlders, detached from the slopes of the hills. Behind one of +these, in a clump of sage-brush, I made my bed for the day, and soon fell +asleep. It seemed as if I had hardly closed my eyes, though in fact it +was near midday, when I was awakened by the report of a rifle, the bullet +striking the bowlder just above my body. A band of Indians had trailed +me and had me nearly surrounded; the shot had been fired with an +execrable aim by a fellow who had caught sight of me from the hillside +above. The smoke of his rifle betrayed him, and I was no sooner on my +feet than he was off his and rolling down the declivity. Then I ran in a +stooping posture, dodging among the clumps of sage-brush in a storm of +bullets from invisible enemies. The rascals did not rise and pursue, +which I thought rather queer, for they must have known by my trail that +they had to deal with only one man. The reason for their inaction was +soon made clear. I had not gone a hundred yards before I reached the +limit of my run—the head of the gulch which I had mistaken for a cañon. +It terminated in a concave breast of rock, nearly vertical and destitute +of vegetation. In that cul-de-sac I was caught like a bear in a pen. +Pursuit was needless; they had only to wait. + +“They waited. For two days and nights, crouching behind a rock topped +with a growth of mesquite, and with the cliff at my back, suffering +agonies of thirst and absolutely hopeless of deliverance, I fought the +fellows at long range, firing occasionally at the smoke of their rifles, +as they did at that of mine. Of course, I did not dare to close my eyes +at night, and lack of sleep was a keen torture. + +“I remember the morning of the third day, which I knew was to be my last. +I remember, rather indistinctly, that in my desperation and delirium I +sprang out into the open and began firing my repeating rifle without +seeing anybody to fire at. And I remember no more of that fight. + +“The next thing that I recollect was my pulling myself out of a river +just at nightfall. I had not a rag of clothing and knew nothing of my +whereabouts, but all that night I traveled, cold and footsore, toward the +north. At daybreak I found myself at Fort C. F. Smith, my destination, +but without my dispatches. The first man that I met was a sergeant named +William Briscoe, whom I knew very well. You can fancy his astonishment +at seeing me in that condition, and my own at his asking who the devil I +was. + +“‘Dave Duck,’ I answered; ‘who should I be?’ + +“He stared like an owl. + +“‘You do look it,’ he said, and I observed that he drew a little away +from me. ‘What’s up?’ he added. + +“I told him what had happened to me the day before. He heard me through, +still staring; then he said: + +“‘My dear fellow, if you are Dave Duck I ought to inform you that I +buried you two months ago. I was out with a small scouting party and +found your body, full of bullet-holes and newly scalped—somewhat +mutilated otherwise, too, I am sorry to say—right where you say you made +your fight. Come to my tent and I’ll show you your clothing and some +letters that I took from your person; the commandant has your +dispatches.’ + +“He performed that promise. He showed me the clothing, which I +resolutely put on; the letters, which I put into my pocket. He made no +objection, then took me to the commandant, who heard my story and coldly +ordered Briscoe to take me to the guardhouse. On the way I said: + +“‘Bill Briscoe, did you really and truly bury the dead body that you +found in these togs?’ + +“‘Sure,’ he answered—‘just as I told you. It was Dave Duck, all right; +most of us knew him. And now, you damned impostor, you’d better tell me +who you are.’ + +“‘I’d give something to know,’ I said. + +“A week later, I escaped from the guardhouse and got out of the country +as fast as I could. Twice I have been back, seeking for that fateful +spot in the hills, but unable to find it.” + + + +THREE AND ONE ARE ONE + + +IN the year 1861 Barr Lassiter, a young man of twenty-two, lived with his +parents and an elder sister near Carthage, Tennessee. The family were in +somewhat humble circumstances, subsisting by cultivation of a small and +not very fertile plantation. Owning no slaves, they were not rated among +“the best people” of their neighborhood; but they were honest persons of +good education, fairly well mannered and as respectable as any family +could be if uncredentialed by personal dominion over the sons and +daughters of Ham. The elder Lassiter had that severity of manner that so +frequently affirms an uncompromising devotion to duty, and conceals a +warm and affectionate disposition. He was of the iron of which martyrs +are made, but in the heart of the matrix had lurked a nobler metal, +fusible at a milder heat, yet never coloring nor softening the hard +exterior. By both heredity and environment something of the man’s +inflexible character had touched the other members of the family; the +Lassiter home, though not devoid of domestic affection, was a veritable +citadel of duty, and duty—ah, duty is as cruel as death! + +When the war came on it found in the family, as in so many others in that +State, a divided sentiment; the young man was loyal to the Union, the +others savagely hostile. This unhappy division begot an insupportable +domestic bitterness, and when the offending son and brother left home +with the avowed purpose of joining the Federal army not a hand was laid +in his, not a word of farewell was spoken, not a good wish followed him +out into the world whither he went to meet with such spirit as he might +whatever fate awaited him. + +Making his way to Nashville, already occupied by the Army of General +Buell, he enlisted in the first organization that he found, a Kentucky +regiment of cavalry, and in due time passed through all the stages of +military evolution from raw recruit to experienced trooper. A right good +trooper he was, too, although in his oral narrative from which this tale +is made there was no mention of that; the fact was learned from his +surviving comrades. For Barr Lassiter has answered “Here” to the +sergeant whose name is Death. + +Two years after he had joined it his regiment passed through the region +whence he had come. The country thereabout had suffered severely from +the ravages of war, having been occupied alternately (and simultaneously) +by the belligerent forces, and a sanguinary struggle had occurred in the +immediate vicinity of the Lassiter homestead. But of this the young +trooper was not aware. + +Finding himself in camp near his home, he felt a natural longing to see +his parents and sister, hoping that in them, as in him, the unnatural +animosities of the period had been softened by time and separation. +Obtaining a leave of absence, he set foot in the late summer afternoon, +and soon after the rising of the full moon was walking up the gravel path +leading to the dwelling in which he had been born. + +Soldiers in war age rapidly, and in youth two years are a long time. +Barr Lassiter felt himself an old man, and had almost expected to find +the place a ruin and a desolation. Nothing, apparently, was changed. At +the sight of each dear and familiar object he was profoundly affected. +His heart beat audibly, his emotion nearly suffocated him; an ache was in +his throat. Unconsciously he quickened his pace until he almost ran, his +long shadow making grotesque efforts to keep its place beside him. + +The house was unlighted, the door open. As he approached and paused to +recover control of himself his father came out and stood bare-headed in +the moonlight. + +“Father!” cried the young man, springing forward with outstretched +hand—“Father!” + +The elder man looked him sternly in the face, stood a moment motionless +and without a word withdrew into the house. Bitterly disappointed, +humiliated, inexpressibly hurt and altogether unnerved, the soldier +dropped upon a rustic seat in deep dejection, supporting his head upon +his trembling hand. But he would not have it so: he was too good a +soldier to accept repulse as defeat. He rose and entered the house, +passing directly to the “sitting-room.” + +It was dimly lighted by an uncurtained east window. On a low stool by +the hearthside, the only article of furniture in the place, sat his +mother, staring into a fireplace strewn with blackened embers and cold +ashes. He spoke to her—tenderly, interrogatively, and with hesitation, +but she neither answered, nor moved, nor seemed in any way surprised. +True, there had been time for her husband to apprise her of their guilty +son’s return. He moved nearer and was about to lay his hand upon her +arm, when his sister entered from an adjoining room, looked him full in +the face, passed him without a sign of recognition and left the room by a +door that was partly behind him. He had turned his head to watch her, +but when she was gone his eyes again sought his mother. She too had left +the place. + +Barr Lassiter strode to the door by which he had entered. The moonlight +on the lawn was tremulous, as if the sward were a rippling sea. The +trees and their black shadows shook as in a breeze. Blended with its +borders, the gravel walk seemed unsteady and insecure to step on. This +young soldier knew the optical illusions produced by tears. He felt them +on his cheek, and saw them sparkle on the breast of his trooper’s jacket. +He left the house and made his way back to camp. + +The next day, with no very definite intention, with no dominant feeling +that he could rightly have named, he again sought the spot. Within a +half-mile of it he met Bushrod Albro, a former playfellow and schoolmate, +who greeted him warmly. + +“I am going to visit my home,” said the soldier. + +The other looked at him rather sharply, but said nothing. + +“I know,” continued Lassiter, “that my folks have not changed, but—” + +“There have been changes,” Albro interrupted—“everything changes. I’ll +go with you if you don’t mind. We can talk as we go.” + +But Albro did not talk. + +Instead of a house they found only fire-blackened foundations of stone, +enclosing an area of compact ashes pitted by rains. + +Lassiter’s astonishment was extreme. + +“I could not find the right way to tell you,” said Albro. “In the fight +a year ago your house was burned by a Federal shell.” + +“And my family—where are they?” + +“In Heaven, I hope. All were killed by the shell.” + + + +A BAFFLED AMBUSCADE + + +CONNECTING Readyville and Woodbury was a good, hard turnpike nine or ten +miles long. Readyville was an outpost of the Federal army at +Murfreesboro; Woodbury had the same relation to the Confederate army at +Tullahoma. For months after the big battle at Stone River these outposts +were in constant quarrel, most of the trouble occurring, naturally, on +the turnpike mentioned, between detachments of cavalry. Sometimes the +infantry and artillery took a hand in the game by way of showing their +good-will. + +One night a squadron of Federal horse commanded by Major Seidel, a +gallant and skillful officer, moved out from Readyville on an uncommonly +hazardous enterprise requiring secrecy, caution and silence. + +Passing the infantry pickets, the detachment soon afterward approached +two cavalry videttes staring hard into the darkness ahead. There should +have been three. + +“Where is your other man?” said the major. “I ordered Dunning to be here +to-night.” + +“He rode forward, sir,” the man replied. “There was a little firing +afterward, but it was a long way to the front.” + +“It was against orders and against sense for Dunning to do that,” said +the officer, obviously vexed. “Why did he ride forward?” + +“Don’t know, sir; he seemed mighty restless. Guess he was skeered.” + +When this remarkable reasoner and his companion had been absorbed into +the expeditionary force, it resumed its advance. Conversation was +forbidden; arms and accouterments were denied the right to rattle. The +horses’ tramping was all that could be heard and the movement was slow in +order to have as little as possible of that. It was after midnight and +pretty dark, although there was a bit of moon somewhere behind the masses +of cloud. + +Two or three miles along, the head of the column approached a dense +forest of cedars bordering the road on both sides. The major commanded a +halt by merely halting, and, evidently himself a bit “skeered,” rode on +alone to reconnoiter. He was followed, however, by his adjutant and +three troopers, who remained a little distance behind and, unseen by him, +saw all that occurred. + +After riding about a hundred yards toward the forest, the major suddenly +and sharply reined in his horse and sat motionless in the saddle. Near +the side of the road, in a little open space and hardly ten paces away, +stood the figure of a man, dimly visible and as motionless as he. The +major’s first feeling was that of satisfaction in having left his +cavalcade behind; if this were an enemy and should escape he would have +little to report. The expedition was as yet undetected. + +Some dark object was dimly discernible at the man’s feet; the officer +could not make it out. With the instinct of the true cavalryman and a +particular indisposition to the discharge of firearms, he drew his saber. +The man on foot made no movement in answer to the challenge. The +situation was tense and a bit dramatic. Suddenly the moon burst through +a rift in the clouds and, himself in the shadow of a group of great oaks, +the horseman saw the footman clearly, in a patch of white light. It was +Trooper Dunning, unarmed and bareheaded. The object at his feet resolved +itself into a dead horse, and at a right angle across the animal’s neck +lay a dead man, face upward in the moonlight. + +“Dunning has had the fight of his life,” thought the major, and was about +to ride forward. Dunning raised his hand, motioning him back with a +gesture of warning; then, lowering the arm, he pointed to the place where +the road lost itself in the blackness of the cedar forest. + +The major understood, and turning his horse rode back to the little group +that had followed him and was already moving to the rear in fear of his +displeasure, and so returned to the head of his command. + +“Dunning is just ahead there,” he said to the captain of his leading +company. “He has killed his man and will have something to report.” + +Right patiently they waited, sabers drawn, but Dunning did not come. In +an hour the day broke and the whole force moved cautiously forward, its +commander not altogether satisfied with his faith in Private Dunning. +The expedition had failed, but something remained to be done. + +In the little open space off the road they found the fallen horse. At a +right angle across the animal’s neck face upward, a bullet in the brain, +lay the body of Trooper Dunning, stiff as a statue, hours dead. + +Examination disclosed abundant evidence that within a half-hour the cedar +forest had been occupied by a strong force of Confederate infantry—an +ambuscade. + + + +TWO MILITARY EXECUTIONS + + +IN the spring of the year 1862 General Buell’s big army lay in camp, +licking itself into shape for the campaign which resulted in the victory +at Shiloh. It was a raw, untrained army, although some of its fractions +had seen hard enough service, with a good deal of fighting, in the +mountains of Western Virginia, and in Kentucky. The war was young and +soldiering a new industry, imperfectly understood by the young American +of the period, who found some features of it not altogether to his +liking. Chief among these was that essential part of discipline, +subordination. To one imbued from infancy with the fascinating fallacy +that all men are born equal, unquestioning submission to authority is not +easily mastered, and the American volunteer soldier in his “green and +salad days” is among the worst known. That is how it happened that one +of Buell’s men, Private Bennett Story Greene, committed the indiscretion +of striking his officer. Later in the war he would not have done that; +like Sir Andrew Aguecheek, he would have “seen him damned” first. But +time for reformation of his military manners was denied him: he was +promptly arrested on complaint of the officer, tried by court-martial and +sentenced to be shot. + +“You might have thrashed me and let it go at that,” said the condemned +man to the complaining witness; “that is what you used to do at school, +when you were plain Will Dudley and I was as good as you. Nobody saw me +strike you; discipline would not have suffered much.” + +“Ben Greene, I guess you are right about that,” said the lieutenant. +“Will you forgive me? That is what I came to see you about.” + +There was no reply, and an officer putting his head in at the door of the +guard-tent where the conversation had occurred, explained that the time +allowed for the interview had expired. The next morning, when in the +presence of the whole brigade Private Greene was shot to death by a squad +of his comrades, Lieutenant Dudley turned his back upon the sorry +performance and muttered a prayer for mercy, in which himself was +included. + +A few weeks afterward, as Buell’s leading division was being ferried over +the Tennessee River to assist in succoring Grant’s beaten army, night was +coming on, black and stormy. Through the wreck of battle the division +moved, inch by inch, in the direction of the enemy, who had withdrawn a +little to reform his lines. But for the lightning the darkness was +absolute. Never for a moment did it cease, and ever when the thunder did +not crack and roar were heard the moans of the wounded among whom the men +felt their way with their feet, and upon whom they stumbled in the gloom. +The dead were there, too—there were dead a-plenty. + +In the first faint gray of the morning, when the swarming advance had +paused to resume something of definition as a line of battle, and +skirmishers had been thrown forward, word was passed along to call the +roll. The first sergeant of Lieutenant Dudley’s company stepped to the +front and began to name the men in alphabetical order. He had no written +roll, but a good memory. The men answered to their names as he ran down +the alphabet to G. + +“Gorham.” + +“Here!” + +“Grayrock.” + +“Here!” + +The sergeant’s good memory was affected by habit: + +“Greene.” + +“Here!” + +The response was clear, distinct, unmistakable! + +A sudden movement, an agitation of the entire company front, as from an +electric shock, attested the startling character of the incident. The +sergeant paled and paused. The captain strode quickly to his side and +said sharply: + +“Call that name again.” + +Apparently the Society for Psychical Research is not first in the field +of curiosity concerning the Unknown. + +“Bennett Greene.” + +“Here!” + +All faces turned in the direction of the familiar voice; the two men +between whom in the order of stature Greene had commonly stood in line +turned and squarely confronted each other. + +“Once more,” commanded the inexorable investigator, and once more came—a +trifle tremulously—the name of the dead man: + +“Bennett Story Greene.” + +“Here!” + +At that instant a single rifle-shot was heard, away to the front, beyond +the skirmish-line, followed, almost attended, by the savage hiss of an +approaching bullet which passing through the line, struck audibly, +punctuating as with a full stop the captain’s exclamation, “What the +devil does it mean?” + +Lieutenant Dudley pushed through the ranks from his place in the rear. + +“It means this,” he said, throwing open his coat and displaying a visibly +broadening stain of crimson on his breast. His knees gave way; he fell +awkwardly and lay dead. + +A little later the regiment was ordered out of line to relieve the +congested front, and through some misplay in the game of battle was not +again under fire. Nor did Bennett Greene, expert in military executions, +ever again signify his presence at one. + + + + +SOME HAUNTED HOUSES + + +THE ISLE OF PINES + + +FOR many years there lived near the town of Gallipolis, Ohio, an old man +named Herman Deluse. Very little was known of his history, for he would +neither speak of it himself nor suffer others. It was a common belief +among his neighbors that he had been a pirate—if upon any better evidence +than his collection of boarding pikes, cutlasses, and ancient flintlock +pistols, no one knew. He lived entirely alone in a small house of four +rooms, falling rapidly into decay and never repaired further than was +required by the weather. It stood on a slight elevation in the midst of +a large, stony field overgrown with brambles, and cultivated in patches +and only in the most primitive way. It was his only visible property, +but could hardly have yielded him a living, simple and few as were his +wants. He seemed always to have ready money, and paid cash for all his +purchases at the village stores roundabout, seldom buying more than two +or three times at the same place until after the lapse of a considerable +time. He got no commendation, however, for this equitable distribution +of his patronage; people were disposed to regard it as an ineffectual +attempt to conceal his possession of so much money. That he had great +hoards of ill-gotten gold buried somewhere about his tumble-down dwelling +was not reasonably to be doubted by any honest soul conversant with the +facts of local tradition and gifted with a sense of the fitness of +things. + +On the 9th of November, 1867, the old man died; at least his dead body +was discovered on the 10th, and physicians testified that death had +occurred about twenty-four hours previously—precisely how, they were +unable to say; for the _post-mortem_ examination showed every organ to be +absolutely healthy, with no indication of disorder or violence. +According to them, death must have taken place about noonday, yet the +body was found in bed. The verdict of the coroner’s jury was that he +“came to his death by a visitation of God.” The body was buried and the +public administrator took charge of the estate. + +A rigorous search disclosed nothing more than was already known about the +dead man, and much patient excavation here and there about the premises +by thoughtful and thrifty neighbors went unrewarded. The administrator +locked up the house against the time when the property, real and +personal, should be sold by law with a view to defraying, partly, the +expenses of the sale. + +The night of November 20 was boisterous. A furious gale stormed across +the country, scourging it with desolating drifts of sleet. Great trees +were torn from the earth and hurled across the roads. So wild a night +had never been known in all that region, but toward morning the storm had +blown itself out of breath and day dawned bright and clear. At about +eight o’clock that morning the Rev. Henry Galbraith, a well-known and +highly esteemed Lutheran minister, arrived on foot at his house, a mile +and a half from the Deluse place. Mr. Galbraith had been for a month in +Cincinnati. He had come up the river in a steamboat, and landing at +Gallipolis the previous evening had immediately obtained a horse and +buggy and set out for home. The violence of the storm had delayed him +over night, and in the morning the fallen trees had compelled him to +abandon his conveyance and continue his journey afoot. + +“But where did you pass the night?” inquired his wife, after he had +briefly related his adventure. + +“With old Deluse at the ‘Isle of Pines,’” {372} was the laughing reply; +“and a glum enough time I had of it. He made no objection to my +remaining, but not a word could I get out of him.” + +Fortunately for the interests of truth there was present at this +conversation Mr. Robert Mosely Maren, a lawyer and _littérateur_ of +Columbus, the same who wrote the delightful “Mellowcraft Papers.” +Noting, but apparently not sharing, the astonishment caused by Mr. +Galbraith’s answer this ready-witted person checked by a gesture the +exclamations that would naturally have followed, and tranquilly inquired: +“How came you to go in there?” + +This is Mr. Maren’s version of Mr. Galbraith’s reply: + +“I saw a light moving about the house, and being nearly blinded by the +sleet, and half frozen besides, drove in at the gate and put up my horse +in the old rail stable, where it is now. I then rapped at the door, and +getting no invitation went in without one. The room was dark, but having +matches I found a candle and lit it. I tried to enter the adjoining +room, but the door was fast, and although I heard the old man’s heavy +footsteps in there he made no response to my calls. There was no fire on +the hearth, so I made one and laying [_sic_] down before it with my +overcoat under my head, prepared myself for sleep. Pretty soon the door +that I had tried silently opened and the old man came in, carrying a +candle. I spoke to him pleasantly, apologizing for my intrusion, but he +took no notice of me. He seemed to be searching for something, though +his eyes were unmoved in their sockets. I wonder if he ever walks in his +sleep. He took a circuit a part of the way round the room, and went out +the same way he had come in. Twice more before I slept he came back into +the room, acting precisely the same way, and departing as at first. In +the intervals I heard him tramping all over the house, his footsteps +distinctly audible in the pauses of the storm. When I woke in the +morning he had already gone out.” + +Mr. Maren attempted some further questioning, but was unable longer to +restrain the family’s tongues; the story of Deluse’s death and burial +came out, greatly to the good minister’s astonishment. + +“The explanation of your adventure is very simple,” said Mr. Maren. “I +don’t believe old Deluse walks in his sleep—not in his present one; but +you evidently dream in yours.” + +And to this view of the matter Mr. Galbraith was compelled reluctantly to +assent. + +Nevertheless, a late hour of the next night found these two gentlemen, +accompanied by a son of the minister, in the road in front of the old +Deluse house. There was a light inside; it appeared now at one window +and now at another. The three men advanced to the door. Just as they +reached it there came from the interior a confusion of the most appalling +sounds—the clash of weapons, steel against steel, sharp explosions as of +firearms, shrieks of women, groans and the curses of men in combat! The +investigators stood a moment, irresolute, frightened. Then Mr. Galbraith +tried the door. It was fast. But the minister was a man of courage, a +man, moreover, of Herculean strength. He retired a pace or two and +rushed against the door, striking it with his right shoulder and bursting +it from the frame with a loud crash. In a moment the three were inside. +Darkness and silence! The only sound was the beating of their hearts. + +Mr. Maren had provided himself with matches and a candle. With some +difficulty, begotten of his excitement, he made a light, and they +proceeded to explore the place, passing from room to room. Everything +was in orderly arrangement, as it had been left by the sheriff; nothing +had been disturbed. A light coating of dust was everywhere. A back door +was partly open, as if by neglect, and their first thought was that the +authors of the awful revelry might have escaped. The door was opened, +and the light of the candle shone through upon the ground. The expiring +effort of the previous night’s storm had been a light fall of snow; there +were no footprints; the white surface was unbroken. They closed the door +and entered the last room of the four that the house contained—that +farthest from the road, in an angle of the building. Here the candle in +Mr. Maren’s hand was suddenly extinguished as by a draught of air. +Almost immediately followed the sound of a heavy fall. When the candle +had been hastily relighted young Mr. Galbraith was seen prostrate on the +floor at a little distance from the others. He was dead. In one hand +the body grasped a heavy sack of coins, which later examination showed to +be all of old Spanish mintage. Directly over the body as it lay, a board +had been torn from its fastenings in the wall, and from the cavity so +disclosed it was evident that the bag had been taken. + +Another inquest was held: another _post-mortem_ examination failed to +reveal a probable cause of death. Another verdict of “the visitation of +God” left all at liberty to form their own conclusions. Mr. Maren +contended that the young man died of excitement. + + + +A FRUITLESS ASSIGNMENT + + +HENRY SAYLOR, who was killed in Covington, in a quarrel with Antonio +Finch, was a reporter on the Cincinnati _Commercial_. In the year 1859 a +vacant dwelling in Vine street, in Cincinnati, became the center of a +local excitement because of the strange sights and sounds said to be +observed in it nightly. According to the testimony of many reputable +residents of the vicinity these were inconsistent with any other +hypothesis than that the house was haunted. Figures with something +singularly unfamiliar about them were seen by crowds on the sidewalk to +pass in and out. No one could say just where they appeared upon the open +lawn on their way to the front door by which they entered, nor at exactly +what point they vanished as they came out; or, rather, while each +spectator was positive enough about these matters, no two agreed. They +were all similarly at variance in their descriptions of the figures +themselves. Some of the bolder of the curious throng ventured on several +evenings to stand upon the doorsteps to intercept them, or failing in +this, get a nearer look at them. These courageous men, it was said, were +unable to force the door by their united strength, and always were hurled +from the steps by some invisible agency and severely injured; the door +immediately afterward opening, apparently of its own volition, to admit +or free some ghostly guest. The dwelling was known as the Roscoe house, +a family of that name having lived there for some years, and then, one by +one, disappeared, the last to leave being an old woman. Stories of foul +play and successive murders had always been rife, but never were +authenticated. + +One day during the prevalence of the excitement Saylor presented himself +at the office of the _Commercial_ for orders. He received a note from +the city editor which read as follows: “Go and pass the night alone in +the haunted house in Vine street and if anything occurs worth while make +two columns.” Saylor obeyed his superior; he could not afford to lose +his position on the paper. + +Apprising the police of his intention, he effected an entrance through a +rear window before dark, walked through the deserted rooms, bare of +furniture, dusty and desolate, and seating himself at last in the parlor +on an old sofa which he had dragged in from another room watched the +deepening of the gloom as night came on. Before it was altogether dark +the curious crowd had collected in the street, silent, as a rule, and +expectant, with here and there a scoffer uttering his incredulity and +courage with scornful remarks or ribald cries. None knew of the anxious +watcher inside. He feared to make a light; the uncurtained windows would +have betrayed his presence, subjecting him to insult, possibly to injury. +Moreover, he was too conscientious to do anything to enfeeble his +impressions and unwilling to alter any of the customary conditions under +which the manifestations were said to occur. + +It was now dark outside, but light from the street faintly illuminated +the part of the room that he was in. He had set open every door in the +whole interior, above and below, but all the outer ones were locked and +bolted. Sudden exclamations from the crowd caused him to spring to the +window and look out. He saw the figure of a man moving rapidly across +the lawn toward the building—saw it ascend the steps; then a projection +of the wall concealed it. There was a noise as of the opening and +closing of the hall door; he heard quick, heavy footsteps along the +passage—heard them ascend the stairs—heard them on the uncarpeted floor +of the chamber immediately overhead. + +Saylor promptly drew his pistol, and groping his way up the stairs +entered the chamber, dimly lighted from the street. No one was there. +He heard footsteps in an adjoining room and entered that. It was dark +and silent. He struck his foot against some object on the floor, knelt +by it, passed his hand over it. It was a human head—that of a woman. +Lifting it by the hair this iron-nerved man returned to the half-lighted +room below, carried it near the window and attentively examined it. +While so engaged he was half conscious of the rapid opening and closing +of the outer door, of footfalls sounding all about him. He raised his +eyes from the ghastly object of his attention and saw himself the center +of a crowd of men and women dimly seen; the room was thronged with them. +He thought the people had broken in. + +“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, coolly, “you see me under suspicious +circumstances, but”—his voice was drowned in peals of laughter—such +laughter as is heard in asylums for the insane. The persons about him +pointed at the object in his hand and their merriment increased as he +dropped it and it went rolling among their feet. They danced about it +with gestures grotesque and attitudes obscene and indescribable. They +struck it with their feet, urging it about the room from wall to wall; +pushed and overthrew one another in their struggles to kick it; cursed +and screamed and sang snatches of ribald songs as the battered head +bounded about the room as if in terror and trying to escape. At last it +shot out of the door into the hall, followed by all, with tumultuous +haste. That moment the door closed with a sharp concussion. Saylor was +alone, in dead silence. + +Carefully putting away his pistol, which all the time he had held in his +hand, he went to a window and looked out. The street was deserted and +silent; the lamps were extinguished; the roofs and chimneys of the houses +were sharply outlined against the dawn-light in the east. He left the +house, the door yielding easily to his hand, and walked to the +_Commercial_ office. The city editor was still in his office—asleep. +Saylor waked him and said: “I have been at the haunted house.” + +The editor stared blankly as if not wholly awake. “Good God!” he cried, +“are you Saylor?” + +“Yes—why not?” The editor made no answer, but continued staring. + +“I passed the night there—it seems,” said Saylor. + +“They say that things were uncommonly quiet out there,” the editor said, +trifling with a paper-weight upon which he had dropped his eyes, “did +anything occur?” + +“Nothing whatever.” + + + +A VINE ON A HOUSE + + +ABOUT three miles from the little town of Norton, in Missouri, on the +road leading to Maysville, stands an old house that was last occupied by +a family named Harding. Since 1886 no one has lived in it, nor is anyone +likely to live in it again. Time and the disfavor of persons dwelling +thereabout are converting it into a rather picturesque ruin. An observer +unacquainted with its history would hardly put it into the category of +“haunted houses,” yet in all the region round such is its evil +reputation. Its windows are without glass, its doorways without doors; +there are wide breaches in the shingle roof, and for lack of paint the +weatherboarding is a dun gray. But these unfailing signs of the +supernatural are partly concealed and greatly softened by the abundant +foliage of a large vine overrunning the entire structure. This vine—of a +species which no botanist has ever been able to name—has an important +part in the story of the house. + +The Harding family consisted of Robert Harding, his wife Matilda, Miss +Julia Went, who was her sister, and two young children. Robert Harding +was a silent, cold-mannered man who made no friends in the neighborhood +and apparently cared to make none. He was about forty years old, frugal +and industrious, and made a living from the little farm which is now +overgrown with brush and brambles. He and his sister-in-law were rather +tabooed by their neighbors, who seemed to think that they were seen too +frequently together—not entirely their fault, for at these times they +evidently did not challenge observation. The moral code of rural +Missouri is stern and exacting. + +Mrs. Harding was a gentle, sad-eyed woman, lacking a left foot. + +At some time in 1884 it became known that she had gone to visit her +mother in Iowa. That was what her husband said in reply to inquiries, +and his manner of saying it did not encourage further questioning. She +never came back, and two years later, without selling his farm or +anything that was his, or appointing an agent to look after his +interests, or removing his household goods, Harding, with the rest of the +family, left the country. Nobody knew whither he went; nobody at that +time cared. Naturally, whatever was movable about the place soon +disappeared and the deserted house became “haunted” in the manner of its +kind. + +One summer evening, four or five years later, the Rev. J. Gruber, of +Norton, and a Maysville attorney named Hyatt met on horseback in front of +the Harding place. Having business matters to discuss, they hitched +their animals and going to the house sat on the porch to talk. Some +humorous reference to the somber reputation of the place was made and +forgotten as soon as uttered, and they talked of their business affairs +until it grew almost dark. The evening was oppressively warm, the air +stagnant. + +Presently both men started from their seats in surprise: a long vine that +covered half the front of the house and dangled its branches from the +edge of the porch above them was visibly and audibly agitated, shaking +violently in every stem and leaf. + +“We shall have a storm,” Hyatt exclaimed. + +Gruber said nothing, but silently directed the other’s attention to the +foliage of adjacent trees, which showed no movement; even the delicate +tips of the boughs silhouetted against the clear sky were motionless. +They hastily passed down the steps to what had been a lawn and looked +upward at the vine, whose entire length was now visible. It continued in +violent agitation, yet they could discern no disturbing cause. + +“Let us leave,” said the minister. + +And leave they did. Forgetting that they had been traveling in opposite +directions, they rode away together. They went to Norton, where they +related their strange experience to several discreet friends. The next +evening, at about the same hour, accompanied by two others whose names +are not recalled, they were again on the porch of the Harding house, and +again the mysterious phenomenon occurred: the vine was violently agitated +while under the closest scrutiny from root to tip, nor did their combined +strength applied to the trunk serve to still it. After an hour’s +observation they retreated, no less wise, it is thought, than when they +had come. + +No great time was required for these singular facts to rouse the +curiosity of the entire neighborhood. By day and by night crowds of +persons assembled at the Harding house “seeking a sign.” It does not +appear that any found it, yet so credible were the witnesses mentioned +that none doubted the reality of the “manifestations” to which they +testified. + +By either a happy inspiration or some destructive design, it was one day +proposed—nobody appeared to know from whom the suggestion came—to dig up +the vine, and after a good deal of debate this was done. Nothing was +found but the root, yet nothing could have been more strange! + +For five or six feet from the trunk, which had at the surface of the +ground a diameter of several inches, it ran downward, single and +straight, into a loose, friable earth; then it divided and subdivided +into rootlets, fibers and filaments, most curiously interwoven. When +carefully freed from soil they showed a singular formation. In their +ramifications and doublings back upon themselves they made a compact +network, having in size and shape an amazing resemblance to the human +figure. Head, trunk and limbs were there; even the fingers and toes were +distinctly defined; and many professed to see in the distribution and +arrangement of the fibers in the globular mass representing the head a +grotesque suggestion of a face. The figure was horizontal; the smaller +roots had begun to unite at the breast. + +In point of resemblance to the human form this image was imperfect. At +about ten inches from one of the knees, the _cilia_ forming that leg had +abruptly doubled backward and inward upon their course of growth. The +figure lacked the left foot. + +There was but one inference—the obvious one; but in the ensuing +excitement as many courses of action were proposed as there were +incapable counselors. The matter was settled by the sheriff of the +county, who as the lawful custodian of the abandoned estate ordered the +root replaced and the excavation filled with the earth that had been +removed. + +Later inquiry brought out only one fact of relevancy and significance: +Mrs. Harding had never visited her relatives in Iowa, nor did they know +that she was supposed to have done so. + +Of Robert Harding and the rest of his family nothing is known. The house +retains its evil reputation, but the replanted vine is as orderly and +well-behaved a vegetable as a nervous person could wish to sit under of a +pleasant night, when the katydids grate out their immemorial revelation +and the distant whippoorwill signifies his notion of what ought to be +done about it. + + + +AT OLD MAN ECKERT’S + + +PHILIP ECKERT lived for many years in an old, weather-stained wooden +house about three miles from the little town of Marion, in Vermont. +There must be quite a number of persons living who remember him, not +unkindly, I trust, and know something of the story that I am about to +tell. + +“Old Man Eckert,” as he was always called, was not of a sociable +disposition and lived alone. As he was never known to speak of his own +affairs nobody thereabout knew anything of his past, nor of his relatives +if he had any. Without being particularly ungracious or repellent in +manner or speech, he managed somehow to be immune to impertinent +curiosity, yet exempt from the evil repute with which it commonly +revenges itself when baffled; so far as I know, Mr. Eckert’s renown as a +reformed assassin or a retired pirate of the Spanish Main had not reached +any ear in Marion. He got his living cultivating a small and not very +fertile farm. + +One day he disappeared and a prolonged search by his neighbors failed to +turn him up or throw any light upon his whereabouts or whyabouts. +Nothing indicated preparation to leave: all was as he might have left it +to go to the spring for a bucket of water. For a few weeks little else +was talked of in that region; then “old man Eckert” became a village tale +for the ear of the stranger. I do not know what was done regarding his +property—the correct legal thing, doubtless. The house was standing, +still vacant and conspicuously unfit, when I last heard of it, some +twenty years afterward. + +Of course it came to be considered “haunted,” and the customary tales +were told of moving lights, dolorous sounds and startling apparitions. +At one time, about five years after the disappearance, these stories of +the supernatural became so rife, or through some attesting circumstances +seemed so important, that some of Marion’s most serious citizens deemed +it well to investigate, and to that end arranged for a night session on +the premises. The parties to this undertaking were John Holcomb, an +apothecary; Wilson Merle, a lawyer, and Andrus C. Palmer, the teacher of +the public school, all men of consequence and repute. They were to meet +at Holcomb’s house at eight o’clock in the evening of the appointed day +and go together to the scene of their vigil, where certain arrangements +for their comfort, a provision of fuel and the like, for the season was +winter, had been already made. + +Palmer did not keep the engagement, and after waiting a half-hour for him +the others went to the Eckert house without him. They established +themselves in the principal room, before a glowing fire, and without +other light than it gave, awaited events. It had been agreed to speak as +little as possible: they did not even renew the exchange of views +regarding the defection of Palmer, which had occupied their minds on the +way. + +Probably an hour had passed without incident when they heard (not without +emotion, doubtless) the sound of an opening door in the rear of the +house, followed by footfalls in the room adjoining that in which they +sat. The watchers rose to their feet, but stood firm, prepared for +whatever might ensue. A long silence followed—how long neither would +afterward undertake to say. Then the door between the two rooms opened +and a man entered. + +It was Palmer. He was pale, as if from excitement—as pale as the others +felt themselves to be. His manner, too, was singularly distrait: he +neither responded to their salutations nor so much as looked at them, but +walked slowly across the room in the light of the failing fire and +opening the front door passed out into the darkness. + +It seems to have been the first thought of both men that Palmer was +suffering from fright—that something seen, heard or imagined in the back +room had deprived him of his senses. Acting on the same friendly impulse +both ran after him through the open door. But neither they nor anyone +ever again saw or heard of Andrus Palmer! + +This much was ascertained the next morning. During the session of +Messrs. Holcomb and Merle at the “haunted house” a new snow had fallen to +a depth of several inches upon the old. In this snow Palmer’s trail from +his lodging in the village to the back door of the Eckert house was +conspicuous. But there it ended: from the front door nothing led away +but the tracks of the two men who swore that he preceded them. Palmer’s +disappearance was as complete as that of “old man Eckert” himself—whom, +indeed, the editor of the local paper somewhat graphically accused of +having “reached out and pulled him in.” + + + +THE SPOOK HOUSE + + +ON the road leading north from Manchester, in eastern Kentucky, to +Booneville, twenty miles away, stood, in 1862, a wooden plantation house +of a somewhat better quality than most of the dwellings in that region. +The house was destroyed by fire in the year following—probably by some +stragglers from the retreating column of General George W. Morgan, when +he was driven from Cumberland Gap to the Ohio river by General Kirby +Smith. At the time of its destruction, it had for four or five years +been vacant. The fields about it were overgrown with brambles, the +fences gone, even the few negro quarters, and out-houses generally, +fallen partly into ruin by neglect and pillage; for the negroes and poor +whites of the vicinity found in the building and fences an abundant +supply of fuel, of which they availed themselves without hesitation, +openly and by daylight. By daylight alone; after nightfall no human +being except passing strangers ever went near the place. + +It was known as the “Spook House.” That it was tenanted by evil spirits, +visible, audible and active, no one in all that region doubted any more +than he doubted what he was told of Sundays by the traveling preacher. +Its owner’s opinion of the matter was unknown; he and his family had +disappeared one night and no trace of them had ever been found. They +left everything—household goods, clothing, provisions, the horses in the +stable, the cows in the field, the negroes in the quarters—all as it +stood; nothing was missing—except a man, a woman, three girls, a boy and +a babe! It was not altogether surprising that a plantation where seven +human beings could be simultaneously effaced and nobody the wiser should +be under some suspicion. + +One night in June, 1859, two citizens of Frankfort, Col. J. C. McArdle, a +lawyer, and Judge Myron Veigh, of the State Militia, were driving from +Booneville to Manchester. Their business was so important that they +decided to push on, despite the darkness and the mutterings of an +approaching storm, which eventually broke upon them just as they arrived +opposite the “Spook House.” The lightning was so incessant that they +easily found their way through the gateway and into a shed, where they +hitched and unharnessed their team. They then went to the house, through +the rain, and knocked at all the doors without getting any response. +Attributing this to the continuous uproar of the thunder they pushed at +one of the doors, which yielded. They entered without further ceremony +and closed the door. That instant they were in darkness and silence. +Not a gleam of the lightning’s unceasing blaze penetrated the windows or +crevices; not a whisper of the awful tumult without reached them there. +It was as if they had suddenly been stricken blind and deaf, and McArdle +afterward said that for a moment he believed himself to have been killed +by a stroke of lightning as he crossed the threshold. The rest of this +adventure can as well be related in his own words, from the Frankfort +_Advocate_ of August 6, 1876: + +“When I had somewhat recovered from the dazing effect of the transition +from uproar to silence, my first impulse was to reopen the door which I +had closed, and from the knob of which I was not conscious of having +removed my hand; I felt it distinctly, still in the clasp of my fingers. +My notion was to ascertain by stepping again into the storm whether I had +been deprived of sight and hearing. I turned the doorknob and pulled +open the door. It led into another room! + +“This apartment was suffused with a faint greenish light, the source of +which I could not determine, making everything distinctly visible, though +nothing was sharply defined. Everything, I say, but in truth the only +objects within the blank stone walls of that room were human corpses. In +number they were perhaps eight or ten—it may well be understood that I +did not truly count them. They were of different ages, or rather sizes, +from infancy up, and of both sexes. All were prostrate on the floor, +excepting one, apparently a young woman, who sat up, her back supported +by an angle of the wall. A babe was clasped in the arms of another and +older woman. A half-grown lad lay face downward across the legs of a +full-bearded man. One or two were nearly naked, and the hand of a young +girl held the fragment of a gown which she had torn open at the breast. +The bodies were in various stages of decay, all greatly shrunken in face +and figure. Some were but little more than skeletons. + +“While I stood stupefied with horror by this ghastly spectacle and still +holding open the door, by some unaccountable perversity my attention was +diverted from the shocking scene and concerned itself with trifles and +details. Perhaps my mind, with an instinct of self-preservation, sought +relief in matters which would relax its dangerous tension. Among other +things, I observed that the door that I was holding open was of heavy +iron plates, riveted. Equidistant from one another and from the top and +bottom, three strong bolts protruded from the beveled edge. I turned the +knob and they were retracted flush with the edge; released it, and they +shot out. It was a spring lock. On the inside there was no knob, nor +any kind of projection—a smooth surface of iron. + +“While noting these things with an interest and attention which it now +astonishes me to recall I felt myself thrust aside, and Judge Veigh, whom +in the intensity and vicissitudes of my feelings I had altogether +forgotten, pushed by me into the room. ‘For God’s sake,’ I cried, ‘do +not go in there! Let us get out of this dreadful place!’ + +“He gave no heed to my entreaties, but (as fearless a gentleman as lived +in all the South) walked quickly to the center of the room, knelt beside +one of the bodies for a closer examination and tenderly raised its +blackened and shriveled head in his hands. A strong disagreeable odor +came through the doorway, completely overpowering me. My senses reeled; +I felt myself falling, and in clutching at the edge of the door for +support pushed it shut with a sharp click! + +“I remember no more: six weeks later I recovered my reason in a hotel at +Manchester, whither I had been taken by strangers the next day. For all +these weeks I had suffered from a nervous fever, attended with constant +delirium. I had been found lying in the road several miles away from the +house; but how I had escaped from it to get there I never knew. On +recovery, or as soon as my physicians permitted me to talk, I inquired +the fate of Judge Veigh, whom (to quiet me, as I now know) they +represented as well and at home. + +“No one believed a word of my story, and who can wonder? And who can +imagine my grief when, arriving at my home in Frankfort two months later, +I learned that Judge Veigh had never been heard of since that night? I +then regretted bitterly the pride which since the first few days after +the recovery of my reason had forbidden me to repeat my discredited story +and insist upon its truth. + +“With all that afterward occurred—the examination of the house; the +failure to find any room corresponding to that which I have described; +the attempt to have me adjudged insane, and my triumph over my +accusers—the readers of the _Advocate_ are familiar. After all these +years I am still confident that excavations which I have neither the +legal right to undertake nor the wealth to make would disclose the secret +of the disappearance of my unhappy friend, and possibly of the former +occupants and owners of the deserted and now destroyed house. I do not +despair of yet bringing about such a search, and it is a source of deep +grief to me that it has been delayed by the undeserved hostility and +unwise incredulity of the family and friends of the late Judge Veigh.” + +Colonel McArdle died in Frankfort on the thirteenth day of December, in +the year 1879. + + + +THE OTHER LODGERS + + +“IN order to take that train,” said Colonel Levering, sitting in the +Waldorf-Astoria hotel, “you will have to remain nearly all night in +Atlanta. That is a fine city, but I advise you not to put up at the +Breathitt House, one of the principal hotels. It is an old wooden +building in urgent need of repairs. There are breaches in the walls that +you could throw a cat through. The bedrooms have no locks on the doors, +no furniture but a single chair in each, and a bedstead without +bedding—just a mattress. Even these meager accommodations you cannot be +sure that you will have in monopoly; you must take your chance of being +stowed in with a lot of others. Sir, it is a most abominable hotel. + +“The night that I passed in it was an uncomfortable night. I got in late +and was shown to my room on the ground floor by an apologetic night-clerk +with a tallow candle, which he considerately left with me. I was worn +out by two days and a night of hard railway travel and had not entirely +recovered from a gunshot wound in the head, received in an altercation. +Rather than look for better quarters I lay down on the mattress without +removing my clothing and fell asleep. + +“Along toward morning I awoke. The moon had risen and was shining in at +the uncurtained window, illuminating the room with a soft, bluish light +which seemed, somehow, a bit spooky, though I dare say it had no uncommon +quality; all moonlight is that way if you will observe it. Imagine my +surprise and indignation when I saw the floor occupied by at least a +dozen other lodgers! I sat up, earnestly damning the management of that +unthinkable hotel, and was about to spring from the bed to go and make +trouble for the night-clerk—him of the apologetic manner and the tallow +candle—when something in the situation affected me with a strange +indisposition to move. I suppose I was what a story-writer might call +‘frozen with terror.’ For those men were obviously all dead! + +“They lay on their backs, disposed orderly along three sides of the room, +their feet to the walls—against the other wall, farthest from the door, +stood my bed and the chair. All the faces were covered, but under their +white cloths the features of the two bodies that lay in the square patch +of moonlight near the window showed in sharp profile as to nose and chin. + +“I thought this a bad dream and tried to cry out, as one does in a +nightmare, but could make no sound. At last, with a desperate effort I +threw my feet to the floor and passing between the two rows of clouted +faces and the two bodies that lay nearest the door, I escaped from the +infernal place and ran to the office. The night-clerk was there, behind +the desk, sitting in the dim light of another tallow candle—just sitting +and staring. He did not rise: my abrupt entrance produced no effect upon +him, though I must have looked a veritable corpse myself. It occurred to +me then that I had not before really observed the fellow. He was a +little chap, with a colorless face and the whitest, blankest eyes I ever +saw. He had no more expression than the back of my hand. His clothing +was a dirty gray. + +“‘Damn you!’ I said; ‘what do you mean?’ + +“Just the same, I was shaking like a leaf in the wind and did not +recognize my own voice. + +“The night-clerk rose, bowed (apologetically) and—well, he was no longer +there, and at that moment I felt a hand laid upon my shoulder from +behind. Just fancy that if you can! Unspeakably frightened, I turned +and saw a portly, kind-faced gentleman, who asked: + +“‘What is the matter, my friend?’ + +“I was not long in telling him, but before I made an end of it he went +pale himself. ‘See here,’ he said, ‘are you telling the truth?’ + +“I had now got myself in hand and terror had given place to indignation. +‘If you dare to doubt it,’ I said, ‘I’ll hammer the life out of you!’ + +“‘No,’ he replied, ‘don’t do that; just sit down till I tell you. This +is not a hotel. It used to be; afterward it was a hospital. Now it is +unoccupied, awaiting a tenant. The room that you mention was the +dead-room—there were always plenty of dead. The fellow that you call the +night-clerk used to be that, but later he booked the patients as they +were brought in. I don’t understand his being here. He has been dead a +few weeks.’ + +“‘And who are you?’ I blurted out. + +“‘Oh, I look after the premises. I happened to be passing just now, and +seeing a light in here came in to investigate. Let us have a look into +that room,’ he added, lifting the sputtering candle from the desk. + +“‘I’ll see you at the devil first!’ said I, bolting out of the door into +the street. + +“Sir, that Breathitt House, in Atlanta, is a beastly place! Don’t you +stop there.” + +“God forbid! Your account of it certainly does not suggest comfort. By +the way, Colonel, when did all that occur?” + +“In September, 1864—shortly after the siege.” + + + +THE THING AT NOLAN + + +TO the south of where the road between Leesville and Hardy, in the State +of Missouri, crosses the east fork of May Creek stands an abandoned +house. Nobody has lived in it since the summer of 1879, and it is fast +going to pieces. For some three years before the date mentioned above, +it was occupied by the family of Charles May, from one of whose ancestors +the creek near which it stands took its name. + +Mr. May’s family consisted of a wife, an adult son and two young girls. +The son’s name was John—the names of the daughters are unknown to the +writer of this sketch. + +John May was of a morose and surly disposition, not easily moved to +anger, but having an uncommon gift of sullen, implacable hate. His +father was quite otherwise; of a sunny, jovial disposition, but with a +quick temper like a sudden flame kindled in a wisp of straw, which +consumes it in a flash and is no more. He cherished no resentments, and +his anger gone, was quick to make overtures for reconciliation. He had a +brother living near by who was unlike him in respect of all this, and it +was a current witticism in the neighborhood that John had inherited his +disposition from his uncle. + +One day a misunderstanding arose between father and son, harsh words +ensued, and the father struck the son full in the face with his fist. +John quietly wiped away the blood that followed the blow, fixed his eyes +upon the already penitent offender and said with cold composure, “You +will die for that.” + +The words were overheard by two brothers named Jackson, who were +approaching the men at the moment; but seeing them engaged in a quarrel +they retired, apparently unobserved. Charles May afterward related the +unfortunate occurrence to his wife and explained that he had apologized +to the son for the hasty blow, but without avail; the young man not only +rejected his overtures, but refused to withdraw his terrible threat. +Nevertheless, there was no open rupture of relations: John continued +living with the family, and things went on very much as before. + +One Sunday morning in June, 1879, about two weeks after what has been +related, May senior left the house immediately after breakfast, taking a +spade. He said he was going to make an excavation at a certain spring in +a wood about a mile away, so that the cattle could obtain water. John +remained in the house for some hours, variously occupied in shaving +himself, writing letters and reading a newspaper. His manner was very +nearly what it usually was; perhaps he was a trifle more sullen and +surly. + +At two o’clock he left the house. At five, he returned. For some reason +not connected with any interest in his movements, and which is not now +recalled, the time of his departure and that of his return were noted by +his mother and sisters, as was attested at his trial for murder. It was +observed that his clothing was wet in spots, as if (so the prosecution +afterward pointed out) he had been removing blood-stains from it. His +manner was strange, his look wild. He complained of illness, and going +to his room took to his bed. + +May senior did not return. Later that evening the nearest neighbors were +aroused, and during that night and the following day a search was +prosecuted through the wood where the spring was. It resulted in little +but the discovery of both men’s footprints in the clay about the spring. +John May in the meantime had grown rapidly worse with what the local +physician called brain fever, and in his delirium raved of murder, but +did not say whom he conceived to have been murdered, nor whom he imagined +to have done the deed. But his threat was recalled by the brothers +Jackson and he was arrested on suspicion and a deputy sheriff put in +charge of him at his home. Public opinion ran strongly against him and +but for his illness he would probably have been hanged by a mob. As it +was, a meeting of the neighbors was held on Tuesday and a committee +appointed to watch the case and take such action at any time as +circumstances might seem to warrant. + +On Wednesday all was changed. From the town of Nolan, eight miles away, +came a story which put a quite different light on the matter. Nolan +consisted of a school house, a blacksmith’s shop, a “store” and a +half-dozen dwellings. The store was kept by one Henry Odell, a cousin of +the elder May. On the afternoon of the Sunday of May’s disappearance Mr. +Odell and four of his neighbors, men of credibility, were sitting in the +store smoking and talking. It was a warm day; and both the front and the +back door were open. At about three o’clock Charles May, who was well +known to three of them, entered at the front door and passed out at the +rear. He was without hat or coat. He did not look at them, nor return +their greeting, a circumstance which did not surprise, for he was +evidently seriously hurt. Above the left eyebrow was a wound—a deep gash +from which the blood flowed, covering the whole left side of the face and +neck and saturating his light-gray shirt. Oddly enough, the thought +uppermost in the minds of all was that he had been fighting and was going +to the brook directly at the back of the store, to wash himself. + +Perhaps there was a feeling of delicacy—a backwoods etiquette which +restrained them from following him to offer assistance; the court +records, from which, mainly, this narrative is drawn, are silent as to +anything but the fact. They waited for him to return, but he did not +return. + +Bordering the brook behind the store is a forest extending for six miles +back to the Medicine Lodge Hills. As soon as it became known in the +neighborhood of the missing man’s dwelling that he had been seen in Nolan +there was a marked alteration in public sentiment and feeling. The +vigilance committee went out of existence without the formality of a +resolution. Search along the wooded bottom lands of May Creek was +stopped and nearly the entire male population of the region took to +beating the bush about Nolan and in the Medicine Lodge Hills. But of the +missing man no trace was found. + +One of the strangest circumstances of this strange case is the formal +indictment and trial of a man for murder of one whose body no human being +professed to have seen—one not known to be dead. We are all more or less +familiar with the vagaries and eccentricities of frontier law, but this +instance, it is thought, is unique. However that may be, it is of record +that on recovering from his illness John May was indicted for the murder +of his missing father. Counsel for the defense appears not to have +demurred and the case was tried on its merits. The prosecution was +spiritless and perfunctory; the defense easily established—with regard to +the deceased—an _alibi_. If during the time in which John May must have +killed Charles May, if he killed him at all, Charles May was miles away +from where John May must have been, it is plain that the deceased must +have come to his death at the hands of someone else. + +John May was acquitted, immediately left the country, and has never been +heard of from that day. Shortly afterward his mother and sisters removed +to St. Louis. The farm having passed into the possession of a man who +owns the land adjoining, and has a dwelling of his own, the May house has +ever since been vacant, and has the somber reputation of being haunted. + +One day after the May family had left the country, some boys, playing in +the woods along May Creek, found concealed under a mass of dead leaves, +but partly exposed by the rooting of hogs, a spade, nearly new and +bright, except for a spot on one edge, which was rusted and stained with +blood. The implement had the initials C. M. cut into the handle. + +This discovery renewed, in some degree, the public excitement of a few +months before. The earth near the spot where the spade was found was +carefully examined, and the result was the finding of the dead body of a +man. It had been buried under two or three feet of soil and the spot +covered with a layer of dead leaves and twigs. There was but little +decomposition, a fact attributed to some preservative property in the +mineral-bearing soil. + +Above the left eyebrow was a wound—a deep gash from which blood had +flowed, covering the whole left side of the face and neck and saturating +the light-gray shirt. The skull had been cut through by the blow. The +body was that of Charles May. + +But what was it that passed through Mr. Odell’s store at Nolan? + + + +“MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCES” + + +THE DIFFICULTY OF CROSSING A FIELD + + +ONE morning in July, 1854, a planter named Williamson, living six miles +from Selma, Alabama, was sitting with his wife and a child on the veranda +of his dwelling. Immediately in front of the house was a lawn, perhaps +fifty yards in extent between the house and public road, or, as it was +called, the “pike.” Beyond this road lay a close-cropped pasture of some +ten acres, level and without a tree, rock, or any natural or artificial +object on its surface. At the time there was not even a domestic animal +in the field. In another field, beyond the pasture, a dozen slaves were +at work under an overseer. + +Throwing away the stump of a cigar, the planter rose, saying: “I forgot +to tell Andrew about those horses.” Andrew was the overseer. + +Williamson strolled leisurely down the gravel walk, plucking a flower as +he went, passed across the road and into the pasture, pausing a moment as +he closed the gate leading into it, to greet a passing neighbor, Armour +Wren, who lived on an adjoining plantation. Mr. Wren was in an open +carriage with his son James, a lad of thirteen. When he had driven some +two hundred yards from the point of meeting, Mr. Wren said to his son: “I +forgot to tell Mr. Williamson about those horses.” + +Mr. Wren had sold to Mr. Williamson some horses, which were to have been +sent for that day, but for some reason not now remembered it would be +inconvenient to deliver them until the morrow. The coachman was directed +to drive back, and as the vehicle turned Williamson was seen by all +three, walking leisurely across the pasture. At that moment one of the +coach horses stumbled and came near falling. It had no more than fairly +recovered itself when James Wren cried: “Why, father, what has become of +Mr. Williamson?” + +It is not the purpose of this narrative to answer that question. + +Mr. Wren’s strange account of the matter, given under oath in the course +of legal proceedings relating to the Williamson estate, here follows: + +“My son’s exclamation caused me to look toward the spot where I had seen +the deceased [_sic_] an instant before, but he was not there, nor was he +anywhere visible. I cannot say that at the moment I was greatly +startled, or realized the gravity of the occurrence, though I thought it +singular. My son, however, was greatly astonished and kept repeating his +question in different forms until we arrived at the gate. My black boy +Sam was similarly affected, even in a greater degree, but I reckon more +by my son’s manner than by anything he had himself observed. [This +sentence in the testimony was stricken out.] As we got out of the +carriage at the gate of the field, and while Sam was hanging [_sic_] the +team to the fence, Mrs. Williamson, with her child in her arms and +followed by several servants, came running down the walk in great +excitement, crying: ‘He is gone, he is gone! O God! what an awful +thing!’ and many other such exclamations, which I do not distinctly +recollect. I got from them the impression that they related to something +more—than the mere disappearance of her husband, even if that had +occurred before her eyes. Her manner was wild, but not more so, I think, +than was natural under the circumstances. I have no reason to think she +had at that time lost her mind. I have never since seen nor heard of Mr. +Williamson.” + +This testimony, as might have been expected, was corroborated in almost +every particular by the only other eye-witness (if that is a proper +term)—the lad James. Mrs. Williamson had lost her reason and the +servants were, of course, not competent to testify. The boy James Wren +had declared at first that he _saw_ the disappearance, but there is +nothing of this in his testimony given in court. None of the field hands +working in the field to which Williamson was going had seen him at all, +and the most rigorous search of the entire plantation and adjoining +country failed to supply a clew. The most monstrous and grotesque +fictions, originating with the blacks, were current in that part of the +State for many years, and probably are to this day; but what has been +here related is all that is certainly known of the matter. The courts +decided that Williamson was dead, and his estate was distributed +according to law. + + +AN UNFINISHED RACE + + +JAMES BURNE WORSON was a shoemaker who lived in Leamington, Warwickshire, +England. He had a little shop in one of the by-ways leading off the road +to Warwick. In his humble sphere he was esteemed an honest man, although +like many of his class in English towns he was somewhat addicted to +drink. When in liquor he would make foolish wagers. On one of these too +frequent occasions he was boasting of his prowess as a pedestrian and +athlete, and the outcome was a match against nature. For a stake of one +sovereign he undertook to run all the way to Coventry and back, a +distance of something more than forty miles. This was on the 3d day of +September in 1873. He set out at once, the man with whom he had made the +bet—whose name is not remembered—accompanied by Barham Wise, a linen +draper, and Hamerson Burns, a photographer, I think, following in a light +cart or wagon. + +For several miles Worson went on very well, at an easy gait, without +apparent fatigue, for he had really great powers of endurance and was not +sufficiently intoxicated to enfeeble them. The three men in the wagon +kept a short distance in the rear, giving him occasional friendly “chaff” +or encouragement, as the spirit moved them. Suddenly—in the very middle +of the roadway, not a dozen yards from them, and with their eyes full +upon him—the man seemed to stumble, pitched headlong forward, uttered a +terrible cry and vanished! He did not fall to the earth—he vanished +before touching it. No trace of him was ever discovered. + +After remaining at and about the spot for some time, with aimless +irresolution, the three men returned to Leamington, told their +astonishing story and were afterward taken into custody. But they were +of good standing, had always been considered truthful, were sober at the +time of the occurrence, and nothing ever transpired to discredit their +sworn account of their extraordinary adventure, concerning the truth of +which, nevertheless, public opinion was divided, throughout the United +Kingdom. If they had something to conceal, their choice of means is +certainly one of the most amazing ever made by sane human beings. + + +CHARLES ASHMORE’S TRAIL + + +THE family of Christian Ashmore consisted of his wife, his mother, two +grown daughters, and a son of sixteen years. They lived in Troy, New +York, were well-to-do, respectable persons, and had many friends, some of +whom, reading these lines, will doubtless learn for the first time the +extraordinary fate of the young man. From Troy the Ashmores moved in +1871 or 1872 to Richmond, Indiana, and a year or two later to the +vicinity of Quincy, Illinois, where Mr. Ashmore bought a farm and lived +on it. At some little distance from the farmhouse was a spring with a +constant flow of clear, cold water, whence the family derived its supply +for domestic use at all seasons. + +On the evening of the 9th of November in 1878, at about nine o’clock, +young Charles Ashmore left the family circle about the hearth, took a tin +bucket and started toward the spring. As he did not return, the family +became uneasy, and going to the door by which he had left the house, his +father called without receiving an answer. He then lighted a lantern and +with the eldest daughter, Martha, who insisted on accompanying him, went +in search. A light snow had fallen, obliterating the path, but making +the young man’s trail conspicuous; each footprint was plainly defined. +After going a little more than half-way—perhaps seventy-five yards—the +father, who was in advance, halted, and elevating his lantern stood +peering intently into the darkness ahead. + +“What is the matter, father?” the girl asked. + +This was the matter: the trail of the young man had abruptly ended, and +all beyond was smooth, unbroken snow. The last footprints were as +conspicuous as any in the line; the very nail-marks were distinctly +visible. Mr. Ashmore looked upward, shading his eyes with his hat held +between them and the lantern. The stars were shining; there was not a +cloud in the sky; he was denied the explanation which had suggested +itself, doubtful as it would have been—a new snowfall with a limit so +plainly defined. Taking a wide circuit round the ultimate tracks, so as +to leave them undisturbed for further examination, the man proceeded to +the spring, the girl following, weak and terrified. Neither had spoken a +word of what both had observed. The spring was covered with ice, hours +old. + +Returning to the house they noted the appearance of the snow on both +sides of the trail its entire length. No tracks led away from it. + +The morning light showed nothing more. Smooth, spotless, unbroken, the +shallow snow lay everywhere. + +Four days later the grief-stricken mother herself went to the spring for +water. She came back and related that in passing the spot where the +footprints had ended she had heard the voice of her son and had been +eagerly calling to him, wandering about the place, as she had fancied the +voice to be now in one direction, now in another, until she was exhausted +with fatigue and emotion. + +Questioned as to what the voice had said, she was unable to tell, yet +averred that the words were perfectly distinct. In a moment the entire +family was at the place, but nothing was heard, and the voice was +believed to be an hallucination caused by the mother’s great anxiety and +her disordered nerves. But for months afterward, at irregular intervals +of a few days, the voice was heard by the several members of the family, +and by others. All declared it unmistakably the voice of Charles +Ashmore; all agreed that it seemed to come from a great distance, +faintly, yet with entire distinctness of articulation; yet none could +determine its direction, nor repeat its words. The intervals of silence +grew longer and longer, the voice fainter and farther, and by midsummer +it was heard no more. + +If anybody knows the fate of Charles Ashmore it is probably his mother. +She is dead. + + * * * * * + + +SCIENCE TO THE FRONT + + +In connection with this subject of “mysterious disappearance”—of which +every memory is stored with abundant example—it is pertinent to note the +belief of Dr. Hem, of Leipsic; not by way of explanation, unless the +reader may choose to take it so, but because of its intrinsic interest as +a singular speculation. This distinguished scientist has expounded his +views in a book entitled “Verschwinden und Seine Theorie,” which has +attracted some attention, “particularly,” says one writer, “among the +followers of Hegel, and mathematicians who hold to the actual existence +of a so-called non-Euclidean space—that is to say, of space which has +more dimensions than length, breadth, and thickness—space in which it +would be possible to tie a knot in an endless cord and to turn a rubber +ball inside out without ‘a solution of its continuity,’ or in other +words, without breaking or cracking it.” + +Dr. Hem believes that in the visible world there are void places—_vacua_, +and something more—holes, as it were, through which animate and inanimate +objects may fall into the invisible world and be seen and heard no more. +The theory is something like this: Space is pervaded by luminiferous +ether, which is a material thing—as much a substance as air or water, +though almost infinitely more attenuated. All force, all forms of energy +must be propagated in this; every process must take place in it which +takes place at all. But let us suppose that cavities exist in this +otherwise universal medium, as caverns exist in the earth, or cells in a +Swiss cheese. In such a cavity there would be absolutely nothing. It +would be such a vacuum as cannot be artificially produced; for if we pump +the air from a receiver there remains the luminiferous ether. Through +one of these cavities light could not pass, for there would be nothing to +bear it. Sound could not come from it; nothing could be felt in it. It +would not have a single one of the conditions necessary to the action of +any of our senses. In such a void, in short, nothing whatever could +occur. Now, in the words of the writer before quoted—the learned doctor +himself nowhere puts it so concisely: “A man inclosed in such a closet +could neither see nor be seen; neither hear nor be heard; neither feel +nor be felt; neither live nor die, for both life and death are processes +which can take place only where there is force, and in empty space no +force could exist.” Are these the awful conditions (some will ask) under +which the friends of the lost are to think of them as existing, and +doomed forever to exist? + +Baldly and imperfectly as here stated, Dr. Hem’s theory, in so far as it +professes to be an adequate explanation of “mysterious disappearances,” +is open to many obvious objections; to fewer as he states it himself in +the “spacious volubility” of his book. But even as expounded by its +author it does not explain, and in truth is incompatible with some +incidents of, the occurrences related in these memoranda: for example, +the sound of Charles Ashmore’s voice. It is not my duty to indue facts +and theories with affinity. + + A.B. + + + + +FOOTNOTES + + +{372} The Isle of Pines was once a famous rendezvous of pirates. + + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PRESENT AT A HANGING*** + + +******* This file should be named 4387-0.txt or 4387-0.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/4/3/8/4387 + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part +of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm +concept and trademark. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of +the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have +to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. + + + + +Title: Present at a Hanging + and Other Ghost Stories + + +Author: Ambose Bierce + + + +Release Date: August 5, 2019 [eBook #4387] +[This file was first posted on January 20, 2002] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PRESENT AT A HANGING*** +</pre> +<p>Transcribed from the 1918 Boni and Liveright’s +“Can Such Things Be?” edition by David Price, email +ccx074@pglaf.org</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/cover.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Public domain cover" +title= +"Public domain cover" + src="images/cover.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<h1>PRESENT AT A HANGING AND OTHER GHOST STORIES</h1> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">By</span><br +/> +Ambrose Bierce</p> +<h2>CONTENTS</h2> +<table> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>THE WAYS OF GHOSTS</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">PAGE</span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Present at a Hanging</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page327">327</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">A Cold Greeting</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page331">331</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">A Wireless Message</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page335">335</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">An Arrest</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page340">340</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="3"><p>SOLDIER-FOLK</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">A Man with Two Lives</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page345">345</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Three and One are One</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page350">350</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">A Baffled Ambuscade</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page356">356</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Two Military Executions</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page361">361</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>SOME HAUNTED HOUSES</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Isle of Pines</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page369">369</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">A Fruitless Assignment</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page377">377</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">A Vine on a House</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page383">383</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">At Old Man Eckert’s</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page389">389</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Spook House</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page393">393</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Other Lodgers</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page400">400</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Thing at Nolan</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page405">405</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Difficulty of Crossing a +Field</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page415">415</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">An Unfinished Race</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page419">419</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Charles Ashmore’s +Trail</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page421">421</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +<h2><a name="page324"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 324</span>THE +WAYS OF GHOSTS</h2> +<p><a name="page325"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 325</span><i>My +peculiar relation to the writer of the following narratives is +such that I must ask the reader to overlook the absence of +explanation as to how they came into my possession</i>. +<i>Withal</i>, <i>my knowledge of him is so meager that I should +rather not undertake to say if he were himself persuaded of the +truth of what he relates</i>; <i>certainly such inquiries as I +have thought it worth while to set about have not in every +instance tended to confirmation of the statements made</i>. +<i>Yet his style</i>, <i>for the most part devoid alike of +artifice and art</i>, <i>almost baldly simple and direct</i>, +<i>seems hardly compatible with the disingenuousness of a merely +literary intention</i>; <i>one would call it the manner of one +more concerned for the fruits of research than for the flowers of +expression</i>. <i>In transcribing his notes and fortifying +their claim to attention by giving them something of an orderly +arrangement</i>, <i>I have conscientiously refrained from +embellishing them with such small ornaments of diction as I may +have felt myself able to bestow</i>, <i>which would not only have +been impertinent</i>, <i>even if pleasing</i>, <i>but would have +given me a somewhat closer relation to the work than I should +care to have and to avow</i>.—<i>A. B.</i></p> +<h3><a name="page327"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +327</span>PRESENT AT A HANGING</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">An</span> old man named Daniel Baker, +living near Lebanon, Iowa, was suspected by his neighbors of +having murdered a peddler who had obtained permission to pass the +night at his house. This was in 1853, when peddling was +more common in the Western country than it is now, and was +attended with considerable danger. The peddler with his +pack traversed the country by all manner of lonely roads, and was +compelled to rely upon the country people for hospitality. +This brought him into relation with queer characters, some of +whom were not altogether scrupulous in their methods of making a +living, murder being an acceptable means to that end. It +occasionally occurred that a peddler with diminished pack and +swollen purse would be traced to the lonely dwelling of some +rough character and never could be traced beyond. This was +so in the case of “old man Baker,” as he was always +called. (Such names are given in the western +“settlements” only to elderly persons who are not +esteemed; to the general disrepute of social unworth is affixed +the special reproach of age.) A peddler came to his house +and none went away—that is all that anybody knew.</p> +<p>Seven years later the Rev. Mr. Cummings, a Baptist minister +well known in that part of the country, was driving by +Baker’s farm one night. It was not very dark: there +was a bit of moon somewhere above the light veil of mist that lay +along the earth. Mr. Cummings, who was at all times a +cheerful person, was whistling a tune, which he would +occasionally interrupt to speak a word of friendly encouragement +to his horse. As he came to a little bridge across a dry +ravine he saw the figure of a man standing upon it, clearly +outlined against the gray background of a misty forest. The +man had something strapped on his back and carried a heavy +stick—obviously an itinerant peddler. His attitude +had in it a suggestion of abstraction, like that of a +sleepwalker. Mr. Cummings reined in his horse when he +arrived in front of him, gave him a pleasant salutation and +invited him to a seat in the vehicle—“if you are +going my way,” he added. The man raised his head, +looked him full in the face, but neither answered nor made any +further movement. The minister, with good-natured +persistence, repeated his invitation. At this the man threw +his right hand forward from his side and pointed downward as he +stood on the extreme edge of the bridge. Mr. Cummings +looked past him, over into the ravine, saw nothing unusual and +withdrew his eyes to address the man again. He had +disappeared. The horse, which all this time had been +uncommonly restless, gave at the same moment a snort of terror +and started to run away. Before he had regained control of +the animal the minister was at the crest of the hill a hundred +yards along. He looked back and saw the figure again, at +the same place and in the same attitude as when he had first +observed it. Then for the first time he was conscious of a +sense of the supernatural and drove home as rapidly as his +willing horse would go.</p> +<p>On arriving at home he related his adventure to his family, +and early the next morning, accompanied by two neighbors, John +White Corwell and Abner Raiser, returned to the spot. They +found the body of old man Baker hanging by the neck from one of +the beams of the bridge, immediately beneath the spot where the +apparition had stood. A thick coating of dust, slightly +dampened by the mist, covered the floor of the bridge, but the +only footprints were those of Mr. Cummings’ horse.</p> +<p>In taking down the body the men disturbed the loose, friable +earth of the slope below it, disclosing human bones already +nearly uncovered by the action of water and frost. They +were identified as those of the lost peddler. At the double +inquest the coroner’s jury found that Daniel Baker died by +his own hand while suffering from temporary insanity, and that +Samuel Morritz was murdered by some person or persons to the jury +unknown.</p> +<h3><a name="page331"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 331</span>A +COLD GREETING</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">This</span> is a story told by the late +Benson Foley of San Francisco:</p> +<p>“In the summer of 1881 I met a man named James H. +Conway, a resident of Franklin, Tennessee. He was visiting +San Francisco for his health, deluded man, and brought me a note +of introduction from Mr. Lawrence Barting. I had known +Barting as a captain in the Federal army during the civil +war. At its close he had settled in Franklin, and in time +became, I had reason to think, somewhat prominent as a +lawyer. Barting had always seemed to me an honorable and +truthful man, and the warm friendship which he expressed in his +note for Mr. Conway was to me sufficient evidence that the latter +was in every way worthy of my confidence and esteem. At +dinner one day Conway told me that it had been solemnly agreed +between him and Barting that the one who died first should, if +possible, communicate with the other from beyond the grave, in +some unmistakable way—just how, they had left (wisely, it +seemed to me) to be decided by the deceased, according to the +opportunities that his altered circumstances might present.</p> +<p>“A few weeks after the conversation in which Mr. Conway +spoke of this agreement, I met him one day, walking slowly down +Montgomery street, apparently, from his abstracted air, in deep +thought. He greeted me coldly with merely a movement of the +head and passed on, leaving me standing on the walk, with +half-proffered hand, surprised and naturally somewhat +piqued. The next day I met him again in the office of the +Palace Hotel, and seeing him about to repeat the disagreeable +performance of the day before, intercepted him in a doorway, with +a friendly salutation, and bluntly requested an explanation of +his altered manner. He hesitated a moment; then, looking me +frankly in the eyes, said:</p> +<p>“‘I do not think, Mr. Foley, that I have any +longer a claim to your friendship, since Mr. Barting appears to +have withdrawn his own from me—for what reason, I protest I +do not know. If he has not already informed you he probably +will do so.’</p> +<p>“‘But,’ I replied, ‘I have not heard +from Mr. Barting.’</p> +<p>“‘Heard from him!’ he repeated, with +apparent surprise. ‘Why, he is here. I met him +yesterday ten minutes before meeting you. I gave you +exactly the same greeting that he gave me. I met him again +not a quarter of an hour ago, and his manner was precisely the +same: he merely bowed and passed on. I shall not soon +forget your civility to me. Good morning, or—as it +may please you—farewell.’</p> +<p>“All this seemed to me singularly considerate and +delicate behavior on the part of Mr. Conway.</p> +<p>“As dramatic situations and literary effects are foreign +to my purpose I will explain at once that Mr. Barting was +dead. He had died in Nashville four days before this +conversation. Calling on Mr. Conway, I apprised him of our +friend’s death, showing him the letters announcing +it. He was visibly affected in a way that forbade me to +entertain a doubt of his sincerity.</p> +<p>“‘It seems incredible,’ he said, after a +period of reflection. ‘I suppose I must have mistaken +another man for Barting, and that man’s cold greeting was +merely a stranger’s civil acknowledgment of my own. I +remember, indeed, that he lacked Barting’s +mustache.’</p> +<p>“‘Doubtless it was another man,’ I assented; +and the subject was never afterward mentioned between us. +But I had in my pocket a photograph of Barting, which had been +inclosed in the letter from his widow. It had been taken a +week before his death, and was without a mustache.”</p> +<h3><a name="page335"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 335</span>A +WIRELESS MESSAGE</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">In</span> the summer of 1896 Mr. William +Holt, a wealthy manufacturer of Chicago, was living temporarily +in a little town of central New York, the name of which the +writer’s memory has not retained. Mr. Holt had had +“trouble with his wife,” from whom he had parted a +year before. Whether the trouble was anything more serious +than “incompatibility of temper,” he is probably the +only living person that knows: he is not addicted to the vice of +confidences. Yet he has related the incident herein set +down to at least one person without exacting a pledge of +secrecy. He is now living in Europe.</p> +<p>One evening he had left the house of a brother whom he was +visiting, for a stroll in the country. It may be +assumed—whatever the value of the assumption in connection +with what is said to have occurred—that his mind was +occupied with reflections on his domestic infelicities and the +distressing changes that they had wrought in his life.</p> +<p>Whatever may have been his thoughts, they so possessed him +that he observed neither the lapse of time nor whither his feet +were carrying him; he knew only that he had passed far beyond the +town limits and was traversing a lonely region by a road that +bore no resemblance to the one by which he had left the +village. In brief, he was “lost.”</p> +<p>Realizing his mischance, he smiled; central New York is not a +region of perils, nor does one long remain lost in it. He +turned about and went back the way that he had come. Before +he had gone far he observed that the landscape was growing more +distinct—was brightening. Everything was suffused +with a soft, red glow in which he saw his shadow projected in the +road before him. “The moon is rising,” he said +to himself. Then he remembered that it was about the time +of the new moon, and if that tricksy orb was in one of its stages +of visibility it had set long before. He stopped and faced +about, seeking the source of the rapidly broadening light. +As he did so, his shadow turned and lay along the road in front +of him as before. The light still came from behind +him. That was surprising; he could not understand. +Again he turned, and again, facing successively to every point of +the horizon. Always the shadow was before—always the +light behind, “a still and awful red.”</p> +<p>Holt was astonished—“dumfounded” is the word +that he used in telling it—yet seems to have retained a +certain intelligent curiosity. To test the intensity of the +light whose nature and cause he could not determine, he took out +his watch to see if he could make out the figures on the +dial. They were plainly visible, and the hands indicated +the hour of eleven o’clock and twenty-five minutes. +At that moment the mysterious illumination suddenly flared to an +intense, an almost blinding splendor, flushing the entire sky, +extinguishing the stars and throwing the monstrous shadow of +himself athwart the landscape. In that unearthly +illumination he saw near him, but apparently in the air at a +considerable elevation, the figure of his wife, clad in her +night-clothing and holding to her breast the figure of his +child. Her eyes were fixed upon his with an expression +which he afterward professed himself unable to name or describe, +further than that it was “not of this life.”</p> +<p>The flare was momentary, followed by black darkness, in which, +however, the apparition still showed white and motionless; then +by insensible degrees it faded and vanished, like a bright image +on the retina after the closing of the eyes. A peculiarity +of the apparition, hardly noted at the time, but afterward +recalled, was that it showed only the upper half of the +woman’s figure: nothing was seen below the waist.