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.