Written by Anne Gilstrap

I would like to share a story with you that my two best friends related to me. Kathy, who had just had her fourteenth birthday, and Nan, her sister, went with their parents to their grandparents’ farm right outside Montgomery, Alabama. It had been a long, hot, boring ride from Atlanta, and having arrived at their grandparents’ farm, they were restless to do something besides watch Mom and Dad busy working to settle the estate.

As they wandered off into the cooler woods gathering wildflowers, they came to a clearing. There, in the middle of the clearing, was a small cottage, run down so badly even the shutters hung at an angle – never again to cover the windows that had lost most of their window panes – and a porch with tall grass, growing where there were no boards.

With a sudden burst of recklessness, the girls raced to the cottage. As they reached the half open front door, Kathy called out, “Is there anybody home?” And then they laughed, for of course, there was no one there.

As they came into the front room that at one time may have been pretty, they found it was full of dust and cobwebs, and stuffing falling out of the sofa cushions. Hurrying along to the next room, they found a kitchen with a table set for a meal, looking as if someone had hurriedly left the room, the chair being pushed half way aside at the table.

A growing sense of being watched overwhelmed the girls. They bolted from the room and down the hall.

As they reached the stairs, curiosity overcame their fear, and they climbed the stairs to the second floor. Kathy opened the door to the left of the hallway. “Whew!” she said as she viewed the pretty brass bed with a dirty old quilt that had become home for many different wild animals.

Closing the door, Kathy crossed the hall and gasped as she opened the door. Nan looked over her shoulder and saw a room as neat as a pin, no dust anywhere – a shining floor with an old worn rug, tattered curtains hanging listlessly at the open windows. And there in the middle of the room was a rocking horse, rocking back and forth very fast as if a child had just jumped off.

They watched with fascination as the horse slowed and stopped. As they looked around the room, they saw a child’s bed with a rocking chair beside it, and against the wall on the other side of the room was an old trunk. Quickly the girls moved to the trunk, knelt beside it and opened the lid. Kathy reached in and found a letter that gave her a hint of the occupants of the little cottage. The letter was from a soldier husband fighting in Virginia. He wrote, “I miss you and our little son so very much. It frightens me to think I might not be able to come back home to be with you.”

Putting the letter back, Kathy picked up another and started reading it out loud. Suddenly she grew silent, and Nan saw tears running down her checks. Taking the letter, Nan saw it was from the mother, and it read, “My dearest love, our precious son had pneumonia, and because the doctor was away with the troops, there was no one to save him.”

Nan put the letter back in the trunk, and as she did, her hand touched a piece of parchment. Drawing it out of the trunk, careful not to let the pieces fall away, she read a telegram that had been sent to the soldier in Virginia: “We regret to inform you your wife has taken her life.”

As the girls sat looking at each other through tears, there suddenly seemed to be a presence in the room, and the soft sound of a lullaby could be heard above the hum of the bees. Quickly and carefully, they put the paper back in the trunk, closed the lid, and hurriedly crossed the room. As Nan passed the closet, she felt something brush against her arm. Whirling around, she saw to her horror the rocking chair begin to slowly rock back and forth, and the sound of a lullaby became louder.

The girls frantically dashed down the stairs, out into the yard, and into the safety of the woods. Turning back to look at the little old cottege once again, they saw in the upstairs window a little blond boy watching them. Panicked, they ran through the woods, falling over broken limbs and being scratched by the briars.

When they arrived at the farm, they rushed to tell their father what they had seen. Father listened and then said, “Girls, the story is told that in anguish and grief, the solider, upon returning home, burned the cottage to the ground. The woods have long ago grown over the clearing where the little cottage once stood. There is no house.”

- THE END -

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Written by Craig Dominey

Pastor Fitch was a serious and humble man – a might lacking in the humor department, but still a pleasant sort of fellow who was always confident that the good Lord was standing by his side. He was working hard not to let pride overcome him this night as he drove his lovely, young bride, Sarah Sue, toward their honeymoon suite in New Orleans. Gazing across the horse-drawn wagon at her, he admired her beauty, appreciating what a fine pastor’s wife she would become – with a little guidance.