</p> +<p>The sudden darkness was comparative, not absolute, for +gradually all objects of his environment became again +visible.</p> +<p>In the dawn of the morning Holt found himself entering the +village at a point opposite to that at which he had left +it. He soon arrived at the house of his brother, who hardly +knew him. He was wild-eyed, haggard, and gray as a +rat. Almost incoherently, he related his night’s +experience.</p> +<p>“Go to bed, my poor fellow,” said his brother, +“and—wait. We shall hear more of +this.”</p> +<p>An hour later came the predestined telegram. +Holt’s dwelling in one of the suburbs of Chicago had been +destroyed by fire. Her escape cut off by the flames, his +wife had appeared at an upper window, her child in her +arms. There she had stood, motionless, apparently +dazed. Just as the firemen had arrived with a ladder, the +floor had given way, and she was seen no more.</p> +<p>The moment of this culminating horror was eleven o’clock +and twenty-five minutes, standard time.</p> +<h3><a name="page340"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 340</span>AN +ARREST</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">Having</span> murdered his brother-in-law, +Orrin Brower of Kentucky was a fugitive from justice. From +the county jail where he had been confined to await his trial he +had escaped by knocking down his jailer with an iron bar, robbing +him of his keys and, opening the outer door, walking out into the +night. The jailer being unarmed, Brower got no weapon with +which to defend his recovered liberty. As soon as he was +out of the town he had the folly to enter a forest; this was many +years ago, when that region was wilder than it is now.</p> +<p>The night was pretty dark, with neither moon nor stars +visible, and as Brower had never dwelt thereabout, and knew +nothing of the lay of the land, he was, naturally, not long in +losing himself. He could not have said if he were getting +farther away from the town or going back to it—a most +important matter to Orrin Brower. He knew that in either +case a posse of citizens with a pack of bloodhounds would soon be +on his track and his chance of escape was very slender; but he +did not wish to assist in his own pursuit. Even an added +hour of freedom was worth having.</p> +<p>Suddenly he emerged from the forest into an old road, and +there before him saw, indistinctly, the figure of a man, +motionless in the gloom. It was too late to retreat: the +fugitive felt that at the first movement back toward the wood he +would be, as he afterward explained, “filled with +buckshot.” So the two stood there like trees, Brower +nearly suffocated by the activity of his own heart; the +other—the emotions of the other are not recorded.</p> +<p>A moment later—it may have been an hour—the moon +sailed into a patch of unclouded sky and the hunted man saw that +visible embodiment of Law lift an arm and point significantly +toward and beyond him. He understood. Turning his +back to his captor, he walked submissively away in the direction +indicated, looking to neither the right nor the left; hardly +daring to breathe, his head and back actually aching with a +prophecy of buckshot.</p> +<p>Brower was as courageous a criminal as ever lived to be +hanged; that was shown by the conditions of awful personal peril +in which he had coolly killed his brother-in-law. It is +needless to relate them here; they came out at his trial, and the +revelation of his calmness in confronting them came near to +saving his neck. But what would you have?—when a +brave man is beaten, he submits.</p> +<p>So they pursued their journey jailward along the old road +through the woods. Only once did Brower venture a turn of +the head: just once, when he was in deep shadow and he knew that +the other was in moonlight, he looked backward. His captor +was Burton Duff, the jailer, as white as death and bearing upon +his brow the livid mark of the iron bar. Orrin Brower had +no further curiosity.</p> +<p>Eventually they entered the town, which was all alight, but +deserted; only the women and children remained, and they were off +the streets. Straight toward the jail the criminal held his +way. Straight up to the main entrance he walked, laid his +hand upon the knob of the heavy iron door, pushed it open without +command, entered and found himself in the presence of a +half-dozen armed men. Then he turned. Nobody else +entered.</p> +<p>On a table in the corridor lay the dead body of Burton +Duff.</p> +<h2><a name="page343"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +343</span>SOLDIER-FOLK</h2> +<h3><a name="page345"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 345</span>A +MAN WITH TWO LIVES</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">Here</span> is the queer story of David +William Duck, related by himself. Duck is an old man living +in Aurora, Illinois, where he is universally respected. He +is commonly known, however, as “Dead Duck.”</p> +<p>“In the autumn of 1866 I was a private soldier of the +Eighteenth Infantry. My company was one of those stationed +at Fort Phil Kearney, commanded by Colonel Carrington. The +country is more or less familiar with the history of that +garrison, particularly with the slaughter by the Sioux of a +detachment of eighty-one men and officers—not one +escaping—through disobedience of orders by its commander, +the brave but reckless Captain Fetterman. When that +occurred, I was trying to make my way with important dispatches +to Fort C. F. Smith, on the Big Horn. As the country +swarmed with hostile Indians, I traveled by night and concealed +myself as best I could before daybreak. The better to do +so, I went afoot, armed with a Henry rifle and carrying three +days’ rations in my haversack.</p> +<p>“For my second place of concealment I chose what seemed +in the darkness a narrow cañon leading through a range of +rocky hills. It contained many large bowlders, detached +from the slopes of the hills. Behind one of these, in a +clump of sage-brush, I made my bed for the day, and soon fell +asleep. It seemed as if I had hardly closed my eyes, though +in fact it was near midday, when I was awakened by the report of +a rifle, the bullet striking the bowlder just above my +body. A band of Indians had trailed me and had me nearly +surrounded; the shot had been fired with an execrable aim by a +fellow who had caught sight of me from the hillside above. +The smoke of his rifle betrayed him, and I was no sooner on my +feet than he was off his and rolling down the declivity. +Then I ran in a stooping posture, dodging among the clumps of +sage-brush in a storm of bullets from invisible enemies. +The rascals did not rise and pursue, which I thought rather +queer, for they must have known by my trail that they had to deal +with only one man. The reason for their inaction was soon +made clear. I had not gone a hundred yards before I reached +the limit of my run—the head of the gulch which I had +mistaken for a cañon. It terminated in a concave +breast of rock, nearly vertical and destitute of +vegetation. In that cul-de-sac I was caught like a bear in +a pen. Pursuit was needless; they had only to wait.</p> +<p>“They waited. For two days and nights, crouching +behind a rock topped with a growth of mesquite, and with the +cliff at my back, suffering agonies of thirst and absolutely +hopeless of deliverance, I fought the fellows at long range, +firing occasionally at the smoke of their rifles, as they did at +that of mine. Of course, I did not dare to close my eyes at +night, and lack of sleep was a keen torture.</p> +<p>“I remember the morning of the third day, which I knew +was to be my last. I remember, rather indistinctly, that in +my desperation and delirium I sprang out into the open and began +firing my repeating rifle without seeing anybody to fire +at. And I remember no more of that fight.</p> +<p>“The next thing that I recollect was my pulling myself +out of a river just at nightfall. I had not a rag of +clothing and knew nothing of my whereabouts, but all that night I +traveled, cold and footsore, toward the north. At daybreak +I found myself at Fort C. F. Smith, my destination, but without +my dispatches. The first man that I met was a sergeant +named William Briscoe, whom I knew very well. You can fancy +his astonishment at seeing me in that condition, and my own at +his asking who the devil I was.</p> +<p>“‘Dave Duck,’ I answered; ‘who should +I be?’</p> +<p>“He stared like an owl.</p> +<p>“‘You do look it,’ he said, and I observed +that he drew a little away from me. ‘What’s +up?’ he added.</p> +<p>“I told him what had happened to me the day +before. He heard me through, still staring; then he +said:</p> +<p>“‘My dear fellow, if you are Dave Duck I ought to +inform you that I buried you two months ago. I was out with +a small scouting party and found your body, full of bullet-holes +and newly scalped—somewhat mutilated otherwise, too, I am +sorry to say—right where you say you made your fight. +Come to my tent and I’ll show you your clothing and some +letters that I took from your person; the commandant has your +dispatches.’</p> +<p>“He performed that promise. He showed me the +clothing, which I resolutely put on; the letters, which I put +into my pocket. He made no objection, then took me to the +commandant, who heard my story and coldly ordered Briscoe to take +me to the guardhouse. On the way I said:</p> +<p>“‘Bill Briscoe, did you really and truly bury the +dead body that you found in these togs?’</p> +<p>“‘Sure,’ he answered—‘just as I +told you. It was Dave Duck, all right; most of us knew +him. And now, you damned impostor, you’d better tell +me who you are.’</p> +<p>“‘I’d give something to know,’ I +said.</p> +<p>“A week later, I escaped from the guardhouse and got out +of the country as fast as I could. Twice I have been back, +seeking for that fateful spot in the hills, but unable to find +it.”</p> +<h3><a name="page350"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +350</span>THREE AND ONE ARE ONE</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">In</span> the year 1861 Barr Lassiter, a +young man of twenty-two, lived with his parents and an elder +sister near Carthage, Tennessee. The family were in +somewhat humble circumstances, subsisting by cultivation of a +small and not very fertile plantation. Owning no slaves, +they were not rated among “the best people” of their +neighborhood; but they were honest persons of good education, +fairly well mannered and as respectable as any family could be if +uncredentialed by personal dominion over the sons and daughters +of Ham. The elder Lassiter had that severity of manner that +so frequently affirms an uncompromising devotion to duty, and +conceals a warm and affectionate disposition. He was of the +iron of which martyrs are made, but in the heart of the matrix +had lurked a nobler metal, fusible at a milder heat, yet never +coloring nor softening the hard exterior. By both heredity +and environment something of the man’s inflexible character +had touched the other members of the family; the Lassiter home, +though not devoid of domestic affection, was a veritable citadel +of duty, and duty—ah, duty is as cruel as death!</p> +<p>When the war came on it found in the family, as in so many +others in that State, a divided sentiment; the young man was +loyal to the Union, the others savagely hostile. This +unhappy division begot an insupportable domestic bitterness, and +when the offending son and brother left home with the avowed +purpose of joining the Federal army not a hand was laid in his, +not a word of farewell was spoken, not a good wish followed him +out into the world whither he went to meet with such spirit as he +might whatever fate awaited him.</p> +<p>Making his way to Nashville, already occupied by the Army of +General Buell, he enlisted in the first organization that he +found, a Kentucky regiment of cavalry, and in due time passed +through all the stages of military evolution from raw recruit to +experienced trooper. A right good trooper he was, too, +although in his oral narrative from which this tale is made there +was no mention of that; the fact was learned from his surviving +comrades. For Barr Lassiter has answered “Here” +to the sergeant whose name is Death.</p> +<p>Two years after he had joined it his regiment passed through +the region whence he had come. The country thereabout had +suffered severely from the ravages of war, having been occupied +alternately (and simultaneously) by the belligerent forces, and a +sanguinary struggle had occurred in the immediate vicinity of the +Lassiter homestead. But of this the young trooper was not +aware.</p> +<p>Finding himself in camp near his home, he felt a natural +longing to see his parents and sister, hoping that in them, as in +him, the unnatural animosities of the period had been softened by +time and separation. Obtaining a leave of absence, he set +foot in the late summer afternoon, and soon after the rising of +the full moon was walking up the gravel path leading to the +dwelling in which he had been born.</p> +<p>Soldiers in war age rapidly, and in youth two years are a long +time. Barr Lassiter felt himself an old man, and had almost +expected to find the place a ruin and a desolation. +Nothing, apparently, was changed. At the sight of each dear +and familiar object he was profoundly affected. His heart +beat audibly, his emotion nearly suffocated him; an ache was in +his throat. Unconsciously he quickened his pace until he +almost ran, his long shadow making grotesque efforts to keep its +place beside him.</p> +<p>The house was unlighted, the door open. As he approached +and paused to recover control of himself his father came out and +stood bare-headed in the moonlight.</p> +<p>“Father!” cried the young man, springing forward +with outstretched hand—“Father!”</p> +<p>The elder man looked him sternly in the face, stood a moment +motionless and without a word withdrew into the house. +Bitterly disappointed, humiliated, inexpressibly hurt and +altogether unnerved, the soldier dropped upon a rustic seat in +deep dejection, supporting his head upon his trembling +hand. But he would not have it so: he was too good a +soldier to accept repulse as defeat. He rose and entered +the house, passing directly to the +“sitting-room.”</p> +<p>It was dimly lighted by an uncurtained east window. On a +low stool by the hearthside, the only article of furniture in the +place, sat his mother, staring into a fireplace strewn with +blackened embers and cold ashes. He spoke to +her—tenderly, interrogatively, and with hesitation, but she +neither answered, nor moved, nor seemed in any way +surprised. True, there had been time for her husband to +apprise her of their guilty son’s return. He moved +nearer and was about to lay his hand upon her arm, when his +sister entered from an adjoining room, looked him full in the +face, passed him without a sign of recognition and left the room +by a door that was partly behind him. He had turned his +head to watch her, but when she was gone his eyes again sought +his mother. She too had left the place.</p> +<p>Barr Lassiter strode to the door by which he had +entered. The moonlight on the lawn was tremulous, as if the +sward were a rippling sea. The trees and their black +shadows shook as in a breeze. Blended with its borders, the +gravel walk seemed unsteady and insecure to step on. This +young soldier knew the optical illusions produced by tears. +He felt them on his cheek, and saw them sparkle on the breast of +his trooper’s jacket. He left the house and made his +way back to camp.</p> +<p>The next day, with no very definite intention, with no +dominant feeling that he could rightly have named, he again +sought the spot. Within a half-mile of it he met Bushrod +Albro, a former playfellow and schoolmate, who greeted him +warmly.</p> +<p>“I am going to visit my home,” said the +soldier.</p> +<p>The other looked at him rather sharply, but said nothing.</p> +<p>“I know,” continued Lassiter, “that my folks +have not changed, but—”</p> +<p>“There have been changes,” Albro +interrupted—“everything changes. I’ll go +with you if you don’t mind. We can talk as we +go.”</p> +<p>But Albro did not talk.</p> +<p>Instead of a house they found only fire-blackened foundations +of stone, enclosing an area of compact ashes pitted by rains.</p> +<p>Lassiter’s astonishment was extreme.</p> +<p>“I could not find the right way to tell you,” said +Albro. “In the fight a year ago your house was burned +by a Federal shell.”</p> +<p>“And my family—where are they?”</p> +<p>“In Heaven, I hope. All were killed by the +shell.”</p> +<h3><a name="page356"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 356</span>A +BAFFLED AMBUSCADE</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">Connecting</span> Readyville and Woodbury +was a good, hard turnpike nine or ten miles long. +Readyville was an outpost of the Federal army at Murfreesboro; +Woodbury had the same relation to the Confederate army at +Tullahoma. For months after the big battle at Stone River +these outposts were in constant quarrel, most of the trouble +occurring, naturally, on the turnpike mentioned, between +detachments of cavalry. Sometimes the infantry and +artillery took a hand in the game by way of showing their +good-will.</p> +<p>One night a squadron of Federal horse commanded by Major +Seidel, a gallant and skillful officer, moved out from Readyville +on an uncommonly hazardous enterprise requiring secrecy, caution +and silence.</p> +<p>Passing the infantry pickets, the detachment soon afterward +approached two cavalry videttes staring hard into the darkness +ahead. There should have been three.</p> +<p>“Where is your other man?” said the major. +“I ordered Dunning to be here to-night.”</p> +<p>“He rode forward, sir,” the man replied. +“There was a little firing afterward, but it was a long way +to the front.”</p> +<p>“It was against orders and against sense for Dunning to +do that,” said the officer, obviously vexed. +“Why did he ride forward?”</p> +<p>“Don’t know, sir; he seemed mighty restless. +Guess he was skeered.”</p> +<p>When this remarkable reasoner and his companion had been +absorbed into the expeditionary force, it resumed its +advance. Conversation was forbidden; arms and accouterments +were denied the right to rattle. The horses’ tramping +was all that could be heard and the movement was slow in order to +have as little as possible of that. It was after midnight +and pretty dark, although there was a bit of moon somewhere +behind the masses of cloud.</p> +<p>Two or three miles along, the head of the column approached a +dense forest of cedars bordering the road on both sides. +The major commanded a halt by merely halting, and, evidently +himself a bit “skeered,” rode on alone to +reconnoiter. He was followed, however, by his adjutant and +three troopers, who remained a little distance behind and, unseen +by him, saw all that occurred.</p> +<p>After riding about a hundred yards toward the forest, the +major suddenly and sharply reined in his horse and sat motionless +in the saddle. Near the side of the road, in a little open +space and hardly ten paces away, stood the figure of a man, dimly +visible and as motionless as he. The major’s first +feeling was that of satisfaction in having left his cavalcade +behind; if this were an enemy and should escape he would have +little to report. The expedition was as yet undetected.</p> +<p>Some dark object was dimly discernible at the man’s +feet; the officer could not make it out. With the instinct +of the true cavalryman and a particular indisposition to the +discharge of firearms, he drew his saber. The man on foot +made no movement in answer to the challenge. The situation +was tense and a bit dramatic. Suddenly the moon burst +through a rift in the clouds and, himself in the shadow of a +group of great oaks, the horseman saw the footman clearly, in a +patch of white light. It was Trooper Dunning, unarmed and +bareheaded. The object at his feet resolved itself into a +dead horse, and at a right angle across the animal’s neck +lay a dead man, face upward in the moonlight.</p> +<p>“Dunning has had the fight of his life,” thought +the major, and was about to ride forward. Dunning raised +his hand, motioning him back with a gesture of warning; then, +lowering the arm, he pointed to the place where the road lost +itself in the blackness of the cedar forest.</p> +<p>The major understood, and turning his horse rode back to the +little group that had followed him and was already moving to the +rear in fear of his displeasure, and so returned to the head of +his command.</p> +<p>“Dunning is just ahead there,” he said to the +captain of his leading company. “He has killed his +man and will have something to report.”</p> +<p>Right patiently they waited, sabers drawn, but Dunning did not +come. In an hour the day broke and the whole force moved +cautiously forward, its commander not altogether satisfied with +his faith in Private Dunning. The expedition had failed, +but something remained to be done.</p> +<p>In the little open space off the road they found the fallen +horse. At a right angle across the animal’s neck face +upward, a bullet in the brain, lay the body of Trooper Dunning, +stiff as a statue, hours dead.</p> +<p>Examination disclosed abundant evidence that within a +half-hour the cedar forest had been occupied by a strong force of +Confederate infantry—an ambuscade.</p> +<h3><a name="page361"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 361</span>TWO +MILITARY EXECUTIONS</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">In</span> the spring of the year 1862 +General Buell’s big army lay in camp, licking itself into +shape for the campaign which resulted in the victory at +Shiloh. It was a raw, untrained army, although some of its +fractions had seen hard enough service, with a good deal of +fighting, in the mountains of Western Virginia, and in +Kentucky. The war was young and soldiering a new industry, +imperfectly understood by the young American of the period, who +found some features of it not altogether to his liking. +Chief among these was that essential part of discipline, +subordination. To one imbued from infancy with the +fascinating fallacy that all men are born equal, unquestioning +submission to authority is not easily mastered, and the American +volunteer soldier in his “green and salad days” is +among the worst known. That is how it happened that one of +Buell’s men, Private Bennett Story Greene, committed the +indiscretion of striking his officer. Later in the war he +would not have done that; like Sir Andrew Aguecheek, he would +have “seen him damned” first. But time for +reformation of his military manners was denied him: he was +promptly arrested on complaint of the officer, tried by +court-martial and sentenced to be shot.</p> +<p>“You might have thrashed me and let it go at +that,” said the condemned man to the complaining witness; +“that is what you used to do at school, when you were plain +Will Dudley and I was as good as you. Nobody saw me strike +you; discipline would not have suffered much.”</p> +<p>“Ben Greene, I guess you are right about that,” +said the lieutenant. “Will you forgive me? That +is what I came to see you about.”</p> +<p>There was no reply, and an officer putting his head in at the +door of the guard-tent where the conversation had occurred, +explained that the time allowed for the interview had +expired. The next morning, when in the presence of the +whole brigade Private Greene was shot to death by a squad of his +comrades, Lieutenant Dudley turned his back upon the sorry +performance and muttered a prayer for mercy, in which himself was +included.</p> +<p>A few weeks afterward, as Buell’s leading division was +being ferried over the Tennessee River to assist in succoring +Grant’s beaten army, night was coming on, black and +stormy. Through the wreck of battle the division moved, +inch by inch, in the direction of the enemy, who had withdrawn a +little to reform his lines. But for the lightning the +darkness was absolute. Never for a moment did it cease, and +ever when the thunder did not crack and roar were heard the moans +of the wounded among whom the men felt their way with their feet, +and upon whom they stumbled in the gloom. The dead were +there, too—there were dead a-plenty.</p> +<p>In the first faint gray of the morning, when the swarming +advance had paused to resume something of definition as a line of +battle, and skirmishers had been thrown forward, word was passed +along to call the roll. The first sergeant of Lieutenant +Dudley’s company stepped to the front and began to name the +men in alphabetical order. He had no written roll, but a +good memory. The men answered to their names as he ran down +the alphabet to G.</p> +<p>“Gorham.”</p> +<p>“Here!”</p> +<p>“Grayrock.”</p> +<p>“Here!”</p> +<p>The sergeant’s good memory was affected by habit:</p> +<p>“Greene.”</p> +<p>“Here!”</p> +<p>The response was clear, distinct, unmistakable!</p> +<p>A sudden movement, an agitation of the entire company front, +as from an electric shock, attested the startling character of +the incident. The sergeant paled and paused. The +captain strode quickly to his side and said sharply:</p> +<p>“Call that name again.”</p> +<p>Apparently the Society for Psychical Research is not first in +the field of curiosity concerning the Unknown.</p> +<p>“Bennett Greene.”</p> +<p>“Here!”</p> +<p>All faces turned in the direction of the familiar voice; the +two men between whom in the order of stature Greene had commonly +stood in line turned and squarely confronted each other.</p> +<p>“Once more,” commanded the inexorable +investigator, and once more came—a trifle +tremulously—the name of the dead man:</p> +<p>“Bennett Story Greene.”</p> +<p>“Here!”</p> +<p>At that instant a single rifle-shot was heard, away to the +front, beyond the skirmish-line, followed, almost attended, by +the savage hiss of an approaching bullet which passing through +the line, struck audibly, punctuating as with a full stop the +captain’s exclamation, “What the devil does it +mean?”</p> +<p>Lieutenant Dudley pushed through the ranks from his place in +the rear.</p> +<p>“It means this,” he said, throwing open his coat +and displaying a visibly broadening stain of crimson on his +breast. His knees gave way; he fell awkwardly and lay +dead.</p> +<p>A little later the regiment was ordered out of line to relieve +the congested front, and through some misplay in the game of +battle was not again under fire. Nor did Bennett Greene, +expert in military executions, ever again signify his presence at +one.</p> +<h2><a name="page367"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 367</span>SOME +HAUNTED HOUSES</h2> +<h3><a name="page369"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 369</span>THE +ISLE OF PINES</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">For</span> many years there lived near the +town of Gallipolis, Ohio, an old man named Herman Deluse. +Very little was known of his history, for he would neither speak +of it himself nor suffer others. It was a common belief +among his neighbors that he had been a pirate—if upon any +better evidence than his collection of boarding pikes, cutlasses, +and ancient flintlock pistols, no one knew. He lived +entirely alone in a small house of four rooms, falling rapidly +into decay and never repaired further than was required by the +weather. It stood on a slight elevation in the midst of a +large, stony field overgrown with brambles, and cultivated in +patches and only in the most primitive way. It was his only +visible property, but could hardly have yielded him a living, +simple and few as were his wants. He seemed always to have +ready money, and paid cash for all his purchases at the village +stores roundabout, seldom buying more than two or three times at +the same place until after the lapse of a considerable +time. He got no commendation, however, for this equitable +distribution of his patronage; people were disposed to regard it +as an ineffectual attempt to conceal his possession of so much +money. That he had great hoards of ill-gotten gold buried +somewhere about his tumble-down dwelling was not reasonably to be +doubted by any honest soul conversant with the facts of local +tradition and gifted with a sense of the fitness of things.</p> +<p>On the 9th of November, 1867, the old man died; at least his +dead body was discovered on the 10th, and physicians testified +that death had occurred about twenty-four hours +previously—precisely how, they were unable to say; for the +<i>post-mortem</i> examination showed every organ to be +absolutely healthy, with no indication of disorder or +violence. According to them, death must have taken place +about noonday, yet the body was found in bed. The verdict +of the coroner’s jury was that he “came to his death +by a visitation of God.” The body was buried and the +public administrator took charge of the estate.</p> +<p>A rigorous search disclosed nothing more than was already +known about the dead man, and much patient excavation here and +there about the premises by thoughtful and thrifty neighbors went +unrewarded. The administrator locked up the house against +the time when the property, real and personal, should be sold by +law with a view to defraying, partly, the expenses of the +sale.</p> +<p>The night of November 20 was boisterous. A furious gale +stormed across the country, scourging it with desolating drifts +of sleet. Great trees were torn from the earth and hurled +across the roads. So wild a night had never been known in +all that region, but toward morning the storm had blown itself +out of breath and day dawned bright and clear. At about +eight o’clock that morning the Rev. Henry Galbraith, a +well-known and highly esteemed Lutheran minister, arrived on foot +at his house, a mile and a half from the Deluse place. Mr. +Galbraith had been for a month in Cincinnati. He had come +up the river in a steamboat, and landing at Gallipolis the +previous evening had immediately obtained a horse and buggy and +set out for home. The violence of the storm had delayed him +over night, and in the morning the fallen trees had compelled him +to abandon his conveyance and continue his journey afoot.</p> +<p>“But where did you pass the night?” inquired his +wife, after he had briefly related his adventure.</p> +<p>“With old Deluse at the ‘Isle of +Pines,’” <a name="citation372"></a><a +href="#footnote372" class="citation">[372]</a> was the laughing +reply; “and a glum enough time I had of it. He made +no objection to my remaining, but not a word could I get out of +him.”</p> +<p>Fortunately for the interests of truth there was present at +this conversation Mr. Robert Mosely Maren, a lawyer and +<i>littérateur</i> of Columbus, the same who wrote the +delightful “Mellowcraft Papers.” Noting, but +apparently not sharing, the astonishment caused by Mr. +Galbraith’s answer this ready-witted person checked by a +gesture the exclamations that would naturally have followed, and +tranquilly inquired: “How came you to go in +there?”</p> +<p>This is Mr. Maren’s version of Mr. Galbraith’s +reply:</p> +<p>“I saw a light moving about the house, and being nearly +blinded by the sleet, and half frozen besides, drove in at the +gate and put up my horse in the old rail stable, where it is +now. I then rapped at the door, and getting no invitation +went in without one. The room was dark, but having matches +I found a candle and lit it. I tried to enter the adjoining +room, but the door was fast, and although I heard the old +man’s heavy footsteps in there he made no response to my +calls. There was no fire on the hearth, so I made one and +laying [<i>sic</i>] down before it with my overcoat under my +head, prepared myself for sleep. Pretty soon the door that +I had tried silently opened and the old man came in, carrying a +candle. I spoke to him pleasantly, apologizing for my +intrusion, but he took no notice of me. He seemed to be +searching for something, though his eyes were unmoved in their +sockets. I wonder if he ever walks in his sleep. He +took a circuit a part of the way round the room, and went out the +same way he had come in. Twice more before I slept he came +back into the room, acting precisely the same way, and departing +as at first. In the intervals I heard him tramping all over +the house, his footsteps distinctly audible in the pauses of the +storm. When I woke in the morning he had already gone +out.”</p> +<p>Mr. Maren attempted some further questioning, but was unable +longer to restrain the family’s tongues; the story of +Deluse’s death and burial came out, greatly to the good +minister’s astonishment.</p> +<p>“The explanation of your adventure is very +simple,” said Mr. Maren. “I don’t believe +old Deluse walks in his sleep—not in his present one; but +you evidently dream in yours.”</p> +<p>And to this view of the matter Mr. Galbraith was compelled +reluctantly to assent.</p> +<p>Nevertheless, a late hour of the next night found these two +gentlemen, accompanied by a son of the minister, in the road in +front of the old Deluse house. There was a light inside; it +appeared now at one window and now at another. The three +men advanced to the door. Just as they reached it there +came from the interior a confusion of the most appalling +sounds—the clash of weapons, steel against steel, sharp +explosions as of firearms, shrieks of women, groans and the +curses of men in combat! The investigators stood a moment, +irresolute, frightened. Then Mr. Galbraith tried the +door. It was fast. But the minister was a man of +courage, a man, moreover, of Herculean strength. He retired +a pace or two and rushed against the door, striking it with his +right shoulder and bursting it from the frame with a loud +crash. In a moment the three were inside. Darkness +and silence! The only sound was the beating of their +hearts.</p> +<p>Mr. Maren had provided himself with matches and a +candle. With some difficulty, begotten of his excitement, +he made a light, and they proceeded to explore the place, passing +from room to room. Everything was in orderly arrangement, +as it had been left by the sheriff; nothing had been +disturbed. A light coating of dust was everywhere. A +back door was partly open, as if by neglect, and their first +thought was that the authors of the awful revelry might have +escaped. The door was opened, and the light of the candle +shone through upon the ground. The expiring effort of the +previous night’s storm had been a light fall of snow; there +were no footprints; the white surface was unbroken. They +closed the door and entered the last room of the four that the +house contained—that farthest from the road, in an angle of +the building. Here the candle in Mr. Maren’s hand was +suddenly extinguished as by a draught of air. Almost +immediately followed the sound of a heavy fall. When the +candle had been hastily relighted young Mr. Galbraith was seen +prostrate on the floor at a little distance from the +others. He was dead. In one hand the body grasped a +heavy sack of coins, which later examination showed to be all of +old Spanish mintage. Directly over the body as it lay, a +board had been torn from its fastenings in the wall, and from the +cavity so disclosed it was evident that the bag had been +taken.</p> +<p>Another inquest was held: another <i>post-mortem</i> +examination failed to reveal a probable cause of death. +Another verdict of “the visitation of God” left all +at liberty to form their own conclusions. Mr. Maren +contended that the young man died of excitement.</p> +<h3><a name="page377"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 377</span>A +FRUITLESS ASSIGNMENT</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">Henry Saylor</span>, who was killed in +Covington, in a quarrel with Antonio Finch, was a reporter on the +Cincinnati <i>Commercial</i>. In the year 1859 a vacant +dwelling in Vine street, in Cincinnati, became the center of a +local excitement because of the strange sights and sounds said to +be observed in it nightly. According to the testimony of +many reputable residents of the vicinity these were inconsistent +with any other hypothesis than that the house was haunted. +Figures with something singularly unfamiliar about them were seen +by crowds on the sidewalk to pass in and out. No one could +say just where they appeared upon the open lawn on their way to +the front door by which they entered, nor at exactly what point +they vanished as they came out; or, rather, while each spectator +was positive enough about these matters, no two agreed. +They were all similarly at variance in their descriptions of the +figures themselves. Some of the bolder of the curious +throng ventured on several evenings to stand upon the doorsteps +to intercept them, or failing in this, get a nearer look at +them. These courageous men, it was said, were unable to +force the door by their united strength, and always were hurled +from the steps by some invisible agency and severely injured; the +door immediately afterward opening, apparently of its own +volition, to admit or free some ghostly guest. The dwelling +was known as the Roscoe house, a family of that name having lived +there for some years, and then, one by one, disappeared, the last +to leave being an old woman. Stories of foul play and +successive murders had always been rife, but never were +authenticated.</p> +<p>One day during the prevalence of the excitement Saylor +presented himself at the office of the <i>Commercial</i> for +orders. He received a note from the city editor which read +as follows: “Go and pass the night alone in the haunted +house in Vine street and if anything occurs worth while make two +columns.” Saylor obeyed his superior; he could not +afford to lose his position on the paper.</p> +<p>Apprising the police of his intention, he effected an entrance +through a rear window before dark, walked through the deserted +rooms, bare of furniture, dusty and desolate, and seating himself +at last in the parlor on an old sofa which he had dragged in from +another room watched the deepening of the gloom as night came +on. Before it was altogether dark the curious crowd had +collected in the street, silent, as a rule, and expectant, with +here and there a scoffer uttering his incredulity and courage +with scornful remarks or ribald cries. None knew of the +anxious watcher inside. He feared to make a light; the +uncurtained windows would have betrayed his presence, subjecting +him to insult, possibly to injury. Moreover, he was too +conscientious to do anything to enfeeble his impressions and +unwilling to alter any of the customary conditions under which +the manifestations were said to occur.</p> +<p>It was now dark outside, but light from the street faintly +illuminated the part of the room that he was in. He had set +open every door in the whole interior, above and below, but all +the outer ones were locked and bolted. Sudden exclamations +from the crowd caused him to spring to the window and look +out. He saw the figure of a man moving rapidly across the +lawn toward the building—saw it ascend the steps; then a +projection of the wall concealed it. There was a noise as +of the opening and closing of the hall door; he heard quick, +heavy footsteps along the passage—heard them ascend the +stairs—heard them on the uncarpeted floor of the chamber +immediately overhead.</p> +<p>Saylor promptly drew his pistol, and groping his way up the +stairs entered the chamber, dimly lighted from the street. +No one was there. He heard footsteps in an adjoining room +and entered that. It was dark and silent. He struck +his foot against some object on the floor, knelt by it, passed +his hand over it. It was a human head—that of a +woman. Lifting it by the hair this iron-nerved man returned +to the half-lighted room below, carried it near the window and +attentively examined it. While so engaged he was half +conscious of the rapid opening and closing of the outer door, of +footfalls sounding all about him. He raised his eyes from +the ghastly object of his attention and saw himself the center of +a crowd of men and women dimly seen; the room was thronged with +them. He thought the people had broken in.</p> +<p>“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, coolly, +“you see me under suspicious circumstances, +but”—his voice was drowned in peals of +laughter—such laughter as is heard in asylums for the +insane. The persons about him pointed at the object in his +hand and their merriment increased as he dropped it and it went +rolling among their feet. They danced about it with +gestures grotesque and attitudes obscene and indescribable. +They struck it with their feet, urging it about the room from +wall to wall; pushed and overthrew one another in their struggles +to kick it; cursed and screamed and sang snatches of ribald songs +as the battered head bounded about the room as if in terror and +trying to escape. At last it shot out of the door into the +hall, followed by all, with tumultuous haste. That moment +the door closed with a sharp concussion. Saylor was alone, +in dead silence.</p> +<p>Carefully putting away his pistol, which all the time he had +held in his hand, he went to a window and looked out. The +street was deserted and silent; the lamps were extinguished; the +roofs and chimneys of the houses were sharply outlined against +the dawn-light in the east. He left the house, the door +yielding easily to his hand, and walked to the <i>Commercial</i> +office. The city editor was still in his +office—asleep. Saylor waked him and said: “I +have been at the haunted house.”</p> +<p>The editor stared blankly as if not wholly awake. +“Good God!” he cried, “are you +Saylor?”</p> +<p>“Yes—why not?” The editor made no +answer, but continued staring.</p> +<p>“I passed the night there—it seems,” said +Saylor.</p> +<p>“They say that things were uncommonly quiet out +there,” the editor said, trifling with a paper-weight upon +which he had dropped his eyes, “did anything +occur?”</p> +<p>“Nothing whatever.”</p> +<h3><a name="page383"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 383</span>A +VINE ON A HOUSE</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">About</span> three miles from the little +town of Norton, in Missouri, on the road leading to Maysville, +stands an old house that was last occupied by a family named +Harding. Since 1886 no one has lived in it, nor is anyone +likely to live in it again. Time and the disfavor of +persons dwelling thereabout are converting it into a rather +picturesque ruin. An observer unacquainted with its history +would hardly put it into the category of “haunted +houses,” yet in all the region round such is its evil +reputation. Its windows are without glass, its doorways +without doors; there are wide breaches in the shingle roof, and +for lack of paint the weatherboarding is a dun gray. But +these unfailing signs of the supernatural are partly concealed +and greatly softened by the abundant foliage of a large vine +overrunning the entire structure. This vine—of a +species which no botanist has ever been able to name—has an +important part in the story of the house.</p> +<p>The Harding family consisted of Robert Harding, his wife +Matilda, Miss Julia Went, who was her sister, and two young +children. Robert Harding was a silent, cold-mannered man +who made no friends in the neighborhood and apparently cared to +make none. He was about forty years old, frugal and +industrious, and made a living from the little farm which is now +overgrown with brush and brambles. He and his sister-in-law +were rather tabooed by their neighbors, who seemed to think that +they were seen too frequently together—not entirely their +fault, for at these times they evidently did not challenge +observation. The moral code of rural Missouri is stern and +exacting.</p> +<p>Mrs. Harding was a gentle, sad-eyed woman, lacking a left +foot.</p> +<p>At some time in 1884 it became known that she had gone to +visit her mother in Iowa. That was what her husband said in +reply to inquiries, and his manner of saying it did not encourage +further questioning. She never came back, and two years +later, without selling his farm or anything that was his, or +appointing an agent to look after his interests, or removing his +household goods, Harding, with the rest of the family, left the +country. Nobody knew whither he went; nobody at that time +cared. Naturally, whatever was movable about the place soon +disappeared and the deserted house became “haunted” +in the manner of its kind.</p> +<p>One summer evening, four or five years later, the Rev. J. +Gruber, of Norton, and a Maysville attorney named Hyatt met on +horseback in front of the Harding place. Having business +matters to discuss, they hitched their animals and going to the +house sat on the porch to talk. Some humorous reference to +the somber reputation of the place was made and forgotten as soon +as uttered, and they talked of their business affairs until it +grew almost dark. The evening was oppressively warm, the +air stagnant.</p> +<p>Presently both men started from their seats in surprise: a +long vine that covered half the front of the house and dangled +its branches from the edge of the porch above them was visibly +and audibly agitated, shaking violently in every stem and +leaf.</p> +<p>“We shall have a storm,” Hyatt exclaimed.</p> +<p>Gruber said nothing, but silently directed the other’s +attention to the foliage of adjacent trees, which showed no +movement; even the delicate tips of the boughs silhouetted +against the clear sky were motionless. They hastily passed +down the steps to what had been a lawn and looked upward at the +vine, whose entire length was now visible. It continued in +violent agitation, yet they could discern no disturbing +cause.</p> +<p>“Let us leave,” said the minister.</p> +<p>And leave they did. Forgetting that they had been +traveling in opposite directions, they rode away together. +They went to Norton, where they related their strange experience +to several discreet friends. The next evening, at about the +same hour, accompanied by two others whose names are not +recalled, they were again on the porch of the Harding house, and +again the mysterious phenomenon occurred: the vine was violently +agitated while under the closest scrutiny from root to tip, nor +did their combined strength applied to the trunk serve to still +it. After an hour’s observation they retreated, no +less wise, it is thought, than when they had come.</p> +<p>No great time was required for these singular facts to rouse +the curiosity of the entire neighborhood. By day and by +night crowds of persons assembled at the Harding house +“seeking a sign.” It does not appear that any +found it, yet so credible were the witnesses mentioned that none +doubted the reality of the “manifestations” to which +they testified.</p> +<p>By either a happy inspiration or some destructive design, it +was one day proposed—nobody appeared to know from whom the +suggestion came—to dig up the vine, and after a good deal +of debate this was done. Nothing was found but the root, +yet nothing could have been more strange!</p> +<p>For five or six feet from the trunk, which had at the surface +of the ground a diameter of several inches, it ran downward, +single and straight, into a loose, friable earth; then it divided +and subdivided into rootlets, fibers and filaments, most +curiously interwoven. When carefully freed from soil they +showed a singular formation. In their ramifications and +doublings back upon themselves they made a compact network, +having in size and shape an amazing resemblance to the human +figure. Head, trunk and limbs were there; even the fingers +and toes were distinctly defined; and many professed to see in +the distribution and arrangement of the fibers in the globular +mass representing the head a grotesque suggestion of a +face. The figure was horizontal; the smaller roots had +begun to unite at the breast.</p> +<p>In point of resemblance to the human form this image was +imperfect. At about ten inches from one of the knees, the +<i>cilia</i> forming that leg had abruptly doubled backward and +inward upon their course of growth. The figure lacked the +left foot.</p> +<p>There was but one inference—the obvious one; but in the +ensuing excitement as many courses of action were proposed as +there were incapable counselors. The matter was settled by +the sheriff of the county, who as the lawful custodian of the +abandoned estate ordered the root replaced and the excavation +filled with the earth that had been removed.</p> +<p>Later inquiry brought out only one fact of relevancy and +significance: Mrs. Harding had never visited her relatives in +Iowa, nor did they know that she was supposed to have done +so.</p> +<p>Of Robert Harding and the rest of his family nothing is +known. The house retains its evil reputation, but the +replanted vine is as orderly and well-behaved a vegetable as a +nervous person could wish to sit under of a pleasant night, when +the katydids grate out their immemorial revelation and the +distant whippoorwill signifies his notion of what ought to be +done about it.