These courageous men, it was said, were
unable to force the door by their united strength, and always were hurled
from the steps by some invisible agency and severely injured; the door
immediately afterward opening, apparently of its own volition, to admit
or free some ghostly guest. The dwelling was known as the Roscoe house,
a family of that name having lived there for some years, and then, one by
one, disappeared, the last to leave being an old woman. Stories of foul
play and successive murders had always been rife, but never were
authenticated. One day during the prevalence of the excitement Saylor presented himself
at the office of the _Commercial_ for orders. He received a note from
the city editor which read as follows: “Go and pass the night alone in
the haunted house in Vine street and if anything occurs worth while make
two columns.”  Saylor obeyed his superior; he could not afford to lose
his position on the paper. Apprising the police of his intention, he effected an entrance through a
rear window before dark, walked through the deserted rooms, bare of
furniture, dusty and desolate, and seating himself at last in the parlor
on an old sofa which he had dragged in from another room watched the
deepening of the gloom as night came on. Before it was altogether dark
the curious crowd had collected in the street, silent, as a rule, and
expectant, with here and there a scoffer uttering his incredulity and
courage with scornful remarks or ribald cries. None knew of the anxious
watcher inside. He feared to make a light; the uncurtained windows would
have betrayed his presence, subjecting him to insult, possibly to injury. Moreover, he was too conscientious to do anything to enfeeble his
impressions and unwilling to alter any of the customary conditions under
which the manifestations were said to occur. It was now dark outside, but light from the street faintly illuminated
the part of the room that he was in. He had set open every door in the
whole interior, above and below, but all the outer ones were locked and
bolted. Sudden exclamations from the crowd caused him to spring to the
window and look out. He saw the figure of a man moving rapidly across
the lawn toward the building—saw it ascend the steps; then a projection
of the wall concealed it. There was a noise as of the opening and
closing of the hall door; he heard quick, heavy footsteps along the
passage—heard them ascend the stairs—heard them on the uncarpeted floor
of the chamber immediately overhead. Saylor promptly drew his pistol, and groping his way up the stairs
entered the chamber, dimly lighted from the street. No one was there. He heard footsteps in an adjoining room and entered that. It was dark
and silent. He struck his foot against some object on the floor, knelt
by it, passed his hand over it. It was a human head—that of a woman. Lifting it by the hair this iron-nerved man returned to the half-lighted
room below, carried it near the window and attentively examined it. While so engaged he was half conscious of the rapid opening and closing
of the outer door, of footfalls sounding all about him. He raised his
eyes from the ghastly object of his attention and saw himself the center
of a crowd of men and women dimly seen; the room was thronged with them. He thought the people had broken in. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, coolly, “you see me under suspicious
circumstances, but”—his voice was drowned in peals of laughter—such
laughter as is heard in asylums for the insane. The persons about him
pointed at the object in his hand and their merriment increased as he
dropped it and it went rolling among their feet. They danced about it
with gestures grotesque and attitudes obscene and indescribable. They
struck it with their feet, urging it about the room from wall to wall;
pushed and overthrew one another in their struggles to kick it; cursed
and screamed and sang snatches of ribald songs as the battered head
bounded about the room as if in terror and trying to escape. At last it
shot out of the door into the hall, followed by all, with tumultuous
haste. That moment the door closed with a sharp concussion. Saylor was
alone, in dead silence. Carefully putting away his pistol, which all the time he had held in his
hand, he went to a window and looked out. The street was deserted and
silent; the lamps were extinguished; the roofs and chimneys of the houses
were sharply outlined against the dawn-light in the east. He left the
house, the door yielding easily to his hand, and walked to the
_Commercial_ office. The city editor was still in his office—asleep. Saylor waked him and said: “I have been at the haunted house.”

The editor stared blankly as if not wholly awake. “Good God!” he cried,
“are you Saylor?”

“Yes—why not?”  The editor made no answer, but continued staring. “I passed the night there—it seems,” said Saylor. “They say that things were uncommonly quiet out there,” the editor said,
trifling with a paper-weight upon which he had dropped his eyes, “did
anything occur?”

“Nothing whatever.”



A VINE ON A HOUSE


ABOUT three miles from the little town of Norton, in Missouri, on the
road leading to Maysville, stands an old house that was last occupied by
a family named Harding. Since 1886 no one has lived in it, nor is anyone
likely to live in it again. Time and the disfavor of persons dwelling
thereabout are converting it into a rather picturesque ruin. An observer
unacquainted with its history would hardly put it into the category of
“haunted houses,” yet in all the region round such is its evil
reputation. Its windows are without glass, its doorways without doors;
there are wide breaches in the shingle roof, and for lack of paint the
weatherboarding is a dun gray. But these unfailing signs of the
supernatural are partly concealed and greatly softened by the abundant
foliage of a large vine overrunning the entire structure. This vine—of a
species which no botanist has ever been able to name—has an important
part in the story of the house. The Harding family consisted of Robert Harding, his wife Matilda, Miss
Julia Went, who was her sister, and two young children. Robert Harding
was a silent, cold-mannered man who made no friends in the neighborhood
and apparently cared to make none. He was about forty years old, frugal
and industrious, and made a living from the little farm which is now
overgrown with brush and brambles. He and his sister-in-law were rather
tabooed by their neighbors, who seemed to think that they were seen too
frequently together—not entirely their fault, for at these times they
evidently did not challenge observation. The moral code of rural
Missouri is stern and exacting. Mrs. Harding was a gentle, sad-eyed woman, lacking a left foot. At some time in 1884 it became known that she had gone to visit her
mother in Iowa. That was what her husband said in reply to inquiries,
and his manner of saying it did not encourage further questioning.