Soon after they crossed into Louisiana, a hard rain suddenly poured down upon them. At first, the good Pastor kept on going- nothing was going to stop him from having a blissful honeymoon with his beloved. But as the cold rain came down harder and harder, he figured he’d better find shelter for the night.

By the side of the road, he spotted a small, run-down house with a light on in the window. He pulled up the drive, knocked on the door, and asked the elderly woman inside if she had a spare room. The elderly woman shook her head, then pointed toward a winding dirt road that disappeared into a thick, menacing-looking forest.

“There’s a pretty big house up that road,” she said. “It’s empty – folks there moved out a long time ago. Nobody’ll care if you stay there. But I wouldn’t recommend it.”

“Why not?” asked the Preacher.

“‘Cause some strange things happen up there,” she answered. “They say the place is haunted.”

The Preacher smiled and patted the well-worn Bible under his arm. “No ghosts will harm me, ma’am,” he said. “I’m a man of God.” The elderly woman chuckled and said, “Yeah, do what you want. Just don’t say you weren’t warned.”

Pastor Fitch and his wife rode up the long, bumpy dirt road, the thick oak trees sheltering them from the rain. Soon they spotted a large, gloomy-looking mansion peeking out of an overgrown yard. Thick strands of kudzu covered the weather-beaten stone walls, but for the most part, the house was in reasonably good shape.

The couple got off the wagon and slowly opened the rotted door, its rusty hinges creaking loudly. Inside the dark, musty house, they could see that most of the furniture was still inside, covered in dust. A large stone fireplace filled the living room. Long hallways led to other darkened rooms, but they had no interest in finding out what lurked in the house’s unseen depths.

The Pastor gathered some wood and started a roaring fire. Even though the warmth felt heavenly, the flickering flames cast eerie shadows on the empty walls and high ceilings, making the spooky house even more sinister. The Pastor sat his shivering wife in front of the fire, handed her his Bible and suggested she read some selected verses to combat any fears she might experience.

After an hour of sitting by the fire, the couple suddenly heard a strange noise from somewhere in the darkness. It sounded like faint footsteps walking up and down a distant hallway, pacing anxiously.

“Do you hear that?” asked Sarah Sue.

“It’s nothing, dear,” answered the Pastor, working on notes for a future sermon. “Read your Bible.”

The footsteps grew louder and louder, as if walking down the hallway toward them. Sarah Sue looked at her husband, but he kept his face buried in his notes, writing furiously.

The footsteps then entered the room. Sarah Sue looked anxiously about, but could see nothing. What followed next chilled her blood – a low, painful moan, filling the cavernous room with its misery.

“Dear?” started Sarah Sue.

“Ignore it!” said the Pastor. “Read your Bible!”

The footsteps circled her chair, the moan growing louder and more anguished. Her hands shook as she flipped the dog-eared pages of her Bible, reading the most inspirational, evil-fighting passages out loud with uncommon fervor. The front door then slammed, and slammed again, over and over, until it completely flew off its hinges! A fierce wind blew into the home, snuffing out the large fire, plunging the room into total darkness.

“Dear?” yelped Sarah Sue.

“I said, ignore it!” blurted the Pastor. “Keep reading your Bible!”

The howling wind roared through the house, knocking over lamps, dishes, statues and books. Sarah Sue read her verses louder and louder, while the Pastor wrote furiously. Suddenly, the noises stopped.

Sarah Sue turned and looked at her husband. He smiled back and said, “See? I told you no harm would come to us. The Word of God is like a sword by your side.”

No sooner had these words escaped his lips when a heavy object fell down the chimney with a large thump. It rolled into the center of the room between the Pastor and his Wife. They looked at each other for a moment, then the Pastor struck a match and held it down toward the object…

It was a man’s bloody head! What was left of its worm-eaten flesh hung in thin strands off its cheek bones. To the Pastor’s horror, the head opened its eyes and began to speak:

“Lord Almighty!” it said. “What’s it take to get some attention ’round here?”

