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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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