I
IT is well known that the old Manton house is haunted. In all the rural
district near about, and even in the town of Marshall, a mile away, not
one person
of unbiased mind entertains a doubt
of it; incredulity is confined to those opinionated persons who will be
called “cranks” as soon as the useful word shall have
penetrated the intellectual demesne
of the Marshall Advance. The evidence that the house is haunted is of two
kinds: the testimony of disinterested witnesses who
have had ocular proof, and that
of the house itself. The former may be disregarded and ruled out on any
of the various grounds of objection which may be urged
against it by the ingenious; but
facts within the observation of all are material and controlling.
In the first place, the Manton house has been unoccupied by mortals for
more than ten years, and with its outbuildings is slowly falling into decay-
a
circumstance which in itself the
judicious will hardly venture to ignore. It stands a little way off the
loneliest reach of the Marshall and Harriston road, in an
opening which was once a farm and
is still disfigured with strips of rotting fence and half covered with
brambles overrunning a stony and sterile soil long
unacquainted with the plough. The
house itself is in tolerably good condition, though badly weather-stained
and in dire need of attention from the glazier, the
smaller male population of the
region having attested in the manner of its kind its disapproval of dwelling
without dwellers. It is two stories in height, nearly
square, its front pierced by a
single doorway flanked on each side by a window boarded up to the very
top. Corresponding windows above, not protected, serve
to admit light and rain to the
rooms of the upper floor. Grass and weeds grow pretty rankly all about,
and a few shade trees, somewhat the worse for wind, and
leaning all in one direction, seem
to be making a concerted effort to run away. In short, as the Marshall
town humorist explained in the columns of the Advance,
“the proposition that the Manton
house is badly haunted is the only logical conclusion from the premises.”
The fact that in this dwelling Mr. Manton thought it
expedient one night some ten years
ago to rise and cut the throats of his wife and two small children, removing
at once to another part of the country, has no
doubt done its share in directing
public attention to the fitness of the place for supernatural phenomena.
To this house, one summer evening, came four men in a wagon. Three of them
promptly alighted, and the one who had been driving hitched the team to
the only remaining post of what
had been a fence. The fourth remained seated in the wagon. “Come,” said
one of his companions, approaching him, while the
others moved away in the direction
of the dwelling-“this is the place.”
The man addressed did not move. “By God!” he said harshly, “this is a trick,
and it looks to me as if you were in it.”
“Perhaps I am,” the other said, looking him straight in the face and speaking
in a tone which had something of contempt in it. “You will remember,
however, that the choice of place
was with your own assent left to the other side. Of course if you are afraid
of spooks-“
“I am afraid of nothing,” the man interrupted with another oath, and sprang
to the ground. The two then joined the others at the door, which one of
them
had already opened with some difficulty,
caused by rust of lock and hinge. All entered. Inside it was dark, but
the man who had unlocked the door produced a
candle and matches and made a light.
He then unlocked a door on their right as they stood in the passage. This
gave them entrance to a large, square room that
the candle but dimly lighted. The
floor had a thick carpeting of dust, which partly muffled their footfalls.
Cobwebs were in the angles of the walls and depended
from the ceiling like strips of
rotting lace, making undulatory movements in the disturbed air. The room
had two windows in adjoining sides, but from neither
could anything be seen except the
rough inner surfaces of boards a few inches from the glass. There was no
fireplace, no furniture; there was nothing: besides the
cobwebs and the dust, the four
men were the only objects there which were not a part of the structure.
