THIS narrative begins with the death of its hero. Silas Deemer died on
the 16th day of July, 1863, and two days later his remains were buried.
As he had been personally known to every man, woman and well-grown child
in the village, the funeral, as the local newspaper phrased it, “was
largely attended.” In accordance with a custom of the time and place,
the coffin was opened at the graveside and the entire assembly of friends
and neighbors filed past, taking a last look at the face of the dead.
And then, before the eyes of all, Silas Deemer was put into the ground.
Some of the eyes were a trifle dim, but in a general way it may be said
that at that interment there was lack of neither observance nor
observation; Silas was indubitably dead, and none could have pointed out
any ritual delinquency that would have justified him in coming back from
the grave. Yet if human testimony is good for anything (and certainly it
once put an end to witchcraft in and about Salem) he came back.
I forgot to state that the death and burial of Silas Deemer occurred in
the little village of Hillbrook, where he had lived for thirty-one years.
He had been what is known in some parts of the Union (which is admittedly
a free country) as a “merchant”; that is to say, he kept a retail shop
for the sale of such things as are commonly sold in shops of that
character. His honesty had never been questioned, so far as is known,
and he was held in high esteem by all. The only thing that could be
urged against him by the most censorious was a too close attention to
business. It was not urged against him, though many another, who
manifested it in no greater degree, was less leniently judged. The
business to which Silas was devoted was mostly his own—that, possibly,
may have made a difference.
At the time of Deemer’s death nobody could recollect a single day,
Sundays excepted, that he had not passed in his “store,” since he had
opened it more than a quarter-century before. His health having been
perfect during all that time, he had been unable to discern any validity
in whatever may or might have been urged to lure him astray from his
counter and it is related that once when he was summoned to the county
seat as a witness in an important law case and did not attend, the lawyer
who had the hardihood to move that he be “admonished” was solemnly
informed that the Court regarded the proposal with “surprise.” Judicial
surprise being an emotion that attorneys are not commonly ambitious to
arouse, the motion was hastily withdrawn and an agreement with the other
side effected as to what Mr. Deemer would have said if he had been
there—the other side pushing its advantage to the extreme and making the
supposititious testimony distinctly damaging to the interests of its
proponents. In brief, it was the general feeling in all that region that
Silas Deemer was the one immobile verity of Hillbrook, and that his
translation in space would precipitate some dismal public ill or
strenuous calamity.
Mrs. Deemer and two grown daughters occupied the upper rooms of the
building, but Silas had never been known to sleep elsewhere than on a cot
behind the counter of the store. And there, quite by accident, he was
found one night, dying, and passed away just before the time for taking
down the shutters. Though speechless, he appeared conscious, and it was
thought by those who knew him best that if the end had unfortunately been
delayed beyond the usual hour for opening the store the effect upon him
would have been deplorable.
Such had been Silas Deemer—such the fixity and invariety of his life and
habit, that the village humorist (who had once attended college) was
moved to bestow upon him the sobriquet of “Old Ibidem,” and, in the first
issue of the local newspaper after the death, to explain without offence
that Silas had taken “a day off.” It was more than a day, but from the
record it appears that well within a month Mr. Deemer made it plain that
he had not the leisure to be dead.
One of Hillbrook’s most respected citizens was Alvan Creede, a banker.
He lived in the finest house in town, kept a carriage and was a most
estimable man variously. He knew something of the advantages of travel,
too, having been frequently in Boston, and once, it was thought, in New
York, though he modestly disclaimed that glittering distinction. The
matter is mentioned here merely as a contribution to an understanding of
Mr. Creede’s worth, for either way it is creditable to him—to his
intelligence if he had put himself, even temporarily, into contact with
metropolitan culture; to his candor if he had not.
One pleasant summer evening at about the hour of ten Mr. Creede, entering
at his garden gate, passed up the gravel walk, which looked very white in
the moonlight, mounted the stone steps of his fine house and pausing a
moment inserted his latchkey in the door. As he pushed this open he met
his wife, who was crossing the passage from the parlor to the library.
She greeted him pleasantly and pulling the door further back held it for
him to enter. Instead he turned and, looking about his feet in front of
the threshold, uttered an exclamation of surprise.
