IV

Fifteen years ago there were four distinct and widely separated haunted

houses in the vicinity of Ann Arbor. One, in West Huron Street, was for

years pointed out to naughty children as the home of the original bogey

man. On an occasion,--so the story goes--three seniors resolved to spend

a night in the ticklish place for the purpose of determining

scientifically the causes of the strange knockings and human groans that

previous tenants had complained of. The results of their investigations

were never known. The seniors were never seen again!

That is the tale. The circulation of it tended to make their

abiding-place secure to the spirits for many years. But at last an

owner braver than those before him, and fortified by innumerable

expressions of contempt in which a picturesque and virile profanity

played a leading part, proceeded without more ado to raze the ancient

structure to the ground.

His action gave rise to a second story. It became generally understood

that the spirits, their own home gone, joined forces with the ghostly

occupants of the second haunted house in nightly carryings-on. Then this

house was rent asunder.

Thus it went until the time of this story when there remained but one

authentic haunted house in town. Its location added to the mystery

supposed to surround it. It capped a bleak hill on the left of the

so-called "Middle Road" to Ypsilanti. Behind it loomed a dense wood and

to the right and left stretched dreary fields, deserted save by the

gophers and chipmunks whose superstition seemed not to warrant their

leaving the premises after establishing or disestablishing the presence

of ghostly occupants in the bleak house on the hill.

The place was consistently pointed out to strangers as the midnight

carnival-ground of the devil and his imps, and it was further gravely

averred that horses shied in passing after nightfall.

Such was the weird spot to which Norse, independent freshman, skated,

one freezing night, on the crust of that famous winter, to save a friend

from the hands of the enemy.

At the bottom of the hill he stopped to _reconnoitre_. The blue-black of

the heavens seemed strangely less dense above the house. Now and then a

weird shimmer passed back and forth across the ragged wall. No light

shone anywhere. Several of the windows gaped black, like open mouths,

waiting to devour. Others were boarded. Up the path from the gate the

door careened on one rotting hinge. In the summer this path was a

shallow of tangled weeds, but now the crust lay level across it.

Norse advanced stealthily to the open door. The silence was thick. He

removed his skates and tiptoed within. A breath of wind whistled through

the warped clap-boards and the old house sighed. Tumbling stairs led to

the floor above. Stooping, and feeling the steps ahead of him, he

ascended.

At the top of the flight he struck a match, shielding the flame with his

curved palm. In the faint illumination he perceived the second story to

consist of two connecting rooms of unequal size with the larger at the

front. Against the rear wall of the back room stood an old bin, at one

time probably used for storing grain. In the corner of the front room

was an oil stove; near it, a can. Lighting another match Norse deposited

the satchel and his skates in the bin and tested the cover. The hinges

did not creak and seemed firm. He looked at his watch. It was half-past

seven.

He went into the front room and crouching, peered through a crack

between the boards of the window. As far as he could see in either

direction the road was deserted. A pale moon was rising behind black

clouds.

In all probability Kerwin would be accompanied by two--possibly

three--kidnappers. He would be bound, of course, and, more than likely,

gagged. His guard would observe the greatest care. He would not be

misused.

Norse ceased procrastinating. He realized that in one hour the

representative freshmen would be gathering around the banquet board,

spread in Nickels Hall on State Street, away back in town. Undetermined

as to the means of accomplishment he was none the less conscious of the

work that lay before him. It rested with him--with him, alone--to

produce the toastmaster at the banquet, if not at its beginning, in

time, at least, to announce the first toast....

He heard a slight scraping noise outside and crouching peered through

the crack again. That instant the thin moon mounted the bank of clouds

and cast a ghostly light upon the scene.

A hack on runners had drawn up at the gate. The door was opened from

within and two men alighted. One of them stood at the step while the

other held a whispered conversation with the driver; then, with his

companion, he helped a third man out of the carriage. The hack drew away

at once, turned and started back in the direction of town.

The young man at the window could not distinguish the features of the

two men supporting a third between them who seemed to be hobbled, for

the brims of their hats were pulled low over their faces. Save for the

slight crunch as the trio advanced toward the house there was no sound.

Norse tiptoed back into the smaller room. He held out his arms and his

fingers touched the corner of the grain-bin. He heard footsteps that

advanced, then stopped, on the floor below. He heard the crack of a

match as it was struck. He lifted the cover of the bin carefully, threw

one leg over the edge, felt the floor under his foot, drew the other leg

after him, and sank, lowering the lid as he did so, like a trap-door.

The bin was sufficiently large to permit of sitting with a certain

degree of comfort. With his fingers he detected several cracks in the

front wall. By twisting he could bring his eyes to the level of them.

Groping he touched the hand-bag with his right hand and drew it nearer.

The next moment he heard the stairs creak. He held his breath as the

trio entered the room in front. One of them carried a dark lantern and

in the pale illumination it afforded, Norse recognized Kerwin's captors

and smiled.

