One midsummer night a farmer's boy living about ten miles from the city
of Cincinnati was following a bridle path through a dense and dark
forest. He had lost himself while searching for some missing cows, and
near midnight was a long way from home, in a part of the country with
which he was unfamiliar. But he was a stout-hearted lad, and knowing his
general direction from his home, he plunged into the forest without
hesitation, guided by the stars. Coming into the bridle path, and
observing that it ran in the right direction, he followed it.
The night was clear, but in the woods it was exceedingly dark. It was
more by the sense of touch than by that of sight that the lad kept the
path. He could not, indeed, very easily go astray; the undergrowth on
both sides was so thick as to be almost impenetrable. He had gone into
the forest a mile or more when he was surprised to see a feeble gleam of
light shining through the foliage skirting the path on his left. The
sight of it startled him and set his heart beating audibly.
"The old Breede house is somewhere about here," he said to himself.
"This must be the other end of the path which we reach it by from our
side. Ugh! what should a light be doing there?"
Nevertheless, he pushed on. A moment later he had emerged from the
forest into a small, open space, mostly upgrown to brambles. There were
remnants of a rotting fence. A few yards from the trail, in the middle
of the "clearing," was the house from which the light came, through an
unglazed window. The window had once contained glass, but that and its
supporting frame had long ago yielded to missiles flung by hands of
venturesome boys to attest alike their courage and their hostility to
the supernatural; for the Breede house bore the evil reputation of being
haunted. Possibly it was not, but even the hardiest sceptic could not
deny that it was deserted--which in rural regions is much the same
thing.
Looking at the mysterious dim light shining from the ruined window the
boy remembered with apprehension that his own hand had assisted at the
destruction. His penitence was of course poignant in proportion to its
tardiness and inefficacy. He half expected to be set upon by all the
unworldly and bodiless malevolences whom he had outraged by assisting to
break alike their windows and their peace. Yet this stubborn lad,
shaking in every limb, would not retreat. The blood in his veins was
strong and rich with the iron of the frontiersman. He was but two
removes from the generation that had subdued the Indian. He started to
pass the house.
As he was going by he looked in at the blank window space and saw a
strange and terrifying sight,--the figure of a man seated in the centre
of the room, at a table upon which lay some loose sheets of paper. The
elbows rested on the table, the hands supporting the head, which was
uncovered. On each side the fingers were pushed into the hair. The face
showed dead-yellow in the light of a single candle a little to one side.
The flame illuminated that side of the face, the other was in deep
shadow. The man's eyes were fixed upon the blank window space with a
stare in which an older and cooler observer might have discerned
something of apprehension, but which seemed to the lad altogether
soulless. He believed the man to be dead.
The situation was horrible, but not with out its fascination. The boy
stopped to note it all. He was weak, faint and trembling; he could feel
the blood forsaking his face. Nevertheless, he set his teeth and
resolutely advanced to the house. He had no conscious intention--it was
the mere courage of terror. He thrust his white face forward into the
illuminated opening. At that instant a strange, harsh cry, a shriek,
broke upon the silence of the night--the note of a screech-owl. The man
sprang to his feet, overturning the table and extinguishing the candle.
The boy took to his heels.