</p> +<h3><a name="page389"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 389</span>AT +OLD MAN ECKERT’S</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">Philip Eckert</span> lived for many years +in an old, weather-stained wooden house about three miles from +the little town of Marion, in Vermont. There must be quite +a number of persons living who remember him, not unkindly, I +trust, and know something of the story that I am about to +tell.</p> +<p>“Old Man Eckert,” as he was always called, was not +of a sociable disposition and lived alone. As he was never +known to speak of his own affairs nobody thereabout knew anything +of his past, nor of his relatives if he had any. Without +being particularly ungracious or repellent in manner or speech, +he managed somehow to be immune to impertinent curiosity, yet +exempt from the evil repute with which it commonly revenges +itself when baffled; so far as I know, Mr. Eckert’s renown +as a reformed assassin or a retired pirate of the Spanish Main +had not reached any ear in Marion. He got his living +cultivating a small and not very fertile farm.</p> +<p>One day he disappeared and a prolonged search by his neighbors +failed to turn him up or throw any light upon his whereabouts or +whyabouts. Nothing indicated preparation to leave: all was +as he might have left it to go to the spring for a bucket of +water. For a few weeks little else was talked of in that +region; then “old man Eckert” became a village tale +for the ear of the stranger. I do not know what was done +regarding his property—the correct legal thing, +doubtless. The house was standing, still vacant and +conspicuously unfit, when I last heard of it, some twenty years +afterward.</p> +<p>Of course it came to be considered “haunted,” and +the customary tales were told of moving lights, dolorous sounds +and startling apparitions. At one time, about five years +after the disappearance, these stories of the supernatural became +so rife, or through some attesting circumstances seemed so +important, that some of Marion’s most serious citizens +deemed it well to investigate, and to that end arranged for a +night session on the premises. The parties to this +undertaking were John Holcomb, an apothecary; Wilson Merle, a +lawyer, and Andrus C. Palmer, the teacher of the public school, +all men of consequence and repute. They were to meet at +Holcomb’s house at eight o’clock in the evening of +the appointed day and go together to the scene of their vigil, +where certain arrangements for their comfort, a provision of fuel +and the like, for the season was winter, had been already +made.</p> +<p>Palmer did not keep the engagement, and after waiting a +half-hour for him the others went to the Eckert house without +him. They established themselves in the principal room, +before a glowing fire, and without other light than it gave, +awaited events. It had been agreed to speak as little as +possible: they did not even renew the exchange of views regarding +the defection of Palmer, which had occupied their minds on the +way.</p> +<p>Probably an hour had passed without incident when they heard +(not without emotion, doubtless) the sound of an opening door in +the rear of the house, followed by footfalls in the room +adjoining that in which they sat. The watchers rose to +their feet, but stood firm, prepared for whatever might +ensue. A long silence followed—how long neither would +afterward undertake to say. Then the door between the two +rooms opened and a man entered.</p> +<p>It was Palmer. He was pale, as if from +excitement—as pale as the others felt themselves to +be. His manner, too, was singularly distrait: he neither +responded to their salutations nor so much as looked at them, but +walked slowly across the room in the light of the failing fire +and opening the front door passed out into the darkness.</p> +<p>It seems to have been the first thought of both men that +Palmer was suffering from fright—that something seen, heard +or imagined in the back room had deprived him of his +senses. Acting on the same friendly impulse both ran after +him through the open door. But neither they nor anyone ever +again saw or heard of Andrus Palmer!</p> +<p>This much was ascertained the next morning. During the +session of Messrs. Holcomb and Merle at the “haunted +house” a new snow had fallen to a depth of several inches +upon the old. In this snow Palmer’s trail from his +lodging in the village to the back door of the Eckert house was +conspicuous. But there it ended: from the front door +nothing led away but the tracks of the two men who swore that he +preceded them. Palmer’s disappearance was as complete +as that of “old man Eckert” himself—whom, +indeed, the editor of the local paper somewhat graphically +accused of having “reached out and pulled him +in.”</p> +<h3><a name="page393"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 393</span>THE +SPOOK HOUSE</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">On</span> the road leading north from +Manchester, in eastern Kentucky, to Booneville, twenty miles +away, stood, in 1862, a wooden plantation house of a somewhat +better quality than most of the dwellings in that region. +The house was destroyed by fire in the year +following—probably by some stragglers from the retreating +column of General George W. Morgan, when he was driven from +Cumberland Gap to the Ohio river by General Kirby Smith. At +the time of its destruction, it had for four or five years been +vacant. The fields about it were overgrown with brambles, +the fences gone, even the few negro quarters, and out-houses +generally, fallen partly into ruin by neglect and pillage; for +the negroes and poor whites of the vicinity found in the building +and fences an abundant supply of fuel, of which they availed +themselves without hesitation, openly and by daylight. By +daylight alone; after nightfall no human being except passing +strangers ever went near the place.</p> +<p>It was known as the “Spook House.” That it +was tenanted by evil spirits, visible, audible and active, no one +in all that region doubted any more than he doubted what he was +told of Sundays by the traveling preacher. Its +owner’s opinion of the matter was unknown; he and his +family had disappeared one night and no trace of them had ever +been found. They left everything—household goods, +clothing, provisions, the horses in the stable, the cows in the +field, the negroes in the quarters—all as it stood; nothing +was missing—except a man, a woman, three girls, a boy and a +babe! It was not altogether surprising that a plantation +where seven human beings could be simultaneously effaced and +nobody the wiser should be under some suspicion.</p> +<p>One night in June, 1859, two citizens of Frankfort, Col. J. C. +McArdle, a lawyer, and Judge Myron Veigh, of the State Militia, +were driving from Booneville to Manchester. Their business +was so important that they decided to push on, despite the +darkness and the mutterings of an approaching storm, which +eventually broke upon them just as they arrived opposite the +“Spook House.” The lightning was so incessant +that they easily found their way through the gateway and into a +shed, where they hitched and unharnessed their team. They +then went to the house, through the rain, and knocked at all the +doors without getting any response. Attributing this to the +continuous uproar of the thunder they pushed at one of the doors, +which yielded. They entered without further ceremony and +closed the door. That instant they were in darkness and +silence. Not a gleam of the lightning’s unceasing +blaze penetrated the windows or crevices; not a whisper of the +awful tumult without reached them there. It was as if they +had suddenly been stricken blind and deaf, and McArdle afterward +said that for a moment he believed himself to have been killed by +a stroke of lightning as he crossed the threshold. The rest +of this adventure can as well be related in his own words, from +the Frankfort <i>Advocate</i> of August 6, 1876:</p> +<p>“When I had somewhat recovered from the dazing effect of +the transition from uproar to silence, my first impulse was to +reopen the door which I had closed, and from the knob of which I +was not conscious of having removed my hand; I felt it +distinctly, still in the clasp of my fingers. My notion was +to ascertain by stepping again into the storm whether I had been +deprived of sight and hearing. I turned the doorknob and +pulled open the door. It led into another room!</p> +<p>“This apartment was suffused with a faint greenish +light, the source of which I could not determine, making +everything distinctly visible, though nothing was sharply +defined. Everything, I say, but in truth the only objects +within the blank stone walls of that room were human +corpses. In number they were perhaps eight or ten—it +may well be understood that I did not truly count them. +They were of different ages, or rather sizes, from infancy up, +and of both sexes. All were prostrate on the floor, +excepting one, apparently a young woman, who sat up, her back +supported by an angle of the wall. A babe was clasped in +the arms of another and older woman. A half-grown lad lay +face downward across the legs of a full-bearded man. One or +two were nearly naked, and the hand of a young girl held the +fragment of a gown which she had torn open at the breast. +The bodies were in various stages of decay, all greatly shrunken +in face and figure. Some were but little more than +skeletons.</p> +<p>“While I stood stupefied with horror by this ghastly +spectacle and still holding open the door, by some unaccountable +perversity my attention was diverted from the shocking scene and +concerned itself with trifles and details. Perhaps my mind, +with an instinct of self-preservation, sought relief in matters +which would relax its dangerous tension. Among other +things, I observed that the door that I was holding open was of +heavy iron plates, riveted. Equidistant from one another +and from the top and bottom, three strong bolts protruded from +the beveled edge. I turned the knob and they were retracted +flush with the edge; released it, and they shot out. It was +a spring lock. On the inside there was no knob, nor any +kind of projection—a smooth surface of iron.</p> +<p>“While noting these things with an interest and +attention which it now astonishes me to recall I felt myself +thrust aside, and Judge Veigh, whom in the intensity and +vicissitudes of my feelings I had altogether forgotten, pushed by +me into the room. ‘For God’s sake,’ I +cried, ‘do not go in there! Let us get out of this +dreadful place!’</p> +<p>“He gave no heed to my entreaties, but (as fearless a +gentleman as lived in all the South) walked quickly to the center +of the room, knelt beside one of the bodies for a closer +examination and tenderly raised its blackened and shriveled head +in his hands. A strong disagreeable odor came through the +doorway, completely overpowering me. My senses reeled; I +felt myself falling, and in clutching at the edge of the door for +support pushed it shut with a sharp click!</p> +<p>“I remember no more: six weeks later I recovered my +reason in a hotel at Manchester, whither I had been taken by +strangers the next day. For all these weeks I had suffered +from a nervous fever, attended with constant delirium. I +had been found lying in the road several miles away from the +house; but how I had escaped from it to get there I never +knew. On recovery, or as soon as my physicians permitted me +to talk, I inquired the fate of Judge Veigh, whom (to quiet me, +as I now know) they represented as well and at home.</p> +<p>“No one believed a word of my story, and who can +wonder? And who can imagine my grief when, arriving at my +home in Frankfort two months later, I learned that Judge Veigh +had never been heard of since that night? I then regretted +bitterly the pride which since the first few days after the +recovery of my reason had forbidden me to repeat my discredited +story and insist upon its truth.</p> +<p>“With all that afterward occurred—the examination +of the house; the failure to find any room corresponding to that +which I have described; the attempt to have me adjudged insane, +and my triumph over my accusers—the readers of the +<i>Advocate</i> are familiar. After all these years I am +still confident that excavations which I have neither the legal +right to undertake nor the wealth to make would disclose the +secret of the disappearance of my unhappy friend, and possibly of +the former occupants and owners of the deserted and now destroyed +house. I do not despair of yet bringing about such a +search, and it is a source of deep grief to me that it has been +delayed by the undeserved hostility and unwise incredulity of the +family and friends of the late Judge Veigh.”</p> +<p>Colonel McArdle died in Frankfort on the thirteenth day of +December, in the year 1879.</p> +<h3><a name="page400"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 400</span>THE +OTHER LODGERS</h3> +<p>“<span class="smcap">In</span> order to take that +train,” said Colonel Levering, sitting in the +Waldorf-Astoria hotel, “you will have to remain nearly all +night in Atlanta. That is a fine city, but I advise you not +to put up at the Breathitt House, one of the principal +hotels. It is an old wooden building in urgent need of +repairs. There are breaches in the walls that you could +throw a cat through. The bedrooms have no locks on the +doors, no furniture but a single chair in each, and a bedstead +without bedding—just a mattress. Even these meager +accommodations you cannot be sure that you will have in monopoly; +you must take your chance of being stowed in with a lot of +others. Sir, it is a most abominable hotel.</p> +<p>“The night that I passed in it was an uncomfortable +night. I got in late and was shown to my room on the ground +floor by an apologetic night-clerk with a tallow candle, which he +considerately left with me. I was worn out by two days and +a night of hard railway travel and had not entirely recovered +from a gunshot wound in the head, received in an +altercation. Rather than look for better quarters I lay +down on the mattress without removing my clothing and fell +asleep.</p> +<p>“Along toward morning I awoke. The moon had risen +and was shining in at the uncurtained window, illuminating the +room with a soft, bluish light which seemed, somehow, a bit +spooky, though I dare say it had no uncommon quality; all +moonlight is that way if you will observe it. Imagine my +surprise and indignation when I saw the floor occupied by at +least a dozen other lodgers! I sat up, earnestly damning +the management of that unthinkable hotel, and was about to spring +from the bed to go and make trouble for the night-clerk—him +of the apologetic manner and the tallow candle—when +something in the situation affected me with a strange +indisposition to move. I suppose I was what a story-writer +might call ‘frozen with terror.’ For those men +were obviously all dead!</p> +<p>“They lay on their backs, disposed orderly along three +sides of the room, their feet to the walls—against the +other wall, farthest from the door, stood my bed and the +chair. All the faces were covered, but under their white +cloths the features of the two bodies that lay in the square +patch of moonlight near the window showed in sharp profile as to +nose and chin.</p> +<p>“I thought this a bad dream and tried to cry out, as one +does in a nightmare, but could make no sound. At last, with +a desperate effort I threw my feet to the floor and passing +between the two rows of clouted faces and the two bodies that lay +nearest the door, I escaped from the infernal place and ran to +the office. The night-clerk was there, behind the desk, +sitting in the dim light of another tallow candle—just +sitting and staring. He did not rise: my abrupt entrance +produced no effect upon him, though I must have looked a +veritable corpse myself. It occurred to me then that I had +not before really observed the fellow. He was a little +chap, with a colorless face and the whitest, blankest eyes I ever +saw. He had no more expression than the back of my +hand. His clothing was a dirty gray.</p> +<p>“‘Damn you!’ I said; ‘what do you +mean?’</p> +<p>“Just the same, I was shaking like a leaf in the wind +and did not recognize my own voice.</p> +<p>“The night-clerk rose, bowed (apologetically) +and—well, he was no longer there, and at that moment I felt +a hand laid upon my shoulder from behind. Just fancy that +if you can! Unspeakably frightened, I turned and saw a +portly, kind-faced gentleman, who asked:</p> +<p>“‘What is the matter, my friend?’</p> +<p>“I was not long in telling him, but before I made an end +of it he went pale himself. ‘See here,’ he +said, ‘are you telling the truth?’</p> +<p>“I had now got myself in hand and terror had given place +to indignation. ‘If you dare to doubt it,’ I +said, ‘I’ll hammer the life out of you!’</p> +<p>“‘No,’ he replied, ‘don’t do +that; just sit down till I tell you. This is not a +hotel. It used to be; afterward it was a hospital. +Now it is unoccupied, awaiting a tenant. The room that you +mention was the dead-room—there were always plenty of +dead. The fellow that you call the night-clerk used to be +that, but later he booked the patients as they were brought +in. I don’t understand his being here. He has +been dead a few weeks.’</p> +<p>“‘And who are you?’ I blurted out.</p> +<p>“‘Oh, I look after the premises. I happened +to be passing just now, and seeing a light in here came in to +investigate. Let us have a look into that room,’ he +added, lifting the sputtering candle from the desk.</p> +<p>“‘I’ll see you at the devil first!’ +said I, bolting out of the door into the street.</p> +<p>“Sir, that Breathitt House, in Atlanta, is a beastly +place! Don’t you stop there.”</p> +<p>“God forbid! Your account of it certainly does not +suggest comfort. By the way, Colonel, when did all that +occur?”</p> +<p>“In September, 1864—shortly after the +siege.”</p> +<h3><a name="page405"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 405</span>THE +THING AT NOLAN</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">To</span> the south of where the road +between Leesville and Hardy, in the State of Missouri, crosses +the east fork of May Creek stands an abandoned house. +Nobody has lived in it since the summer of 1879, and it is fast +going to pieces. For some three years before the date +mentioned above, it was occupied by the family of Charles May, +from one of whose ancestors the creek near which it stands took +its name.</p> +<p>Mr. May’s family consisted of a wife, an adult son and +two young girls. The son’s name was John—the +names of the daughters are unknown to the writer of this +sketch.</p> +<p>John May was of a morose and surly disposition, not easily +moved to anger, but having an uncommon gift of sullen, implacable +hate. His father was quite otherwise; of a sunny, jovial +disposition, but with a quick temper like a sudden flame kindled +in a wisp of straw, which consumes it in a flash and is no +more. He cherished no resentments, and his anger gone, was +quick to make overtures for reconciliation. He had a +brother living near by who was unlike him in respect of all this, +and it was a current witticism in the neighborhood that John had +inherited his disposition from his uncle.</p> +<p>One day a misunderstanding arose between father and son, harsh +words ensued, and the father struck the son full in the face with +his fist. John quietly wiped away the blood that followed +the blow, fixed his eyes upon the already penitent offender and +said with cold composure, “You will die for +that.”</p> +<p>The words were overheard by two brothers named Jackson, who +were approaching the men at the moment; but seeing them engaged +in a quarrel they retired, apparently unobserved. Charles +May afterward related the unfortunate occurrence to his wife and +explained that he had apologized to the son for the hasty blow, +but without avail; the young man not only rejected his overtures, +but refused to withdraw his terrible threat. Nevertheless, +there was no open rupture of relations: John continued living +with the family, and things went on very much as before.</p> +<p>One Sunday morning in June, 1879, about two weeks after what +has been related, May senior left the house immediately after +breakfast, taking a spade. He said he was going to make an +excavation at a certain spring in a wood about a mile away, so +that the cattle could obtain water. John remained in the +house for some hours, variously occupied in shaving himself, +writing letters and reading a newspaper. His manner was +very nearly what it usually was; perhaps he was a trifle more +sullen and surly.</p> +<p>At two o’clock he left the house. At five, he +returned. For some reason not connected with any interest +in his movements, and which is not now recalled, the time of his +departure and that of his return were noted by his mother and +sisters, as was attested at his trial for murder. It was +observed that his clothing was wet in spots, as if (so the +prosecution afterward pointed out) he had been removing +blood-stains from it. His manner was strange, his look +wild. He complained of illness, and going to his room took +to his bed.</p> +<p>May senior did not return. Later that evening the +nearest neighbors were aroused, and during that night and the +following day a search was prosecuted through the wood where the +spring was. It resulted in little but the discovery of both +men’s footprints in the clay about the spring. John +May in the meantime had grown rapidly worse with what the local +physician called brain fever, and in his delirium raved of +murder, but did not say whom he conceived to have been murdered, +nor whom he imagined to have done the deed. But his threat +was recalled by the brothers Jackson and he was arrested on +suspicion and a deputy sheriff put in charge of him at his +home. Public opinion ran strongly against him and but for +his illness he would probably have been hanged by a mob. As +it was, a meeting of the neighbors was held on Tuesday and a +committee appointed to watch the case and take such action at any +time as circumstances might seem to warrant.</p> +<p>On Wednesday all was changed. From the town of Nolan, +eight miles away, came a story which put a quite different light +on the matter. Nolan consisted of a school house, a +blacksmith’s shop, a “store” and a half-dozen +dwellings. The store was kept by one Henry Odell, a cousin +of the elder May. On the afternoon of the Sunday of +May’s disappearance Mr. Odell and four of his neighbors, +men of credibility, were sitting in the store smoking and +talking. It was a warm day; and both the front and the back +door were open. At about three o’clock Charles May, +who was well known to three of them, entered at the front door +and passed out at the rear. He was without hat or +coat. He did not look at them, nor return their greeting, a +circumstance which did not surprise, for he was evidently +seriously hurt. Above the left eyebrow was a wound—a +deep gash from which the blood flowed, covering the whole left +side of the face and neck and saturating his light-gray +shirt. Oddly enough, the thought uppermost in the minds of +all was that he had been fighting and was going to the brook +directly at the back of the store, to wash himself.</p> +<p>Perhaps there was a feeling of delicacy—a backwoods +etiquette which restrained them from following him to offer +assistance; the court records, from which, mainly, this narrative +is drawn, are silent as to anything but the fact. They +waited for him to return, but he did not return.</p> +<p>Bordering the brook behind the store is a forest extending for +six miles back to the Medicine Lodge Hills. As soon as it +became known in the neighborhood of the missing man’s +dwelling that he had been seen in Nolan there was a marked +alteration in public sentiment and feeling. The vigilance +committee went out of existence without the formality of a +resolution. Search along the wooded bottom lands of May +Creek was stopped and nearly the entire male population of the +region took to beating the bush about Nolan and in the Medicine +Lodge Hills. But of the missing man no trace was found.</p> +<p>One of the strangest circumstances of this strange case is the +formal indictment and trial of a man for murder of one whose body +no human being professed to have seen—one not known to be +dead. We are all more or less familiar with the vagaries +and eccentricities of frontier law, but this instance, it is +thought, is unique. However that may be, it is of record +that on recovering from his illness John May was indicted for the +murder of his missing father. Counsel for the defense +appears not to have demurred and the case was tried on its +merits. The prosecution was spiritless and perfunctory; the +defense easily established—with regard to the +deceased—an <i>alibi</i>. If during the time in which +John May must have killed Charles May, if he killed him at all, +Charles May was miles away from where John May must have been, it +is plain that the deceased must have come to his death at the +hands of someone else.</p> +<p>John May was acquitted, immediately left the country, and has +never been heard of from that day. Shortly afterward his +mother and sisters removed to St. Louis. The farm having +passed into the possession of a man who owns the land adjoining, +and has a dwelling of his own, the May house has ever since been +vacant, and has the somber reputation of being haunted.</p> +<p>One day after the May family had left the country, some boys, +playing in the woods along May Creek, found concealed under a +mass of dead leaves, but partly exposed by the rooting of hogs, a +spade, nearly new and bright, except for a spot on one edge, +which was rusted and stained with blood. The implement had +the initials C. M. cut into the handle.</p> +<p>This discovery renewed, in some degree, the public excitement +of a few months before. The earth near the spot where the +spade was found was carefully examined, and the result was the +finding of the dead body of a man. It had been buried under +two or three feet of soil and the spot covered with a layer of +dead leaves and twigs. There was but little decomposition, +a fact attributed to some preservative property in the +mineral-bearing soil.</p> +<p>Above the left eyebrow was a wound—a deep gash from +which blood had flowed, covering the whole left side of the face +and neck and saturating the light-gray shirt. The skull had +been cut through by the blow. The body was that of Charles +May.</p> +<p>But what was it that passed through Mr. Odell’s store at +Nolan?</p> +<h3><a name="page413"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +413</span>“MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCES”</h3> +<h4><a name="page415"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 415</span>THE +DIFFICULTY OF CROSSING A FIELD</h4> +<p><span class="smcap">One</span> morning in July, 1854, a +planter named Williamson, living six miles from Selma, Alabama, +was sitting with his wife and a child on the veranda of his +dwelling. Immediately in front of the house was a lawn, +perhaps fifty yards in extent between the house and public road, +or, as it was called, the “pike.” Beyond this +road lay a close-cropped pasture of some ten acres, level and +without a tree, rock, or any natural or artificial object on its +surface. At the time there was not even a domestic animal +in the field. In another field, beyond the pasture, a dozen +slaves were at work under an overseer.</p> +<p>Throwing away the stump of a cigar, the planter rose, saying: +“I forgot to tell Andrew about those horses.” +Andrew was the overseer.</p> +<p>Williamson strolled leisurely down the gravel walk, plucking a +flower as he went, passed across the road and into the pasture, +pausing a moment as he closed the gate leading into it, to greet +a passing neighbor, Armour Wren, who lived on an adjoining +plantation. Mr. Wren was in an open carriage with his son +James, a lad of thirteen. When he had driven some two +hundred yards from the point of meeting, Mr. Wren said to his +son: “I forgot to tell Mr. Williamson about those +horses.”</p> +<p>Mr. Wren had sold to Mr. Williamson some horses, which were to +have been sent for that day, but for some reason not now +remembered it would be inconvenient to deliver them until the +morrow. The coachman was directed to drive back, and as the +vehicle turned Williamson was seen by all three, walking +leisurely across the pasture. At that moment one of the +coach horses stumbled and came near falling. It had no more +than fairly recovered itself when James Wren cried: “Why, +father, what has become of Mr. Williamson?”</p> +<p>It is not the purpose of this narrative to answer that +question.</p> +<p>Mr. Wren’s strange account of the matter, given under +oath in the course of legal proceedings relating to the +Williamson estate, here follows:</p> +<p>“My son’s exclamation caused me to look toward the +spot where I had seen the deceased [<i>sic</i>] an instant +before, but he was not there, nor was he anywhere visible. +I cannot say that at the moment I was greatly startled, or +realized the gravity of the occurrence, though I thought it +singular. My son, however, was greatly astonished and kept +repeating his question in different forms until we arrived at the +gate. My black boy Sam was similarly affected, even in a +greater degree, but I reckon more by my son’s manner than +by anything he had himself observed. [This sentence in the +testimony was stricken out.] As we got out of the carriage +at the gate of the field, and while Sam was hanging [<i>sic</i>] +the team to the fence, Mrs. Williamson, with her child in her +arms and followed by several servants, came running down the walk +in great excitement, crying: ‘He is gone, he is gone! +O God! what an awful thing!’ and many other such +exclamations, which I do not distinctly recollect. I got +from them the impression that they related to something +more—than the mere disappearance of her husband, even if +that had occurred before her eyes. Her manner was wild, but +not more so, I think, than was natural under the +circumstances. I have no reason to think she had at that +time lost her mind. I have never since seen nor heard of +Mr. Williamson.”</p> +<p>This testimony, as might have been expected, was corroborated +in almost every particular by the only other eye-witness (if that +is a proper term)—the lad James. Mrs. Williamson had +lost her reason and the servants were, of course, not competent +to testify. The boy James Wren had declared at first that +he <i>saw</i> the disappearance, but there is nothing of this in +his testimony given in court. None of the field hands +working in the field to which Williamson was going had seen him +at all, and the most rigorous search of the entire plantation and +adjoining country failed to supply a clew. The most +monstrous and grotesque fictions, originating with the blacks, +were current in that part of the State for many years, and +probably are to this day; but what has been here related is all +that is certainly known of the matter. The courts decided +that Williamson was dead, and his estate was distributed +according to law.</p> +<h4><a name="page419"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 419</span>AN +UNFINISHED RACE</h4> +<p><span class="smcap">James Burne Worson</span> was a shoemaker +who lived in Leamington, Warwickshire, England. He had a +little shop in one of the by-ways leading off the road to +Warwick. In his humble sphere he was esteemed an honest +man, although like many of his class in English towns he was +somewhat addicted to drink. When in liquor he would make +foolish wagers. On one of these too frequent occasions he +was boasting of his prowess as a pedestrian and athlete, and the +outcome was a match against nature. For a stake of one +sovereign he undertook to run all the way to Coventry and back, a +distance of something more than forty miles. This was on +the 3d day of September in 1873. He set out at once, the +man with whom he had made the bet—whose name is not +remembered—accompanied by Barham Wise, a linen draper, and +Hamerson Burns, a photographer, I think, following in a light +cart or wagon.</p> +<p>For several miles Worson went on very well, at an easy gait, +without apparent fatigue, for he had really great powers of +endurance and was not sufficiently intoxicated to enfeeble +them. The three men in the wagon kept a short distance in +the rear, giving him occasional friendly “chaff” or +encouragement, as the spirit moved them. Suddenly—in +the very middle of the roadway, not a dozen yards from them, and +with their eyes full upon him—the man seemed to stumble, +pitched headlong forward, uttered a terrible cry and +vanished! He did not fall to the earth—he vanished +before touching it. No trace of him was ever +discovered.</p> +<p>After remaining at and about the spot for some time, with +aimless irresolution, the three men returned to Leamington, told +their astonishing story and were afterward taken into +custody. But they were of good standing, had always been +considered truthful, were sober at the time of the occurrence, +and nothing ever transpired to discredit their sworn account of +their extraordinary adventure, concerning the truth of which, +nevertheless, public opinion was divided, throughout the United +Kingdom. If they had something to conceal, their choice of +means is certainly one of the most amazing ever made by sane +human beings.</p> +<h4><a name="page421"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +421</span>CHARLES ASHMORE’S TRAIL</h4> +<p><span class="smcap">The</span> family of Christian Ashmore +consisted of his wife, his mother, two grown daughters, and a son +of sixteen years. They lived in Troy, New York, were +well-to-do, respectable persons, and had many friends, some of +whom, reading these lines, will doubtless learn for the first +time the extraordinary fate of the young man. From Troy the +Ashmores moved in 1871 or 1872 to Richmond, Indiana, and a year +or two later to the vicinity of Quincy, Illinois, where Mr. +Ashmore bought a farm and lived on it. At some little +distance from the farmhouse was a spring with a constant flow of +clear, cold water, whence the family derived its supply for +domestic use at all seasons.</p> +<p>On the evening of the 9th of November in 1878, at about nine +o’clock, young Charles Ashmore left the family circle about +the hearth, took a tin bucket and started toward the +spring. As he did not return, the family became uneasy, and +going to the door by which he had left the house, his father +called without receiving an answer. He then lighted a +lantern and with the eldest daughter, Martha, who insisted on +accompanying him, went in search. A light snow had fallen, +obliterating the path, but making the young man’s trail +conspicuous; each footprint was plainly defined. After +going a little more than half-way—perhaps seventy-five +yards—the father, who was in advance, halted, and elevating +his lantern stood peering intently into the darkness ahead.</p> +<p>“What is the matter, father?” the girl asked.</p> +<p>This was the matter: the trail of the young man had abruptly +ended, and all beyond was smooth, unbroken snow. The last +footprints were as conspicuous as any in the line; the very +nail-marks were distinctly visible. Mr. Ashmore looked +upward, shading his eyes with his hat held between them and the +lantern. The stars were shining; there was not a cloud in +the sky; he was denied the explanation which had suggested +itself, doubtful as it would have been—a new snowfall with +a limit so plainly defined. Taking a wide circuit round the +ultimate tracks, so as to leave them undisturbed for further +examination, the man proceeded to the spring, the girl following, +weak and terrified. Neither had spoken a word of what both +had observed. The spring was covered with ice, hours +old.</p> +<p>Returning to the house they noted the appearance of the snow +on both sides of the trail its entire length. No tracks led +away from it.</p> +<p>The morning light showed nothing more. Smooth, spotless, +unbroken, the shallow snow lay everywhere.</p> +<p>Four days later the grief-stricken mother herself went to the +spring for water. She came back and related that in passing +the spot where the footprints had ended she had heard the voice +of her son and had been eagerly calling to him, wandering about +the place, as she had fancied the voice to be now in one +direction, now in another, until she was exhausted with fatigue +and emotion.</p> +<p>Questioned as to what the voice had said, she was unable to +tell, yet averred that the words were perfectly distinct. +In a moment the entire family was at the place, but nothing was +heard, and the voice was believed to be an hallucination caused +by the mother’s great anxiety and her disordered +nerves. But for months afterward, at irregular intervals of +a few days, the voice was heard by the several members of the +family, and by others. All declared it unmistakably the +voice of Charles Ashmore; all agreed that it seemed to come from +a great distance, faintly, yet with entire distinctness of +articulation; yet none could determine its direction, nor repeat +its words. The intervals of silence grew longer and longer, +the voice fainter and farther, and by midsummer it was heard no +more.</p> +<p>If anybody knows the fate of Charles Ashmore it is probably +his mother. She is dead.</p> + +<div class="gapshortline"> </div> +<h4>SCIENCE TO THE FRONT</h4> +<p>In connection with this subject of “mysterious +disappearance”—of which every memory is stored with +abundant example—it is pertinent to note the belief of Dr. +Hem, of Leipsic; not by way of explanation, unless the reader may +choose to take it so, but because of its intrinsic interest as a +singular speculation. This distinguished scientist has +expounded his views in a book entitled “Verschwinden und +Seine Theorie,” which has attracted some attention, +“particularly,” says one writer, “among the +followers of Hegel, and mathematicians who hold to the actual +existence of a so-called non-Euclidean space—that is to +say, of space which has more dimensions than length, breadth, and +thickness—space in which it would be possible to tie a knot +in an endless cord and to turn a rubber ball inside out without +‘a solution of its continuity,’ or in other words, +without breaking or cracking it.”</p> +<p>Dr. Hem believes that in the visible world there are void +places—<i>vacua</i>, and something more—holes, as it +were, through which animate and inanimate objects may fall into +the invisible world and be seen and heard no more. The +theory is something like this: Space is pervaded by luminiferous +ether, which is a material thing—as much a substance as air +or water, though almost infinitely more attenuated. All +force, all forms of energy must be propagated in this; every +process must take place in it which takes place at all. But +let us suppose that cavities exist in this otherwise universal +medium, as caverns exist in the earth, or cells in a Swiss +cheese. In such a cavity there would be absolutely +nothing. It would be such a vacuum as cannot be +artificially produced; for if we pump the air from a receiver +there remains the luminiferous ether. Through one of these +cavities light could not pass, for there would be nothing to bear +it. Sound could not come from it; nothing could be felt in +it. It would not have a single one of the conditions +necessary to the action of any of our senses. In such a +void, in short, nothing whatever could occur. Now, in the +words of the writer before quoted—the learned doctor +himself nowhere puts it so concisely: “A man inclosed in +such a closet could neither see nor be seen; neither hear nor be +heard; neither feel nor be felt; neither live nor die, for both +life and death are processes which can take place only where +there is force, and in empty space no force could +exist.” Are these the awful conditions (some will +ask) under which the friends of the lost are to think of them as +existing, and doomed forever to exist?</p> +<p>Baldly and imperfectly as here stated, Dr. Hem’s theory, +in so far as it professes to be an adequate explanation of +“mysterious disappearances,” is open to many obvious +objections; to fewer as he states it himself in the +“spacious volubility” of his book. But even as +expounded by its author it does not explain, and in truth is +incompatible with some incidents of, the occurrences related in +these memoranda: for example, the sound of Charles +Ashmore’s voice. It is not my duty to indue facts and +theories with affinity.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">A.B.</p> +<h2>FOOTNOTES</h2> +<p><a name="footnote372"></a><a href="#citation372" +class="footnote">[372]</a> The Isle of Pines was once a +famous rendezvous of pirates.</p> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PRESENT AT A HANGING***</p> +<pre> + + +***** This file should be named 4387-h.htm or 4387-h.zip****** + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/4/3/8/4387 + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.10/04/01*END* + + + + +PRESENT AT A HANGING AND OTHER GHOST STORIES + + + + +Contents: + +The Ways of Ghosts + Present at a Hanging + A Cold Greeting + A Wireless Message + An Arrest +Soldier-Folk + A Man with Two Lives + Three and One are One + A Baffled Ambuscade + Two Military Executions +Some Haunted Houses + The Isle of Pines + A Fruitless Assignment + A Vine on a House + At Old Man Eckert's + The Spook House + The Other Lodgers + The Thing at Nolan + The Difficulty of Crossing a Field + An Unfinished Race + Charles Ashmore's Trail + Science to the Front + + + +THE WAYS OF GHOSTS + + + + +My peculiar relation to the writer of the following narratives is +such that I must ask the reader to overlook the absence of +explanation as to how they came into my possession. Withal, my +knowledge of him is so meager that I should rather not undertake to +say if he were himself persuaded of the truth of what he relates; +certainly such inquiries as I have thought it worth while to set +about have not in every instance tended to confirmation of the +statements made. Yet his style, for the most part devoid alike of +artifice and art, almost baldly simple and direct, seems hardly +compatible with the disingenuousness of a merely literary intention; +one would call it the manner of one more concerned for the fruits of +research than for the flowers of expression. In transcribing his +notes and fortifying their claim to attention by giving them +something of an orderly arrangement, I have conscientiously +refrained from embellishing them with such small ornaments of +diction as I may have felt myself able to bestow, which would not +only have been impertinent, even if pleasing, but would have given +me a somewhat closer relation to the work than I should care to have +and to avow.--A. B. + + + +PRESENT AT A HANGING + + + +An old man named Daniel Baker, living near Lebanon, Iowa, was +suspected by his neighbors of having murdered a peddler who had +obtained permission to pass the night at his house. This was in +1853, when peddling was more common in the Western country than it +is now, and was attended with considerable danger. The peddler with +his pack traversed the country by all manner of lonely roads, and +was compelled to rely upon the country people for hospitality. This +brought him into relation with queer characters, some of whom were +not altogether scrupulous in their methods of making a living, +murder being an acceptable means to that end. It occasionally +occurred that a peddler with diminished pack and swollen purse would +be traced to the lonely dwelling of some rough character and never +could be traced beyond. This was so in the case of "old man Baker," +as he was always called. (Such names are given in the western +"settlements" only to elderly persons who are not esteemed; to the +general disrepute of social unworth is affixed the special reproach +of age.) A peddler came to his house and none went away--that is +all that anybody knew. + +Seven years later the Rev. Mr. Cummings, a Baptist minister well +known in that part of the country, was driving by Baker's farm one +night. It was not very dark: there was a bit of moon somewhere +above the light veil of mist that lay along the earth. Mr. +Cummings, who was at all times a cheerful person, was whistling a +tune, which he would occasionally interrupt to speak a word of +friendly encouragement to his horse. As he came to a little bridge +across a dry ravine he saw the figure of a man standing upon it, +clearly outlined against the gray background of a misty forest. The +man had something strapped on his back and carried a heavy stick-- +obviously an itinerant peddler. His attitude had in it a suggestion +of abstraction, like that of a sleepwalker. Mr. Cummings reined in +his horse when he arrived in front of him, gave him a pleasant +salutation and invited him to a seat in the vehicle--"if you are +going my way," he added. The man raised his head, looked him full +in the face, but neither answered nor made any further movement. +The minister, with good-natured persistence, repeated his +invitation. At this the man threw his right hand forward from his +side and pointed downward as he stood on the extreme edge of the +bridge. Mr. Cummings looked past him, over into the ravine, saw +nothing unusual and withdrew his eyes to address the man again. He +had disappeared. The horse, which all this time had been uncommonly +restless, gave at the same moment a snort of terror and started to +run away. Before he had regained control of the animal the minister +was at the crest of the hill a hundred yards along. He looked back +and saw the figure again, at the same place and in the same attitude +as when he had first observed it. Then for the first time he was +conscious of a sense of the supernatural and drove home as rapidly +as his willing horse would go. + +On arriving at home he related his adventure to his family, and +early the next morning, accompanied by two neighbors, John White +Corwell and Abner Raiser, returned to the spot. They found the body +of old man Baker hanging by the neck from one of the beams of the +bridge, immediately beneath the spot where the apparition had stood. +A thick coating of dust, slightly dampened by the mist, covered the +floor of the bridge, but the only footprints were those of Mr. +Cummings' horse. + +In taking down the body the men disturbed the loose, friable earth +of the slope below it, disclosing human bones already nearly +uncovered by the action of water and frost. They were identified as +those of the lost peddler. At the double inquest the coroner's jury +found that Daniel Baker died by his own hand while suffering from +temporary insanity, and that Samuel Morritz was murdered by some +person or persons to the jury unknown. + + + +A COLD GREETING + + + +This is a story told by the late Benson Foley of San Francisco: + +"In the summer of 1881 I met a man named James H. Conway, a resident +of Franklin, Tennessee. He was visiting San Francisco for his +health, deluded man, and brought me a note of introduction from Mr. +Lawrence Barting. I had known Barting as a captain in the Federal +army during the civil war. At its close he had settled in Franklin, +and in time became, I had reason to think, somewhat prominent as a +lawyer. Barting had always seemed to me an honorable and truthful +man, and the warm friendship which he expressed in his note for Mr. +Conway was to me sufficient evidence that the latter was in every +way worthy of my confidence and esteem. At dinner one day Conway +told me that it had been solemnly agreed between him and Barting +that the one who died first should, if possible, communicate with +the other from beyond the grave, in some unmistakable way--just how, +they had left (wisely, it seemed to me) to be decided by the +deceased, according to the opportunities that his altered +circumstances might present. + +"A few weeks after the conversation in which Mr. Conway spoke of +this agreement, I met him one day, walking slowly down Montgomery +street, apparently, from his abstracted air, in deep thought. He +greeted me coldly with merely a movement of the head and passed on, +leaving me standing on the walk, with half-proffered hand, surprised +and naturally somewhat piqued. The next day I met him again in the +office of the Palace Hotel, and seeing him about to repeat the +disagreeable performance of the day before, intercepted him in a +doorway, with a friendly salutation, and bluntly requested an +explanation of his altered manner. He hesitated a moment; then, +looking me frankly in the eyes, said: + +"'I do not think, Mr. Foley, that I have any longer a claim to your +friendship, since Mr. Barting appears to have withdrawn his own from +me--for what reason, I protest I do not know. If he has not already +informed you he probably will do so.' + +"'But,' I replied, 'I have not heard from Mr. Barting.' + +"'Heard from him!' he repeated, with apparent surprise. 