Sarah Sue shrieked and fainted dead away on the floor. The Preacher stood and clutched the cross around his neck. “Back away, you demon of Hell!” he screamed. “I’m a man of God!”

The head rolled its eyes. “Easy, preacher-man,” it said. “You broke into my house, remember? What are you doing here, anyway?”

“My wife and I were caught in a rain storm,” the Preacher answered. “We’re on our honeymoon. This is the only shelter we could find until the storm cleared.”

The Preacher suddenly remembered his Wife, and rushed over to revive her.

“Wait,” said the Head. “You may want to hear what I have to say before you wake her up.”

The Preacher glared at the Head. “I’m not interested in anything you have to say. You’re obviously a cursed spirit.”

The Head laughed and replied, “Ain’t that the truth. And I’ll tell you why. A few years ago, I, too, married a beautiful young woman. I wasn’t the most handsome man in the world. But I did have a lot of money, as you can see by this nice home you’ve so conveniently broken into.”

“I was so blinded by love that it never occurred to me that this woman might have married me just for my money. But sure enough, a few months into our marriage, she started disappearing on me. Her errands in town took a little longer than usual. There were whispers in town that she had found another man, but I didn’t believe them. Oh, no, I said – not my lovely wife!”

“Then one night, I was awakened by my wife coming home at a very late hour. But she wasn’t alone; she was with her new lover – a muscular young man who worked down at the mill. They stabbed me to death and cut off my head. Then they buried my headless body out in the woods.”

The Head then grinned, its brittle jaw making a gruesome cracking sound. “But I got the last laugh,” it said. “You see, what they really wanted was my stash of gold that I kept hidden in the house. They tore the place apart looking for it, but couldn’t find it. So they fled the county empty-handed. That gold’s still in this house, and I’m the only one who knows where it is.”

As the Head said this, the Preacher backed away from his unconscious wife and sat attentively on the floor. The Head sighed wearily and said, “I’m tired, Preacher-man. I can’t find no peace until my head is buried with my body. If you’ll bury me out in the woods with my body, I’ll give you all my gold, plus the house.”

The Preacher’s eyes sparkled for a moment. “Show me where the gold is,” he said, “and I promise, I’ll do as you ask. And it’ll be a decent Christian burial.”

The Head smiled and said, “It’s buried in the fireplace. There’s a pick-ax down in the cellar.”

The Preacher ran down to the cellar, found the pick-ax, then ran back up and frantically hammered away at the massive fireplace, his face drenched with sweat. The Head shouted words of encouragement, egging him to dig further. Finally, after what seemed like hours, the Preacher’s ax struck a wooden chest deep in the rock. He yanked it out, bashed open the lock and found that, sure enough, it was filled with gold.

The Preacher then picked the Head up with a shovel and went out into the yard. The Head directed him to a mound of earth deep in the woods. The Preacher dug inside and found a headless corpse, still dressed in its bloody nightgown. The Preacher set the Head beside the corpse and started flinging dirt back into the grave. As he did, he could hear the Head yell up to him: “Remember what I said, Preacher-man. Don’t be blinded by love!”

As the years went by, the young couple settled into the house and lived a life of domestic bliss. The Preacher founded a church and became one of the most beloved men in the community.

But deep in the woods, just a few yards from the unmarked grave, the Preacher buried that chest of gold, far away from his Wife’s curious eyes – just in case.

- THE END -

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Collected and Adapted by Craig Dominey

When folks think about the American South, one image that always comes to mind is the old plantation house. Before the Civil War devastated the South, the plantation homes were about the closest thing America had to magical European palaces.

But what some folks don’t know – or maybe don’t care to think about – is that many of these plantations were built upon the backs of slaves. These slaves toiled under the whip of the white plantation owners, harvesting cotton and sugarcane for days, weeks and months on end. Some were literally worked to death, only to be replaced like an old shoe when the next boatload of captured slaves came into port.

