THE HAUNTED CABIN
It was the end of a glorious fall day early in November. Autumn had held
back this year and the hills around Wharton were flaming with masses of
red and yellow, which stood out against the darker pine and hemlock in
raw splashes of gorgeous color. The air was balmy, yet with a touch of
crispness which made tramping exhilarating, and also roused pleasant
thoughts of cracking fires and the snug warmth of indoor cheer which
make the most delightful possible endings for such a tramp.
Eight scouts from the Wharton troop were off for an overnight hike.
There had been few enough of these this Fall, owing to the work on the
Liberty Loan, campaigns for War Saving Stamps and the like. But now
there was a momentary breathing spell and Cavanaugh, McBride and six
others from the troop had been prompt to take advantage of it. Amongst
the others were Chick Conners and—Red Garrity! The latter had been a
member of the troop for just one week but already he was clothed in a
complete scout uniform which made a different fellow of him. It was
plain that he tried to appear unconscious of his attire, but at times he
seemed unable to resist a swift downward glance of admiring approval at
the smooth folds of spotless khaki.
Full of high spirits, they tramped along the steep, crooked wood road,
laughing, joking, playing tricks on each other, and apparently quite
oblivious of the weight of haversack and blanket roll with which each
one was burdened. But as they drew near their journey’s end, they
sobered down a trifle and began to discuss the cabin with interest and
curiosity.
“Of course it isn’t haunted—really,” said Fernald Barber at length, in a
pause which followed some especially lurid story.
He had meant the remark to be a positive statement, but somehow a touch
of questioning crept into his voice. He was an imaginative boy, and the
story had impressed him strongly. Moreover, dusk was approaching, and
the trees cast long shadows across the trail.
“Of course not, you nut,” laughed Cavanaugh, glancing back. “There’s no
such things as haunts, is there, Micky?”
McBride shrugged his shoulders. “I guess not, Cavvy,” he grinned. “I
never saw one, anyway.”
“Nor anybody else,” affirmed the patrol leader positively. “Just because
old Morford lived alone in the cabin for so long, and was found dead
back in the woods, a lot of loafers down town have made up a lovely yarn
about his ghost coming back and hanging around the place. It’s all the
worst kind of rot.”
“I wonder why it ain’t ever been lived in since?” remarked Chick Conners
curiously. “It’s been empty a couple of years, you said.”
“Sure, but who’d want it? It’s miles away from everything, and unless
you found another old hermit like Morford, who spent most of his time
rambling around the hills, I don’t know who’d have any use for it. Dad
stopped there a couple of times while he was out hunting, and I was
there once myself last fall.”
“Did you stay over night?” asked Barber.
“No, but I’d just as soon have. There’s not a thing the matter of it
except a little damp. The roof’s tight and there’s some wooden bunks,
and a dandy stone fireplace. I don’t know what happened to the
furniture. I guess it was the homemade kind and was broken up for
firewood. With some tables and chairs and cooking utensils and things,
it would make a dandy place for the troop to come on overnight hikes. I
only wish I’d thought of it before.”
“Well, we’ll have to make the most of it now,” said McBride. “Let’s
speed up, Cavvy. It’ll be dark pretty quick, and we’ve got to rustle
around for wood.”
“Plenty of time,” returned Cavanaugh. “We’ll be there in five minutes.”
Nevertheless he quickened his pace and for a while conversation ceased
as the others followed him closely up the narrow, winding trail. One or
two, like Barber, may have been slightly affected by the weird tales
they had heard of the shack and its former eccentric owner, but the
majority were simply curious for a glimpse of the place and eager to
reach their destination and settle down restfully after their long
tramp.
The trail, which was scarcely more than a track, followed the rocky edge
of a deep ravine. There was a glint of water down below, but in those
depths already shadows were creeping up, filling the hollows, smoothing
over the rough slopes, obliterating one by one each separate detail of
tree and rock and brawling stream. On the other side the slope swept
steeply upward, covered with close-set ranks of pines, whose long
branches spread out over the trail itself.
Presently the road curved sharply to the right around a mass of
fern-covered rock, twisted erratically for a space amongst the trunks of
tall, straight pines, turned again, and ended abruptly on an open
shoulder of the mountain.
“There she is,” announced Cavvy.
Before them, at the top of a gentle slope a long, low, structure of logs
nestled against a background of trees. Close to one side towered a giant
pine, its feathery branches overhanging the sloping roof of slabs. The
closed door was almost hidden in the shadow of a wide, projecting roof,
and to Furn Barber the whole place fairly breathed desertion and
loneliness. But he would have perished rather than reveal that feeling
to the others, and he was one of the first to dash up the slope and
cluster around the door.
This was merely on the latch, and in a moment they had swarmed inside
and were staring about in eager curiosity. Opposite them yawned a great
stone fireplace, cavernous and empty. On the left was a shuttered window
and on the other side stood a double tier of wooden bunks. There were
some rough shelves at one side of the chimney, and a couple of empty
boxes on the floor, but that was all.
For a moment no one spoke. The silence, the bare emptiness, the shadows
in the corners, undoubtedly gave the place a gloomy look, and there was
a damp chill over it all which was not exactly pleasant. McBride was the
first to speak.