'Why, he is +here. I met him yesterday ten minutes before meeting you. I gave +you exactly the same greeting that he gave me. I met him again not +a quarter of an hour ago, and his manner was precisely the same: he +merely bowed and passed on. I shall not soon forget your civility +to me. Good morning, or--as it may please you--farewell.' + +"All this seemed to me singularly considerate and delicate behavior +on the part of Mr. Conway. + +"As dramatic situations and literary effects are foreign to my +purpose I will explain at once that Mr. Barting was dead. He had +died in Nashville four days before this conversation. Calling on +Mr. Conway, I apprised him of our friend's death, showing him the +letters announcing it. He was visibly affected in a way that +forbade me to entertain a doubt of his sincerity. + +"'It seems incredible,' he said, after a period of reflection. 'I +suppose I must have mistaken another man for Barting, and that man's +cold greeting was merely a stranger's civil acknowledgment of my +own. I remember, indeed, that he lacked Barting's mustache.' + +"'Doubtless it was another man,' I assented; and the subject was +never afterward mentioned between us. But I had in my pocket a +photograph of Barting, which had been inclosed in the letter from +his widow. It had been taken a week before his death, and was +without a mustache." + + + +A WIRELESS MESSAGE + + + +In the summer of 1896 Mr. William Holt, a wealthy manufacturer of +Chicago, was living temporarily in a little town of central New +York, the name of which the writer's memory has not retained. Mr. +Holt had had "trouble with his wife," from whom he had parted a year +before. Whether the trouble was anything more serious than +"incompatibility of temper," he is probably the only living person +that knows: he is not addicted to the vice of confidences. Yet he +has related the incident herein set down to at least one person +without exacting a pledge of secrecy. He is now living in Europe. + +One evening he had left the house of a brother whom he was visiting, +for a stroll in the country. It may be assumed--whatever the value +of the assumption in connection with what is said to have occurred-- +that his mind was occupied with reflections on his domestic +infelicities and the distressing changes that they had wrought in +his life. + +Whatever may have been his thoughts, they so possessed him that he +observed neither the lapse of time nor whither his feet were +carrying him; he knew only that he had passed far beyond the town +limits and was traversing a lonely region by a road that bore no +resemblance to the one by which he had left the village. In brief, +he was "lost." + +Realizing his mischance, he smiled; central New York is not a region +of perils, nor does one long remain lost in it. He turned about and +went back the way that he had come. Before he had gone far he +observed that the landscape was growing more distinct--was +brightening. Everything was suffused with a soft, red glow in which +he saw his shadow projected in the road before him. "The moon is +rising," he said to himself. Then he remembered that it was about +the time of the new moon, and if that tricksy orb was in one of its +stages of visibility it had set long before. He stopped and faced +about, seeking the source of the rapidly broadening light. As he +did so, his shadow turned and lay along the road in front of him as +before. The light still came from behind him. That was surprising; +he could not understand. Again he turned, and again, facing +successively to every point of the horizon. Always the shadow was +before--always the light behind, "a still and awful red." + +Holt was astonished--"dumfounded" is the word that he used in +telling it--yet seems to have retained a certain intelligent +curiosity. To test the intensity of the light whose nature and +cause he could not determine, he took out his watch to see if he +could make out the figures on the dial. They were plainly visible, +and the hands indicated the hour of eleven o'clock and twenty-five +minutes. At that moment the mysterious illumination suddenly flared +to an intense, an almost blinding splendor, flushing the entire sky, +extinguishing the stars and throwing the monstrous shadow of himself +athwart the landscape. In that unearthly illumination he saw near +him, but apparently in the air at a considerable elevation, the +figure of his wife, clad in her night-clothing and holding to her +breast the figure of his child. Her eyes were fixed upon his with +an expression which he afterward professed himself unable to name or +describe, further than that it was "not of this life." + +The flare was momentary, followed by black darkness, in which, +however, the apparition still showed white and motionless; then by +insensible degrees it faded and vanished, like a bright image on the +retina after the closing of the eyes. A peculiarity of the +apparition, hardly noted at the time, but afterward recalled, was +that it showed only the upper half of the woman's figure: nothing +was seen below the waist. + +The sudden darkness was comparative, not absolute, for gradually all +objects of his environment became again visible. + +In the dawn of the morning Holt found himself entering the village +at a point opposite to that at which he had left it. He soon +arrived at the house of his brother, who hardly knew him. He was +wild-eyed, haggard, and gray as a rat. Almost incoherently, he +related his night's experience. + +"Go to bed, my poor fellow," said his brother, "and--wait. We shall +hear more of this." + +An hour later came the predestined telegram. Holt's dwelling in one +of the suburbs of Chicago had been destroyed by fire. Her escape +cut off by the flames, his wife had appeared at an upper window, her +child in her arms. There she had stood, motionless, apparently +dazed. Just as the firemen had arrived with a ladder, the floor had +given way, and she was seen no more. + +The moment of this culminating horror was eleven o'clock and twenty- +five minutes, standard time. + + + +AN ARREST + + + +Having murdered his brother-in-law, Orrin Brower of Kentucky was a +fugitive from justice. From the county jail where he had been +confined to await his trial he had escaped by knocking down his +jailer with an iron bar, robbing him of his keys and, opening the +outer door, walking out into the night. The jailer being unarmed, +Brower got no weapon with which to defend his recovered liberty. As +soon as he was out of the town he had the folly to enter a forest; +this was many years ago, when that region was wilder than it is now. + +The night was pretty dark, with neither moon nor stars visible, and +as Brower had never dwelt thereabout, and knew nothing of the lay of +the land, he was, naturally, not long in losing himself. He could +not have said if he were getting farther away from the town or going +back to it--a most important matter to Orrin Brower. He knew that +in either case a posse of citizens with a pack of bloodhounds would +soon be on his track and his chance of escape was very slender; but +he did not wish to assist in his own pursuit. Even an added hour of +freedom was worth having. + +Suddenly he emerged from the forest into an old road, and there +before him saw, indistinctly, the figure of a man, motionless in the +gloom. It was too late to retreat: the fugitive felt that at the +first movement back toward the wood he would be, as he afterward +explained, "filled with buckshot." So the two stood there like +trees, Brower nearly suffocated by the activity of his own heart; +the other--the emotions of the other are not recorded. + +A moment later--it may have been an hour--the moon sailed into a +patch of unclouded sky and the hunted man saw that visible +embodiment of Law lift an arm and point significantly toward and +beyond him. He understood. Turning his back to his captor, he +walked submissively away in the direction indicated, looking to +neither the right nor the left; hardly daring to breathe, his head +and back actually aching with a prophecy of buckshot. + +Brower was as courageous a criminal as ever lived to be hanged; that +was shown by the conditions of awful personal peril in which he had +coolly killed his brother-in-law. It is needless to relate them +here; they came out at his trial, and the revelation of his calmness +in confronting them came near to saving his neck. But what would +you have?--when a brave man is beaten, he submits. + +So they pursued their journey jailward along the old road through +the woods. Only once did Brower venture a turn of the head: just +once, when he was in deep shadow and he knew that the other was in +moonlight, he looked backward. His captor was Burton Duff, the +jailer, as white as death and bearing upon his brow the livid mark +of the iron bar. Orrin Brower had no further curiosity. + +Eventually they entered the town, which was all alight, but +deserted; only the women and children remained, and they were off +the streets. Straight toward the jail the criminal held his way. +Straight up to the main entrance he walked, laid his hand upon the +knob of the heavy iron door, pushed it open without command, entered +and found himself in the presence of a half-dozen armed men. Then +he turned. Nobody else entered. + +On a table in the corridor lay the dead body of Burton Duff. + + + + +SOLDIER-FOLK + + + + +A MAN WITH TWO LIVES + + + +Here is the queer story of David William Duck, related by himself. +Duck is an old man living in Aurora, Illinois, where he is +universally respected. He is commonly known, however, as "Dead +Duck." + +"In the autumn of 1866 I was a private soldier of the Eighteenth +Infantry. My company was one of those stationed at Fort Phil +Kearney, commanded by Colonel Carrington. The country is more or +less familiar with the history of that garrison, particularly with +the slaughter by the Sioux of a detachment of eighty-one men and +officers--not one escaping--through disobedience of orders by its +commander, the brave but reckless Captain Fetterman. When that +occurred, I was trying to make my way with important dispatches to +Fort C. F. Smith, on the Big Horn. As the country swarmed with +hostile Indians, I traveled by night and concealed myself as best I +could before daybreak. The better to do so, I went afoot, armed +with a Henry rifle and carrying three days' rations in my haversack. + +"For my second place of concealment I chose what seemed in the +darkness a narrow canon leading through a range of rocky hills. It +contained many large bowlders, detached from the slopes of the +hills. Behind one of these, in a clump of sage-brush, I made my bed +for the day, and soon fell asleep. It seemed as if I had hardly +closed my eyes, though in fact it was near midday, when I was +awakened by the report of a rifle, the bullet striking the bowlder +just above my body. A band of Indians had trailed me and had me +nearly surrounded; the shot had been fired with an execrable aim by +a fellow who had caught sight of me from the hillside above. The +smoke of his rifle betrayed him, and I was no sooner on my feet than +he was off his and rolling down the declivity. Then I ran in a +stooping posture, dodging among the clumps of sage-brush in a storm +of bullets from invisible enemies. The rascals did not rise and +pursue, which I thought rather queer, for they must have known by my +trail that they had to deal with only one man. The reason for their +inaction was soon made clear. I had not gone a hundred yards before +I reached the limit of my run--the head of the gulch which I had +mistaken for a canon. It terminated in a concave breast of rock, +nearly vertical and destitute of vegetation. In that cul-de-sac I +was caught like a bear in a pen. Pursuit was needless; they had +only to wait. + +"They waited. For two days and nights, crouching behind a rock +topped with a growth of mesquite, and with the cliff at my back, +suffering agonies of thirst and absolutely hopeless of deliverance, +I fought the fellows at long range, firing occasionally at the smoke +of their rifles, as they did at that of mine. Of course, I did not +dare to close my eyes at night, and lack of sleep was a keen +torture. + +"I remember the morning of the third day, which I knew was to be my +last. I remember, rather indistinctly, that in my desperation and +delirium I sprang out into the open and began firing my repeating +rifle without seeing anybody to fire at. And I remember no more of +that fight. + +"The next thing that I recollect was my pulling myself out of a +river just at nightfall. I had not a rag of clothing and knew +nothing of my whereabouts, but all that night I traveled, cold and +footsore, toward the north. At daybreak I found myself at Fort C. +F. Smith, my destination, but without my dispatches. The first man +that I met was a sergeant named William Briscoe, whom I knew very +well. You can fancy his astonishment at seeing me in that +condition, and my own at his asking who the devil I was. + +"'Dave Duck,' I answered; 'who should I be?' + +"He stared like an owl. + +"'You do look it,' he said, and I observed that he drew a little +away from me. 'What's up?' he added. + +"I told him what had happened to me the day before. He heard me +through, still staring; then he said: + +"'My dear fellow, if you are Dave Duck I ought to inform you that I +buried you two months ago. I was out with a small scouting party +and found your body, full of bullet-holes and newly scalped-- +somewhat mutilated otherwise, too, I am sorry to say--right where +you say you made your fight. Come to my tent and I'll show you your +clothing and some letters that I took from your person; the +commandant has your dispatches.' + +"He performed that promise. He showed me the clothing, which I +resolutely put on; the letters, which I put into my pocket. He made +no objection, then took me to the commandant, who heard my story and +coldly ordered Briscoe to take me to the guardhouse. On the way I +said: + +"'Bill Briscoe, did you really and truly bury the dead body that you +found in these togs?' + +"'Sure,' he answered--'just as I told you. It was Dave Duck, all +right; most of us knew him. And now, you damned impostor, you'd +better tell me who you are.' + +"'I'd give something to know,' I said. + +"A week later, I escaped from the guardhouse and got out of the +country as fast as I could. Twice I have been back, seeking for +that fateful spot in the hills, but unable to find it." + + + +THREE AND ONE ARE ONE + + + +In the year 1861 Barr Lassiter, a young man of twenty-two, lived +with his parents and an elder sister near Carthage, Tennessee. The +family were in somewhat humble circumstances, subsisting by +cultivation of a small and not very fertile plantation. Owning no +slaves, they were not rated among "the best people" of their +neighborhood; but they were honest persons of good education, fairly +well mannered and as respectable as any family could be if +uncredentialed by personal dominion over the sons and daughters of +Ham. The elder Lassiter had that severity of manner that so +frequently affirms an uncompromising devotion to duty, and conceals +a warm and affectionate disposition. He was of the iron of which +martyrs are made, but in the heart of the matrix had lurked a nobler +metal, fusible at a milder heat, yet never coloring nor softening +the hard exterior. By both heredity and environment something of +the man's inflexible character had touched the other members of the +family; the Lassiter home, though not devoid of domestic affection, +was a veritable citadel of duty, and duty--ah, duty is as cruel as +death! + +When the war came on it found in the family, as in so many others in +that State, a divided sentiment; the young man was loyal to the +Union, the others savagely hostile. This unhappy division begot an +insupportable domestic bitterness, and when the offending son and +brother left home with the avowed purpose of joining the Federal +army not a hand was laid in his, not a word of farewell was spoken, +not a good wish followed him out into the world whither he went to +meet with such spirit as he might whatever fate awaited him. + +Making his way to Nashville, already occupied by the Army of General +Buell, he enlisted in the first organization that he found, a +Kentucky regiment of cavalry, and in due time passed through all the +stages of military evolution from raw recruit to experienced +trooper. A right good trooper he was, too, although in his oral +narrative from which this tale is made there was no mention of that; +the fact was learned from his surviving comrades. For Barr Lassiter +has answered "Here" to the sergeant whose name is Death. + +Two years after he had joined it his regiment passed through the +region whence he had come. The country thereabout had suffered +severely from the ravages of war, having been occupied alternately +(and simultaneously) by the belligerent forces, and a sanguinary +struggle had occurred in the immediate vicinity of the Lassiter +homestead. But of this the young trooper was not aware. + +Finding himself in camp near his home, he felt a natural longing to +see his parents and sister, hoping that in them, as in him, the +unnatural animosities of the period had been softened by time and +separation. Obtaining a leave of absence, he set foot in the late +summer afternoon, and soon after the rising of the full moon was +walking up the gravel path leading to the dwelling in which he had +been born. + +Soldiers in war age rapidly, and in youth two years are a long time. +Barr Lassiter felt himself an old man, and had almost expected to +find the place a ruin and a desolation. Nothing, apparently, was +changed. At the sight of each dear and familiar object he was +profoundly affected. His heart beat audibly, his emotion nearly +suffocated him; an ache was in his throat. Unconsciously he +quickened his pace until he almost ran, his long shadow making +grotesque efforts to keep its place beside him. + +The house was unlighted, the door open. As he approached and paused +to recover control of himself his father came out and stood bare- +headed in the moonlight. + +"Father!" cried the young man, springing forward with outstretched +hand--"Father!" + +The elder man looked him sternly in the face, stood a moment +motionless and without a word withdrew into the house. Bitterly +disappointed, humiliated, inexpressibly hurt and altogether +unnerved, the soldier dropped upon a rustic seat in deep dejection, +supporting his head upon his trembling hand. But he would not have +it so: he was too good a soldier to accept repulse as defeat. He +rose and entered the house, passing directly to the "sitting-room." + +It was dimly lighted by an uncurtained east window. On a low stool +by the hearthside, the only article of furniture in the place, sat +his mother, staring into a fireplace strewn with blackened embers +and cold ashes. He spoke to her--tenderly, interrogatively, and +with hesitation, but she neither answered, nor moved, nor seemed in +any way surprised. True, there had been time for her husband to +apprise her of their guilty son's return. He moved nearer and was +about to lay his hand upon her arm, when his sister entered from an +adjoining room, looked him full in the face, passed him without a +sign of recognition and left the room by a door that was partly +behind him. He had turned his head to watch her, but when she was +gone his eyes again sought his mother. She too had left the place. + +Barr Lassiter strode to the door by which he had entered. The +moonlight on the lawn was tremulous, as if the sward were a rippling +sea. The trees and their black shadows shook as in a breeze. +Blended with its borders, the gravel walk seemed unsteady and +insecure to step on. This young soldier knew the optical illusions +produced by tears. He felt them on his cheek, and saw them sparkle +on the breast of his trooper's jacket. He left the house and made +his way back to camp. + +The next day, with no very definite intention, with no dominant +feeling that he could rightly have named, he again sought the spot. +Within a half-mile of it he met Bushrod Albro, a former playfellow +and schoolmate, who greeted him warmly. + +"I am going to visit my home," said the soldier. + +The other looked at him rather sharply, but said nothing. + +"I know," continued Lassiter, "that my folks have not changed, but-- +" + +"There have been changes," Albro interrupted--"everything changes. +I'll go with you if you don't mind. We can talk as we go." + +But Albro did not talk. + +Instead of a house they found only fire-blackened foundations of +stone, enclosing an area of compact ashes pitted by rains. + +Lassiter's astonishment was extreme. + +"I could not find the right way to tell you," said Albro. "In the +fight a year ago your house was burned by a Federal shell." + +"And my family--where are they?" + +"In Heaven, I hope. All were killed by the shell." + + + +A BAFFLED AMBUSCADE + + + +Connecting Readyville and Woodbury was a good, hard turnpike nine or +ten miles long. Readyville was an outpost of the Federal army at +Murfreesboro; Woodbury had the same relation to the Confederate army +at Tullahoma. For months after the big battle at Stone River these +outposts were in constant quarrel, most of the trouble occurring, +naturally, on the turnpike mentioned, between detachments of +cavalry. Sometimes the infantry and artillery took a hand in the +game by way of showing their good-will. + +One night a squadron of Federal horse commanded by Major Seidel, a +gallant and skillful officer, moved out from Readyville on an +uncommonly hazardous enterprise requiring secrecy, caution and +silence. + +Passing the infantry pickets, the detachment soon afterward +approached two cavalry videttes staring hard into the darkness +ahead. There should have been three. + +"Where is your other man?" said the major. "I ordered Dunning to be +here to-night." + +"He rode forward, sir," the man replied. "There was a little firing +afterward, but it was a long way to the front." + +"It was against orders and against sense for Dunning to do that," +said the officer, obviously vexed. "Why did he ride forward?" + +"Don't know, sir; he seemed mighty restless. Guess he was skeered." + +When this remarkable reasoner and his companion had been absorbed +into the expeditionary force, it resumed its advance. Conversation +was forbidden; arms and accouterments were denied the right to +rattle. The horses' tramping was all that could be heard and the +movement was slow in order to have as little as possible of that. +It was after midnight and pretty dark, although there was a bit of +moon somewhere behind the masses of cloud. + +Two or three miles along, the head of the column approached a dense +forest of cedars bordering the road on both sides. The major +commanded a halt by merely halting, and, evidently himself a bit +"skeered," rode on alone to reconnoiter. He was followed, however, +by his adjutant and three troopers, who remained a little distance +behind and, unseen by him, saw all that occurred. + +After riding about a hundred yards toward the forest, the major +suddenly and sharply reined in his horse and sat motionless in the +saddle. Near the side of the road, in a little open space and +hardly ten paces away, stood the figure of a man, dimly visible and +as motionless as he. The major's first feeling was that of +satisfaction in having left his cavalcade behind; if this were an +enemy and should escape he would have little to report. The +expedition was as yet undetected. + +Some dark object was dimly discernible at the man's feet; the +officer could not make it out. With the instinct of the true +cavalryman and a particular indisposition to the discharge of +firearms, he drew his saber. The man on foot made no movement in +answer to the challenge. The situation was tense and a bit +dramatic. Suddenly the moon burst through a rift in the clouds and, +himself in the shadow of a group of great oaks, the horseman saw the +footman clearly, in a patch of white light. It was Trooper Dunning, +unarmed and bareheaded. The object at his feet resolved itself into +a dead horse, and at a right angle across the animal's neck lay a +dead man, face upward in the moonlight. + +"Dunning has had the fight of his life," thought the major, and was +about to ride forward. Dunning raised his hand, motioning him back +with a gesture of warning; then, lowering the arm, he pointed to the +place where the road lost itself in the blackness of the cedar +forest. + +The major understood, and turning his horse rode back to the little +group that had followed him and was already moving to the rear in +fear of his displeasure, and so returned to the head of his command. + +"Dunning is just ahead there," he said to the captain of his leading +company. "He has killed his man and will have something to report." + +Right patiently they waited, sabers drawn, but Dunning did not come. +In an hour the day broke and the whole force moved cautiously +forward, its commander not altogether satisfied with his faith in +Private Dunning. The expedition had failed, but something remained +to be done. + +In the little open space off the road they found the fallen horse. +At a right angle across the animal's neck face upward, a bullet in +the brain, lay the body of Trooper Dunning, stiff as a statue, hours +dead. + +Examination disclosed abundant evidence that within a half-hour the +cedar forest had been occupied by a strong force of Confederate +infantry--an ambuscade. + + + +TWO MILITARY EXECUTIONS + + + +In the spring of the year 1862 General Buell's big army lay in camp, +licking itself into shape for the campaign which resulted in the +victory at Shiloh. It was a raw, untrained army, although some of +its fractions had seen hard enough service, with a good deal of +fighting, in the mountains of Western Virginia, and in Kentucky. +The war was young and soldiering a new industry, imperfectly +understood by the young American of the period, who found some +features of it not altogether to his liking. Chief among these was +that essential part of discipline, subordination. To one imbued +from infancy with the fascinating fallacy that all men are born +equal, unquestioning submission to authority is not easily mastered, +and the American volunteer soldier in his "green and salad days" is +among the worst known. That is how it happened that one of Buell's +men, Private Bennett Story Greene, committed the indiscretion of +striking his officer. Later in the war he would not have done that; +like Sir Andrew Aguecheek, he would have "seen him damned" first. +But time for reformation of his military manners was denied him: he +was promptly arrested on complaint of the officer, tried by court- +martial and sentenced to be shot. + +"You might have thrashed me and let it go at that," said the +condemned man to the complaining witness; "that is what you used to +do at school, when you were plain Will Dudley and I was as good as +you. Nobody saw me strike you; discipline would not have suffered +much." + +"Ben Greene, I guess you are right about that," said the lieutenant. +"Will you forgive me? That is what I came to see you about." + +There was no reply, and an officer putting his head in at the door +of the guard-tent where the conversation had occurred, explained +that the time allowed for the interview had expired. The next +morning, when in the presence of the whole brigade Private Greene +was shot to death by a squad of his comrades, Lieutenant Dudley +turned his back upon the sorry performance and muttered a prayer for +mercy, in which himself was included. + +A few weeks afterward, as Buell's leading division was being ferried +over the Tennessee River to assist in succoring Grant's beaten army, +night was coming on, black and stormy. Through the wreck of battle +the division moved, inch by inch, in the direction of the enemy, who +had withdrawn a little to reform his lines. But for the lightning +the darkness was absolute. Never for a moment did it cease, and +ever when the thunder did not crack and roar were heard the moans of +the wounded among whom the men felt their way with their feet, and +upon whom they stumbled in the gloom. The dead were there, too-- +there were dead a-plenty. + +In the first faint gray of the morning, when the swarming advance +had paused to resume something of definition as a line of battle, +and skirmishers had been thrown forward, word was passed along to +call the roll. The first sergeant of Lieutenant Dudley's company +stepped to the front and began to name the men in alphabetical +order. He had no written roll, but a good memory. The men answered +to their names as he ran down the alphabet to G. + +"Gorham." + +"Here!" + +"Grayrock." + +"Here!" + +The sergeant's good memory was affected by habit: + +"Greene." + +"Here!" + +The response was clear, distinct, unmistakable! + +A sudden movement, an agitation of the entire company front, as from +an electric shock, attested the startling character of the incident. +The sergeant paled and paused. The captain strode quickly to his +side and said sharply: + +"Call that name again." + +Apparently the Society for Psychical Research is not first in the +field of curiosity concerning the Unknown. + +"Bennett Greene." + +"Here!" + +All faces turned in the direction of the familiar voice; the two men +between whom in the order of stature Greene had commonly stood in +line turned and squarely confronted each other. + +"Once more," commanded the inexorable investigator, and once more +came--a trifle tremulously--the name of the dead man: + +"Bennett Story Greene." + +"Here!" + +At that instant a single rifle-shot was heard, away to the front, +beyond the skirmish-line, followed, almost attended, by the savage +hiss of an approaching bullet which passing through the line, struck +audibly, punctuating as with a full stop the captain's exclamation, +"What the devil does it mean?" + +Lieutenant Dudley pushed through the ranks from his place in the +rear. + +"It means this," he said, throwing open his coat and displaying a +visibly broadening stain of crimson on his breast. His knees gave +way; he fell awkwardly and lay dead. + +A little later the regiment was ordered out of line to relieve the +congested front, and through some misplay in the game of battle was +not again under fire. Nor did Bennett Greene, expert in military +executions, ever again signify his presence at one. + + + + +SOME HAUNTED HOUSES + + + + +THE ISLE OF PINES + + + +For many years there lived near the town of Gallipolis, Ohio, an old +man named Herman Deluse. Very little was known of his history, for +he would neither speak of it himself nor suffer others. It was a +common belief among his neighbors that he had been a pirate--if upon +any better evidence than his collection of boarding pikes, +cutlasses, and ancient flintlock pistols, no one knew. He lived +entirely alone in a small house of four rooms, falling rapidly into +decay and never repaired further than was required by the weather. +It stood on a slight elevation in the midst of a large, stony field +overgrown with brambles, and cultivated in patches and only in the +most primitive way. It was his only visible property, but could +hardly have yielded him a living, simple and few as were his wants. +He seemed always to have ready money, and paid cash for all his +purchases at the village stores roundabout, seldom buying more than +two or three times at the same place until after the lapse of a +considerable time. He got no commendation, however, for this +equitable distribution of his patronage; people were disposed to +regard it as an ineffectual attempt to conceal his possession of so +much money. That he had great hoards of ill-gotten gold buried +somewhere about his tumble-down dwelling was not reasonably to be +doubted by any honest soul conversant with the facts of local +tradition and gifted with a sense of the fitness of things. + +On the 9th of November, 1867, the old man died; at least his dead +body was discovered on the 10th, and physicians testified that death +had occurred about twenty-four hours previously--precisely how, they +were unable to say; for the post-mortem examination showed every +organ to be absolutely healthy, with no indication of disorder or +violence. According to them, death must have taken place about +noonday, yet the body was found in bed. The verdict of the +coroner's jury was that he "came to his death by a visitation of +God." The body was buried and the public administrator took charge +of the estate. + +A rigorous search disclosed nothing more than was already known +about the dead man, and much patient excavation here and there about +the premises by thoughtful and thrifty neighbors went unrewarded. +The administrator locked up the house against the time when the +property, real and personal, should be sold by law with a view to +defraying, partly, the expenses of the sale. + +The night of November 20 was boisterous. A furious gale stormed +across the country, scourging it with desolating drifts of sleet. +Great trees were torn from the earth and hurled across the roads. +So wild a night had never been known in all that region, but toward +morning the storm had blown itself out of breath and day dawned +bright and clear. At about eight o'clock that morning the Rev. +Henry Galbraith, a well-known and highly esteemed Lutheran minister, +arrived on foot at his house, a mile and a half from the Deluse +place. Mr. Galbraith had been for a month in Cincinnati. He had +come up the river in a steamboat, and landing at Gallipolis the +previous evening had immediately obtained a horse and buggy and set +out for home. The violence of the storm had delayed him over night, +and in the morning the fallen trees had compelled him to abandon his +conveyance and continue his journey afoot. + +"But where did you pass the night?" inquired his wife, after he had +briefly related his adventure. + +"With old Deluse at the 'Isle of Pines,'" {1} was the laughing +reply; "and a glum enough time I had of it. He made no objection to +my remaining, but not a word could I get out of him." + +Fortunately for the interests of truth there was present at this +conversation Mr. Robert Mosely Maren, a lawyer and litterateur of +Columbus, the same who wrote the delightful "Mellowcraft Papers." +Noting, but apparently not sharing, the astonishment caused by Mr. +Galbraith's answer this ready-witted person checked by a gesture the +exclamations that would naturally have followed, and tranquilly +inquired: "How came you to go in there?" + +This is Mr. Maren's version of Mr. Galbraith's reply: + +"I saw a light moving about the house, and being nearly blinded by +the sleet, and half frozen besides, drove in at the gate and put up +my horse in the old rail stable, where it is now. I then rapped at +the door, and getting no invitation went in without one. The room +was dark, but having matches I found a candle and lit it. I tried +to enter the adjoining room, but the door was fast, and although I +heard the old man's heavy footsteps in there he made no response to +my calls. There was no fire on the hearth, so I made one and laying +[sic] down before it with my overcoat under my head, prepared myself +for sleep. Pretty soon the door that I had tried silently opened +and the old man came in, carrying a candle. I spoke to him +pleasantly, apologizing for my intrusion, but he took no notice of +me. He seemed to be searching for something, though his eyes were +unmoved in their sockets. I wonder if he ever walks in his sleep. +He took a circuit a part of the way round the room, and went out the +same way he had come in. Twice more before I slept he came back +into the room, acting precisely the same way, and departing as at +first. In the intervals I heard him tramping all over the house, +his footsteps distinctly audible in the pauses of the storm. When I +woke in the morning he had already gone out." + +Mr. Maren attempted some further questioning, but was unable longer +to restrain the family's tongues; the story of Deluse's death and +burial came out, greatly to the good minister's astonishment. + +"The explanation of your adventure is very simple," said Mr. Maren. +"I don't believe old Deluse walks in his sleep--not in his present +one; but you evidently dream in yours." + +And to this view of the matter Mr. Galbraith was compelled +reluctantly to assent. + +Nevertheless, a late hour of the next night found these two +gentlemen, accompanied by a son of the minister, in the road in +front of the old Deluse house. There was a light inside; it +appeared now at one window and now at another. The three men +advanced to the door. Just as they reached it there came from the +interior a confusion of the most appalling sounds--the clash of +weapons, steel against steel, sharp explosions as of firearms, +shrieks of women, groans and the curses of men in combat! The +investigators stood a moment, irresolute, frightened. Then Mr. +Galbraith tried the door. It was fast. But the minister was a man +of courage, a man, moreover, of Herculean strength. He retired a +pace or two and rushed against the door, striking it with his right +shoulder and bursting it from the frame with a loud crash. In a +moment the three were inside. Darkness and silence! The only sound +was the beating of their hearts. + +Mr. Maren had provided himself with matches and a candle. With some +difficulty, begotten of his excitement, he made a light, and they +proceeded to explore the place, passing from room to room. +Everything was in orderly arrangement, as it had been left by the +sheriff; nothing had been disturbed. A light coating of dust was +everywhere. A back door was partly open, as if by neglect, and +their first thought was that the authors of the awful revelry might +have escaped. The door was opened, and the light of the candle +shone through upon the ground. The expiring effort of the previous +night's storm had been a light fall of snow; there were no +footprints; the white surface was unbroken. They closed the door +and entered the last room of the four that the house contained--that +farthest from the road, in an angle of the building. Here the +candle in Mr. Maren's hand was suddenly extinguished as by a draught +of air. Almost immediately followed the sound of a heavy fall. +When the candle had been hastily relighted young Mr. Galbraith was +seen prostrate on the floor at a little distance from the others. +He was dead. In one hand the body grasped a heavy sack of coins, +which later examination showed to be all of old Spanish mintage. +Directly over the body as it lay, a board had been torn from its +fastenings in the wall, and from the cavity so disclosed it was +evident that the bag had been taken. + +Another inquest was held: another post-mortem examination failed to +reveal a probable cause of death. Another verdict of "the +visitation of God" left all at liberty to form their own +conclusions. Mr. Maren contended that the young man died of +excitement. + + + +A FRUITLESS ASSIGNMENT + + + +Henry Saylor, who was killed in Covington, in a quarrel with Antonio +Finch, was a reporter on the Cincinnati Commercial. In the year +1859 a vacant dwelling in Vine street, in Cincinnati, became the +center of a local excitement because of the strange sights and +sounds said to be observed in it nightly. According to the +testimony of many reputable residents of the vicinity these were +inconsistent with any other hypothesis than that the house was +haunted. Figures with something singularly unfamiliar about them +were seen by crowds on the sidewalk to pass in and out. No one +could say just where they appeared upon the open lawn on their way +to the front door by which they entered, nor at exactly what point +they vanished as they came out; or, rather, while each spectator was +positive enough about these matters, no two agreed. They were all +similarly at variance in their descriptions of the figures +themselves. Some of the bolder of the curious throng ventured on +several evenings to stand upon the doorsteps to intercept them, or +failing in this, get a nearer look at them. These courageous men, +it was said, were unable to force the door by their united strength, +and always were hurled from the steps by some invisible agency and +severely injured; the door immediately afterward opening, apparently +of its own volition, to admit or free some ghostly guest. The +dwelling was known as the Roscoe house, a family of that name having +lived there for some years, and then, one by one, disappeared, the +last to leave being an old woman. Stories of foul play and +successive murders had always been rife, but never were +authenticated. + +One day during the prevalence of the excitement Saylor presented +himself at the office of the Commercial for orders. He received a +note from the city editor which read as follows: "Go and pass the +night alone in the haunted house in Vine street and if anything +occurs worth while make two columns." Saylor obeyed his superior; +he could not afford to lose his position on the paper. + +Apprising the police of his intention, he effected an entrance +through a rear window before dark, walked through the deserted +rooms, bare of furniture, dusty and desolate, and seating himself at +last in the parlor on an old sofa which he had dragged in from +another room watched the deepening of the gloom as night came on. +Before it was altogether dark the curious crowd had collected in the +street, silent, as a rule, and expectant, with here and there a +scoffer uttering his incredulity and courage with scornful remarks +or ribald cries. None knew of the anxious watcher inside. He +feared to make a light; the uncurtained windows would have betrayed +his presence, subjecting him to insult, possibly to injury. +Moreover, he was too conscientious to do anything to enfeeble his +impressions and unwilling to alter any of the customary conditions +under which the manifestations were said to occur. + +It was now dark outside, but light from the street faintly +illuminated the part of the room that he was in. He had set open +every door in the whole interior, above and below, but all the outer +ones were locked and bolted. Sudden exclamations from the crowd +caused him to spring to the window and look out. He saw the figure +of a man moving rapidly across the lawn toward the building--saw it +ascend the steps; then a projection of the wall concealed it. There +was a noise as of the opening and closing of the hall door; he heard +quick, heavy footsteps along the passage--heard them ascend the +stairs--heard them on the uncarpeted floor of the chamber +immediately overhead. + +Saylor promptly drew his pistol, and groping his way up the stairs +entered the chamber, dimly lighted from the street. No one was +there. He heard footsteps in an adjoining room and entered that. +It was dark and silent. He struck his foot against some object on +the floor, knelt by it, passed his hand over it. It was a human +head--that of a woman. Lifting it by the hair this iron-nerved man +returned to the half-lighted room below, carried it near the window +and attentively examined it. While so engaged he was half conscious +of the rapid opening and closing of the outer door, of footfalls +sounding all about him. He raised his eyes from the ghastly object +of his attention and saw himself the center of a crowd of men and +women dimly seen; the room was thronged with them. He thought the +people had broken in. + +"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, coolly, "you see me under +suspicious circumstances, but"--his voice was drowned in peals of +laughter--such laughter as is heard in asylums for the insane. The +persons about him pointed at the object in his hand and their +merriment increased as he dropped it and it went rolling among their +feet. They danced about it with gestures grotesque and attitudes +obscene and indescribable. They struck it with their feet, urging +it about the room from wall to wall; pushed and overthrew one +another in their struggles to kick it; cursed and screamed and sang +snatches of ribald songs as the battered head bounded about the room +as if in terror and trying to escape. At last it shot out of the +door into the hall, followed by all, with tumultuous haste. That +moment the door closed with a sharp concussion. Saylor was alone, +in dead silence. + +Carefully putting away his pistol, which all the time he had held in +his hand, he went to a window and looked out. The street was +deserted and silent; the lamps were extinguished; the roofs and +chimneys of the houses were sharply outlined against the dawn-light +in the east. He left the house, the door yielding easily to his +hand, and walked to the Commercial office. The city editor was +still in his office--asleep. Saylor waked him and said: "I have +been at the haunted house." + +The editor stared blankly as if not wholly awake. "Good God!" he +cried, "are you Saylor?" + +"Yes--why not?" The editor made no answer, but continued staring. + +"I passed the night there--it seems," said Saylor. + +"They say that things were uncommonly quiet out there," the editor +said, trifling with a paper-weight upon which he had dropped his +eyes, "did anything occur?" + +"Nothing whatever." + + + +A VINE ON A HOUSE + + + +About three miles from the little town of Norton, in Missouri, on +the road leading to Maysville, stands an old house that was last +occupied by a family named Harding. Since 1886 no one has lived in +it, nor is anyone likely to live in it again. Time and the disfavor +of persons dwelling thereabout are converting it into a rather +picturesque ruin. An observer unacquainted with its history would +hardly put it into the category of "haunted houses," yet in all the +region round such is its evil reputation. Its windows are without +glass, its doorways without doors; there are wide breaches in the +shingle roof, and for lack of paint the weatherboarding is a dun +gray. But these unfailing signs of the supernatural are partly +concealed and greatly softened by the abundant foliage of a large +vine overrunning the entire structure. This vine--of a species +which no botanist has ever been able to name--has an important part +in the story of the house. + +The Harding family consisted of Robert Harding, his wife Matilda, +Miss Julia Went, who was her sister, and two young children. Robert +Harding was a silent, cold-mannered man who made no friends in the +neighborhood and apparently cared to make none. He was about forty +years old, frugal and industrious, and made a living from the little +farm which is now overgrown with brush and brambles. He and his +sister-in-law were rather tabooed by their neighbors, who seemed to +think that they were seen too frequently together--not entirely +their fault, for at these times they evidently did not challenge +observation. The moral code of rural Missouri is stern and +exacting. + +Mrs. Harding was a gentle, sad-eyed woman, lacking a left foot. + +At some time in 1884 it became known that she had gone to visit her +mother in Iowa. That was what her husband said in reply to +inquiries, and his manner of saying it did not encourage further +questioning. She never came back, and two years later, without +selling his farm or anything that was his, or appointing an agent to +look after his interests, or removing his household goods, Harding, +with the rest of the family, left the country. Nobody knew whither +he went; nobody at that time cared. Naturally, whatever was movable +about the place soon disappeared and the deserted house became +"haunted" in the manner of its kind. + +One summer evening, four or five years later, the Rev. J. Gruber, of +Norton, and a Maysville attorney named Hyatt met on horseback in +front of the Harding place. Having business matters to discuss, +they hitched their animals and going to the house sat on the porch +to talk. Some humorous reference to the somber reputation of the +place was made and forgotten as soon as uttered, and they talked of +their business affairs until it grew almost dark. The evening was +oppressively warm, the air stagnant. + +Presently both men started from their seats in surprise: a long +vine that covered half the front of the house and dangled its +branches from the edge of the porch above them was visibly and +audibly agitated, shaking violently in every stem and leaf. + +"We shall have a storm," Hyatt exclaimed. + +Gruber said nothing, but silently directed the other's attention to +the foliage of adjacent trees, which showed no movement; even the +delicate tips of the boughs silhouetted against the clear sky were +motionless. They hastily passed down the steps to what had been a +lawn and looked upward at the vine, whose entire length was now +visible. It continued in violent agitation, yet they could discern +no disturbing cause. + +"Let us leave," said the minister. + +And leave they did. Forgetting that they had been traveling in +opposite directions, they rode away together. They went to Norton, +where they related their strange experience to several discreet +friends. The next evening, at about the same hour, accompanied by +two others whose names are not recalled, they