So while the plantations may have been wealthy palaces to some, they were places of misery and death to others. So it should come as no surprise that many of the plantation homes remaining in the South are rumored to be haunted. This is the story of one of those houses:

Back in the 1800s, many plantations were located north of New Orleans along the banks of the Mississippi River. These plantations fueled the national economy with cotton and sugar cane, and their owners were some of the richest men in America.

Myrtles Plantation, located a few miles outside of St. Francisville, Louisiana, was one of these homes. It was a beautiful example of Old South Antebellum architecture. Upon arrival, a visitor would be greeted with the magical sight of Spanish moss swaying in the breeze, sweeping wide verandas with ornamental ironwork, and the sweet smells of pink-blossomed myrtle trees. Inside, one would find a lavishly decorated home in the Gothic style, with ornate plasterwork, European antiques, winding staircases and sparkling, crystal chandeliers.

But all this beauty hid a very sinister history – which many believe started with a slave girl named Chloe…

At that time, Myrtles Plantation was owned and operated by Judge Clark Woodruffe and his wife, Sara Matilda. The Woodruffes had two young daughters, with a third child on the way. The judge was well respected in the community as a man of integrity, and a staunch upholder of the law. But he also held a dirty secret – he was a compulsive womanizer.

Whenever he had the opportunity, the judge would sneak around and have relations with his female slaves. Chloe, a slave of mixed blood who served as governess to the Woodruffe children, eventually became the target of his advances. Chloe was disgusted with the thought of the judge having his way with her, but knew if she didn’t follow through she would probably be sent back out to toil in the fields with the other slaves. Working in the “big house” was as close to freedom as a slave could expect at that time, so Chloe did what she had to do.

But after awhile, Chloe began to suspect that the judge was getting tired of her, and would soon be looking for a new lover. Terrified of being sent back to the fields, Chloe began eavesdropping on the family’s conversations to find out if her fears were true. One day, the judge caught her and was so enraged that he grabbed her and sliced off one of her ears. From that day forward, Chloe wore a green turban around her head to hide her shameful wound.

With the judge now furious at her, Chloe knew she had to do something fast to prove her worth to the family – but what? Her opportunity came one day when she was directed to help set up a birthday party for the Woodruffes’ eldest daughter. The judge was away, and his wife and daughters planned on celebrating the birthday by eating cake in the dining room.

Chloe came up with a plan. She crept outside and picked one of the oleander plants growing beside the house. She knew that the leaves of this plant contained a small amount of poison, which she secretly added to the birthday cake. She figured if she made the family sick, she could nurse them back to health and prove herself invaluable to the family. She cared for the children, and was careful to only add enough poison to make them slightly ill.

As the family ate the tainted birthday cake, Chloe soon found out she had made a terrible mistake. One by one, they dropped their utensils and began writhing and moaning in agony. Chloe helped them to their beds and tried desperately to save them, but it was too late. Soon the young girls, their mother and her unborn child were all dead.

As word spread throughout the plantation, the other slaves were terrified that the judge would take his anger at Chloe out on them. To save their own hides, they knew that they had to do something to prove their loyalty to their master. So one night, a lynch mob grabbed Chloe while she slept and hanged her from one of the oak trees. After she died, they cut her down, weighted her body with rocks and tossed her into the Mississippi River.

The judge promptly sealed off the dining room and never used it again. In later years, the plantation house was turned into a bed and breakfast, with many visitors attracted to its beauty and Old South charm. But visitors and future owners alike would soon discover that they were not alone in the house.

One day, one of the new owners of Myrtles Plantation snapped a photo of the front of the house. When the picture was developed, she could see a shadowy figure standing near the veranda; her head wrapped in what appeared to be a turban. At night, some of the guests reported hearing restless footsteps wandering the hallways of the house. Others said they were jolted from their sleep by a black woman in a green turban, who lifted up the mosquito netting around their beds, as if looking for someone.