“Why, it’s a dandy place, Cavvy,” he said cheerily. Micky was one who
always made the best of everything, and there were moreover,
possibilities about the cabin which he sensed before the others. “All we
need is a fire and some lights to make it as homelike as can be.”
His words broke the spell. Candles were quickly produced and lighted,
and then the whole crowd hustled out for wood. There was plenty about in
the shape of dead limbs and fallen trees, and each scout worked with a
will cutting it up and dragging it in. In an hour a roaring fire blazed
on the hearth and there was a pile outside the cabin door which would
easily carry them through the night.
The transformation was surprising. The firelight flickered cheerily on
the log walls, driving out the shadows and brightening every corner.
Blankets spread out in the bunks, and a litter of cooking utensils
around the hearth, took off much of the bare appearance. And when
cooking operations began the place resounded with the clatter of dishes,
with jokes, laughter and noisy but good natured disputes, until it would
have taken a powerful imagination indeed to detect anything “spooky”
about it.
Nevertheless, Furn Barber’s mind was not entirely at ease. To be sure,
he thoroughly enjoyed cooking and eating supper, and the fun which went
on then and afterwards. But when bedtime came and the bustle of turning
in was over, his thoughts returned to the weird tales he had heard of
old Morford’s “ghost” and lingered there with growing apprehension.
He occupied one of the bunks with McBride, and long after everyone else
had gone to sleep, he lay watching the flames leaping in the fireplace,
and their reflection glowing and dancing on the walls and roof. Every
now and again, as the fire died a little, his glance swept shadowy
corners nervously and he shivered at some particularly creepy detail of
the stories he had been told about the place.
But even his wrought up imagination could find nothing very fearful in
this peaceful picture, and at length he dozed off.
He woke with a start to find the room in darkness. The fire had died
down to a dull red glow which illuminated only a foot or two of the
stone hearth. Everything else was swathed in shadows—everything, that
is, save—
Barber gasped suddenly and sat up tingling, his gaze fixed fearfully on
the farther wall of the cabin. For a long moment he stared, wide-eyed,
horrified, at the motionless, shapeless figure which stood out, vaguely
white against the glass of the window. Then suddenly it moved with a
slow, creepy motion along the wall, and with a gurgle of fright, Furn
clutched his bedfellow.
“Micky!” he gasped thickly. “Micky—wake up!”
McBride rolled over. “Huh?” he grunted sleepily. “W’as matter?”
“The ghost!” shrilled Barber. “Morford’s ghost!”
The words penetrated to more ears than one. Startled into complete
wakefulness, McBride bounced over and leaned out of the bunk. At the
same instant Red Garrity sat up abruptly from a heap of blankets on the
floor, and Cavanaugh poked his head over the edge of the upper bunk.
“What’s the matter?” they both cried at once.
“The ghost!” wailed Barber. “There beside the window. I can see it—”
He broke off with a shrill squeal of fright as Cavvy’s flashlight,
sweeping suddenly across the room, brought into clear relief an
unmistakably human form, lank and white-clad, looming up beside the
rough shelves that hung between the fireplace and the window.
Furn’s cry choked, died away, changing to a surprised gasp which, in its
turn was drowned in the shout of laughter that came from the others. For
what the clear white light revealed was nothing more spectral than the
lank figure of Ted Hinckley clad in voluminous white pajamas—he had been
the only one to so thoroughly prepare for bed—and placidly munching the
remains of a cold baked potato.
For a long moment he stood motionless, paying not the slightest
attention to the noise, and continuing to eat the cold potato as if it
had been the most delicate of viands. Then, as the remaining scouts woke
and added their clamorous questioning to the din, an odd change came
over him. He started slightly and the potato slipped unheeded from his
fingers. His eyes, already open, widened, and into them came a dazed,
bewildered stare which merged presently into a broad, sheepish grin.
“Sleep-walking again, Ted?” inquired Cavvy, when he could get his
breath.
“Doggone it!” mumbled Hinckley. “What the deuce was I doing, anyhow?”
“Eating a cold potato,” chuckled Cavanaugh, “and scaring Furn most to
death. He took you for Morford’s ghost. Some ghost, eh, fellows?”
“Oh, you Furny!” laughed McBride.
He clutched the blushing Barber in the ribs and created a diversion for
which Furn was only too thankful. Hinckley, chilled in his scant attire,
piled wood on the fire and hastily sought his blankets, but it was a
good while before the chuckles died away and silence fell upon the
cabin, this time to last until morning.
There was more joking then, and a good deal of fun was poked at both
Barber and Hinckley. But the necessity of making an early start for town
cut this rather short, much to the former’s relief.
“I reckon no respectable ghost would stand half a chance with this
bunch,” laughed McBride as they started off. He glanced back at the
cabin which looked cheery enough now in the full glare of the morning
sun. “It’s a swell place, fellows, and I don’t see why we shouldn’t make
it a regular troop headquarters. If we could scrape up enough money to
buy some furniture and fix it up a bit, there wouldn’t be a scout cabin
anywhere that could beat it.”
“Not a half bad idea,” agreed Cavanaugh. “I don’t see why we shouldn’t
do it, either. We’ll have to take it up with the chief on Friday and see
what he says.”