were again on the +porch of the Harding house, and again the mysterious phenomenon +occurred: the vine was violently agitated while under the closest +scrutiny from root to tip, nor did their combined strength applied +to the trunk serve to still it. After an hour's observation they +retreated, no less wise, it is thought, than when they had come. + +No great time was required for these singular facts to rouse the +curiosity of the entire neighborhood. By day and by night crowds of +persons assembled at the Harding house "seeking a sign." It does +not appear that any found it, yet so credible were the witnesses +mentioned that none doubted the reality of the "manifestations" to +which they testified. + +By either a happy inspiration or some destructive design, it was one +day proposed--nobody appeared to know from whom the suggestion came- +-to dig up the vine, and after a good deal of debate this was done. +Nothing was found but the root, yet nothing could have been more +strange! + +For five or six feet from the trunk, which had at the surface of the +ground a diameter of several inches, it ran downward, single and +straight, into a loose, friable earth; then it divided and +subdivided into rootlets, fibers and filaments, most curiously +interwoven. When carefully freed from soil they showed a singular +formation. In their ramifications and doublings back upon +themselves they made a compact network, having in size and shape an +amazing resemblance to the human figure. Head, trunk and limbs were +there; even the fingers and toes were distinctly defined; and many +professed to see in the distribution and arrangement of the fibers +in the globular mass representing the head a grotesque suggestion of +a face. The figure was horizontal; the smaller roots had begun to +unite at the breast. + +In point of resemblance to the human form this image was imperfect. +At about ten inches from one of the knees, the cilia forming that +leg had abruptly doubled backward and inward upon their course of +growth. The figure lacked the left foot. + +There was but one inference--the obvious one; but in the ensuing +excitement as many courses of action were proposed as there were +incapable counselors. The matter was settled by the sheriff of the +county, who as the lawful custodian of the abandoned estate ordered +the root replaced and the excavation filled with the earth that had +been removed. + +Later inquiry brought out only one fact of relevancy and +significance: Mrs. Harding had never visited her relatives in Iowa, +nor did they know that she was supposed to have done so. + +Of Robert Harding and the rest of his family nothing is known. The +house retains its evil reputation, but the replanted vine is as +orderly and well-behaved a vegetable as a nervous person could wish +to sit under of a pleasant night, when the katydids grate out their +immemorial revelation and the distant whippoorwill signifies his +notion of what ought to be done about it. + + + +AT OLD MAN ECKERT'S + + + +Philip Eckert lived for many years in an old, weather-stained wooden +house about three miles from the little town of Marion, in Vermont. +There must be quite a number of persons living who remember him, not +unkindly, I trust, and know something of the story that I am about +to tell. + +"Old Man Eckert," as he was always called, was not of a sociable +disposition and lived alone. As he was never known to speak of his +own affairs nobody thereabout knew anything of his past, nor of his +relatives if he had any. Without being particularly ungracious or +repellent in manner or speech, he managed somehow to be immune to +impertinent curiosity, yet exempt from the evil repute with which it +commonly revenges itself when baffled; so far as I know, Mr. +Eckert's renown as a reformed assassin or a retired pirate of the +Spanish Main had not reached any ear in Marion. He got his living +cultivating a small and not very fertile farm. + +One day he disappeared and a prolonged search by his neighbors +failed to turn him up or throw any light upon his whereabouts or +whyabouts. Nothing indicated preparation to leave: all was as he +might have left it to go to the spring for a bucket of water. For a +few weeks little else was talked of in that region; then "old man +Eckert" became a village tale for the ear of the stranger. I do not +know what was done regarding his property--the correct legal thing, +doubtless. The house was standing, still vacant and conspicuously +unfit, when I last heard of it, some twenty years afterward. + +Of course it came to be considered "haunted," and the customary +tales were told of moving lights, dolorous sounds and startling +apparitions. At one time, about five years after the disappearance, +these stories of the supernatural became so rife, or through some +attesting circumstances seemed so important, that some of Marion's +most serious citizens deemed it well to investigate, and to that end +arranged for a night session on the premises. The parties to this +undertaking were John Holcomb, an apothecary; Wilson Merle, a +lawyer, and Andrus C. Palmer, the teacher of the public school, all +men of consequence and repute. They were to meet at Holcomb's house +at eight o'clock in the evening of the appointed day and go together +to the scene of their vigil, where certain arrangements for their +comfort, a provision of fuel and the like, for the season was +winter, had been already made. + +Palmer did not keep the engagement, and after waiting a half-hour +for him the others went to the Eckert house without him. They +established themselves in the principal room, before a glowing fire, +and without other light than it gave, awaited events. It had been +agreed to speak as little as possible: they did not even renew the +exchange of views regarding the defection of Palmer, which had +occupied their minds on the way. + +Probably an hour had passed without incident when they heard (not +without emotion, doubtless) the sound of an opening door in the rear +of the house, followed by footfalls in the room adjoining that in +which they sat. The watchers rose to their feet, but stood firm, +prepared for whatever might ensue. A long silence followed--how +long neither would afterward undertake to say. Then the door +between the two rooms opened and a man entered. + +It was Palmer. He was pale, as if from excitement--as pale as the +others felt themselves to be. His manner, too, was singularly +distrait: he neither responded to their salutations nor so much as +looked at them, but walked slowly across the room in the light of +the failing fire and opening the front door passed out into the +darkness. + +It seems to have been the first thought of both men that Palmer was +suffering from fright--that something seen, heard or imagined in the +back room had deprived him of his senses. Acting on the same +friendly impulse both ran after him through the open door. But +neither they nor anyone ever again saw or heard of Andrus Palmer! + +This much was ascertained the next morning. During the session of +Messrs. Holcomb and Merle at the "haunted house" a new snow had +fallen to a depth of several inches upon the old. In this snow +Palmer's trail from his lodging in the village to the back door of +the Eckert house was conspicuous. But there it ended: from the +front door nothing led away but the tracks of the two men who swore +that he preceded them. Palmer's disappearance was as complete as +that of "old man Eckert" himself--whom, indeed, the editor of the +local paper somewhat graphically accused of having "reached out and +pulled him in." + + + +THE SPOOK HOUSE + + + +On the road leading north from Manchester, in eastern Kentucky, to +Booneville, twenty miles away, stood, in 1862, a wooden plantation +house of a somewhat better quality than most of the dwellings in +that region. The house was destroyed by fire in the year following- +-probably by some stragglers from the retreating column of General +George W. Morgan, when he was driven from Cumberland Gap to the Ohio +river by General Kirby Smith. At the time of its destruction, it +had for four or five years been vacant. The fields about it were +overgrown with brambles, the fences gone, even the few negro +quarters, and out-houses generally, fallen partly into ruin by +neglect and pillage; for the negroes and poor whites of the vicinity +found in the building and fences an abundant supply of fuel, of +which they availed themselves without hesitation, openly and by +daylight. By daylight alone; after nightfall no human being except +passing strangers ever went near the place. + +It was known as the "Spook House." That it was tenanted by evil +spirits, visible, audible and active, no one in all that region +doubted any more than he doubted what he was told of Sundays by the +traveling preacher. Its owner's opinion of the matter was unknown; +he and his family had disappeared one night and no trace of them had +ever been found. They left everything--household goods, clothing, +provisions, the horses in the stable, the cows in the field, the +negroes in the quarters--all as it stood; nothing was missing-- +except a man, a woman, three girls, a boy and a babe! It was not +altogether surprising that a plantation where seven human beings +could be simultaneously effaced and nobody the wiser should be under +some suspicion. + +One night in June, 1859, two citizens of Frankfort, Col. J. C. +McArdle, a lawyer, and Judge Myron Veigh, of the State Militia, were +driving from Booneville to Manchester. Their business was so +important that they decided to push on, despite the darkness and the +mutterings of an approaching storm, which eventually broke upon them +just as they arrived opposite the "Spook House." The lightning was +so incessant that they easily found their way through the gateway +and into a shed, where they hitched and unharnessed their team. +They then went to the house, through the rain, and knocked at all +the doors without getting any response. Attributing this to the +continuous uproar of the thunder they pushed at one of the doors, +which yielded. They entered without further ceremony and closed the +door. That instant they were in darkness and silence. Not a gleam +of the lightning's unceasing blaze penetrated the windows or +crevices; not a whisper of the awful tumult without reached them +there. It was as if they had suddenly been stricken blind and deaf, +and McArdle afterward said that for a moment he believed himself to +have been killed by a stroke of lightning as he crossed the +threshold. The rest of this adventure can as well be related in his +own words, from the Frankfort Advocate of August 6, 1876: + +"When I had somewhat recovered from the dazing effect of the +transition from uproar to silence, my first impulse was to reopen +the door which I had closed, and from the knob of which I was not +conscious of having removed my hand; I felt it distinctly, still in +the clasp of my fingers. My notion was to ascertain by stepping +again into the storm whether I had been deprived of sight and +hearing. I turned the doorknob and pulled open the door. It led +into another room! + +"This apartment was suffused with a faint greenish light, the source +of which I could not determine, making everything distinctly +visible, though nothing was sharply defined. Everything, I say, but +in truth the only objects within the blank stone walls of that room +were human corpses. In number they were perhaps eight or ten--it +may well be understood that I did not truly count them. They were +of different ages, or rather sizes, from infancy up, and of both +sexes. All were prostrate on the floor, excepting one, apparently a +young woman, who sat up, her back supported by an angle of the wall. +A babe was clasped in the arms of another and older woman. A half- +grown lad lay face downward across the legs of a full-bearded man. +One or two were nearly naked, and the hand of a young girl held the +fragment of a gown which she had torn open at the breast. The +bodies were in various stages of decay, all greatly shrunken in face +and figure. Some were but little more than skeletons. + +"While I stood stupefied with horror by this ghastly spectacle and +still holding open the door, by some unaccountable perversity my +attention was diverted from the shocking scene and concerned itself +with trifles and details. Perhaps my mind, with an instinct of +self-preservation, sought relief in matters which would relax its +dangerous tension. Among other things, I observed that the door +that I was holding open was of heavy iron plates, riveted. +Equidistant from one another and from the top and bottom, three +strong bolts protruded from the beveled edge. I turned the knob and +they were retracted flush with the edge; released it, and they shot +out. It was a spring lock. On the inside there was no knob, nor +any kind of projection--a smooth surface of iron. + +"While noting these things with an interest and attention which it +now astonishes me to recall I felt myself thrust aside, and Judge +Veigh, whom in the intensity and vicissitudes of my feelings I had +altogether forgotten, pushed by me into the room. 'For God's sake,' +I cried, 'do not go in there! Let us get out of this dreadful +place!' + +"He gave no heed to my entreaties, but (as fearless a gentleman as +lived in all the South) walked quickly to the center of the room, +knelt beside one of the bodies for a closer examination and tenderly +raised its blackened and shriveled head in his hands. A strong +disagreeable odor came through the doorway, completely overpowering +me. My senses reeled; I felt myself falling, and in clutching at +the edge of the door for support pushed it shut with a sharp click! + +"I remember no more: six weeks later I recovered my reason in a +hotel at Manchester, whither I had been taken by strangers the next +day. For all these weeks I had suffered from a nervous fever, +attended with constant delirium. I had been found lying in the road +several miles away from the house; but how I had escaped from it to +get there I never knew. On recovery, or as soon as my physicians +permitted me to talk, I inquired the fate of Judge Veigh, whom (to +quiet me, as I now know) they represented as well and at home. + +"No one believed a word of my story, and who can wonder? And who +can imagine my grief when, arriving at my home in Frankfort two +months later, I learned that Judge Veigh had never been heard of +since that night? I then regretted bitterly the pride which since +the first few days after the recovery of my reason had forbidden me +to repeat my discredited story and insist upon its truth. + +"With all that afterward occurred--the examination of the house; the +failure to find any room corresponding to that which I have +described; the attempt to have me adjudged insane, and my triumph +over my accusers--the readers of the Advocate are familiar. After +all these years I am still confident that excavations which I have +neither the legal right to undertake nor the wealth to make would +disclose the secret of the disappearance of my unhappy friend, and +possibly of the former occupants and owners of the deserted and now +destroyed house. I do not despair of yet bringing about such a +search, and it is a source of deep grief to me that it has been +delayed by the undeserved hostility and unwise incredulity of the +family and friends of the late Judge Veigh." + +Colonel McArdle died in Frankfort on the thirteenth day of December, +in the year 1879. + + + +THE OTHER LODGERS + + + +"In order to take that train," said Colonel Levering, sitting in the +Waldorf-Astoria hotel, "you will have to remain nearly all night in +Atlanta. That is a fine city, but I advise you not to put up at the +Breathitt House, one of the principal hotels. It is an old wooden +building in urgent need of repairs. There are breaches in the walls +that you could throw a cat through. The bedrooms have no locks on +the doors, no furniture but a single chair in each, and a bedstead +without bedding--just a mattress. Even these meager accommodations +you cannot be sure that you will have in monopoly; you must take +your chance of being stowed in with a lot of others. Sir, it is a +most abominable hotel. + +"The night that I passed in it was an uncomfortable night. I got in +late and was shown to my room on the ground floor by an apologetic +night-clerk with a tallow candle, which he considerately left with +me. I was worn out by two days and a night of hard railway travel +and had not entirely recovered from a gunshot wound in the head, +received in an altercation. Rather than look for better quarters I +lay down on the mattress without removing my clothing and fell +asleep. + +"Along toward morning I awoke. The moon had risen and was shining +in at the uncurtained window, illuminating the room with a soft, +bluish light which seemed, somehow, a bit spooky, though I dare say +it had no uncommon quality; all moonlight is that way if you will +observe it. Imagine my surprise and indignation when I saw the +floor occupied by at least a dozen other lodgers! I sat up, +earnestly damning the management of that unthinkable hotel, and was +about to spring from the bed to go and make trouble for the night- +clerk--him of the apologetic manner and the tallow candle--when +something in the situation affected me with a strange indisposition +to move. I suppose I was what a story-writer might call 'frozen +with terror.' For those men were obviously all dead! + +"They lay on their backs, disposed orderly along three sides of the +room, their feet to the walls--against the other wall, farthest from +the door, stood my bed and the chair. All the faces were covered, +but under their white cloths the features of the two bodies that lay +in the square patch of moonlight near the window showed in sharp +profile as to nose and chin. + +"I thought this a bad dream and tried to cry out, as one does in a +nightmare, but could make no sound. At last, with a desperate +effort I threw my feet to the floor and passing between the two rows +of clouted faces and the two bodies that lay nearest the door, I +escaped from the infernal place and ran to the office. The night- +clerk was there, behind the desk, sitting in the dim light of +another tallow candle--just sitting and staring. He did not rise: +my abrupt entrance produced no effect upon him, though I must have +looked a veritable corpse myself. It occurred to me then that I had +not before really observed the fellow. He was a little chap, with a +colorless face and the whitest, blankest eyes I ever saw. He had no +more expression than the back of my hand. His clothing was a dirty +gray. + +"'Damn you!' I said; 'what do you mean?' + +"Just the same, I was shaking like a leaf in the wind and did not +recognize my own voice. + +"The night-clerk rose, bowed (apologetically) and--well, he was no +longer there, and at that moment I felt a hand laid upon my shoulder +from behind. Just fancy that if you can! Unspeakably frightened, I +turned and saw a portly, kind-faced gentleman, who asked: + +"'What is the matter, my friend?' + +"I was not long in telling him, but before I made an end of it he +went pale himself. 'See here,' he said, 'are you telling the +truth?' + +"I had now got myself in hand and terror had given place to +indignation. 'If you dare to doubt it,' I said, 'I'll hammer the +life out of you!' + +"'No,' he replied, 'don't do that; just sit down till I tell you. +This is not a hotel. It used to be; afterward it was a hospital. +Now it is unoccupied, awaiting a tenant. The room that you mention +was the dead-room--there were always plenty of dead. The fellow +that you call the night-clerk used to be that, but later he booked +the patients as they were brought in. I don't understand his being +here. He has been dead a few weeks.' + +"'And who are you?' I blurted out. + +"'Oh, I look after the premises. I happened to be passing just now, +and seeing a light in here came in to investigate. Let us have a +look into that room,' he added, lifting the sputtering candle from +the desk. + +"'I'll see you at the devil first!' said I, bolting out of the door +into the street. + +"Sir, that Breathitt House, in Atlanta, is a beastly place! Don't +you stop there." + +"God forbid! Your account of it certainly does not suggest comfort. +By the way, Colonel, when did all that occur?" + +"In September, 1864--shortly after the siege." + + + +THE THING AT NOLAN + + + +To the south of where the road between Leesville and Hardy, in the +State of Missouri, crosses the east fork of May Creek stands an +abandoned house. Nobody has lived in it since the summer of 1879, +and it is fast going to pieces. For some three years before the +date mentioned above, it was occupied by the family of Charles May, +from one of whose ancestors the creek near which it stands took its +name. + +Mr. May's family consisted of a wife, an adult son and two young +girls. The son's name was John--the names of the daughters are +unknown to the writer of this sketch. + +John May was of a morose and surly disposition, not easily moved to +anger, but having an uncommon gift of sullen, implacable hate. His +father was quite otherwise; of a sunny, jovial disposition, but with +a quick temper like a sudden flame kindled in a wisp of straw, which +consumes it in a flash and is no more. He cherished no resentments, +and his anger gone, was quick to make overtures for reconciliation. +He had a brother living near by who was unlike him in respect of all +this, and it was a current witticism in the neighborhood that John +had inherited his disposition from his uncle. + +One day a misunderstanding arose between father and son, harsh words +ensued, and the father struck the son full in the face with his +fist. John quietly wiped away the blood that followed the blow, +fixed his eyes upon the already penitent offender and said with cold +composure, "You will die for that." + +The words were overheard by two brothers named Jackson, who were +approaching the men at the moment; but seeing them engaged in a +quarrel they retired, apparently unobserved. Charles May afterward +related the unfortunate occurrence to his wife and explained that he +had apologized to the son for the hasty blow, but without avail; the +young man not only rejected his overtures, but refused to withdraw +his terrible threat. Nevertheless, there was no open rupture of +relations: John continued living with the family, and things went +on very much as before. + +One Sunday morning in June, 1879, about two weeks after what has +been related, May senior left the house immediately after breakfast, +taking a spade. He said he was going to make an excavation at a +certain spring in a wood about a mile away, so that the cattle could +obtain water. John remained in the house for some hours, variously +occupied in shaving himself, writing letters and reading a +newspaper. His manner was very nearly what it usually was; perhaps +he was a trifle more sullen and surly. + +At two o'clock he left the house. At five, he returned. For some +reason not connected with any interest in his movements, and which +is not now recalled, the time of his departure and that of his +return were noted by his mother and sisters, as was attested at his +trial for murder. It was observed that his clothing was wet in +spots, as if (so the prosecution afterward pointed out) he had been +removing blood-stains from it. His manner was strange, his look +wild. He complained of illness, and going to his room took to his +bed. + +May senior did not return. Later that evening the nearest neighbors +were aroused, and during that night and the following day a search +was prosecuted through the wood where the spring was. It resulted +in little but the discovery of both men's footprints in the clay +about the spring. John May in the meantime had grown rapidly worse +with what the local physician called brain fever, and in his +delirium raved of murder, but did not say whom he conceived to have +been murdered, nor whom he imagined to have done the deed. But his +threat was recalled by the brothers Jackson and he was arrested on +suspicion and a deputy sheriff put in charge of him at his home. +Public opinion ran strongly against him and but for his illness he +would probably have been hanged by a mob. As it was, a meeting of +the neighbors was held on Tuesday and a committee appointed to watch +the case and take such action at any time as circumstances might +seem to warrant. + +On Wednesday all was changed. From the town of Nolan, eight miles +away, came a story which put a quite different light on the matter. +Nolan consisted of a school house, a blacksmith's shop, a "store" +and a half-dozen dwellings. The store was kept by one Henry Odell, +a cousin of the elder May. On the afternoon of the Sunday of May's +disappearance Mr. Odell and four of his neighbors, men of +credibility, were sitting in the store smoking and talking. It was +a warm day; and both the front and the back door were open. At +about three o'clock Charles May, who was well known to three of +them, entered at the front door and passed out at the rear. He was +without hat or coat. He did not look at them, nor return their +greeting, a circumstance which did not surprise, for he was +evidently seriously hurt. Above the left eyebrow was a wound--a +deep gash from which the blood flowed, covering the whole left side +of the face and neck and saturating his light-gray shirt. Oddly +enough, the thought uppermost in the minds of all was that he had +been fighting and was going to the brook directly at the back of the +store, to wash himself. + +Perhaps there was a feeling of delicacy--a backwoods etiquette which +restrained them from following him to offer assistance; the court +records, from which, mainly, this narrative is drawn, are silent as +to anything but the fact. They waited for him to return, but he did +not return. + +Bordering the brook behind the store is a forest extending for six +miles back to the Medicine Lodge Hills. As soon as it became known +in the neighborhood of the missing man's dwelling that he had been +seen in Nolan there was a marked alteration in public sentiment and +feeling. The vigilance committee went out of existence without the +formality of a resolution. Search along the wooded bottom lands of +May Creek was stopped and nearly the entire male population of the +region took to beating the bush about Nolan and in the Medicine +Lodge Hills. But of the missing man no trace was found. + +One of the strangest circumstances of this strange case is the +formal indictment and trial of a man for murder of one whose body no +human being professed to have seen--one not known to be dead. We +are all more or less familiar with the vagaries and eccentricities +of frontier law, but this instance, it is thought, is unique. +However that may be, it is of record that on recovering from his +illness John May was indicted for the murder of his missing father. +Counsel for the defense appears not to have demurred and the case +was tried on its merits. The prosecution was spiritless and +perfunctory; the defense easily established--with regard to the +deceased--an alibi. If during the time in which John May must have +killed Charles May, if he killed him at all, Charles May was miles +away from where John May must have been, it is plain that the +deceased must have come to his death at the hands of someone else. + +John May was acquitted, immediately left the country, and has never +been heard of from that day. Shortly afterward his mother and +sisters removed to St. Louis. The farm having passed into the +possession of a man who owns the land adjoining, and has a dwelling +of his own, the May house has ever since been vacant, and has the +somber reputation of being haunted. + +One day after the May family had left the country, some boys, +playing in the woods along May Creek, found concealed under a mass +of dead leaves, but partly exposed by the rooting of hogs, a spade, +nearly new and bright, except for a spot on one edge, which was +rusted and stained with blood. The implement had the initials C. M. +cut into the handle. + +This discovery renewed, in some degree, the public excitement of a +few months before. The earth near the spot where the spade was +found was carefully examined, and the result was the finding of the +dead body of a man. It had been buried under two or three feet of +soil and the spot covered with a layer of dead leaves and twigs. +There was but little decomposition, a fact attributed to some +preservative property in the mineral-bearing soil. + +Above the left eyebrow was a wound--a deep gash from which blood had +flowed, covering the whole left side of the face and neck and +saturating the light-gray shirt. The skull had been cut through by +the blow. The body was that of Charles May. + +But what was it that passed through Mr. Odell's store at Nolan? + + + + +"MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCES" + + + + +THE DIFFICULTY OF CROSSING A FIELD + + + +One morning in July, 1854, a planter named Williamson, living six +miles from Selma, Alabama, was sitting with his wife and a child on +the veranda of his dwelling. Immediately in front of the house was +a lawn, perhaps fifty yards in extent between the house and public +road, or, as it was called, the "pike." Beyond this road lay a +close-cropped pasture of some ten acres, level and without a tree, +rock, or any natural or artificial object on its surface. At the +time there was not even a domestic animal in the field. In another +field, beyond the pasture, a dozen slaves were at work under an +overseer. + +Throwing away the stump of a cigar, the planter rose, saying: "I +forgot to tell Andrew about those horses." Andrew was the overseer. + +Williamson strolled leisurely down the gravel walk, plucking a +flower as he went, passed across the road and into the pasture, +pausing a moment as he closed the gate leading into it, to greet a +passing neighbor, Armour Wren, who lived on an adjoining plantation. +Mr. Wren was in an open carriage with his son James, a lad of +thirteen. When he had driven some two hundred yards from the point +of meeting, Mr. Wren said to his son: "I forgot to tell Mr. +Williamson about those horses." + +Mr. Wren had sold to Mr. Williamson some horses, which were to have +been sent for that day, but for some reason not now remembered it +would be inconvenient to deliver them until the morrow. The +coachman was directed to drive back, and as the vehicle turned +Williamson was seen by all three, walking leisurely across the +pasture. At that moment one of the coach horses stumbled and came +near falling. It had no more than fairly recovered itself when +James Wren cried: "Why, father, what has become of Mr. Williamson?" + +It is not the purpose of this narrative to answer that question. + +Mr. Wren's strange account of the matter, given under oath in the +course of legal proceedings relating to the Williamson estate, here +follows: + +"My son's exclamation caused me to look toward the spot where I had +seen the deceased [sic] an instant before, but he was not there, nor +was he anywhere visible. I cannot say that at the moment I was +greatly startled, or realized the gravity of the occurrence, though +I thought it singular. My son, however, was greatly astonished and +kept repeating his question in different forms until we arrived at +the gate. My black boy Sam was similarly affected, even in a +greater degree, but I reckon more by my son's manner than by +anything he had himself observed. [This sentence in the testimony +was stricken out.] As we got out of the carriage at the gate of the +field, and while Sam was hanging [sic] the team to the fence, Mrs. +Williamson, with her child in her arms and followed by several +servants, came running down the walk in great excitement, crying: +'He is gone, he is gone! O God! what an awful thing!' and many +other such exclamations, which I do not distinctly recollect. I got +from them the impression that they related to something more--than +the mere disappearance of her husband, even if that had occurred +before her eyes. Her manner was wild, but not more so, I think, +than was natural under the circumstances. I have no reason to think +she had at that time lost her mind. I have never since seen nor +heard of Mr. Williamson." + +This testimony, as might have been expected, was corroborated in +almost every particular by the only other eye-witness (if that is a +proper term)--the lad James. Mrs. Williamson had lost her reason +and the servants were, of course, not competent to testify. The boy +James Wren had declared at first that he SAW the disappearance, but +there is nothing of this in his testimony given in court. None of +the field hands working in the field to which Williamson was going +had seen him at all, and the most rigorous search of the entire +plantation and adjoining country failed to supply a clew. The most +monstrous and grotesque fictions, originating with the blacks, were +current in that part of the State for many years, and probably are +to this day; but what has been here related is all that is certainly +known of the matter. The courts decided that Williamson was dead, +and his estate was distributed according to law. + + + +AN UNFINISHED RACE + + + +James Burne Worson was a shoemaker who lived in Leamington, +Warwickshire, England. He had a little shop in one of the by-ways +leading off the road to Warwick. In his humble sphere he was +esteemed an honest man, although like many of his class in English +towns he was somewhat addicted to drink. When in liquor he would +make foolish wagers. On one of these too frequent occasions he was +boasting of his prowess as a pedestrian and athlete, and the outcome +was a match against nature. For a stake of one sovereign he +undertook to run all the way to Coventry and back, a distance of +something more than forty miles. This was on the 3d day of +September in 1873. He set out at once, the man with whom he had +made the bet--whose name is not remembered--accompanied by Barham +Wise, a linen draper, and Hamerson Burns, a photographer, I think, +following in a light cart or wagon. + +For several miles Worson went on very well, at an easy gait, without +apparent fatigue, for he had really great powers of endurance and +was not sufficiently intoxicated to enfeeble them. The three men in +the wagon kept a short distance in the rear, giving him occasional +friendly "chaff" or encouragement, as the spirit moved them. +Suddenly--in the very middle of the roadway, not a dozen yards from +them, and with their eyes full upon him--the man seemed to stumble, +pitched headlong forward, uttered a terrible cry and vanished! He +did not fall to the earth--he vanished before touching it. No trace +of him was ever discovered. + +After remaining at and about the spot for some time, with aimless +irresolution, the three men returned to Leamington, told their +astonishing story and were afterward taken into custody. But they +were of good standing, had always been considered truthful, were +sober at the time of the occurrence, and nothing ever transpired to +discredit their sworn account of their extraordinary adventure, +concerning the truth of which, nevertheless, public opinion was +divided, throughout the United Kingdom. If they had something to +conceal, their choice of means is certainly one of the most amazing +ever made by sane human beings. + + + +CHARLES ASHMORE'S TRAIL + + + +The family of Christian Ashmore consisted of his wife, his mother, +two grown daughters, and a son of sixteen years. They lived in +Troy, New York, were well-to-do, respectable persons, and had many +friends, some of whom, reading these lines, will doubtless learn for +the first time the extraordinary fate of the young man. From Troy +the Ashmores moved in 1871 or 1872 to Richmond, Indiana, and a year +or two later to the vicinity of Quincy, Illinois, where Mr. Ashmore +bought a farm and lived on it. At some little distance from the +farmhouse was a spring with a constant flow of clear, cold water, +whence the family derived its supply for domestic use at all +seasons. + +On the evening of the 9th of November in 1878, at about nine +o'clock, young Charles Ashmore left the family circle about the +hearth, took a tin bucket and started toward the spring. As he did +not return, the family became uneasy, and going to the door by which +he had left the house, his father called without receiving an +answer. He then lighted a lantern and with the eldest daughter, +Martha, who insisted on accompanying him, went in search. A light +snow had fallen, obliterating the path, but making the young man's +trail conspicuous; each footprint was plainly defined. After going +a little more than half-way--perhaps seventy-five yards--the father, +who was in advance, halted, and elevating his lantern stood peering +intently into the darkness ahead. + +"What is the matter, father?" the girl asked. + +This was the matter: the trail of the young man had abruptly ended, +and all beyond was smooth, unbroken snow. The last footprints were +as conspicuous as any in the line; the very nail-marks were +distinctly visible. Mr. Ashmore looked upward, shading his eyes +with his hat held between them and the lantern. The stars were +shining; there was not a cloud in the sky; he was denied the +explanation which had suggested itself, doubtful as it would have +been--a new snowfall with a limit so plainly defined. Taking a wide +circuit round the ultimate tracks, so as to leave them undisturbed +for further examination, the man proceeded to the spring, the girl +following, weak and terrified. Neither had spoken a word of what +both had observed. The spring was covered with ice, hours old. + +Returning to the house they noted the appearance of the snow on both +sides of the trail its entire length. No tracks led away from it. + +The morning light showed nothing more. Smooth, spotless, unbroken, +the shallow snow lay everywhere. + +Four days later the grief-stricken mother herself went to the spring +for water. She came back and related that in passing the spot where +the footprints had ended she had heard the voice of her son and had +been eagerly calling to him, wandering about the place, as she had +fancied the voice to be now in one direction, now in another, until +she was exhausted with fatigue and emotion. + +Questioned as to what the voice had said, she was unable to tell, +yet averred that the words were perfectly distinct. In a moment the +entire family was at the place, but nothing was heard, and the voice +was believed to be an hallucination caused by the mother's great +anxiety and her disordered nerves. But for months afterward, at +irregular intervals of a few days, the voice was heard by the +several members of the family, and by others. All declared it +unmistakably the voice of Charles Ashmore; all agreed that it seemed +to come from a great distance, faintly, yet with entire distinctness +of articulation; yet none could determine its direction, nor repeat +its words. The intervals of silence grew longer and longer, the +voice fainter and farther, and by midsummer it was heard no more. + +If anybody knows the fate of Charles Ashmore it is probably his +mother. She is dead. + + + +SCIENCE TO THE FRONT + + + +In connection with this subject of "mysterious disappearance"--of +which every memory is stored with abundant example--it is pertinent +to note the belief of Dr. Hem, of Leipsic; not by way of +explanation, unless the reader may choose to take it so, but because +of its intrinsic interest as a singular speculation. This +distinguished scientist has expounded his views in a book entitled +"Verschwinden und Seine Theorie," which has attracted some +attention, "particularly," says one writer, "among the followers of +Hegel, and mathematicians who hold to the actual existence of a so- +called non-Euclidean space--that is to say, of space which has more +dimensions than length, breadth, and thickness--space in which it +would be possible to tie a knot in an endless cord and to turn a +rubber ball inside out without 'a solution of its continuity,' or in +other words, without breaking or cracking it." + +Dr. Hem believes that in the visible world there are void places-- +vacua, and something more--holes, as it were, through which animate +and inanimate objects may fall into the invisible world and be seen +and heard no more. The theory is something like this: Space is +pervaded by luminiferous ether, which is a material thing--as much a +substance as air or water, though almost infinitely more attenuated. +All force, all forms of energy must be propagated in this; every +process must take place in it which takes place at all. But let us +suppose that cavities exist in this otherwise universal medium, as +caverns exist in the earth, or cells in a Swiss cheese. In such a +cavity there would be absolutely nothing. It would be such a vacuum +as cannot be artificially produced; for if we pump the air from a +receiver there remains the luminiferous ether. Through one of these +cavities light could not pass, for there would be nothing to bear +it. Sound could not come from it; nothing could be felt in it. It +would not have a single one of the conditions necessary to the +action of any of our senses. In such a void, in short, nothing +whatever could occur. Now, in the words of the writer before +quoted--the learned doctor himself nowhere puts it so concisely: "A +man inclosed in such a closet could neither see nor be seen; neither +hear nor be heard; neither feel nor be felt; neither live nor die, +for both life and death are processes which can take place only +where there is force, and in empty space no force could exist." Are +these the awful conditions (some will ask) under which the friends +of the lost are to think of them as existing, and doomed forever to +exist? + +Baldly and imperfectly as here stated, Dr. Hem's theory, in so far +as it professes to be an adequate explanation of "mysterious +disappearances," is open to many obvious objections; to fewer as he +states it himself in the "spacious volubility" of his book. But +even as expounded by its author it does not explain, and in truth is +incompatible with some incidents of, the occurrences related in +these memoranda: for example, the sound of Charles Ashmore's voice. +It is not my duty to indue facts and theories with affinity. + +A.B. + + + +Footnotes: + +{1} The Isle of Pines was once a famous rendezvous of pirates. + +End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of Present at a Hanging et. al. +by Ambrose Bierce + diff --git a/old/prhg10.zip b/old/prhg10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..cbd7f7f --- /dev/null +++ b/old/prhg10.zip diff --git a/old/prhg10h.htm b/old/prhg10h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..769662e --- /dev/null +++ b/old/prhg10h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,2342 @@ +<!DOCTYPE HTML PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.01//EN"> +<html> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=US-ASCII"> +<title>Present at a Hanging and Other Ghost Stories</title> +</head> +<body> +<h2> +<a href="#startoftext">Present at a Hanging and Other Ghost Stories, by Ambrose Bierce</a> +</h2> +<pre> +The Project Gutenberg Etext of Present at a Hanging et al. +by Ambrose Bierce +(#8 in our series by Ambrose Bierce) + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world. 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FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.10/04/01*END* +</pre> +<p> +<a name="startoftext"></a> +PRESENT AT A HANGING AND OTHER GHOST STORIES<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +Contents:<br> +<br> +The Ways of Ghosts<br> + Present at a Hanging<br> + A Cold Greeting<br> + A Wireless Message<br> + An Arrest<br> +Soldier-Folk<br> + A Man with Two Lives<br> + Three and One are One<br> + A Baffled Ambuscade<br> + Two Military Executions<br> +Some Haunted Houses<br> + The Isle of Pines<br> + A Fruitless Assignment<br> + A Vine on a House<br> + At Old Man Eckert’s<br> + The Spook House<br> + The Other Lodgers<br> + The Thing at Nolan<br> + The Difficulty of Crossing a Field<br> + An Unfinished Race<br> + Charles Ashmore’s Trail<br> + Science to the Front<br> +<br> + <br> +<br> +THE WAYS OF GHOSTS<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +My peculiar relation to the writer of the following narratives is such +that I must ask the reader to overlook the absence of explanation as +to how they came into my possession. Withal, my knowledge of him +is so meager that I should rather not undertake to say if he were himself +persuaded of the truth of what he relates; certainly such inquiries +as I have thought it worth while to set about have not in every instance +tended to confirmation of the statements made. Yet his style, +for the most part devoid alike of artifice and art, almost baldly simple +and direct, seems hardly compatible with the disingenuousness of a merely +literary intention; one would call it the manner of one more concerned +for the fruits of research than for the flowers of expression. +In transcribing his notes and fortifying their claim to attention by +giving them something of an orderly arrangement, I have conscientiously +refrained from embellishing them with such small ornaments of diction +as I may have felt myself able to bestow, which would not only have +been impertinent, even if pleasing, but would have given me a somewhat +closer relation to the work than I should care to have and to avow. +- A. B.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +PRESENT AT A HANGING<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +An old man named Daniel Baker, living near Lebanon, Iowa, was suspected +by his neighbors of having murdered a peddler who had obtained permission +to pass the night at his house. This was in 1853, when peddling +was more common in the Western country than it is now, and was attended +with considerable danger. The peddler with his pack traversed +the country by all manner of lonely roads, and was compelled to rely +upon the country people for hospitality. This brought him into +relation with queer characters, some of whom were not altogether scrupulous +in their methods of making a living, murder being an acceptable means +to that end. It occasionally occurred that a peddler with diminished +pack and swollen purse would be traced to the lonely dwelling of some +rough character and never could be traced beyond. This was so +in the case of “old man Baker,” as he was always called. +(Such names are given in the western “settlements” only +to elderly persons who are not esteemed; to the general disrepute of +social unworth is affixed the special reproach of age.) A peddler +came to his house and none went away - that is all that anybody knew.<br> +<br> +Seven years later the Rev. Mr. Cummings, a Baptist minister well known +in that part of the country, was driving by Baker’s farm one night. +It was not very dark: there was a bit of moon somewhere above the light +veil of mist that lay along the earth. Mr. Cummings, who was at +all times a cheerful person, was whistling a tune, which he would occasionally +interrupt to speak a word of friendly encouragement to his horse. +As he came to a little bridge across a dry ravine he saw the figure +of a man standing upon it, clearly outlined against the gray background +of a misty forest. The man had something strapped on his back +and carried a heavy stick - obviously an itinerant peddler. His +attitude had in it a suggestion of abstraction, like that of a sleepwalker. +Mr. Cummings reined in his horse when he arrived in front of him, gave +him a pleasant salutation and invited him to a seat in the vehicle - +“if you are going my way,” he added. The man raised +his head, looked him full in the face, but neither answered nor made +any further movement. The minister, with good-natured persistence, +repeated his invitation. At this the man threw his right hand +forward from his side and pointed downward as he stood on the extreme +edge of the bridge. Mr. Cummings looked past him, over into the +ravine, saw nothing unusual and withdrew his eyes to address the man +again. He had disappeared. The horse, which all this time +had been uncommonly restless, gave at the same moment a snort of terror +and started to run away. Before he had regained control of the +animal the minister was at the crest of the hill a hundred yards along. +He looked back and saw the figure again, at the same place and in the +same attitude as when he had first observed it. Then for the first +time he was conscious of a sense of the supernatural and drove home +as rapidly as his willing horse would go.<br> +<br> +On arriving at home he related his adventure to his family, and early +the next morning, accompanied by two neighbors, John White Corwell and +Abner Raiser, returned to the spot. They found the body of old +man Baker hanging by the neck from one of the beams of the bridge, immediately +beneath the spot where the apparition had stood. A thick coating +of dust, slightly dampened by the mist, covered the floor of the bridge, +but the only footprints were those of Mr. Cummings’ horse.