Soon other strange incidents were reported in the house. Some guests claimed to have seen the images of small children in the hallway mirrors. Others heard their names called out from distant rooms, only to find they were alone in the house. And others spotted two playful little girls in white dresses playing in the hallways, peeking through the windows, bouncing on the beds – even swinging from the chandeliers!

Is the mysterious woman in the green turban the ghost of Chloe, searching for the judge who caused her such grief? Are the mysterious little girls the ghosts of the Woodruffe children, forever trapped in the home where they died? We’ll leave that up to you to decide. Or, better yet – next time you’re in Louisiana, spend a night in Myrtles Plantation near St. Francisville, and find out for yourself!

- THE END -

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Written by Mrs. B.M. Croker (1849-1920)

For a period extending over some years, a notice appeared periodically in various daily papers. It read:

“To let furnished, for a term of years, at a very low rental, a large old-fashioned family residence, comprising eleven bed-rooms, four reception rooms, dressing-rooms, two staircases, complete servants’ offices, ample accommodation for a Gentleman’s establishment, including six-stall stable, coach-house, etc.”

This advertisement referred to number ninety.

Occasionally you saw it running for a week or a fortnight at a stretch, as if it were resolved to force itself into consideration by sheer persistency. Sometimes for months I looked for it in vain. Other folk might possibly fancy that the effort of the house agent had been crowned at last with success-that it was let, and no longer in the market.

I knew better. I knew that it would never, never find a tenant. I knew that it was passed on as a hopeless case, from house-agent to house-agent. I knew that it would never be occupied, save by rats-and, more than this, I knew the reason why!

I will not say in what square, street, or road number ninety may be found, nor will I divulge to human being its precise and exact locality, but this I’m prepared to state, that it is positively in existence, is in Charleston, and is still empty.

Twenty years ago, this very Christmas, I was down from New York visiting my friend John Hollyoak, a civil engineer from Charleston. We were guests at a little dinner party in the neighborhood of the South Battery. Conversation became very brisk as the champagne circulated, and many topics were started, discussed, and dismissed.

We talked on an extraordinary variety of subjects.

I distinctly recollect a long argument on mushrooms- mushrooms, murders, racing, cholera; from cholera we came to sudden death, from sudden death to churchyards, and from churchyards, it was naturally but a step to ghosts.

John Hollyoak, who was the most vehement, the most incredulous, the most jocular, and the most derisive of the anti-ghost faction, brought matters to a climax by declaring that nothing would give him greater pleasure than to pass a night in a haunted house-and the worse its character, the better he would be pleased!

His challenge was instantly taken up by our somewhat ruffled host, who warmly assured him that his wishes could be easily satisfied, and that he would be accommodated with a night’s lodging in a haunted house within twenty-four hours-in fact, in a house of such a desperate reputation, that even the adjoining mansions stood vacant.

He then proceeded to give a brief outline of the history of number ninety. It had once been the residence of a well-known county family, but what evil events had happened therein tradition did not relate.

On the death of the last owner-a diabolical-looking aged person, much resembling the typical wizard-it had passed into the hands of a kinsman, resident abroad, who had no wish to return to Charleston, and who desired his agents to let it, if they could – a most significant condition!

Year by year went by, and still this ‘Highly desirable family mansion’ could find no tenant, although the rent was reduced, and reduced, and again reduced, to almost zero!

The most ghastly whispers were afloat-the most terrible experiences were actually proclaimed on the housetops!

No tenant would remain, even gratis; and for the last ten years, this, ‘handsome, desirable town family residence’ had been the abode of rats by day, and something else by night-so said the neighbors.

Of course it was the very thing for John, and he snatched up the gauntlet on the spot. He scoffed at its evil repute, and solemnly promised to rehabilitate its character within a week.

I was charged by our host to serve as a witness – to verify that John Hollyoak did indeed spend the night at number ninety. The next night at ten o’ clock, I found myself standing with John on the steps of the notorious abode; but I was not going to remain; the carriage that brought us was to take me back to my respectable chambers.

