THE family of Christian Ashmore consisted of his wife, his mother, two
grown daughters, and a son of sixteen years. They lived in Troy, New
York, were well-to-do, respectable persons, and had many friends, some of
whom, reading these lines, will doubtless learn for the first time the
extraordinary fate of the young man. From Troy the Ashmores moved in
1871 or 1872 to Richmond, Indiana, and a year or two later to the
vicinity of Quincy, Illinois, where Mr. Ashmore bought a farm and lived
on it. At some little distance from the farmhouse was a spring with a
constant flow of clear, cold water, whence the family derived its supply
for domestic use at all seasons.
On the evening of the 9th of November in 1878, at about nine o’clock,
young Charles Ashmore left the family circle about the hearth, took a tin
bucket and started toward the spring. As he did not return, the family
became uneasy, and going to the door by which he had left the house, his
father called without receiving an answer. He then lighted a lantern and
with the eldest daughter, Martha, who insisted on accompanying him, went
in search. A light snow had fallen, obliterating the path, but making
the young man’s trail conspicuous; each footprint was plainly defined.
After going a little more than half-way—perhaps seventy-five yards—the
father, who was in advance, halted, and elevating his lantern stood
peering intently into the darkness ahead.
“What is the matter, father?” the girl asked.
This was the matter: the trail of the young man had abruptly ended, and
all beyond was smooth, unbroken snow. The last footprints were as
conspicuous as any in the line; the very nail-marks were distinctly
visible. Mr. Ashmore looked upward, shading his eyes with his hat held
between them and the lantern. The stars were shining; there was not a
cloud in the sky; he was denied the explanation which had suggested
itself, doubtful as it would have been—a new snowfall with a limit so
plainly defined. Taking a wide circuit round the ultimate tracks, so as
to leave them undisturbed for further examination, the man proceeded to
the spring, the girl following, weak and terrified. Neither had spoken a
word of what both had observed. The spring was covered with ice, hours
old.
Returning to the house they noted the appearance of the snow on both
sides of the trail its entire length. No tracks led away from it.
The morning light showed nothing more. Smooth, spotless, unbroken, the
shallow snow lay everywhere.
Four days later the grief-stricken mother herself went to the spring for
water. She came back and related that in passing the spot where the
footprints had ended she had heard the voice of her son and had been
eagerly calling to him, wandering about the place, as she had fancied the
voice to be now in one direction, now in another, until she was exhausted
with fatigue and emotion.
Questioned as to what the voice had said, she was unable to tell, yet
averred that the words were perfectly distinct. In a moment the entire
family was at the place, but nothing was heard, and the voice was
believed to be an hallucination caused by the mother’s great anxiety and
her disordered nerves. But for months afterward, at irregular intervals
of a few days, the voice was heard by the several members of the family,
and by others. All declared it unmistakably the voice of Charles
Ashmore; all agreed that it seemed to come from a great distance,
faintly, yet with entire distinctness of articulation; yet none could
determine its direction, nor repeat its words. The intervals of silence
grew longer and longer, the voice fainter and farther, and by midsummer
it was heard no more.
If anybody knows the fate of Charles Ashmore it is probably his mother.
She is dead.
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