more cold and stubborn. Ifelt as if some strange and ghastly exhalation were rising up from thechinks of that rugged floor, and filling the atmosphere with avenomous influence hostile to human life. The door now very slowly andquietly opened as of its own accord. We precipitated ourselves intothe landing-place. We both saw a large, pale light--as large as thehuman figure, but shapeless and unsubstantial--move before us, andascend the stairs that led from the landing into the attics. Ifollowed the light, and my servant followed me. It entered, to theright of the landing, a small garret, of which the door stood open. Ientered in the same instant. The light then collapsed into a smallglobule, exceedingly brilliant and vivid, rested a moment on a bed inthe corner, quivered, and vanished. We approached the bed and examinedit,--a half-tester, such as is commonly found in attics devoted toservants. On the drawers that stood near it we perceived an old fadedsilk kerchief, with the needle still left in a rent half repaired. Thekerchief was covered with dust; probably it had belonged to the oldwoman who had last died in that house, and this might have been hersleeping-room. I had sufficient curiosity to open the drawers: therewere a few odds and ends of female dress, and two letters tied roundwith a narrow ribbon of faded yellow. I took the liberty to possessmyself of the letters. We found nothing else in the room worthnoticing,--nor did the light reappear; but we distinctly heard, as weturned to go, a pattering footfall on the floor, just before us. Wewent through the other attics (in all four), the footfall stillpreceding us. Nothing to be seen,--nothing but the footfall heard. Ihad the letters in my hand; just as I was descending the stairs Idistinctly felt my wrist seized, and a faint, soft effort made to drawthe letters from my clasp. I only held them the more tightly, and theeffort ceased.
We regained the bedchamber appropriated to myself, and I then remarkedthat my dog had not followed us when we had left it. He was thrustinghimself close to the fire, and trembling. I was impatient to examinethe letters; and while I read them, my servant opened a little box inwhich he had deposited the weapons I had ordered him to bring, tookthem out, placed them on a table close at my bed-head, and thenoccupied himself in soothing the dog, who, however, seemed to heed himvery little.
The letters were short,--they were dated; the dates exactlythirty-five years ago. They were evidently from a lover to hismistress, or a husband to some young wife. Not only the terms ofexpression, but a distinct reference to a former voyage, indicated thewriter to have been a seafarer. The spelling and handwriting werethose of a man imperfectly educated, but still the language itself wasforcible. In the expressions of endearment there was a kind of rough,wild love; but here and there were dark unintelligible hints at somesecret not of love,--some secret that seemed of crime. "We ought tolove each other," was one of the sentences I remember, "for how everyone else would execrate us if all was known." Again: "Don't let anyone be in the same room with you at night,--you talk in your sleep."And again: "What's done can't be undone; and I tell you there'snothing against us unless the dead could come to life." Here there wasunderlined in a better handwriting (a female's), "They do!" At the endof the letter latest in date the same female hand had written thesewords: "Lost at sea the 4th of June, the same day as--"
I put down the letters, and began to muse over their contents.
Fearing, however, that the train of thought into which I fell mightunsteady my nerves, I fully determined to keep my mind in a fit stateto cope with whatever of marvellous the advancing night might bringforth. I roused myself; laid the letters on the table; stirred up thefire, which was still bright and cheering; and opened my volume ofMacaulay. I read quietly enough till about half-past eleven. I thenthrew myself dressed upon the bed, and told my servant he might retireto his own room, but must keep himself awake. I bade him leave openthe door between the two rooms. Thus alone, I kept two candles burningon the table by my bed-head. I placed my watch beside the weapons, andcalmly resumed my Macaulay. Opposite to me the fire burned clear; andon the hearthrug, seemingly asleep, lay the dog. In about twentyminutes I felt an exceedingly cold air pass by my cheek, like a suddendraught. I fancied the door to my right, communicating with thelanding-place, must have got open; but no,--it was closed. I thenturned my glance to my left, and saw the flame of the candlesviolently swayed as by a wind. At the same moment the watch beside therevolver softly slid from the table,--softly, softly; no visiblehand,--it was gone. I sprang up, seizing the revolver with the onehand, the dagger with the other; I was not willing that my weaponsshould share the fate of the watch. Thus armed, I looked round thefloor,--no sign of the watch. Three slow, loud, distinct knocks werenow heard at the bed-head; my servant called out, "Is that you, sir?"