“Why!—what the devil,” he said, “has become of that jug?”
“What jug, Alvan?” his wife inquired, not very sympathetically.
“A jug of maple sirup—I brought it along from the store and set it down
here to open the door. What the—”
“There, there, Alvan, please don’t swear again,” said the lady,
interrupting. Hillbrook, by the way, is not the only place in
Christendom where a vestigial polytheism forbids the taking in vain of
the Evil One’s name.
The jug of maple sirup which the easy ways of village life had permitted
Hillbrook’s foremost citizen to carry home from the store was not there.
“Are you quite sure, Alvan?”
“My dear, do you suppose a man does not know when he is carrying a jug?
I bought that sirup at Deemer’s as I was passing. Deemer himself drew it
and lent me the jug, and I—”
The sentence remains to this day unfinished. Mr. Creede staggered into
the house, entered the parlor and dropped into an armchair, trembling in
every limb. He had suddenly remembered that Silas Deemer was three weeks
dead.
Mrs. Creede stood by her husband, regarding him with surprise and
anxiety.
“For Heaven’s sake,” she said, “what ails you?”
Mr. Creede’s ailment having no obvious relation to the interests of the
better land he did not apparently deem it necessary to expound it on that
demand; he said nothing—merely stared. There were long moments of
silence broken by nothing but the measured ticking of the clock, which
seemed somewhat slower than usual, as if it were civilly granting them an
extension of time in which to recover their wits.
“Jane, I have gone mad—that is it.” He spoke thickly and hurriedly.
“You should have told me; you must have observed my symptoms before they
became so pronounced that I have observed them myself. I thought I was
passing Deemer’s store; it was open and lit up—that is what I thought; of
course it is never open now. Silas Deemer stood at his desk behind the
counter. My God, Jane, I saw him as distinctly as I see you.
Remembering that you had said you wanted some maple sirup, I went in and
bought some—that is all—I bought two quarts of maple sirup from Silas
Deemer, who is dead and underground, but nevertheless drew that sirup
from a cask and handed it to me in a jug. He talked with me, too, rather
gravely, I remember, even more so than was his way, but not a word of
what he said can I now recall. But I saw him—good Lord, I saw and talked
with him—and he is dead! So I thought, but I’m mad, Jane, I’m as crazy
as a beetle; and you have kept it from me.”
This monologue gave the woman time to collect what faculties she had.
“Alvan,” she said, “you have given no evidence of insanity, believe me.
This was undoubtedly an illusion—how should it be anything else? That
would be too terrible! But there is no insanity; you are working too
hard at the bank. You should not have attended the meeting of directors
this evening; any one could see that you were ill; I knew something would
occur.”
It may have seemed to him that the prophecy had lagged a bit, awaiting
the event, but he said nothing of that, being concerned with his own
condition. He was calm now, and could think coherently.
“Doubtless the phenomenon was subjective,” he said, with a somewhat
ludicrous transition to the slang of science. “Granting the possibility
of spiritual apparition and even materialization, yet the apparition and
materialization of a half-gallon brown clay jug—a piece of coarse, heavy
pottery evolved from nothing—that is hardly thinkable.”
As he finished speaking, a child ran into the room—his little daughter.
She was clad in a bedgown. Hastening to her father she threw her arms
about his neck, saying: “You naughty papa, you forgot to come in and kiss
me. We heard you open the gate and got up and looked out. And, papa
dear, Eddy says mayn’t he have the little jug when it is empty?”
As the full import of that revelation imparted itself to Alvan Creede’s
understanding he visibly shuddered. For the child could not have heard a
word of the conversation.
The estate of Silas Deemer being in the hands of an administrator who had
thought it best to dispose of the “business” the store had been closed
ever since the owner’s death, the goods having been removed by another
“merchant” who had purchased them _en bloc_. The rooms above were vacant
as well, for the widow and daughters had gone to another town.
On the evening immediately after Alvan Creede’s adventure (which had
somehow “got out”) a crowd of men, women and children thronged the
sidewalk opposite the store. That the place was haunted by the spirit of
the late Silas Deemer was now well known to every resident of Hillbrook,
though many affected disbelief. Of these the hardiest, and in a general
way the youngest, threw stones against the front of the building, the
only part accessible, but carefully missed the unshuttered windows.