This ill-fated house was large, solemn-looking, and gloomy. A heavy portico frowned down on neighboring barefaced hall-doors. The elderly caretaker was prudently awaiting us outside with a key, which said key he turned in the lock, and admitted us into a great echoing hall, black as night, saying as he did so: “My missus has made the bed, and stoked up a good fire in the first front, Sir. Your things is all laid out, and I hope you’ll have a comfortable night, Sir.”

“No, Sir! Thank you, Sir! Excuse me, I’ll not come in! Goodnight!” and with the words still on his lips, he clattered down the steps with most indecent haste, and vanished.

“And of course you will not come in either?” said John. “It is not in the bond, and I prefer to face them alone!” and he laughed contemptuously, a laugh that had a curious echo, it struck me at the time. A laugh strangely repeated, with an unpleasant mocking emphasis. ‘Call for me, alive or dead, at eight o’clock to-morrow morning!’ he added, pushing me forcibly out into the porch, and closing the door with a heavy, reverberating clang, that sounded half-way down the street.

I did call for him the next morning as desired, with the caretaker, who stared at John’s commonplace, self-possessed appearance, with an expression of respectful astonishment.

“So it was all humbug, of course,” I said, as he took my arm, and we set off for our club.

“You shall have the whole story whenever we have had something to eat,” he replied somewhat impatiently. “It will keep till after breakfast- I’m famishing!”

I remarked that he looked unusually grave as we chatted over our broiled fish and omelet, and that occasionally his attention seemed wandering, to say the least. The moment he had brought out his cigar case and lit up he turned to me and said:

“I see you are just quivering to know my experience, and I won’t keep you in suspense any longer. In four words- I have seen them!”

I merely looked at him with widely parted mouth and staring interrogative eyes.

I believe I had best endeavor to give the narrative without comment, and in John Hollyoak’s own way. This is, as well as I can recollect, his experience word for word:

“I proceeded upstairs, after I had shut you out, lighting my way by a match, and found the front room easily, as the door was ajar, and it was lit up by a roaring and most cheerful-looking fire, and two wax candles. It was a comfortable apartment, furnished with old-fashioned chairs and tables, and the traditional four-poster bed. There were numerous doors, which proved to be cupboards; and when I had executed a rigorous search in each of these closets and locked them, and investigated the bed above and beneath, sounded the walls, and bolted the door, I sat down before the fire, lit a cigar, opened a book, and felt that I was going to be master of the situation, and most thoroughly and comfortably ‘at home.’ My novel proved absorbing. I read on greedily, chapter after chapter, and so interested was I, and amused-for it was a lively book-that I positively lost sight of my whereabouts, and fancied myself reading in my own chamber! There was not a sound. The coals dropping from the grate occasionally broke the silence, till a neighboring church-clock slowly boomed twelve! ‘The hour!’ I said to myself, with a laugh, as I gave the fire a rousing poke, and commenced a new chapter; but ere I had read three pages I had occasion to pause and listen. What was that distinct sound now coming nearer and nearer? ‘Rats, of course,’ said Common-sense-’it was just the house for vermin.’ Then a longish silence. Again a stir, sounds approaching, as if apparently caused by many feet passing down the corridor – high-heeled shoes, the sweeping switch of silken trains! Of course it was all imagination, I assured myself-or rats! Rats were capable of making such curious improbable noises!

“Then another silence. No sound but cinders and the ticking of my watch, which I had laid upon the table.

“I resumed my book, rather ashamed, and a little indignant with myself for having neglected it, and calmly dismissed my late interruption as ‘rats-nothing but rats.’

“I had been reading and smoking for some time in a placid and highly incredulous frame of mind, when I was somewhat rudely startled by a loud single knock at my room door. I took no notice of it, but merely laid down my novel and sat tight. Another knock more imperious this time- After a moment’s mental deliberation I arose, armed myself with the poker, prepared to brain any number of rats, and threw the door open with a violent swing that strained its very hinges, and beheld, to my amazement, a tall powdered footman in a laced scarlet uniform, who, making a formal inclination of his head, astonished me still further by saying:

” ‘Dinner is ready!’ ”

” ‘I’m not coming!’ ” I replied, without a moment’s hesitation, and thereupon I slammed the door in his face, locked it, and resumed my seat, also my book; but reading was a farce; my ears were aching for the next sound.