Strange enough they looked in the yellow light of the candle. The one who
had so reluctantly alighted was especially spectacular-he might have been
called
sensational. He was of middle age,
heavily built, deep-chested and broad-shouldered. Looking at his figure,
one would have said that he had a giant's strength; at
his features, that he would use
it like a giant. He was clean-shaven, his hair rather closely cropped and
grey. His low forehead was seamed with wrinkles above
the eyes, and over the nose these
became vertical. The heavy black brows followed the same law, saved from
meeting only by an upward turn at what would
otherwise have been the point of
contact. Deeply sunken beneath these glowed in the obscure light a pair
of eyes of uncertain colour, but obviously enough too
small. There was something forbidding
in their expression, which was not bettered by the cruel mouth and wide
jaw. The nose was well enough, as noses go; one
does not expect much of noses.
All that was sinister in the man's face seemed accentuated by an unnatural
pallor-he appeared altogether bloodless.
The appearance of the other men was sufficiently commonplace: they were
such persons as one meets and forgets that he met. All were younger than
the
man described, between whom and
the eldest of the others, who stood apart, there was apparently no kindly
feeling. They avoided looking at each other.
“Gentlemen,” said the man holding the candle and keys, “I believe everything
is right. Are you ready, Mr. Rosser?”
The man standing apart from the group bowed and smiled.
“And you, Mr. Grossmith?”
The heavy man bowed and scowled.
“You will be pleased to remove your outer clothing.”
Their hats, coats, waistcoats and neckwear were soon removed and thrown
outside the door, in the passage. The man with the candle now nodded, and
the fourth man-he who had urged
Grossmith to leave the wagon-produced from the pocket of his overcoat two
long, murderous-looking bowie-knives, which he
drew now from their leather scabbards.
“They are exactly alike,” he said, presenting one to each of the two principals-for
by this time the dullest observer would have understood the nature of
this meeting. It was to be a duel
to the death.
Each combatant took a knife, examined it critically near the candle and
tested the strength of blade and handle across his lifted knee. Their persons
were
then searched in turn, each by
the second of the other.
“If it is agreeable to you, Mr. Grossmith,” said the man holding the light,
“you will place yourself in that corner.”
He indicated the angle of the room farthest from the door, whither Grossmith
retired, his second parting from him with a grasp of the hand which had
nothing of cordiality in it. In
the angle nearest the door Mr. Rosser stationed himself, and after a whispered
consultation his second left him, joining the other
near the door. At that moment the
candle was suddenly extinguished, leaving all in profound darkness. This
may have been done by the draught from the opened
door; whatever the cause, the effect
was startling.
“Gentlemen,” said a voice which sounded strangely unfamiliar in the altered
condition affecting the relations of the senses-“gentlemen, you will not
move
until you hear the closing of the
outer door.”
A sound of trampling ensued, then the closing of the inner door; and finally
the outer one closed with a concussion which shook the entire building.
A few minutes afterward a belated farmer's boy met a light wagon which
was being driven furiously toward the town of Marshall. He declared that
behind
the two figures on the front seat
stood a third, with its hands upon the bowed shoulders of the others, who
appeared to struggle vainly to free themselves from its
grasp. This figure, unlike the
others, was clad in white, and had undoubtedly boarded the wagon as it
passed the haunted house. As the lad could boast a
considerable former experience
with the supernatural thereabouts his word had the weight justly due to
the testimony of an expert. The story (in connection with
the next day's events) eventually
appeared in the Advance, with some slight literary embellishments and a
concluding intimation that the gentlemen referred to
would be allowed the use of the
paper's columns for their version of the night's adventure. But the privilege
remained without a claimant.
II
The events that led up to this “duel in the dark” were simple enough. One
evening three young men of the town of Marshall were sitting in a quiet
corner
of the porch of the village hotel,
smoking and discussing such matters as three educated young men of a Southern
village would naturally find interesting. Their
names were King, Sancher and Rosser.
At a little distance, within easy hearing, but taking no part in the conversation,
sat a fourth. He was a stranger to the
others. They merely knew that on
his arrival by the stage-coach that afternoon he had written in the hotel
register the name Robert Grossmith. He had not been
observed to speak to anyone except
the hotel clerk. He seemed, indeed, singularly fond of his own company-or,
as the personnel of the Advance expressed it,
“grossly addicted to evil associations.”