"No; be on your guard."
The dog now roused himself and sat on his haunches, his ears movingquickly backwards and forwards. He kept his eyes fixed on me with alook so strange that he concentred all my attention on himself. Slowlyhe rose up, all his hair bristling, and stood perfectly rigid, andwith the same wild stare. I had no time, however, to examine the dog.Presently my servant emerged from his room; and if ever I saw horrorin the human face, it was then. I should not have recognized him hadwe met in the street, so altered was every lineament. He passed by mequickly, saying, in a whisper that seemed scarcely to come from hislips, "Run, run! it is after me!" He gained the door to the landing,pulled it open, and rushed forth. I followed him into the landinginvoluntarily, calling him to stop; but, without heeding me, hebounded down the stairs, clinging to the balusters, and taking severalsteps at a time. I heard, where I stood, the street-door open,--heardit again clap to. I was left alone in the haunted house.
It was but for a moment that I remained undecided whether or not tofollow my servant; pride and curiosity alike forbade so dastardly aflight. I re-entered my room, closing the door after me, and proceededcautiously into the interior chamber. I encountered nothing to justifymy servant's terror. I again carefully examined the walls, to see ifthere were any concealed door. I could find no trace of one,--not evena seam in the dull-brown paper with which the room was hung. How,then, had the THING, whatever it was, which had so scared him,obtained ingress except through my own chamber?
I returned to my room, shut and locked the door that opened upon theinterior one, and stood on the hearth, expectant and prepared. I nowperceived that the dog had slunk into an angle of the wall, and waspressing himself close against it, as if literally striving to forcehis way into it. I approached the animal and spoke to it; the poorbrute was evidently beside itself with terror. It showed all itsteeth, the slaver dropping from its jaws, and would certainly havebitten me if I had touched it. It did not seem to recognize me.Whoever has seen at the Zoological Gardens a rabbit, fascinated by aserpent, cowering in a corner, may form some idea of the anguish whichthe dog exhibited. Finding all efforts to soothe the animal in vain,and fearing that his bite might be as venomous in that state as in themadness of hydrophobia, I left him alone, placed my weapons on thetable beside the fire, seated myself, and recommenced my Macaulay.
Perhaps, in order not to appear seeking credit for a courage, orrather a coolness, which the reader may conceive I exaggerate, I maybe pardoned if I pause to indulge in one or two egotistical remarks.
As I hold presence of mind, or what is called courage, to be preciselyproportioned to familiarity with the circumstances that lead to it, soI should say that I had been long sufficiently familiar with allexperiments that appertain to the marvellous. I had witnessed manyvery extraordinary phenomena in various parts of the world,--phenomenathat would be either totally disbelieved if I stated them, or ascribedto supernatural agencies. Now, my theory is that the supernatural isthe impossible, and that what is called supernatural is only asomething in the laws of Nature of which we have been hithertoignorant. Therefore, if a ghost rise before me, I have not the rightto say, "So, then, the supernatural is possible;" but rather, "So,then, the apparition of a ghost, is, contrary to received opinion,within the laws of Nature,--that is, not supernatural."
Now, in all that I had hitherto witnesse
d, and indeed in all thewonders which the amateurs of mystery in our age record as facts, amaterial living agency is always required. On the Continent you willfind still magicians who assert that they can raise spirits. Assumefor the moment that they assert truly, still the living material formof the magician is present; and he is the material agency by which,from some constitutional peculiarities, certain strange phenomena arerepresented to your natural senses.
Accept, again, as truthful, the tales of spirit-manifestation inAmerica,--musical or other sounds; writings on paper, produced by nodiscernible hand; articles of furniture moved without apparent humanagency; or the actual sight and touch of hands, to which no bodiesseem to belong,--still there must be found the MEDIUM, or livingbeing, with constitutional peculiarities capable of obtaining thesesigns. In fine, in all such marvels, supposing