“It came soon-rapid steps running up the stairs, and again a single knock. I went over to the door, and once more discovered the tall butler, who repeated, with a studied courtesy:

” ‘Dinner is ready, and the company are waiting.’ ”

” ‘I told you I was not coming. Be off, and be hanged!’ I cried again, shutting the door violently.

“This time I did not make even a pretence at reading. I merely sat and waited for the next move.

“I had not long to sit. In ten minutes I heard a third loud summons. I rose, went to the door, and tore it open. There, as I expected, was the servant again, with his parrot speech:

” ‘Dinner is ready, the company are waiting, and the master says you must come!’

” ‘All right, then, I’ll come,’ I replied, wearied by reason of his importunity, and feeling suddenly fired with a desire to see the end of the adventure.

“He accordingly led the way downstairs, and I followed him, noting as I went the gold buttons on his coat, also that the hall and passages were now brilliantly illuminated by glowing candles, and hung with living green, the crisp leaves of holly, mistletoe and ivy reflecting back the light. There were several uniformed servants passing to and fro, and from the dining room, there issued a buzz of tongues, loud volleys of laughter, many hilarious voices, and a clatter of knives and forks. I was not left much time for speculation, as in another second I found myself inside the door, and my escort announced me in a loud voice as ‘Mr. Hollyoak.’

“I could hardly credit my senses, as I looked round and saw about two dozen people, dressed in a fashion of the 18th century, seated at the table, set for a sumptuous Christmas dinner, and lighted up by a blaze of wax candles in massive candelabra.

“A swarthy elderly gentleman, who presided at the head of the board, rose deliberately as I entered. He was dressed in a crimson coat, braided with silver. He wore a white wig, had the most piercing black eyes I ever encountered, made me the finest bow I ever received in all my life, and with a polite wave of his hand, indicated my seat-a vacant chair between two powdered and embroided beauties, with overflowing white shoulders and necks sparkling with diamonds.

“At first I was fully convinced that the whole affair was a superbly matured practical joke. Everything looked so real, so truly flesh and blood, so complete in every detail; but I gazed around in vain for one familiar face.

“I saw young, old, and elderly, handsome and the reverse. On all faces there was a similar expression- reckless, hardened defiance, and something else that made me shudder, but that I could not classify or define.

“Were they a secret community? Burglars or counterfeiters? But no; in one rapid glance I noticed that they belonged exclusively to the upper stratum of society-bygone society. The jabber of talking had momentarily ceased, and the host, imperiously hammering the table with a knife-handle, said in a singularly harsh grating voice:

” ‘Ladies and gentlemen, permit me to give you a toast! Our guest!’ looking straight at me with his glittering coal-black eyes.

“Every glass was immediately raised. Twenty faces were turned towards mine, when, happily, a sudden impulse seized me. I sprang to my feet and said:

” ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I beg to thank you for your kind hospitality, but before I accept it, allow me to say grace!’

“I did not wait for permission, but hurriedly repeated a Latin benediction. Ere the last syllable was uttered, in an instant there was a violent crash, an uproar, a sound of running, Of screams, groans and curses, and then utter darkness.

“I found myself standing alone by a big mahogany table which I could just dimly discern by the aid of a street-lamp that threw its meager rays into the great empty dining-room from two deep and narrow windows.

“I must confess that I felt my nerves a little shaken by this instantaneous change from light to darkness-from a crowd of gay and noisy companions, to utter solitude and silence. I stood for a moment trying to recover my mental balance. I rubbed my eyes hard to assure myself that I was wide, awake, and then I placed this very cigar-case in the middle of the table, as a sign and token that I had been downstairs -which cigar-case I found exactly where I left it this morning-and then went and groped my way into the hall and regained my room.

