A FRUITLESS ASSIGNMENT
by Ambrose Bierce
Henry Saylor, who was killed in Covington, in a quarrel
with Antonio Finch, was a reporter on the Cincinnati
Commercial. In the year 1859 a vacant dwelling in Vine
street, in Cincinnati, became the center of a local
excitement because of the strange sights and sounds
said to be observed in it nightly. According to the
testimony of many reputable residents of the vicinity
these were inconsistent with any other hypothesis than
that the house was haunted. Figures with something
singularly unfamiliar about them were seen by crowds
on the sidewalk to pass in and out. No one could say
just where they appeared upon the open lawn on their
way to the front door by which they entered, nor at
exactly what point they vanished as they came out;
or, rather, while each spectator was positive enough
about these matters, no two agreed. They were all
similarly at variance in their descriptions of the
figures themselves. Some of the bolder of the curious
throng ventured on several evenings to stand upon the
doorsteps to intercept them, or failing in this, get
a nearer look at them. 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."
~~~~~~~ THE END ~~~~~~~
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