Kerwin was blindfolded. The gag he wore was a tightly twisted

handkerchief drawn taut through his mouth and tied behind. His hands

were tied at his back. The taller of the kidnappers carried two horse

blankets over his arm, one of which he flung upon the floor beside the

oil stove. His companion set the lantern in the corner and stooping in

front of the stove proceeded to light it. Kerwin stood in the middle of

the floor. The man who had spread the blanket came around in front of

him and placing a hand on either shoulder pushed him back. Bumping him

into the wall he bore down upon him growling in a voice obviously

assumed and grossly piratical: "Sit there!"

Kerwin slumped upon the blanket. The stove lighted, the kidnappers

squatted in front of it and one of them produced a pipe and pouch of

tobacco. Striking a match he said: "Well, how d'ye like the banquet?"

Kerwin shook his head.

"Let's take out that gag; he dassent yell," proposed the second outlaw.

"Aw right...."

They untied the handkerchief. Kerwin had worn it so long it was

difficult at first for him to get his mouth back into its normal shape.

For an instant his face resembled that of a gargoyle.

"Cold?" he was asked.

"A little," he replied. There was an utter absence of rancor in his

tone.

The bandit nearest him drew the second blanket over his legs.

"Say, won't you fellows tie my hands in front of me.... I'm sittin' on

'em and they feel as though they were dead...."

"Sure we will, turn over."

He offered no resistance.

"You sure you ain't cold?... We don't want you to catch cold."

"No, I'm not cold," the captive replied.

Silence ensued which lasted some minutes.

Finally one of them ventured, glancing over his shoulder: "Well, we

ain't seen any ghosts yet, have we, Billy?"

"Nope," was the dogged reply.

Billy extended his leg and kicked Kerwin on the ankle.

"Ever in a haunted house before?" he asked.

"Not that I remember," Kerwin answered.

"Guess you'd remember if you had been," suggested Billy. "Used to be one

down in my town about six years ago. Fellow murdered there once, they

said. Funniest things used to happen.... A hand would open the doors in

front of you. You could see the tracks of a man's bare-feet in the dust

when you went up-stairs...."

"Aw, shut up, Billy, cancha!" his companion muttered edging near him.

"What's the use talkin' such stuff?"

"Why, I was just tellin' you," Billy replied, defensively. "I never took

any stock in the stories, but one day, a fellow by the name of

Thurber--Hank Thurber, regular dare-devil sort of chap--swore _he'd_

spend the night in that house or die in the attempt. Next morning he

didn't show up. The town marshal went to find him. He found him all

right. It was in one of the up-stairs' rooms, and there he sat in a

busted chair, stone dead, with his fishy eyes staring at a hole in the

wall. They got a bundle of old letters out of the hole. Seems it was a

sort of secret cupboard in the first place, and had been plastered

over. That wasn't all though; they found Thurber's dog jammed into the

fireplace of a room down-stairs, with his neck broken...."

"Good Heavens! Billy! Billy! What was that!"

The story-teller caught himself quickly and he and his companion turned

frightened eyes upon each other. In that moment's stillness they noted

that the wind had freshened. Something creaked somewhere. Billy clutched

his companion's leg.

"What was it?" His whisper rasped.

"Thought I heard something click...."

"Sure?"

"Sure's I'm sittin' here...."

"Where'd it seem to come from?"

"I dunno; thought it was--in there." He indicated the little room behind

with a jerk of his head.

"Aw, 'twasn't anything; old rusty nail snapped, probably, in the wind."

Billy swaggered with a monstrous assumption of bravery. There was more

silence for a moment, then Billy went on:

"I was just tellin' you 'bout that haunted house down home...."

"Say, Billy, shut up, cancha? I don't care a _darn_ 'bout that haunted

house, I'm...."

"Come off! You ain't really afraid of ghosts, are you?"

"Well, maybe I ain't, but...."

"What's the matter with you, anyway?"

"Never you mind, I----"

He broke off suddenly and his face went ashy pale.

"Did you see that?" he cried. "Did you see that! Like a blue flame!"

He got upon his feet unsteadily. His mouth was open; his eyes were

staring.

"Why, what's the matter? You ain't drunk, are you? What did you

see----?"

"_See! Look!_"

Billy wheeled like a flash. A light of dazzling brilliancy shone for an

instant, and in the smaller room, through the doorway of which they

gazed as though transfixed, floated a gossamer of unholy, blue smoke.

Then, before the instant became an æon, they saw rise, as though from

the very heart of the dazzle, the upper-half of a white, shrouded form.

One arm waved sweepingly toward them. Before the æon died an unearthly

screech rent the silence, followed by a scuffle and thug as both youths

rushed down the stairs. They sped into the road and the deep shadows of

the woods swallowed them.

V

Blindfolded, Kerwin had seen nothing, but the dazzle had pierced the

covering of his eyes and he had felt the light, and he had _heard_. His

head was like thistle-down borne on the wings of a zephyr. He attempted

to move, to call out. A deadly nausea overcame him. He realized that he

was fainting. Then, of a sudden, his melting senses took form again, as

he heard a familiar voice cry:

"Kerwin, old chap!... By Jove! We'll fool 'em yet, if you hurry!"