“I met with no obstacle en route. I saw no one, but as I closed and double-locked my door I distinctly heard a low laugh outside the keyhole-a sort of suppressed, malicious titter, that made me furious.

“I opened the door at once. There was nothing to be seen. I waited and listened-dead silence. I then undressed and went to bed, resolved that a whole army of butlers would fail to allure me once more to that Christmas feast. I was determined not to lose my night’s rest-ghosts or no ghosts.

“Just as I was dozing off I remember hearing the neighboring clock chime two. It was the last sound I was aware of-, the house was now as silent as a vault. My fire burnt away cheerfully. I was no longer in the least degree inclined for reading, and I fell fast asleep and slept soundly till I heard the cabs and milk-carts beginning their morning career.

“I then rose, dressed at my leisure, and found you, my good, faithful friend, awaiting me, rather anxiously, on the hall-door steps.

“I have not done with that house yet. I’m determined to find out who these people are, and where they come from. I shall steep there again tonight, along with my bulldog; and you will see that I shall have news for you tomorrow morning-if I am still alive to tell the tale,” he added with a laugh.

In vain I would have dissuaded him. I protested, argued, and implored. I declared that rashness was not courage; that he had seen enough; that I, who had seen nothing, and only listened to his experiences, was convinced that number ninety was a house to be avoided.

I might just as well have talked to my umbrella! So, once more, I reluctantly accompanied him to his previous night’s lodging. Once more I saw him swallowed up inside the gloomy, forbidding-looking, re-echoing hall.

I then went home in an unusually anxious, semi-excited, nervous state of mind. I lay wide awake, tumbling and tossing hour after hour, a prey to the most foolish ideas -ideas I would have laughed to scorn in daylight.

More than once I was certain that I heard John Hollyoak distractedly calling me; and I sat up in bed and listened intently. Of course it was fancy, for the instant I did so, there was no sound.

At the first gleam of winter dawn, I rose, dressed, and swallowed a cup of good strong coffee to clear my brain from the misty notions it had harboured during the night. And then I invested myself in my warmest topcoat, and set off for number ninety. Early as it was-it was but half-past seven-I found the caretaker was before me, pacing the pavement, his face drawn with a melancholy expression.

I was not disposed to wait for eight o’clock. I was too uneasy, and too impatient for further particulars of the Christmas dinner-party. So I rang with all my might, and knocked with all my strength.

No sound within -no answer! But John was always a heavy steeper. I was resolved to arouse him all the same, and knocked and rang, and rang and knocked, incessantly for fully ten minutes.

I then stooped down and applied my eye to the keyhole; I looked steadily into the aperture, till I became accustomed to the darkness, and then it seemed to me that another eye -a very strange, fiery eye -was glaring into mine from the other side of the door!

I removed my eye and applied my mouth instead, and shouted with all the power of my lungs:

“John! John Hollyoak!”

How his name echoed and re-echoed up through that dark and empty house! ‘He must hear that,’ I said to myself as I pressed my ear closely against the lock, and listened with throbbing suspense.

The echo of “Hollyoak” had hardly died away when I swear that distinctly heard a low, sniggering, mocking laugh-that was my only answer-that; and a vast unresponsive silence.

I was now quite desperate. I shook the door frantically, with all my strength. I broke the bell; in short, my behavior was such that it excited the curiosity of a police officer, who crossed the road to know, “What was up?”

“I want to get in!” I panted, breathless with my exertions.

“You’d better stay where you are!” said the police officer; “the outside of this house is the best of it! There are terrible stories…”

“But there is a gentleman inside it!” I interrupted impatiently. “He slept there last night, and I can’t wake him. He has the key!”

“Oh, you can’t wake him!” returned the police officer gravely. “Then we must get a locksmith!”

But already the thoughtful caretaker had procured one; and already considerable and curious crowd surrounded the steps.

After five minutes of maddening delay, the great heavy door was opened and swung slowly back, and I instantly rushed in, followed less frantically by the police officer and the caretaker.

I had not far to seek John Hollyoak! He and his dog were lying at the foot of the stairs, both stone dead!

- THE END –

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