<br> +<br> +In taking down the body the men disturbed the loose, friable earth of +the slope below it, disclosing human bones already nearly uncovered +by the action of water and frost. They were identified as those +of the lost peddler. At the double inquest the coroner’s +jury found that Daniel Baker died by his own hand while suffering from +temporary insanity, and that Samuel Morritz was murdered by some person +or persons to the jury unknown.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +A COLD GREETING<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +This is a story told by the late Benson Foley of San Francisco:<br> +<br> +“In the summer of 1881 I met a man named James H. Conway, a resident +of Franklin, Tennessee. He was visiting San Francisco for his +health, deluded man, and brought me a note of introduction from Mr. +Lawrence Barting. I had known Barting as a captain in the Federal +army during the civil war. At its close he had settled in Franklin, +and in time became, I had reason to think, somewhat prominent as a lawyer. +Barting had always seemed to me an honorable and truthful man, and the +warm friendship which he expressed in his note for Mr. Conway was to +me sufficient evidence that the latter was in every way worthy of my +confidence and esteem. At dinner one day Conway told me that it +had been solemnly agreed between him and Barting that the one who died +first should, if possible, communicate with the other from beyond the +grave, in some unmistakable way - just how, they had left (wisely, it +seemed to me) to be decided by the deceased, according to the opportunities +that his altered circumstances might present.<br> +<br> +“A few weeks after the conversation in which Mr. Conway spoke +of this agreement, I met him one day, walking slowly down Montgomery +street, apparently, from his abstracted air, in deep thought. +He greeted me coldly with merely a movement of the head and passed on, +leaving me standing on the walk, with half-proffered hand, surprised +and naturally somewhat piqued. The next day I met him again in +the office of the Palace Hotel, and seeing him about to repeat the disagreeable +performance of the day before, intercepted him in a doorway, with a +friendly salutation, and bluntly requested an explanation of his altered +manner. He hesitated a moment; then, looking me frankly in the +eyes, said:<br> +<br> +“‘I do not think, Mr. Foley, that I have any longer a claim +to your friendship, since Mr. Barting appears to have withdrawn his +own from me - for what reason, I protest I do not know. If he +has not already informed you he probably will do so.’<br> +<br> +“‘But,’ I replied, ‘I have not heard from Mr. +Barting.’<br> +<br> +“‘Heard from him!’ he repeated, with apparent surprise. +‘Why, he is here. I met him yesterday ten minutes before +meeting you. I gave you exactly the same greeting that he gave +me. I met him again not a quarter of an hour ago, and his manner +was precisely the same: he merely bowed and passed on. I shall +not soon forget your civility to me. Good morning, or - as it +may please you - farewell.’<br> +<br> +“All this seemed to me singularly considerate and delicate behavior +on the part of Mr. Conway.<br> +<br> +“As dramatic situations and literary effects are foreign to my +purpose I will explain at once that Mr. Barting was dead. He had +died in Nashville four days before this conversation. Calling +on Mr. Conway, I apprised him of our friend’s death, showing him +the letters announcing it. He was visibly affected in a way that +forbade me to entertain a doubt of his sincerity.<br> +<br> +“‘It seems incredible,’ he said, after a period of +reflection. ‘I suppose I must have mistaken another man +for Barting, and that man’s cold greeting was merely a stranger’s +civil acknowledgment of my own. I remember, indeed, that he lacked +Barting’s mustache.’<br> +<br> +“‘Doubtless it was another man,’ I assented; and the +subject was never afterward mentioned between us. But I had in +my pocket a photograph of Barting, which had been inclosed in the letter +from his widow. It had been taken a week before his death, and +was without a mustache.”<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +A WIRELESS MESSAGE<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +In the summer of 1896 Mr. William Holt, a wealthy manufacturer of Chicago, +was living temporarily in a little town of central New York, the name +of which the writer’s memory has not retained. Mr. Holt +had had “trouble with his wife,” from whom he had parted +a year before. Whether the trouble was anything more serious than +“incompatibility of temper,” he is probably the only living +person that knows: he is not addicted to the vice of confidences. +Yet he has related the incident herein set down to at least one person +without exacting a pledge of secrecy. He is now living in Europe.<br> +<br> +One evening he had left the house of a brother whom he was visiting, +for a stroll in the country. It may be assumed - whatever the +value of the assumption in connection with what is said to have occurred +- that his mind was occupied with reflections on his domestic infelicities +and the distressing changes that they had wrought in his life.<br> +<br> +Whatever may have been his thoughts, they so possessed him that he observed +neither the lapse of time nor whither his feet were carrying him; he +knew only that he had passed far beyond the town limits and was traversing +a lonely region by a road that bore no resemblance to the one by which +he had left the village. In brief, he was “lost.”<br> +<br> +Realizing his mischance, he smiled; central New York is not a region +of perils, nor does one long remain lost in it. He turned about +and went back the way that he had come. Before he had gone far +he observed that the landscape was growing more distinct - was brightening. +Everything was suffused with a soft, red glow in which he saw his shadow +projected in the road before him. “The moon is rising,” +he said to himself. Then he remembered that it was about the time +of the new moon, and if that tricksy orb was in one of its stages of +visibility it had set long before. He stopped and faced about, +seeking the source of the rapidly broadening light. As he did +so, his shadow turned and lay along the road in front of him as before. +The light still came from behind him. That was surprising; he +could not understand. Again he turned, and again, facing successively +to every point of the horizon. Always the shadow was before - +always the light behind, “a still and awful red.”<br> +<br> +Holt was astonished - “dumfounded” is the word that he used +in telling it - yet seems to have retained a certain intelligent curiosity. +To test the intensity of the light whose nature and cause he could not +determine, he took out his watch to see if he could make out the figures +on the dial. They were plainly visible, and the hands indicated +the hour of eleven o’clock and twenty-five minutes. At that +moment the mysterious illumination suddenly flared to an intense, an +almost blinding splendor, flushing the entire sky, extinguishing the +stars and throwing the monstrous shadow of himself athwart the landscape. +In that unearthly illumination he saw near him, but apparently in the +air at a considerable elevation, the figure of his wife, clad in her +night-clothing and holding to her breast the figure of his child. +Her eyes were fixed upon his with an expression which he afterward professed +himself unable to name or describe, further than that it was “not +of this life.”<br> +<br> +The flare was momentary, followed by black darkness, in which, however, +the apparition still showed white and motionless; then by insensible +degrees it faded and vanished, like a bright image on the retina after +the closing of the eyes. A peculiarity of the apparition, hardly +noted at the time, but afterward recalled, was that it showed only the +upper half of the woman’s figure: nothing was seen below the waist.<br> +<br> +The sudden darkness was comparative, not absolute, for gradually all +objects of his environment became again visible.<br> +<br> +In the dawn of the morning Holt found himself entering the village at +a point opposite to that at which he had left it. He soon arrived +at the house of his brother, who hardly knew him. He was wild-eyed, +haggard, and gray as a rat. Almost incoherently, he related his +night’s experience.<br> +<br> +“Go to bed, my poor fellow,” said his brother, “and +- wait. We shall hear more of this.”<br> +<br> +An hour later came the predestined telegram. Holt’s dwelling +in one of the suburbs of Chicago had been destroyed by fire. Her +escape cut off by the flames, his wife had appeared at an upper window, +her child in her arms. There she had stood, motionless, apparently +dazed. Just as the firemen had arrived with a ladder, the floor +had given way, and she was seen no more.<br> +<br> +The moment of this culminating horror was eleven o’clock and twenty-five +minutes, standard time.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +AN ARREST<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +Having murdered his brother-in-law, Orrin Brower of Kentucky was a fugitive +from justice. From the county jail where he had been confined +to await his trial he had escaped by knocking down his jailer with an +iron bar, robbing him of his keys and, opening the outer door, walking +out into the night. The jailer being unarmed, Brower got no weapon +with which to defend his recovered liberty. As soon as he was +out of the town he had the folly to enter a forest; this was many years +ago, when that region was wilder than it is now.<br> +<br> +The night was pretty dark, with neither moon nor stars visible, and +as Brower had never dwelt thereabout, and knew nothing of the lay of +the land, he was, naturally, not long in losing himself. He could +not have said if he were getting farther away from the town or going +back to it - a most important matter to Orrin Brower. He knew +that in either case a posse of citizens with a pack of bloodhounds would +soon be on his track and his chance of escape was very slender; but +he did not wish to assist in his own pursuit. Even an added hour +of freedom was worth having.<br> +<br> +Suddenly he emerged from the forest into an old road, and there before +him saw, indistinctly, the figure of a man, motionless in the gloom. +It was too late to retreat: the fugitive felt that at the first movement +back toward the wood he would be, as he afterward explained, “filled +with buckshot.” So the two stood there like trees, Brower +nearly suffocated by the activity of his own heart; the other - the +emotions of the other are not recorded.<br> +<br> +A moment later - it may have been an hour - the moon sailed into a patch +of unclouded sky and the hunted man saw that visible embodiment of Law +lift an arm and point significantly toward and beyond him. He +understood. Turning his back to his captor, he walked submissively +away in the direction indicated, looking to neither the right nor the +left; hardly daring to breathe, his head and back actually aching with +a prophecy of buckshot.<br> +<br> +Brower was as courageous a criminal as ever lived to be hanged; that +was shown by the conditions of awful personal peril in which he had +coolly killed his brother-in-law. It is needless to relate them +here; they came out at his trial, and the revelation of his calmness +in confronting them came near to saving his neck. But what would +you have? - when a brave man is beaten, he submits.<br> +<br> +So they pursued their journey jailward along the old road through the +woods. Only once did Brower venture a turn of the head: just once, +when he was in deep shadow and he knew that the other was in moonlight, +he looked backward. His captor was Burton Duff, the jailer, as +white as death and bearing upon his brow the livid mark of the iron +bar. Orrin Brower had no further curiosity.<br> +<br> +Eventually they entered the town, which was all alight, but deserted; +only the women and children remained, and they were off the streets. +Straight toward the jail the criminal held his way. Straight up +to the main entrance he walked, laid his hand upon the knob of the heavy +iron door, pushed it open without command, entered and found himself +in the presence of a half-dozen armed men. Then he turned. +Nobody else entered.<br> +<br> +On a table in the corridor lay the dead body of Burton Duff.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +SOLDIER-FOLK<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +A MAN WITH TWO LIVES<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +Here is the queer story of David William Duck, related by himself. +Duck is an old man living in Aurora, Illinois, where he is universally +respected. He is commonly known, however, as “Dead Duck.”<br> +<br> +“In the autumn of 1866 I was a private soldier of the Eighteenth +Infantry. My company was one of those stationed at Fort Phil Kearney, +commanded by Colonel Carrington. The country is more or less familiar +with the history of that garrison, particularly with the slaughter by +the Sioux of a detachment of eighty-one men and officers - not one escaping +- through disobedience of orders by its commander, the brave but reckless +Captain Fetterman. When that occurred, I was trying to make my +way with important dispatches to Fort C. F. Smith, on the Big Horn. +As the country swarmed with hostile Indians, I traveled by night and +concealed myself as best I could before daybreak. The better to +do so, I went afoot, armed with a Henry rifle and carrying three days’ +rations in my haversack.<br> +<br> +“For my second place of concealment I chose what seemed in the +darkness a narrow cañon leading through a range of rocky hills. +It contained many large bowlders, detached from the slopes of the hills. +Behind one of these, in a clump of sage-brush, I made my bed for the +day, and soon fell asleep. It seemed as if I had hardly closed +my eyes, though in fact it was near midday, when I was awakened by the +report of a rifle, the bullet striking the bowlder just above my body. +A band of Indians had trailed me and had me nearly surrounded; the shot +had been fired with an execrable aim by a fellow who had caught sight +of me from the hillside above. The smoke of his rifle betrayed +him, and I was no sooner on my feet than he was off his and rolling +down the declivity. Then I ran in a stooping posture, dodging +among the clumps of sage-brush in a storm of bullets from invisible +enemies. The rascals did not rise and pursue, which I thought +rather queer, for they must have known by my trail that they had to +deal with only one man. The reason for their inaction was soon +made clear. I had not gone a hundred yards before I reached the +limit of my run - the head of the gulch which I had mistaken for a cañon. +It terminated in a concave breast of rock, nearly vertical and destitute +of vegetation. In that cul-de-sac I was caught like a bear in +a pen. Pursuit was needless; they had only to wait.<br> +<br> +“They waited. For two days and nights, crouching behind +a rock topped with a growth of mesquite, and with the cliff at my back, +suffering agonies of thirst and absolutely hopeless of deliverance, +I fought the fellows at long range, firing occasionally at the smoke +of their rifles, as they did at that of mine. Of course, I did +not dare to close my eyes at night, and lack of sleep was a keen torture.<br> +<br> +“I remember the morning of the third day, which I knew was to +be my last. I remember, rather indistinctly, that in my desperation +and delirium I sprang out into the open and began firing my repeating +rifle without seeing anybody to fire at. And I remember no more +of that fight.<br> +<br> +“The next thing that I recollect was my pulling myself out of +a river just at nightfall. I had not a rag of clothing and knew +nothing of my whereabouts, but all that night I traveled, cold and footsore, +toward the north. At daybreak I found myself at Fort C. F. Smith, +my destination, but without my dispatches. The first man that +I met was a sergeant named William Briscoe, whom I knew very well. +You can fancy his astonishment at seeing me in that condition, and my +own at his asking who the devil I was.<br> +<br> +“‘Dave Duck,’ I answered; ‘who should I be?’<br> +<br> +“He stared like an owl.<br> +<br> +“‘You do look it,’ he said, and I observed that he +drew a little away from me. ‘What’s up?’ he +added.<br> +<br> +“I told him what had happened to me the day before. He heard +me through, still staring; then he said:<br> +<br> +“‘My dear fellow, if you are Dave Duck I ought to inform +you that I buried you two months ago. I was out with a small scouting +party and found your body, full of bullet-holes and newly scalped - +somewhat mutilated otherwise, too, I am sorry to say - right where you +say you made your fight. Come to my tent and I’ll show you +your clothing and some letters that I took from your person; the commandant +has your dispatches.’<br> +<br> +“He performed that promise. He showed me the clothing, which +I resolutely put on; the letters, which I put into my pocket. +He made no objection, then took me to the commandant, who heard my story +and coldly ordered Briscoe to take me to the guardhouse. On the +way I said:<br> +<br> +“‘Bill Briscoe, did you really and truly bury the dead body +that you found in these togs?’<br> +<br> +“‘Sure,’ he answered - ‘just as I told you. +It was Dave Duck, all right; most of us knew him. And now, you +damned impostor, you’d better tell me who you are.’<br> +<br> +“‘I’d give something to know,’ I said.<br> +<br> +“A week later, I escaped from the guardhouse and got out of the +country as fast as I could. Twice I have been back, seeking for +that fateful spot in the hills, but unable to find it.”<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +THREE AND ONE ARE ONE<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +In the year 1861 Barr Lassiter, a young man of twenty-two, lived with +his parents and an elder sister near Carthage, Tennessee. The +family were in somewhat humble circumstances, subsisting by cultivation +of a small and not very fertile plantation. Owning no slaves, +they were not rated among “the best people” of their neighborhood; +but they were honest persons of good education, fairly well mannered +and as respectable as any family could be if uncredentialed by personal +dominion over the sons and daughters of Ham. The elder Lassiter +had that severity of manner that so frequently affirms an uncompromising +devotion to duty, and conceals a warm and affectionate disposition. +He was of the iron of which martyrs are made, but in the heart of the +matrix had lurked a nobler metal, fusible at a milder heat, yet never +coloring nor softening the hard exterior. By both heredity and +environment something of the man’s inflexible character had touched +the other members of the family; the Lassiter home, though not devoid +of domestic affection, was a veritable citadel of duty, and duty - ah, +duty is as cruel as death!<br> +<br> +When the war came on it found in the family, as in so many others in +that State, a divided sentiment; the young man was loyal to the Union, +the others savagely hostile. This unhappy division begot an insupportable +domestic bitterness, and when the offending son and brother left home +with the avowed purpose of joining the Federal army not a hand was laid +in his, not a word of farewell was spoken, not a good wish followed +him out into the world whither he went to meet with such spirit as he +might whatever fate awaited him.<br> +<br> +Making his way to Nashville, already occupied by the Army of General +Buell, he enlisted in the first organization that he found, a Kentucky +regiment of cavalry, and in due time passed through all the stages of +military evolution from raw recruit to experienced trooper. A +right good trooper he was, too, although in his oral narrative from +which this tale is made there was no mention of that; the fact was learned +from his surviving comrades. For Barr Lassiter has answered “Here” +to the sergeant whose name is Death.<br> +<br> +Two years after he had joined it his regiment passed through the region +whence he had come. The country thereabout had suffered severely +from the ravages of war, having been occupied alternately (and simultaneously) +by the belligerent forces, and a sanguinary struggle had occurred in +the immediate vicinity of the Lassiter homestead. But of this +the young trooper was not aware.<br> +<br> +Finding himself in camp near his home, he felt a natural longing to +see his parents and sister, hoping that in them, as in him, the unnatural +animosities of the period had been softened by time and separation. +Obtaining a leave of absence, he set foot in the late summer afternoon, +and soon after the rising of the full moon was walking up the gravel +path leading to the dwelling in which he had been born.<br> +<br> +Soldiers in war age rapidly, and in youth two years are a long time. +Barr Lassiter felt himself an old man, and had almost expected to find +the place a ruin and a desolation. Nothing, apparently, was changed. +At the sight of each dear and familiar object he was profoundly affected. +His heart beat audibly, his emotion nearly suffocated him; an ache was +in his throat. Unconsciously he quickened his pace until he almost +ran, his long shadow making grotesque efforts to keep its place beside +him.<br> +<br> +The house was unlighted, the door open. As he approached and paused +to recover control of himself his father came out and stood bare-headed +in the moonlight.<br> +<br> +“Father!” cried the young man, springing forward with outstretched +hand - “Father!”<br> +<br> +The elder man looked him sternly in the face, stood a moment motionless +and without a word withdrew into the house. Bitterly disappointed, +humiliated, inexpressibly hurt and altogether unnerved, the soldier +dropped upon a rustic seat in deep dejection, supporting his head upon +his trembling hand. But he would not have it so: he was too good +a soldier to accept repulse as defeat. He rose and entered the +house, passing directly to the “sitting-room.”<br> +<br> +It was dimly lighted by an uncurtained east window. On a low stool +by the hearthside, the only article of furniture in the place, sat his +mother, staring into a fireplace strewn with blackened embers and cold +ashes. He spoke to her - tenderly, interrogatively, and with hesitation, +but she neither answered, nor moved, nor seemed in any way surprised. +True, there had been time for her husband to apprise her of their guilty +son’s return. He moved nearer and was about to lay his hand +upon her arm, when his sister entered from an adjoining room, looked +him full in the face, passed him without a sign of recognition and left +the room by a door that was partly behind him. He had turned his +head to watch her, but when she was gone his eyes again sought his mother. +She too had left the place.<br> +<br> +Barr Lassiter strode to the door by which he had entered. The +moonlight on the lawn was tremulous, as if the sward were a rippling +sea. The trees and their black shadows shook as in a breeze. +Blended with its borders, the gravel walk seemed unsteady and insecure +to step on. This young soldier knew the optical illusions produced +by tears. He felt them on his cheek, and saw them sparkle on the +breast of his trooper’s jacket. He left the house and made +his way back to camp.<br> +<br> +The next day, with no very definite intention, with no dominant feeling +that he could rightly have named, he again sought the spot. Within +a half-mile of it he met Bushrod Albro, a former playfellow and schoolmate, +who greeted him warmly.<br> +<br> +“I am going to visit my home,” said the soldier.<br> +<br> +The other looked at him rather sharply, but said nothing.<br> +<br> +“I know,” continued Lassiter, “that my folks have +not changed, but - ”<br> +<br> +“There have been changes,” Albro interrupted - “everything +changes. I’ll go with you if you don’t mind. +We can talk as we go.”<br> +<br> +But Albro did not talk.<br> +<br> +Instead of a house they found only fire-blackened foundations of stone, +enclosing an area of compact ashes pitted by rains.<br> +<br> +Lassiter’s astonishment was extreme.<br> +<br> +“I could not find the right way to tell you,” said Albro. +“In the fight a year ago your house was burned by a Federal shell.”<br> +<br> +“And my family - where are they?”<br> +<br> +“In Heaven, I hope. All were killed by the shell.”<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +A BAFFLED AMBUSCADE<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +Connecting Readyville and Woodbury was a good, hard turnpike nine or +ten miles long. Readyville was an outpost of the Federal army +at Murfreesboro; Woodbury had the same relation to the Confederate army +at Tullahoma. For months after the big battle at Stone River these +outposts were in constant quarrel, most of the trouble occurring, naturally, +on the turnpike mentioned, between detachments of cavalry. Sometimes +the infantry and artillery took a hand in the game by way of showing +their good-will.<br> +<br> +One night a squadron of Federal horse commanded by Major Seidel, a gallant +and skillful officer, moved out from Readyville on an uncommonly hazardous +enterprise requiring secrecy, caution and silence.<br> +<br> +Passing the infantry pickets, the detachment soon afterward approached +two cavalry videttes staring hard into the darkness ahead. There +should have been three.<br> +<br> +“Where is your other man?” said the major. “I +ordered Dunning to be here to-night.”<br> +<br> +“He rode forward, sir,” the man replied. “There +was a little firing afterward, but it was a long way to the front.”<br> +<br> +“It was against orders and against sense for Dunning to do that,” +said the officer, obviously vexed. “Why did he ride forward?”<br> +<br> +“Don’t know, sir; he seemed mighty restless. Guess +he was skeered.”<br> +<br> +When this remarkable reasoner and his companion had been absorbed into +the expeditionary force, it resumed its advance. Conversation +was forbidden; arms and accouterments were denied the right to rattle. +The horses’ tramping was all that could be heard and the movement +was slow in order to have as little as possible of that. It was +after midnight and pretty dark, although there was a bit of moon somewhere +behind the masses of cloud.<br> +<br> +Two or three miles along, the head of the column approached a dense +forest of cedars bordering the road on both sides. The major commanded +a halt by merely halting, and, evidently himself a bit “skeered,” +rode on alone to reconnoiter. He was followed, however, by his +adjutant and three troopers, who remained a little distance behind and, +unseen by him, saw all that occurred.<br> +<br> +After riding about a hundred yards toward the forest, the major suddenly +and sharply reined in his horse and sat motionless in the saddle. +Near the side of the road, in a little open space and hardly ten paces +away, stood the figure of a man, dimly visible and as motionless as +he. The major’s first feeling was that of satisfaction in +having left his cavalcade behind; if this were an enemy and should escape +he would have little to report. The expedition was as yet undetected.<br> +<br> +Some dark object was dimly discernible at the man’s feet; the +officer could not make it out. With the instinct of the true cavalryman +and a particular indisposition to the discharge of firearms, he drew +his saber. The man on foot made no movement in answer to the challenge. +The situation was tense and a bit dramatic. Suddenly the moon +burst through a rift in the clouds and, himself in the shadow of a group +of great oaks, the horseman saw the footman clearly, in a patch of white +light. It was Trooper Dunning, unarmed and bareheaded. The +object at his feet resolved itself into a dead horse, and at a right +angle across the animal’s neck lay a dead man, face upward in +the moonlight.<br> +<br> +“Dunning has had the fight of his life,” thought the major, +and was about to ride forward. Dunning raised his hand, motioning +him back with a gesture of warning; then, lowering the arm, he pointed +to the place where the road lost itself in the blackness of the cedar +forest.<br> +<br> +The major understood, and turning his horse rode back to the little +group that had followed him and was already moving to the rear in fear +of his displeasure, and so returned to the head of his command.<br> +<br> +“Dunning is just ahead there,” he said to the captain of +his leading company. “He has killed his man and will have +something to report.”<br> +<br> +Right patiently they waited, sabers drawn, but Dunning did not come. +In an hour the day broke and the whole force moved cautiously forward, +its commander not altogether satisfied with his faith in Private Dunning. +The expedition had failed, but something remained to be done.<br> +<br> +In the little open space off the road they found the fallen horse. +At a right angle across the animal’s neck face upward, a bullet +in the brain, lay the body of Trooper Dunning, stiff as a statue, hours +dead.<br> +<br> +Examination disclosed abundant evidence that within a half-hour the +cedar forest had been occupied by a strong force of Confederate infantry +- an ambuscade.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +TWO MILITARY EXECUTIONS<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +In the spring of the year 1862 General Buell’s big army lay in +camp, licking itself into shape for the campaign which resulted in the +victory at Shiloh. It was a raw, untrained army, although some +of its fractions had seen hard enough service, with a good deal of fighting, +in the mountains of Western Virginia, and in Kentucky. The war +was young and soldiering a new industry, imperfectly understood by the +young American of the period, who found some features of it not altogether +to his liking. Chief among these was that essential part of discipline, +subordination. To one imbued from infancy with the fascinating +fallacy that all men are born equal, unquestioning submission to authority +is not easily mastered, and the American volunteer soldier in his “green +and salad days” is among the worst known. That is how it +happened that one of Buell’s men, Private Bennett Story Greene, +committed the indiscretion of striking his officer. Later in the +war he would not have done that; like Sir Andrew Aguecheek, he would +have “seen him damned” first. But time for reformation +of his military manners was denied him: he was promptly arrested on +complaint of the officer, tried by court-martial and sentenced to be +shot.<br> +<br> +“You might have thrashed me and let it go at that,” said +the condemned man to the complaining witness; “that is what you +used to do at school, when you were plain Will Dudley and I was as good +as you. Nobody saw me strike you; discipline would not have suffered +much.”<br> +<br> +“Ben Greene, I guess you are right about that,” said the +lieutenant. “Will you forgive me? That is what I came +to see you about.”<br> +<br> +There was no reply, and an officer putting his head in at the door of +the guard-tent where the conversation had occurred, explained that the +time allowed for the interview had expired. The next morning, +when in the presence of the whole brigade Private Greene was shot to +death by a squad of his comrades, Lieutenant Dudley turned his back +upon the sorry performance and muttered a prayer for mercy, in which +himself was included.<br> +<br> +A few weeks afterward, as Buell’s leading division was being ferried +over the Tennessee River to assist in succoring Grant’s beaten +army, night was coming on, black and stormy. Through the wreck +of battle the division moved, inch by inch, in the direction of the +enemy, who had withdrawn a little to reform his lines. But for +the lightning the darkness was absolute. Never for a moment did +it cease, and ever when the thunder did not crack and roar were heard +the moans of the wounded among whom the men felt their way with their +feet, and upon whom they stumbled in the gloom. The dead were +there, too - there were dead a-plenty.<br> +<br> +In the first faint gray of the morning, when the swarming advance had +paused to resume something of definition as a line of battle, and skirmishers +had been thrown forward, word was passed along to call the roll. +The first sergeant of Lieutenant Dudley’s company stepped to the +front and began to name the men in alphabetical order. He had +no written roll, but a good memory. The men answered to their +names as he ran down the alphabet to G.<br> +<br> +“Gorham.”<br> +<br> +“Here!”<br> +<br> +“Grayrock.”<br> +<br> +“Here!”<br> +<br> +The sergeant’s good memory was affected by habit:<br> +<br> +“Greene.”<br> +<br> +“Here!”<br> +<br> +The response was clear, distinct, unmistakable!<br> +<br> +A sudden movement, an agitation of the entire company front, as from +an electric shock, attested the startling character of the incident. +The sergeant paled and paused. The captain strode quickly to his +side and said sharply:<br> +<br> +“Call that name again.”<br> +<br> +Apparently the Society for Psychical Research is not first in the field +of curiosity concerning the Unknown.<br> +<br> +“Bennett Greene.”<br> +<br> +“Here!”<br> +<br> +All faces turned in the direction of the familiar voice; the two men +between whom in the order of stature Greene had commonly stood in line +turned and squarely confronted each other.<br> +<br> +“Once more,” commanded the inexorable investigator, and +once more came - a trifle tremulously - the name of the dead man:<br> +<br> +“Bennett Story Greene.”<br> +<br> +“Here!”<br> +<br> +At that instant a single rifle-shot was heard, away to the front, beyond +the skirmish-line, followed, almost attended, by the savage hiss of +an approaching bullet which passing through the line, struck audibly, +punctuating as with a full stop the captain’s exclamation, “What +the devil does it mean?”<br> +<br> +Lieutenant Dudley pushed through the ranks from his place in the rear.<br> +<br> +“It means this,” he said, throwing open his coat and displaying +a visibly broadening stain of crimson on his breast. His knees +gave way; he fell awkwardly and lay dead.<br> +<br> +A little later the regiment was ordered out of line to relieve the congested +front, and through some misplay in the game of battle was not again +under fire. Nor did Bennett Greene, expert in military executions, +ever again signify his presence at one.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +SOME HAUNTED HOUSES<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +THE ISLE OF PINES<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +For many years there lived near the town of Gallipolis, Ohio, an old +man named Herman Deluse. Very little was known of his history, +for he would neither speak of it himself nor suffer others. It +was a common belief among his neighbors that he had been a pirate - +if upon any better evidence than his collection of boarding pikes, cutlasses, +and ancient flintlock pistols, no one knew. He lived entirely +alone in a small house of four rooms, falling rapidly into decay and +never repaired further than was required by the weather. It stood +on a slight elevation in the midst of a large, stony field overgrown +with brambles, and cultivated in patches and only in the most primitive +way. It was his only visible property, but could hardly have yielded +him a living, simple and few as were his wants. He seemed always +to have ready money, and paid cash for all his purchases at the village +stores roundabout, seldom buying more than two or three times at the +same place until after the lapse of a considerable time. He got +no commendation, however, for this equitable distribution of his patronage; +people were disposed to regard it as an ineffectual attempt to conceal +his possession of so much money. That he had great hoards of ill-gotten +gold buried somewhere about his tumble-down dwelling was not reasonably +to be doubted by any honest soul conversant with the facts of local +tradition and gifted with a sense of the fitness of things.<br> +<br> +On the 9th of November, 1867, the old man died; at least his dead body +was discovered on the 10th, and physicians testified that death had +occurred about twenty-four hours previously - precisely how, they were +unable to say; for the <i>post-mortem </i>examination showed every organ +to be absolutely healthy, with no indication of disorder or violence. +According to them, death must have taken place about noonday, yet the +body was found in bed. The verdict of the coroner’s jury +was that he “came to his death by a visitation of God.” +The body was buried and the public administrator took charge of the +estate.<br> +<br> +A rigorous search disclosed nothing more than was already known about +the dead man, and much patient excavation here and there about the premises +by thoughtful and thrifty neighbors went unrewarded. The administrator +locked up the house against the time when the property, real and personal, +should be sold by law with a view to defraying, partly, the expenses +of the sale.<br> +<br> +The night of November 20 was boisterous. A furious gale stormed +across the country, scourging it with desolating drifts of sleet. +Great trees were torn from the earth and hurled across the roads. +So wild a night had never been known in all that region, but toward +morning the storm had blown itself out of breath and day dawned bright +and clear. At about eight o’clock that morning the Rev. +Henry Galbraith, a well-known and highly esteemed Lutheran minister, +arrived on foot at his house, a mile and a half from the Deluse place. +Mr. Galbraith had been for a month in Cincinnati. He had come +up the river in a steamboat, and landing at Gallipolis the previous +evening had immediately obtained a horse and buggy and set out for home. +The violence of the storm had delayed him over night, and in the morning +the fallen trees had compelled him to abandon his conveyance and continue +his journey afoot.<br> +<br> +“But where did you pass the night?” inquired his wife, after +he had briefly related his adventure.<br> +<br> +“With old Deluse at the ‘Isle of Pines,’” <a name="citation1"></a><a href="#footnote1">{1}</a> +was the laughing reply; “and a glum enough time I had of it. +He made no objection to my remaining, but not a word could I get out +of him.”<br> +<br> +Fortunately for the interests of truth there was present at this conversation +Mr. Robert Mosely Maren, a lawyer and <i>littérateur </i>of Columbus, +the same who wrote the delightful “Mellowcraft Papers.” +Noting, but apparently not sharing, the astonishment caused by Mr. Galbraith’s +answer this ready-witted person checked by a gesture the exclamations +that would naturally have followed, and tranquilly inquired: “How +came you to go in there?”<br> +<br> +This is Mr. Maren’s version of Mr. Galbraith’s reply:<br> +<br> +“I saw a light moving about the house, and being nearly blinded +by the sleet, and half frozen besides, drove in at the gate and put +up my horse in the old rail stable, where it is now. I then rapped +at the door, and getting no invitation went in without one. The +room was dark, but having matches I found a candle and lit it. +I tried to enter the adjoining room, but the door was fast, and although +I heard the old man’s heavy footsteps in there he made no response +to my calls. There was no fire on the hearth, so I made one and +laying <i>[sic] </i>down before it with my overcoat under my head, prepared +myself for sleep. Pretty soon the door that I had tried silently +opened and the old man came in, carrying a candle. I spoke to +him pleasantly, apologizing for my intrusion, but he took no notice +of me. He seemed to be searching for something, though his eyes +were unmoved in their sockets. I wonder if he ever walks in his +sleep. He took a circuit a part of the way round the room, and +went out the same way he had come in. Twice more before I slept +he came back into the room, acting precisely the same way, and departing +as at first. In the intervals I heard him tramping all over the +house, his footsteps distinctly audible in the pauses of the storm. +When I woke in the morning he had already gone out.”<br> +<br> +Mr. Maren attempted some further questioning, but was unable longer +to restrain the family’s tongues; the story of Deluse’s +death and burial came out, greatly to the good minister’s astonishment.<br> +<br> +“The explanation of your adventure is very simple,” said +Mr. Maren. “I don’t believe old Deluse walks in his +sleep - not in his present one; but you evidently dream in yours.”<br> +<br> +And to this view of the matter Mr. Galbraith was compelled reluctantly +to assent.<br> +<br> +Nevertheless, a late hour of the next night found these two gentlemen, +accompanied by a son of the minister, in the road in front of the old +Deluse house. There was a light inside; it appeared now at one +window and now at another. The three men advanced to the door. +Just as they reached it there came from the interior a confusion of +the most appalling sounds - the clash of weapons, steel against steel, +sharp explosions as of firearms, shrieks of women, groans and the curses +of men in combat! The investigators stood a moment, irresolute, +frightened. Then Mr. Galbraith tried the door. It was fast. +But the minister was a man of courage, a man, moreover, of Herculean +strength. He retired a pace or two and rushed against the door, +striking it with his right shoulder and bursting it from the frame with +a loud crash. In a moment the three were inside. Darkness +and silence! The only sound was the beating of their hearts.<br> +<br> +Mr. Maren had provided himself with matches and a candle. With +some difficulty, begotten of his excitement, he made a light, and they +proceeded to explore the place, passing from room to room. Everything +was in orderly arrangement, as it had been left by the sheriff; nothing +had been disturbed. A light coating of dust was everywhere. +A back door was partly open, as if by neglect, and their first thought +was that the authors of the awful revelry might have escaped. +The door was opened, and the light of the candle shone through upon +the ground. The expiring effort of the previous night’s +storm had been a light fall of snow; there were no footprints; the white +surface was unbroken. They closed the door and entered the last +room of the four that the house contained - that farthest from the road, +in an angle of the building. Here the candle in Mr. Maren’s +hand was suddenly extinguished as by a draught of air. Almost +immediately followed the sound of a heavy fall. When the candle +had been hastily relighted young Mr. Galbraith was seen prostrate on +the floor at a little distance from the others. He was dead. +In one hand the body grasped a heavy sack of coins, which later examination +showed to be all of old Spanish mintage. Directly over the body +as it lay, a board had been torn from its fastenings in the wall, and +from the cavity so disclosed it was evident that the bag had been taken.<br> +<br> +Another inquest was held: another <i>post-mortem </i>examination failed +to reveal a probable cause of death. Another verdict of “the +visitation of God” left all at liberty to form their own conclusions. +Mr. Maren contended that the young man died of excitement.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +A FRUITLESS ASSIGNMENT<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +Henry Saylor, who was killed in Covington, in a quarrel with Antonio +Finch, was a reporter on the Cincinnati <i>Commercial. </i>In +the year 1859 a vacant dwelling in Vine street, in Cincinnati, became +the center of a local excitement because of the strange sights and sounds +said to be observed in it nightly. According to the testimony +of many reputable residents of the vicinity these were inconsistent +with any other hypothesis than that the house was haunted. Figures +with something singularly unfamiliar about them were seen by crowds +on the sidewalk to pass in and out. No one could say just where +they appeared upon the open lawn on their way to the front door by which +they entered, nor at exactly what point they vanished as they came out; +or, rather, while each spectator was positive enough about these matters, +no two agreed. They were all similarly at variance in their descriptions +of the figures themselves. Some of the bolder of the curious throng +ventured on several evenings to stand upon the doorsteps to intercept +them, or failing in this, get a nearer look at them. These courageous +men, it was said, were unable to force the door by their united strength, +and always were hurled from the steps by some invisible agency and severely +injured; the door immediately afterward opening, apparently of its own +volition, to admit or free some ghostly guest. The dwelling was +known as the Roscoe house, a family of that name having lived there +for some years, and then, one by one, disappeared, the last to leave +being an old woman. Stories of foul play and successive murders +had always been rife, but never were authenticated.<br> +<br> +One day during the prevalence of the excitement Saylor presented himself +at the office of the <i>Commercial </i>for orders. He received +a note from the city editor which read as follows: “Go and pass +the night alone in the haunted house in Vine street and if anything +occurs worth while make two columns.” Saylor obeyed his +superior; he could not afford to lose his position on the paper.<br> +<br> +Apprising the police of his intention, he effected an entrance through +a rear window before dark, walked through the deserted rooms, bare of +furniture, dusty and desolate, and seating himself at last in the parlor +on an old sofa which he had dragged in from another room watched the +deepening of the gloom as night came on. Before it was altogether +dark the curious crowd had collected in the street, silent, as a rule, +and expectant, with here and there a scoffer uttering his incredulity +and courage with scornful remarks or ribald cries. None knew of +the anxious watcher inside. He feared to make a light; the uncurtained +windows would have betrayed his presence, subjecting him to insult, +possibly to injury. Moreover, he was too conscientious to do anything +to enfeeble his impressions and unwilling to alter any of the customary +conditions under which the manifestations were said to occur.<br> +<br> +It was now dark outside, but light from the street faintly illuminated +the part of the room that he was in. He had set open every door +in the whole interior, above and below, but all the outer ones were +locked and bolted. Sudden exclamations from the crowd caused him +to spring to the window and look out. He saw the figure of a man +moving rapidly across the lawn toward the building - saw it ascend the +steps; then a projection of the wall concealed it. There was a +noise as of the opening and closing of the hall door; he heard quick, +heavy footsteps along the passage - heard them ascend the stairs - heard +them on the uncarpeted floor of the chamber immediately overhead.<br> +<br> +Saylor promptly drew his pistol, and groping his way up the stairs entered +the chamber, dimly lighted from the street. No one was there. +He heard footsteps in an adjoining room and entered that. It was +dark and silent. He struck his foot against some object on the +floor, knelt by it, passed his hand over it. It was a human head +- that of a woman. Lifting it by the hair this iron-nerved man +returned to the half-lighted room below, carried it near the window +and attentively examined it. While so engaged he was half conscious +of the rapid opening and closing of the outer door, of footfalls sounding +all about him. He raised his eyes from the ghastly object of his +attention and saw himself the center of a crowd of men and women dimly +seen; the room was thronged with them. He thought the people had +broken in.<br> +<br> +“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, coolly, “you see +me under suspicious circumstances, but” - his voice was drowned +in peals of laughter - such laughter as is heard in asylums for the +insane. The persons about him pointed at the object in his hand +and their merriment increased as he dropped it and it went rolling among +their feet. They danced about it with gestures grotesque and attitudes +obscene and indescribable. They struck it with their feet, urging +it about the room from wall to wall; pushed and overthrew one another +in their struggles to kick it; cursed and screamed and sang snatches +of ribald songs as the battered head bounded about the room as if in +terror and trying to escape. At last it shot out of the door into +the hall, followed by all, with tumultuous haste. That moment +the door closed with a sharp concussion. Saylor was alone, in +dead silence.