But then it should be said in justice to the stranger that the personnel
was himself of a too convivial disposition fairly to
judge one differently gifted, and
had, moreover, experienced a slight rebuff in an effort at an “interview.”
“I hate any kind of deformity in a woman,” said King, “whether natural
or-acquired. I have a theory that any physical defect has its correlative
mental and
moral defect.”
“I infer, then,” said Rosser gravely, “that a lady lacking the moral advantage
of a nose would find the struggle to become Mrs. King an arduous
enterprise.”
“Of course you may put it that way,” was the reply; “but, seriously, I
once threw over a most charming girl on learning quite accidentally that
she had
suffered amputation of a toe. My
conduct was brutal if you like, but if I had married that girl I should
have been miserable for life and should have made her so.”
“Whereas,” said Sancher, with a light laugh, “by marrying a gentleman of
more liberal views she escaped with a parted throat.”
“Ah, you know to whom I refer. Yes, she married Manton, but I don't know
about his liberality; I'm not sure but he cut her throat because he discovered
that she lacked that excellent
thing in woman, the middle toe of the right foot.”
“Look at that chap!” said Rosser in a low voice, his eyes fixed upon the
stranger.
“That chap” was obviously listening intently to the conversation.
“Damn his impudence!” muttered King-“what ought we to do?”
“That's an easy one,” Rosser replied, rising. “Sir,” he continued, addressing
the stranger, “I think it would be better if you would remove your chair
to the
other end of the veranda. The presence
of gentlemen is evidently an unfamiliar situation to you.”
The man sprang to his feet and strode forward with clenched hands, his
face white with rage. All were now standing. Sancher stepped between the
belligerents.
“You are hasty and unjust,” he said to Rosser; “this gentleman has done
nothing to deserve such language.”
But Rosser would not withdraw a word. By the custom of the country and
the time there could be but one outcome to the quarrel.
“I demand the satisfaction due to a gentleman,” said the stranger, who
had become more calm. “I have not an acquaintance in this region. Perhaps
you,
sir,” bowing to Sancher, “will
be kind enough to represent me in this matter.”
Sancher accepted the trust-somewhat reluctantly it must be confessed, for
the man's appearance and manner were not at all to his liking. King, who
during
the colloquy had hardly removed
his eyes from the stranger's face and had not spoken a word, consented
with a nod to act for Rosser, and the upshot of it was
that, the principals having retired,
a meeting was arranged for the next evening. The nature of the arrangements
has been already disclosed. The duel with knives
in a dark room was once a commoner
feature of south-western life than it is likely to be again. How thin a
veneering of “chivalry” covered the essential brutality
of the code under which such encounters
were possible we shall see.
III
In the blaze of a midsummer noonday the old Manton house was hardly true
to its traditions. It was of the earth, earthy. The sunshine caressed it
warmly
and affectionately, with evident
disregard of its bad reputation. The grass greening all the expanse in
its front seemed to grow, not rankly, but with a natural and
joyous exuberance, and the weeds
blossomed quite like plants. Full of charming lights and shadows and populous
with pleasant-voiced birds, the neglected shade
trees no longer struggled to run
away, but bent reverently beneath their burden of sun and song. Even in
the glassless upper windows was an expression of peace
and contentment, due to the light
within. Over the stony fields the visible heat danced with a lively tremor
incompatible with the gravity which is an attribute of
the supernatural.
Such was the aspect under which the place presented itself to Sheriff Adams
and two other men who had come out from Marshall to look at it. One of
these men was Mr. King, the sheriff's
deputy; the other, whose name was Brewer, was a brother of the late Mrs.