Incredulity had not grown to malice. A few venturesome souls crossed the
street and rattled the door in its frame; struck matches and held them
near the window; attempted to view the black interior. Some of the
spectators invited attention to their wit by shouting and groaning and
challenging the ghost to a footrace.
After a considerable time had elapsed without any manifestation, and many
of the crowd had gone away, all those remaining began to observe that the
interior of the store was suffused with a dim, yellow light. At this all
demonstrations ceased; the intrepid souls about the door and windows fell
back to the opposite side of the street and were merged in the crowd; the
small boys ceased throwing stones. Nobody spoke above his breath; all
whispered excitedly and pointed to the now steadily growing light. How
long a time had passed since the first faint glow had been observed none
could have guessed, but eventually the illumination was bright enough to
reveal the whole interior of the store; and there, standing at his desk
behind the counter, Silas Deemer was distinctly visible!
The effect upon the crowd was marvelous. It began rapidly to melt away
at both flanks, as the timid left the place. Many ran as fast as their
legs would let them; others moved off with greater dignity, turning
occasionally to look backward over the shoulder. At last a score or
more, mostly men, remained where they were, speechless, staring, excited.
The apparition inside gave them no attention; it was apparently occupied
with a book of accounts.
Presently three men left the crowd on the sidewalk as if by a common
impulse and crossed the street. One of them, a heavy man, was about to
set his shoulder against the door when it opened, apparently without
human agency, and the courageous investigators passed in. No sooner had
they crossed the threshold than they were seen by the awed observers
outside to be acting in the most unaccountable way. They thrust out
their hands before them, pursued devious courses, came into violent
collision with the counter, with boxes and barrels on the floor, and with
one another. They turned awkwardly hither and thither and seemed trying
to escape, but unable to retrace their steps. Their voices were heard in
exclamations and curses. But in no way did the apparition of Silas
Deemer manifest an interest in what was going on.
By what impulse the crowd was moved none ever recollected, but the entire
mass—men, women, children, dogs—made a simultaneous and tumultuous rush
for the entrance. They congested the doorway, pushing for
precedence—resolving themselves at length into a line and moving up step
by step. By some subtle spiritual or physical alchemy observation had
been transmuted into action—the sightseers had become participants in the
spectacle—the audience had usurped the stage.
To the only spectator remaining on the other side of the street—Alvan
Creede, the banker—the interior of the store with its inpouring crowd
continued in full illumination; all the strange things going on there
were clearly visible. To those inside all was black darkness. It was as
if each person as he was thrust in at the door had been stricken blind,
and was maddened by the mischance. They groped with aimless imprecision,
tried to force their way out against the current, pushed and elbowed,
struck at random, fell and were trampled, rose and trampled in their
turn. They seized one another by the garments, the hair, the
beard—fought like animals, cursed, shouted, called one another
opprobrious and obscene names. When, finally, Alvan Creede had seen the
last person of the line pass into that awful tumult the light that had
illuminated it was suddenly quenched and all was as black to him as to
those within. He turned away and left the place.
In the early morning a curious crowd had gathered about “Deemer’s.” It
was composed partly of those who had run away the night before, but now
had the courage of sunshine, partly of honest folk going to their daily
toil. The door of the store stood open; the place was vacant, but on the
walls, the floor, the furniture, were shreds of clothing and tangles of
hair. Hillbrook militant had managed somehow to pull itself out and had
gone home to medicine its hurts and swear that it had been all night in
bed. On the dusty desk, behind the counter, was the sales-book. The
entries in it, in Deemer’s handwriting, had ceased on the 16th day of
July, the last of his life. There was no record of a later sale to Alvan
Creede.
That is the entire story—except that men’s passions having subsided and
reason having resumed its immemorial sway, it was confessed in Hillbrook
that, considering the harmless and honorable character of his first
commercial transaction under the new conditions, Silas Deemer, deceased,
might properly have been suffered to resume business at the old stand
without mobbing. In that judgment the local historian from whose
unpublished work these facts are compiled had the thoughtfulness to
signify his concurrence.