<br> +<br> +Carefully putting away his pistol, which all the time he had held in +his hand, he went to a window and looked out. The street was deserted +and silent; the lamps were extinguished; the roofs and chimneys of the +houses were sharply outlined against the dawn-light in the east. +He left the house, the door yielding easily to his hand, and walked +to the <i>Commercial </i>office. The city editor was still in +his office - asleep. Saylor waked him and said: “I have +been at the haunted house.”<br> +<br> +The editor stared blankly as if not wholly awake. “Good +God!” he cried, “are you Saylor?”<br> +<br> +“Yes - why not?” The editor made no answer, but continued +staring.<br> +<br> +“I passed the night there - it seems,” said Saylor.<br> +<br> +“They say that things were uncommonly quiet out there,” +the editor said, trifling with a paper-weight upon which he had dropped +his eyes, “did anything occur?”<br> +<br> +“Nothing whatever.”<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +A VINE ON A HOUSE<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +About three miles from the little town of Norton, in Missouri, on the +road leading to Maysville, stands an old house that was last occupied +by a family named Harding. Since 1886 no one has lived in it, +nor is anyone likely to live in it again. Time and the disfavor +of persons dwelling thereabout are converting it into a rather picturesque +ruin. An observer unacquainted with its history would hardly put +it into the category of “haunted houses,” yet in all the +region round such is its evil reputation. Its windows are without +glass, its doorways without doors; there are wide breaches in the shingle +roof, and for lack of paint the weatherboarding is a dun gray. +But these unfailing signs of the supernatural are partly concealed and +greatly softened by the abundant foliage of a large vine overrunning +the entire structure. This vine - of a species which no botanist +has ever been able to name - has an important part in the story of the +house.<br> +<br> +The Harding family consisted of Robert Harding, his wife Matilda, Miss +Julia Went, who was her sister, and two young children. Robert +Harding was a silent, cold-mannered man who made no friends in the neighborhood +and apparently cared to make none. He was about forty years old, +frugal and industrious, and made a living from the little farm which +is now overgrown with brush and brambles. He and his sister-in-law +were rather tabooed by their neighbors, who seemed to think that they +were seen too frequently together - not entirely their fault, for at +these times they evidently did not challenge observation. The +moral code of rural Missouri is stern and exacting.<br> +<br> +Mrs. Harding was a gentle, sad-eyed woman, lacking a left foot.<br> +<br> +At some time in 1884 it became known that she had gone to visit her +mother in Iowa. That was what her husband said in reply to inquiries, +and his manner of saying it did not encourage further questioning. +She never came back, and two years later, without selling his farm or +anything that was his, or appointing an agent to look after his interests, +or removing his household goods, Harding, with the rest of the family, +left the country. Nobody knew whither he went; nobody at that +time cared. Naturally, whatever was movable about the place soon +disappeared and the deserted house became “haunted” in the +manner of its kind.<br> +<br> +One summer evening, four or five years later, the Rev. J. Gruber, of +Norton, and a Maysville attorney named Hyatt met on horseback in front +of the Harding place. Having business matters to discuss, they +hitched their animals and going to the house sat on the porch to talk. +Some humorous reference to the somber reputation of the place was made +and forgotten as soon as uttered, and they talked of their business +affairs until it grew almost dark. The evening was oppressively +warm, the air stagnant.<br> +<br> +Presently both men started from their seats in surprise: a long vine +that covered half the front of the house and dangled its branches from +the edge of the porch above them was visibly and audibly agitated, shaking +violently in every stem and leaf.<br> +<br> +“We shall have a storm,” Hyatt exclaimed.<br> +<br> +Gruber said nothing, but silently directed the other’s attention +to the foliage of adjacent trees, which showed no movement; even the +delicate tips of the boughs silhouetted against the clear sky were motionless. +They hastily passed down the steps to what had been a lawn and looked +upward at the vine, whose entire length was now visible. It continued +in violent agitation, yet they could discern no disturbing cause.<br> +<br> +“Let us leave,” said the minister.<br> +<br> +And leave they did. Forgetting that they had been traveling in +opposite directions, they rode away together. They went to Norton, +where they related their strange experience to several discreet friends. +The next evening, at about the same hour, accompanied by two others +whose names are not recalled, they were again on the porch of the Harding +house, and again the mysterious phenomenon occurred: the vine was violently +agitated while under the closest scrutiny from root to tip, nor did +their combined strength applied to the trunk serve to still it. +After an hour’s observation they retreated, no less wise, it is +thought, than when they had come.<br> +<br> +No great time was required for these singular facts to rouse the curiosity +of the entire neighborhood. By day and by night crowds of persons +assembled at the Harding house “seeking a sign.” It +does not appear that any found it, yet so credible were the witnesses +mentioned that none doubted the reality of the “manifestations” +to which they testified.<br> +<br> +By either a happy inspiration or some destructive design, it was one +day proposed - nobody appeared to know from whom the suggestion came +- to dig up the vine, and after a good deal of debate this was done. +Nothing was found but the root, yet nothing could have been more strange!<br> +<br> +For five or six feet from the trunk, which had at the surface of the +ground a diameter of several inches, it ran downward, single and straight, +into a loose, friable earth; then it divided and subdivided into rootlets, +fibers and filaments, most curiously interwoven. When carefully +freed from soil they showed a singular formation. In their ramifications +and doublings back upon themselves they made a compact network, having +in size and shape an amazing resemblance to the human figure. +Head, trunk and limbs were there; even the fingers and toes were distinctly +defined; and many professed to see in the distribution and arrangement +of the fibers in the globular mass representing the head a grotesque +suggestion of a face. The figure was horizontal; the smaller roots +had begun to unite at the breast.<br> +<br> +In point of resemblance to the human form this image was imperfect. +At about ten inches from one of the knees, the <i>cilia </i>forming +that leg had abruptly doubled backward and inward upon their course +of growth. The figure lacked the left foot.<br> +<br> +There was but one inference - the obvious one; but in the ensuing excitement +as many courses of action were proposed as there were incapable counselors. +The matter was settled by the sheriff of the county, who as the lawful +custodian of the abandoned estate ordered the root replaced and the +excavation filled with the earth that had been removed.<br> +<br> +Later inquiry brought out only one fact of relevancy and significance: +Mrs. Harding had never visited her relatives in Iowa, nor did they know +that she was supposed to have done so.<br> +<br> +Of Robert Harding and the rest of his family nothing is known. +The house retains its evil reputation, but the replanted vine is as +orderly and well-behaved a vegetable as a nervous person could wish +to sit under of a pleasant night, when the katydids grate out their +immemorial revelation and the distant whippoorwill signifies his notion +of what ought to be done about it.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +AT OLD MAN ECKERT’S<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +Philip Eckert lived for many years in an old, weather-stained wooden +house about three miles from the little town of Marion, in Vermont. +There must be quite a number of persons living who remember him, not +unkindly, I trust, and know something of the story that I am about to +tell.<br> +<br> +“Old Man Eckert,” as he was always called, was not of a +sociable disposition and lived alone. As he was never known to +speak of his own affairs nobody thereabout knew anything of his past, +nor of his relatives if he had any. Without being particularly +ungracious or repellent in manner or speech, he managed somehow to be +immune to impertinent curiosity, yet exempt from the evil repute with +which it commonly revenges itself when baffled; so far as I know, Mr. +Eckert’s renown as a reformed assassin or a retired pirate of +the Spanish Main had not reached any ear in Marion. He got his +living cultivating a small and not very fertile farm.<br> +<br> +One day he disappeared and a prolonged search by his neighbors failed +to turn him up or throw any light upon his whereabouts or whyabouts. +Nothing indicated preparation to leave: all was as he might have left +it to go to the spring for a bucket of water. For a few weeks +little else was talked of in that region; then “old man Eckert” +became a village tale for the ear of the stranger. I do not know +what was done regarding his property - the correct legal thing, doubtless. +The house was standing, still vacant and conspicuously unfit, when I +last heard of it, some twenty years afterward.<br> +<br> +Of course it came to be considered “haunted,” and the customary +tales were told of moving lights, dolorous sounds and startling apparitions. +At one time, about five years after the disappearance, these stories +of the supernatural became so rife, or through some attesting circumstances +seemed so important, that some of Marion’s most serious citizens +deemed it well to investigate, and to that end arranged for a night +session on the premises. The parties to this undertaking were +John Holcomb, an apothecary; Wilson Merle, a lawyer, and Andrus C. Palmer, +the teacher of the public school, all men of consequence and repute. +They were to meet at Holcomb’s house at eight o’clock in +the evening of the appointed day and go together to the scene of their +vigil, where certain arrangements for their comfort, a provision of +fuel and the like, for the season was winter, had been already made.<br> +<br> +Palmer did not keep the engagement, and after waiting a half-hour for +him the others went to the Eckert house without him. They established +themselves in the principal room, before a glowing fire, and without +other light than it gave, awaited events. It had been agreed to +speak as little as possible: they did not even renew the exchange of +views regarding the defection of Palmer, which had occupied their minds +on the way.<br> +<br> +Probably an hour had passed without incident when they heard (not without +emotion, doubtless) the sound of an opening door in the rear of the +house, followed by footfalls in the room adjoining that in which they +sat. The watchers rose to their feet, but stood firm, prepared +for whatever might ensue. A long silence followed - how long neither +would afterward undertake to say. Then the door between the two +rooms opened and a man entered.<br> +<br> +It was Palmer. He was pale, as if from excitement - as pale as +the others felt themselves to be. His manner, too, was singularly +distrait: he neither responded to their salutations nor so much as looked +at them, but walked slowly across the room in the light of the failing +fire and opening the front door passed out into the darkness.<br> +<br> +It seems to have been the first thought of both men that Palmer was +suffering from fright - that something seen, heard or imagined in the +back room had deprived him of his senses. Acting on the same friendly +impulse both ran after him through the open door. But neither +they nor anyone ever again saw or heard of Andrus Palmer!<br> +<br> +This much was ascertained the next morning. During the session +of Messrs. Holcomb and Merle at the “haunted house” a new +snow had fallen to a depth of several inches upon the old. In +this snow Palmer’s trail from his lodging in the village to the +back door of the Eckert house was conspicuous. But there it ended: +from the front door nothing led away but the tracks of the two men who +swore that he preceded them. Palmer’s disappearance was +as complete as that of “old man Eckert” himself - whom, +indeed, the editor of the local paper somewhat graphically accused of +having “reached out and pulled him in.”<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +THE SPOOK HOUSE<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +On the road leading north from Manchester, in eastern Kentucky, to Booneville, +twenty miles away, stood, in 1862, a wooden plantation house of a somewhat +better quality than most of the dwellings in that region. The +house was destroyed by fire in the year following - probably by some +stragglers from the retreating column of General George W. Morgan, when +he was driven from Cumberland Gap to the Ohio river by General Kirby +Smith. At the time of its destruction, it had for four or five +years been vacant. The fields about it were overgrown with brambles, +the fences gone, even the few negro quarters, and out-houses generally, +fallen partly into ruin by neglect and pillage; for the negroes and +poor whites of the vicinity found in the building and fences an abundant +supply of fuel, of which they availed themselves without hesitation, +openly and by daylight. By daylight alone; after nightfall no +human being except passing strangers ever went near the place.<br> +<br> +It was known as the “Spook House.” That it was tenanted +by evil spirits, visible, audible and active, no one in all that region +doubted any more than he doubted what he was told of Sundays by the +traveling preacher. Its owner’s opinion of the matter was +unknown; he and his family had disappeared one night and no trace of +them had ever been found. They left everything - household goods, +clothing, provisions, the horses in the stable, the cows in the field, +the negroes in the quarters - all as it stood; nothing was missing - +except a man, a woman, three girls, a boy and a babe! It was not +altogether surprising that a plantation where seven human beings could +be simultaneously effaced and nobody the wiser should be under some +suspicion.<br> +<br> +One night in June, 1859, two citizens of Frankfort, Col. J. C. McArdle, +a lawyer, and Judge Myron Veigh, of the State Militia, were driving +from Booneville to Manchester. Their business was so important +that they decided to push on, despite the darkness and the mutterings +of an approaching storm, which eventually broke upon them just as they +arrived opposite the “Spook House.” The lightning +was so incessant that they easily found their way through the gateway +and into a shed, where they hitched and unharnessed their team. +They then went to the house, through the rain, and knocked at all the +doors without getting any response. Attributing this to the continuous +uproar of the thunder they pushed at one of the doors, which yielded. +They entered without further ceremony and closed the door. That +instant they were in darkness and silence. Not a gleam of the +lightning’s unceasing blaze penetrated the windows or crevices; +not a whisper of the awful tumult without reached them there. +It was as if they had suddenly been stricken blind and deaf, and McArdle +afterward said that for a moment he believed himself to have been killed +by a stroke of lightning as he crossed the threshold. The rest +of this adventure can as well be related in his own words, from the +Frankfort <i>Advocate </i>of August 6, 1876:<br> +<br> +“When I had somewhat recovered from the dazing effect of the transition +from uproar to silence, my first impulse was to reopen the door which +I had closed, and from the knob of which I was not conscious of having +removed my hand; I felt it distinctly, still in the clasp of my fingers. +My notion was to ascertain by stepping again into the storm whether +I had been deprived of sight and hearing. I turned the doorknob +and pulled open the door. It led into another room!<br> +<br> +“This apartment was suffused with a faint greenish light, the +source of which I could not determine, making everything distinctly +visible, though nothing was sharply defined. Everything, I say, +but in truth the only objects within the blank stone walls of that room +were human corpses. In number they were perhaps eight or ten - +it may well be understood that I did not truly count them. They +were of different ages, or rather sizes, from infancy up, and of both +sexes. All were prostrate on the floor, excepting one, apparently +a young woman, who sat up, her back supported by an angle of the wall. +A babe was clasped in the arms of another and older woman. A half-grown +lad lay face downward across the legs of a full-bearded man. One +or two were nearly naked, and the hand of a young girl held the fragment +of a gown which she had torn open at the breast. The bodies were +in various stages of decay, all greatly shrunken in face and figure. +Some were but little more than skeletons.<br> +<br> +“While I stood stupefied with horror by this ghastly spectacle +and still holding open the door, by some unaccountable perversity my +attention was diverted from the shocking scene and concerned itself +with trifles and details. Perhaps my mind, with an instinct of +self-preservation, sought relief in matters which would relax its dangerous +tension. Among other things, I observed that the door that I was +holding open was of heavy iron plates, riveted. Equidistant from +one another and from the top and bottom, three strong bolts protruded +from the beveled edge. I turned the knob and they were retracted +flush with the edge; released it, and they shot out. It was a +spring lock. On the inside there was no knob, nor any kind of +projection - a smooth surface of iron.<br> +<br> +“While noting these things with an interest and attention which +it now astonishes me to recall I felt myself thrust aside, and Judge +Veigh, whom in the intensity and vicissitudes of my feelings I had altogether +forgotten, pushed by me into the room. ‘For God’s +sake,’ I cried, ‘do not go in there! Let us get out +of this dreadful place!’<br> +<br> +“He gave no heed to my entreaties, but (as fearless a gentleman +as lived in all the South) walked quickly to the center of the room, +knelt beside one of the bodies for a closer examination and tenderly +raised its blackened and shriveled head in his hands. A strong +disagreeable odor came through the doorway, completely overpowering +me. My senses reeled; I felt myself falling, and in clutching +at the edge of the door for support pushed it shut with a sharp click!<br> +<br> +“I remember no more: six weeks later I recovered my reason in +a hotel at Manchester, whither I had been taken by strangers the next +day. For all these weeks I had suffered from a nervous fever, +attended with constant delirium. I had been found lying in the +road several miles away from the house; but how I had escaped from it +to get there I never knew. On recovery, or as soon as my physicians +permitted me to talk, I inquired the fate of Judge Veigh, whom (to quiet +me, as I now know) they represented as well and at home.<br> +<br> +“No one believed a word of my story, and who can wonder? +And who can imagine my grief when, arriving at my home in Frankfort +two months later, I learned that Judge Veigh had never been heard of +since that night? I then regretted bitterly the pride which since +the first few days after the recovery of my reason had forbidden me +to repeat my discredited story and insist upon its truth.<br> +<br> +“With all that afterward occurred - the examination of the house; +the failure to find any room corresponding to that which I have described; +the attempt to have me adjudged insane, and my triumph over my accusers +- the readers of the <i>Advocate </i>are familiar. After all these +years I am still confident that excavations which I have neither the +legal right to undertake nor the wealth to make would disclose the secret +of the disappearance of my unhappy friend, and possibly of the former +occupants and owners of the deserted and now destroyed house. +I do not despair of yet bringing about such a search, and it is a source +of deep grief to me that it has been delayed by the undeserved hostility +and unwise incredulity of the family and friends of the late Judge Veigh.”<br> +<br> +Colonel McArdle died in Frankfort on the thirteenth day of December, +in the year 1879.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +THE OTHER LODGERS<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +“In order to take that train,” said Colonel Levering, sitting +in the Waldorf-Astoria hotel, “you will have to remain nearly +all night in Atlanta. That is a fine city, but I advise you not +to put up at the Breathitt House, one of the principal hotels. +It is an old wooden building in urgent need of repairs. There +are breaches in the walls that you could throw a cat through. +The bedrooms have no locks on the doors, no furniture but a single chair +in each, and a bedstead without bedding - just a mattress. Even +these meager accommodations you cannot be sure that you will have in +monopoly; you must take your chance of being stowed in with a lot of +others. Sir, it is a most abominable hotel.<br> +<br> +“The night that I passed in it was an uncomfortable night. +I got in late and was shown to my room on the ground floor by an apologetic +night-clerk with a tallow candle, which he considerately left with me. +I was worn out by two days and a night of hard railway travel and had +not entirely recovered from a gunshot wound in the head, received in +an altercation. Rather than look for better quarters I lay down +on the mattress without removing my clothing and fell asleep.<br> +<br> +“Along toward morning I awoke. The moon had risen and was +shining in at the uncurtained window, illuminating the room with a soft, +bluish light which seemed, somehow, a bit spooky, though I dare say +it had no uncommon quality; all moonlight is that way if you will observe +it. Imagine my surprise and indignation when I saw the floor occupied +by at least a dozen other lodgers! I sat up, earnestly damning +the management of that unthinkable hotel, and was about to spring from +the bed to go and make trouble for the night-clerk - him of the apologetic +manner and the tallow candle - when something in the situation affected +me with a strange indisposition to move. I suppose I was what +a story-writer might call ‘frozen with terror.’ For +those men were obviously all dead!<br> +<br> +“They lay on their backs, disposed orderly along three sides of +the room, their feet to the walls - against the other wall, farthest +from the door, stood my bed and the chair. All the faces were +covered, but under their white cloths the features of the two bodies +that lay in the square patch of moonlight near the window showed in +sharp profile as to nose and chin.<br> +<br> +“I thought this a bad dream and tried to cry out, as one does +in a nightmare, but could make no sound. At last, with a desperate +effort I threw my feet to the floor and passing between the two rows +of clouted faces and the two bodies that lay nearest the door, I escaped +from the infernal place and ran to the office. The night-clerk +was there, behind the desk, sitting in the dim light of another tallow +candle - just sitting and staring. He did not rise: my abrupt +entrance produced no effect upon him, though I must have looked a veritable +corpse myself. It occurred to me then that I had not before really +observed the fellow. He was a little chap, with a colorless face +and the whitest, blankest eyes I ever saw. He had no more expression +than the back of my hand. His clothing was a dirty gray.<br> +<br> +“‘Damn you!’ I said; ‘what do you mean?’<br> +<br> +“Just the same, I was shaking like a leaf in the wind and did +not recognize my own voice.<br> +<br> +“The night-clerk rose, bowed (apologetically) and - well, he was +no longer there, and at that moment I felt a hand laid upon my shoulder +from behind. Just fancy that if you can! Unspeakably frightened, +I turned and saw a portly, kind-faced gentleman, who asked:<br> +<br> +“‘What is the matter, my friend?’<br> +<br> +“I was not long in telling him, but before I made an end of it +he went pale himself. ‘See here,’ he said, ‘are +you telling the truth?’<br> +<br> +“I had now got myself in hand and terror had given place to indignation. +‘If you dare to doubt it,’ I said, ‘I’ll hammer +the life out of you!’<br> +<br> +“‘No,’ he replied, ‘don’t do that; just +sit down till I tell you. This is not a hotel. It used to +be; afterward it was a hospital. Now it is unoccupied, awaiting +a tenant. The room that you mention was the dead-room - there +were always plenty of dead. The fellow that you call the night-clerk +used to be that, but later he booked the patients as they were brought +in. I don’t understand his being here. He has been +dead a few weeks.’<br> +<br> +“‘And who are you?’ I blurted out.<br> +<br> +“‘Oh, I look after the premises. I happened to be +passing just now, and seeing a light in here came in to investigate. +Let us have a look into that room,’ he added, lifting the sputtering +candle from the desk.<br> +<br> +“‘I’ll see you at the devil first!’ said I, +bolting out of the door into the street.<br> +<br> +“Sir, that Breathitt House, in Atlanta, is a beastly place! +Don’t you stop there.”<br> +<br> +“God forbid! Your account of it certainly does not suggest +comfort. By the way, Colonel, when did all that occur?”<br> +<br> +“In September, 1864 - shortly after the siege.”<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +THE THING AT NOLAN<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +To the south of where the road between Leesville and Hardy, in the State +of Missouri, crosses the east fork of May Creek stands an abandoned +house. Nobody has lived in it since the summer of 1879, and it +is fast going to pieces. For some three years before the date +mentioned above, it was occupied by the family of Charles May, from +one of whose ancestors the creek near which it stands took its name.<br> +<br> +Mr. May’s family consisted of a wife, an adult son and two young +girls. The son’s name was John - the names of the daughters +are unknown to the writer of this sketch.<br> +<br> +John May was of a morose and surly disposition, not easily moved to +anger, but having an uncommon gift of sullen, implacable hate. +His father was quite otherwise; of a sunny, jovial disposition, but +with a quick temper like a sudden flame kindled in a wisp of straw, +which consumes it in a flash and is no more. He cherished no resentments, +and his anger gone, was quick to make overtures for reconciliation. +He had a brother living near by who was unlike him in respect of all +this, and it was a current witticism in the neighborhood that John had +inherited his disposition from his uncle.<br> +<br> +One day a misunderstanding arose between father and son, harsh words +ensued, and the father struck the son full in the face with his fist. +John quietly wiped away the blood that followed the blow, fixed his +eyes upon the already penitent offender and said with cold composure, +“You will die for that.”<br> +<br> +The words were overheard by two brothers named Jackson, who were approaching +the men at the moment; but seeing them engaged in a quarrel they retired, +apparently unobserved. Charles May afterward related the unfortunate +occurrence to his wife and explained that he had apologized to the son +for the hasty blow, but without avail; the young man not only rejected +his overtures, but refused to withdraw his terrible threat. Nevertheless, +there was no open rupture of relations: John continued living with the +family, and things went on very much as before.<br> +<br> +One Sunday morning in June, 1879, about two weeks after what has been +related, May senior left the house immediately after breakfast, taking +a spade. He said he was going to make an excavation at a certain +spring in a wood about a mile away, so that the cattle could obtain +water. John remained in the house for some hours, variously occupied +in shaving himself, writing letters and reading a newspaper. His +manner was very nearly what it usually was; perhaps he was a trifle +more sullen and surly.<br> +<br> +At two o’clock he left the house. At five, he returned. +For some reason not connected with any interest in his movements, and +which is not now recalled, the time of his departure and that of his +return were noted by his mother and sisters, as was attested at his +trial for murder. It was observed that his clothing was wet in +spots, as if (so the prosecution afterward pointed out) he had been +removing blood-stains from it. His manner was strange, his look +wild. He complained of illness, and going to his room took to +his bed.<br> +<br> +May senior did not return. Later that evening the nearest neighbors +were aroused, and during that night and the following day a search was +prosecuted through the wood where the spring was. It resulted +in little but the discovery of both men’s footprints in the clay +about the spring. John May in the meantime had grown rapidly worse +with what the local physician called brain fever, and in his delirium +raved of murder, but did not say whom he conceived to have been murdered, +nor whom he imagined to have done the deed. But his threat was +recalled by the brothers Jackson and he was arrested on suspicion and +a deputy sheriff put in charge of him at his home. Public opinion +ran strongly against him and but for his illness he would probably have +been hanged by a mob. As it was, a meeting of the neighbors was +held on Tuesday and a committee appointed to watch the case and take +such action at any time as circumstances might seem to warrant.<br> +<br> +On Wednesday all was changed. From the town of Nolan, eight miles +away, came a story which put a quite different light on the matter. +Nolan consisted of a school house, a blacksmith’s shop, a “store” +and a half-dozen dwellings. The store was kept by one Henry Odell, +a cousin of the elder May. On the afternoon of the Sunday of May’s +disappearance Mr. Odell and four of his neighbors, men of credibility, +were sitting in the store smoking and talking. It was a warm day; +and both the front and the back door were open. At about three +o’clock Charles May, who was well known to three of them, entered +at the front door and passed out at the rear. He was without hat +or coat. He did not look at them, nor return their greeting, a +circumstance which did not surprise, for he was evidently seriously +hurt. Above the left eyebrow was a wound - a deep gash from which +the blood flowed, covering the whole left side of the face and neck +and saturating his light-gray shirt. Oddly enough, the thought +uppermost in the minds of all was that he had been fighting and was +going to the brook directly at the back of the store, to wash himself.<br> +<br> +Perhaps there was a feeling of delicacy - a backwoods etiquette which +restrained them from following him to offer assistance; the court records, +from which, mainly, this narrative is drawn, are silent as to anything +but the fact. They waited for him to return, but he did not return.<br> +<br> +Bordering the brook behind the store is a forest extending for six miles +back to the Medicine Lodge Hills. As soon as it became known in +the neighborhood of the missing man’s dwelling that he had been +seen in Nolan there was a marked alteration in public sentiment and +feeling. The vigilance committee went out of existence without +the formality of a resolution. Search along the wooded bottom +lands of May Creek was stopped and nearly the entire male population +of the region took to beating the bush about Nolan and in the Medicine +Lodge Hills. But of the missing man no trace was found.<br> +<br> +One of the strangest circumstances of this strange case is the formal +indictment and trial of a man for murder of one whose body no human +being professed to have seen - one not known to be dead. We are +all more or less familiar with the vagaries and eccentricities of frontier +law, but this instance, it is thought, is unique. However that +may be, it is of record that on recovering from his illness John May +was indicted for the murder of his missing father. Counsel for +the defense appears not to have demurred and the case was tried on its +merits. The prosecution was spiritless and perfunctory; the defense +easily established - with regard to the deceased - an <i>alibi</i>. +If during the time in which John May must have killed Charles May, if +he killed him at all, Charles May was miles away from where John May +must have been, it is plain that the deceased must have come to his +death at the hands of someone else.<br> +<br> +John May was acquitted, immediately left the country, and has never +been heard of from that day. Shortly afterward his mother and +sisters removed to St. Louis. The farm having passed into the +possession of a man who owns the land adjoining, and has a dwelling +of his own, the May house has ever since been vacant, and has the somber +reputation of being haunted.<br> +<br> +One day after the May family had left the country, some boys, playing +in the woods along May Creek, found concealed under a mass of dead leaves, +but partly exposed by the rooting of hogs, a spade, nearly new and bright, +except for a spot on one edge, which was rusted and stained with blood. +The implement had the initials C. M. cut into the handle.<br> +<br> +This discovery renewed, in some degree, the public excitement of a few +months before. The earth near the spot where the spade was found +was carefully examined, and the result was the finding of the dead body +of a man. It had been buried under two or three feet of soil and +the spot covered with a layer of dead leaves and twigs. There +was but little decomposition, a fact attributed to some preservative +property in the mineral-bearing soil.<br> +<br> +Above the left eyebrow was a wound - a deep gash from which blood had +flowed, covering the whole left side of the face and neck and saturating +the light-gray shirt. The skull had been cut through by the blow. +The body was that of Charles May.<br> +<br> +But what was it that passed through Mr. Odell’s store at Nolan?<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +“MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCES”<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +THE DIFFICULTY OF CROSSING A FIELD<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +One morning in July, 1854, a planter named Williamson, living six miles +from Selma, Alabama, was sitting with his wife and a child on the veranda +of his dwelling. Immediately in front of the house was a lawn, +perhaps fifty yards in extent between the house and public road, or, +as it was called, the “pike.” Beyond this road lay +a close-cropped pasture of some ten acres, level and without a tree, +rock, or any natural or artificial object on its surface. At the +time there was not even a domestic animal in the field. In another +field, beyond the pasture, a dozen slaves were at work under an overseer.<br> +<br> +Throwing away the stump of a cigar, the planter rose, saying: “I +forgot to tell Andrew about those horses.” Andrew was the +overseer.<br> +<br> +Williamson strolled leisurely down the gravel walk, plucking a flower +as he went, passed across the road and into the pasture, pausing a moment +as he closed the gate leading into it, to greet a passing neighbor, +Armour Wren, who lived on an adjoining plantation. Mr. Wren was +in an open carriage with his son James, a lad of thirteen. When +he had driven some two hundred yards from the point of meeting, Mr. +Wren said to his son: “I forgot to tell Mr. Williamson about those +horses.”<br> +<br> +Mr. Wren had sold to Mr. Williamson some horses, which were to have +been sent for that day, but for some reason not now remembered it would +be inconvenient to deliver them until the morrow. The coachman +was directed to drive back, and as the vehicle turned Williamson was +seen by all three, walking leisurely across the pasture. At that +moment one of the coach horses stumbled and came near falling. +It had no more than fairly recovered itself when James Wren cried: “Why, +father, what has become of Mr. Williamson?”<br> +<br> +It is not the purpose of this narrative to answer that question.<br> +<br> +Mr. Wren’s strange account of the matter, given under oath in +the course of legal proceedings relating to the Williamson estate, here +follows:<br> +<br> +“My son’s exclamation caused me to look toward the spot +where I had seen the deceased <i>[sic] </i>an instant before, but he +was not there, nor was he anywhere visible. I cannot say that +at the moment I was greatly startled, or realized the gravity of the +occurrence, though I thought it singular. My son, however, was +greatly astonished and kept repeating his question in different forms +until we arrived at the gate. My black boy Sam was similarly affected, +even in a greater degree, but I reckon more by my son’s manner +than by anything he had himself observed. [This sentence in the +testimony was stricken out.] As we got out of the carriage at +the gate of the field, and while Sam was hanging <i>[sic] </i>the team +to the fence, Mrs. Williamson, with her child in her arms and followed +by several servants, came running down the walk in great excitement, +crying: ‘He is gone, he is gone! O God! what an awful thing!’ +and many other such exclamations, which I do not distinctly recollect. +I got from them the impression that they related to something more - +than the mere disappearance of her husband, even if that had occurred +before her eyes. Her manner was wild, but not more so, I think, +than was natural under the circumstances. I have no reason to +think she had at that time lost her mind. I have never since seen +nor heard of Mr. Williamson.”<br> +<br> +This testimony, as might have been expected, was corroborated in almost +every particular by the only other eye-witness (if that is a proper +term) - the lad James. Mrs. Williamson had lost her reason and +the servants were, of course, not competent to testify. The boy +James Wren had declared at first that he <i>saw </i>the disappearance, +but there is nothing of this in his testimony given in court. +None of the field hands working in the field to which Williamson was +going had seen him at all, and the most rigorous search of the entire +plantation and adjoining country failed to supply a clew. The +most monstrous and grotesque fictions, originating with the blacks, +were current in that part of the State for many years, and probably +are to this day; but what has been here related is all that is certainly +known of the matter. The courts decided that Williamson was dead, +and his estate was distributed according to law.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +AN UNFINISHED RACE<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +James Burne Worson was a shoemaker who lived in Leamington, Warwickshire, +England. He had a little shop in one of the by-ways leading off +the road to Warwick. In his humble sphere he was esteemed an honest +man, although like many of his class in English towns he was somewhat +addicted to drink. When in liquor he would make foolish wagers. +On one of these too frequent occasions he was boasting of his prowess +as a pedestrian and athlete, and the outcome was a match against nature. +For a stake of one sovereign he undertook to run all the way to Coventry +and back, a distance of something more than forty miles. This +was on the 3d day of September in 1873. He set out at once, the +man with whom he had made the bet - whose name is not remembered - accompanied +by Barham Wise, a linen draper, and Hamerson Burns, a photographer, +I think, following in a light cart or wagon.<br> +<br> +For several miles Worson went on very well, at an easy gait, without +apparent fatigue, for he had really great powers of endurance and was +not sufficiently intoxicated to enfeeble them. The three men in +the wagon kept a short distance in the rear, giving him occasional friendly +“chaff” or encouragement, as the spirit moved them. +Suddenly - in the very middle of the roadway, not a dozen yards from +them, and with their eyes full upon him - the man seemed to stumble, +pitched headlong forward, uttered a terrible cry and vanished! +He did not fall to the earth - he vanished before touching it. +No trace of him was ever discovered.<br> +<br> +After remaining at and about the spot for some time, with aimless irresolution, +the three men returned to Leamington, told their astonishing story and +were afterward taken into custody. But they were of good standing, +had always been considered truthful, were sober at the time of the occurrence, +and nothing ever transpired to discredit their sworn account of their +extraordinary adventure, concerning the truth of which, nevertheless, +public opinion was divided, throughout the United Kingdom. If +they had something to conceal, their choice of means is certainly one +of the most amazing ever made by sane human beings.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHARLES ASHMORE’S TRAIL<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +The family of Christian Ashmore consisted of his wife, his mother, two +grown daughters, and a son of sixteen years. They lived in Troy, +New York, were well-to-do, respectable persons, and had many friends, +some of whom, reading these lines, will doubtless learn for the first +time the extraordinary fate of the young man. From Troy the Ashmores +moved in 1871 or 1872 to Richmond, Indiana, and a year or two later +to the vicinity of Quincy, Illinois, where Mr. Ashmore bought a farm +and lived on it. At some little distance from the farmhouse was +a spring with a constant flow of clear, cold water, whence the family +derived its supply for domestic use at all seasons.<br> +<br> +On the evening of the 9th of November in 1878, at about nine o’clock, +young Charles Ashmore left the family circle about the hearth, took +a tin bucket and started toward the spring. As he did not return, +the family became uneasy, and going to the door by which he had left +the house, his father called without receiving an answer. He then +lighted a lantern and with the eldest daughter, Martha, who insisted +on accompanying him, went in search. A light snow had fallen, +obliterating the path, but making the young man’s trail conspicuous; +each footprint was plainly defined. After going a little more +than half-way - perhaps seventy-five yards - the father, who was in +advance, halted, and elevating his lantern stood peering intently into +the darkness ahead.<br> +<br> +“What is the matter, father?” the girl asked.<br> +<br> +This was the matter: the trail of the young man had abruptly ended, +and all beyond was smooth, unbroken snow. The last footprints +were as conspicuous as any in the line; the very nail-marks were distinctly +visible. Mr. Ashmore looked upward, shading his eyes with his +hat held between them and the lantern. The stars were shining; +there was not a cloud in the sky; he was denied the explanation which +had suggested itself, doubtful as it would have been - a new snowfall +with a limit so plainly defined. Taking a wide circuit round the +ultimate tracks, so as to leave them undisturbed for further examination, +the man proceeded to the spring, the girl following, weak and terrified. +Neither had spoken a word of what both had observed. The spring +was covered with ice, hours old.<br> +<br> +Returning to the house they noted the appearance of the snow on both +sides of the trail its entire length. No tracks led away from +it.<br> +<br> +The morning light showed nothing more. Smooth, spotless, unbroken, +the shallow snow lay everywhere.<br> +<br> +Four days later the grief-stricken mother herself went to the spring +for water. She came back and related that in passing the spot +where the footprints had ended she had heard the voice of her son and +had been eagerly calling to him, wandering about the place, as she had +fancied the voice to be now in one direction, now in another, until +she was exhausted with fatigue and emotion.<br> +<br> +Questioned as to what the voice had said, she was unable to tell, yet +averred that the words were perfectly distinct. In a moment the +entire family was at the place, but nothing was heard, and the voice +was believed to be an hallucination caused by the mother’s great +anxiety and her disordered nerves. But for months afterward, at +irregular intervals of a few days, the voice was heard by the several +members of the family, and by others. All declared it unmistakably +the voice of Charles Ashmore; all agreed that it seemed to come from +a great distance, faintly, yet with entire distinctness of articulation; +yet none could determine its direction, nor repeat its words. +The intervals of silence grew longer and longer, the voice fainter and +farther, and by midsummer it was heard no more.<br> +<br> +If anybody knows the fate of Charles Ashmore it is probably his mother. +She is dead.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +SCIENCE TO THE FRONT<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +In connection with this subject of “mysterious disappearance” +- of which every memory is stored with abundant example - it is pertinent +to note the belief of Dr. Hem, of Leipsic; not by way of explanation, +unless the reader may choose to take it so, but because of its intrinsic +interest as a singular speculation. This distinguished scientist +has expounded his views in a book entitled “Verschwinden und Seine +Theorie,” which has attracted some attention, “particularly,” +says one writer, “among the followers of Hegel, and mathematicians +who hold to the actual existence of a so-called non-Euclidean space +- that is to say, of space which has more dimensions than length, breadth, +and thickness - space in which it would be possible to tie a knot in +an endless cord and to turn a rubber ball inside out without ‘a +solution of its continuity,’ or in other words, without breaking +or cracking it.”<br> +<br> +Dr. Hem believes that in the visible world there are void places - <i>vacua</i>, +and something more - holes, as it were, through which animate and inanimate +objects may fall into the invisible world and be seen and heard no more. +The theory is something like this: Space is pervaded by luminiferous +ether, which is a material thing - as much a substance as air or water, +though almost infinitely more attenuated. All force, all forms +of energy must be propagated in this; every process must take place +in it which takes place at all. But let us suppose that cavities +exist in this otherwise universal medium, as caverns exist in the earth, +or cells in a Swiss cheese. In such a cavity there would be absolutely +nothing. It would be such a vacuum as cannot be artificially produced; +for if we pump the air from a receiver there remains the luminiferous +ether. Through one of these cavities light could not pass, for +there would be nothing to bear it. Sound could not come from it; +nothing could be felt in it. It would not have a single one of +the conditions necessary to the action of any of our senses. In +such a void, in short, nothing whatever could occur. Now, in the +words of the writer before quoted - the learned doctor himself nowhere +puts it so concisely: “A man inclosed in such a closet could neither +see nor be seen; neither hear nor be heard; neither feel nor be felt; +neither live nor die, for both life and death are processes which can +take place only where there is force, and in empty space no force could +exist.” Are these the awful conditions (some will ask) under +which the friends of the lost are to think of them as existing, and +doomed forever to exist?<br> +<br> +Baldly and imperfectly as here stated, Dr. Hem’s theory, in so +far as it professes to be an adequate explanation of “mysterious +disappearances,” is open to many obvious objections; to fewer +as he states it himself in the “spacious volubility” of +his book. But even as expounded by its author it does not explain, +and in truth is incompatible with some incidents of, the occurrences +related in these memoranda: for example, the sound of Charles Ashmore’s +voice. It is not my duty to indue facts and theories with affinity.<br> +<br> +A.B.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +Footnotes:<br> +<br> +<a name="footnote1"></a><a href="#citation1">{1}</a> The Isle +of Pines was once a famous rendezvous of pirates.<br> +<br> +End of the Project Gutenberg eText Present at a Hanging and Other Ghost Stories<br> +by Ambrose Bierce<br> +</body> +</html> diff --git a/old/prhg10h.zip b/old/prhg10h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..58cd8d6 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/prhg10h.zip |