Manton. Under a beneficent law of the State
relating to property which had
been for a certain period abandoned by an owner whose residence cannot
be ascertained, the sheriff was legal custodian of the
Manton farm and appurtenances thereunto
belonging. His present visit was in mere perfunctory compliance with some
order of a court in which Mr. Brewer had
an action to get possession of
the property as heir to his deceased sister. By a mere coincidence, the
visit was made on the day after the night that Deputy King
had unlocked the house for another
and very different purpose. His presence now was not of his own choosing:
he had been ordered to accompany his superior,
and at the moment could think of
nothing more prudent than simulated alacrity in obedience to the command.
Carelessly opening the front door, which to his surprise was not locked,
the sheriff was amazed to see, lying on the floor of the passage into which
it
opened, a confused heap of men's
apparel. Examination showed it to consist of two hats, and the same number
of coats, waistcoats and scarves, all in a
remarkably good state of preservation,
albeit somewhat defiled by the dust in which they lay. Mr. Brewer was equally
astonished, but Mr. King's emotion is not
on record. With a new and lively
interest in his own actions the sheriff now unlatched and pushed open the
door on the right, and the three entered. The room
was apparently vacant-no; as their
eyes became accustomed to the dimmer light something was visible in the
farthest angle of the wall. It was a human figure-that
of a man crouching close in the
corner. Something in the attitude made the intruders halt when they had
barely passed the threshold. The figure more and more
clearly defined itself. The man
was upon one knee, his back in the angle of the wall, his shoulders elevated
to the level of his ears, his hands before his face, palms
outward, the fingers spread and
crooked like claws; the white face turned upward on the retracted neck
had an expression of unutterable fright, the mouth half
open, the eyes incredibly expanded.
He was stone dead. Yet, with the exception of a bowie-knife, which had
evidently fallen from his own hand, not another
object was in the room.
In thick dust that covered the floor were some confused footprints near
the door and along the wall through which it opened. Along one of the adjoining
walls, too, past the boarded-up
windows, was the trail made by the man himself in reaching his corner.
Instinctively in approaching the body the three men
followed that trail. The sheriff
grasped one of the out-thrown arms; it was as rigid as iron, and the application
of a gentle force rocked the entire body without
altering the relation of its parts.
Brewer, pale with excitement, gazed intently into the distorted face. “God
of mercy!” he suddenly cried, “it is Manton!”
“You are right,” said King, with an evident attempt at calmness: “I knew
Manton. He then wore a full beard and his hair long, but this is he.”
He might have added: “I recognized him when he challenged Rosser. I told
Rosser and Sancher who he was before we played him this horrible trick.
When
Rosser left this dark room at our
heels, forgetting his outer clothing in the excitement, and driving away
with us in his shirt sleeves-all through the discreditable
proceedings we knew whom we were
dealing with, murderer and coward that he was!”
But nothing of this did Mr. King say. With his better light he was trying
to penetrate the mystery of the man's death. That he had not once moved
from the
corner where he had been stationed;
that his posture was that of neither attack nor defence; that he had dropped
his weapon; that he had obviously perished of
sheer horror of something that
he saw -these were circumstances which Mr. King's disturbed intelligence
could not rightly comprehend.
Groping in intellectual darkness for a clue to his maze of doubt, his gaze,
directed mechanically downward in the way of one who ponders momentous
matters, fell upon something which,
there, in the light of day and in the presence of living companions, affected
him with terror. In the dust of years that lay thick
upon the floor-leading from the
door by which they had entered, straight across the room to within a yard
of Manton's crouching corpse- were three parallel lines
of footprints-light but definite
impressions of bare feet, the outer ones those of small children, the inner
a woman's. From the point at which they ended they did
not return; they pointed all one
way. Brewer, who had observed them at the same moment, was leaning forward
in an attitude of rapt attention, horribly pale.
“Look at that!” he cried, pointing with both hands at the nearest print
of the woman's right foot, where she had apparently stopped and stood.
“The middle
toe is missing-it was Gertrude!”
Gertrude was the late Mrs. Manton, sister of Mr. Brewer.
The End
