_The Story of a Haunted Cabin_
_By_ HERMAN SISK
I was weary of the fog that hung over me like a pall, fatigued to the
point of exhaustion. Since early afternoon the chill wind had forced it
through my clothing like rain. It depressed me.
The country through which I traveled alone was desolate and unpeopled,
save here and there where some bush assumed fantastic form. The very air
was oppressive. As far as I could see, were hills—nothing but hills and
those bushes. Occasionally I could hear the uncanny cry of some hidden
animal.
As I pushed on, a dread of impending disaster fastened itself upon me.
I thought of my home, of my mother and sister, and wondered if all was
well with them. I tried to rid myself of this morbid state of mind; but,
try as I would, I could not. It grew as I progressed, until at length it
became a part of me.
I had walked some fifteen miles, and was so weary I could scarcely stand,
when I came suddenly upon a log cabin. It was a crude affair, quite
small, and stood back some distance from the little-used road in a clump
of trees. A tiny window and a door faced the direction from which I
approached. No paint had ever covered the roughly-hewn logs from which it
was made, and the sun and the wind and the fog had turned the virgin wood
to a drab brown.
I felt it was useless to knock, for the cabin had every appearance of
being deserted. However, rap I did. No voice bade me enter, and with
an effort I pushed open the door and staggered into the house. Almost
immediately my weary legs crumpled under me, and I toppled and struck
heavily on my face.
When I regained consciousness, a rough room, scantily furnished, greeted
my eye. There was an ill-looking table, the top of which was warped and
rectangular in shape, standing in the center. To one side was a rustic
chair. Beyond the table was a bunk built into the wall; and on this lay
a man with shining eyes and a long, white beard. A heavy gray blanket
covered all of him but his head.
“You’re right on time,” he said in a high-pitched voice.