And at that the handkerchief was torn from his eyes and he looked up

blinking into the beaming countenance of Norse.

Norse did not wait to explain. He cut the twine binding his friend's

hands and flung down the satchel within the circle of the lantern light.

"What are you looking at?" he asked, tersely, stooping to open the bag

and noting Kerwin's steady gaze fixed upon him.

"_For Heaven's sake what have you got on!_"

"What ... got ..." And Norse burst out laughing.

"What have I got on?" he cried. "I've got on your dress-shirt---- Made

me look more like a ghost." He whipped the garment off. "And now you get

into it just as quick as you can!" he added.

For a brief moment a light of puzzlement lingered in Kerwin's eyes.

"Here's the collar and tie." Norse handed them to him. "And here's your

dress-suit---- You see I overheard them talking it over---- I looked for

you---- Then I came out here---- I'd a box of flash-light powder in my

pocket---- That's all. I thought it was all up when they heard the

satchel click. You see I'd opened it to get out your shirt. I had to put

a good deal of trust in Providence!..."

"But Norsey...."

"Never mind talking! Hustle, man! Hustle!"

"I know, but...."

"There; there are your trousers.... Freeze if it wasn't for that stove,

eh? Thoughtful of them, wasn't it? Here's your vest! What's the matter?

Can't you button your collar? Scott, man, you've got to hustle! Touched

her off just the right time, eh? Worked themselves all up talking about

that other haunted.... Here's your coat! Say, you've got to hustle to

make it; there's not over twenty minutes to spare!..."

"But, Norsey, it's no use. I can't get back to town in twenty minutes.

Why, it will take two hours, walking over that crust...."

"You're not going to walk.--Gad! Here, let me tie that bow for you!

Say, but you've got to hustle!..."

"Not going to walk! You don't mean to say you've got a carriage...."

"Hardly. Just time to get here myself."

"Well, I'd like to know, then, how...."

"_You're going to skate back to town, that's how--on my skates!_"

He rushed into the little room, and returning, held out his skates to

Kerwin. Kerwin didn't seize them. He seized the youth's hand.

"Norsey," he muttered, with the faintest suggestion of a tremor in his

voice, "you're the best old pal a chap ever had...."

"Oh, never mind the bouquets," Norse broke in. "Lemme see; you got all

your clothes on? Those shoes are pretty bad for a swell function; but

they'll be under the table. Yes, I guess you're all right. Take these

skates and clamp 'em while I pack your other clothes in the satchel.

Lucky you told me where you'd hid 'em.... Say, you've got to carry this

bag back, Kerry.... I lugged it out."

"Of course, I'll carry it back; but Norsey"--Kerwin lowered his voice

and glanced about him--"you don't suppose they're hanging around here

somewhere, do you?"

Norse looked up from the packing. "Hanging around here!" he exclaimed.

"Around _here_! Great Heavens, man! They're a million miles from here

and runnin' yet if they're still alive and not scared to death. You

ready?"

Kerwin slung the satchel over his shoulder. "Am I all right?" he asked.

Norse stepped back and regarded him curiously, a little smile playing

around his mouth. Kerwin's face was very grimy. It looked almost black

in the shadow above the white shirt-bosom, and there were three or four

unmistakable smudges on that. Moreover it was a cold night for a man to

skate three or four miles in evening clothes.

"My! You look funny!" Norse laughed. "But what's the difference?" he

added. "Come on...."

Taking him by the arm he steadied him down the creaking stairs. "Now you

can go it like the wind, right up to the door of Nickles," he said at

the gate. "Are you ready?"

Kerwin dug the toe of his right skate into the crust and crouched like

an animal about to spring.

"Go!"

For a moment his body was poised like a blot above the brow of the hill,

then it disappeared.

Norse heard his name shouted. He ran forward and peered down.

"What's up?" he called.

"Nothing. I just wanted to say I'll suggest the toast 'The Kidnapping'

and then you'll tell the whole tale. It'll make 'em look like a postage

stamp...."

Norse laughed. "Why, I'm not going to your darn banquet," he said.

"Not going! The idea! You are, too, going."

"No, I'm not," Norse contended, "I've got something else to do...."

"What?"

"I've got to go over to Ypsilanti and tell Miss Green I can't take that

picture of her room till next week. I'm as near there now as I am

home...."

Before Kerwin could call to him again he turned on his heel and walked

away.

Fifty yards along he glanced back over his shoulder. What he saw caused

a sort of Mephistophelian grin to curve his lips.

Smoke, like a billowy veil in the moonlight, was rolling from the

unboarded windows of the haunted house, and through the cracks he

glimpsed the dance of flames.

"The stove must have been kicked over in the shuffle," he muttered,

unctuously.

A moment he stood there watching the growth of the fire, then,

resolutely turning his face to the east, he moved on down the icy road.