At Old Man Eckert's
by Ambrose Bierce
Philip Eckert lived for many years in an old,
weather-stained wooden house about three miles
from the little town of Marion, in Vermont.
There must be quite a number of persons living
who remember him, not unkindly, I trust, and
know something of the story that I am about
to tell.
"Old Man Eckert," as he was always called,
was not of a sociable disposition and lived
alone. As he was never known to speak of his
own affairs nobody thereabout knew anything
of his past, nor of his relatives if he had
any. Without being particularly ungracious
or repellent in manner or speech, he managed
somehow to be immune to impertinent curiosity,
yet exempt from the evil repute with which it
commonly revenges itself when baffled; so far
as I know, Mr. Eckert's renown as a reformed
assassin or a retired pirate of the Spanish
Main had not reached any ear in Marion. He
got his living cultivating a small and not
very fertile farm.
One day he disappeared and a prolonged search
by his neighbors failed to turn him up or throw
any light upon his whereabouts or whyabouts.
Nothing indicated preparation to leave: all
was as he might have left it to go to the
spring for a bucket of water. For a few weeks
little else was talked of in that region; then
"old man Eckert" became a village tale for the
ear of the stranger. I do not know what was
done regarding his property--the correct legal
thing, doubtless. The house was standing, still
vacant and conspicuously unfit, when I last
heard of it, some twenty years afterward.
Of course it came to be considered "haunted," and
the customary tales were told of moving lights,
dolorous sounds and startling apparitions. At
one time, about five years after the disappearance,
these stories of the supernatural became so rife,
or through some attesting circumstances seemed so
important, that some of Marion's most serious
citizens deemed it well to investigate, and to
that end arranged for a night session on the
premises. The parties to this undertaking were
John Holcomb, an apothecary; Wilson Merle, a
lawyer, and Andrus C. Palmer, the teacher of
the public school, all men of consequence and
repute. They were to meet at Holcomb's house at
eight o'clock in the evening of the appointed
day and go together to the scene of their vigil,
where certain arrangements for their comfort,
a provision of fuel and the like, for the season
was winter, had been already made.
Palmer did not keep the engagement, and after
waiting a half-hour for him the others went
to the Eckert house without him. They established
themselves in the principal room, before a
glowing fire, and without other light than it
gave, awaited events. It had been agreed to
speak as little as possible: they did not even
renew the exchange of views regarding the
defection of Palmer, which had occupied their
minds on the way.
Probably an hour had passed without incident
when they heard (not without emotion, doubtless)
the sound of an opening door in the rear of the
house, followed by footfalls in the room adjoining
that in which they sat. The watchers rose to
their feet, but stood firm, prepared for whatever
might ensue. A long silence followed--how long
neither would afterward undertake to say. Then
the door between the two rooms opened and a man
entered.
It was Palmer. He was pale, as if from excitement--as
pale as the others felt themselves to be. His
manner, too, was singularly distrait: he neither
responded to their salutations nor so much as
looked at them, but walked slowly across the
room in the light of the failing fire and opening
the front door passed out into the darkness.
It seems to have been the first thought of both
men that Palmer was suffering from fright--that
something seen, heard or imagined in the back
room had deprived him of his senses. Acting on
the same friendly impulse both ran after him
through the open door. But neither they nor
anyone ever again saw or heard of Andrus Palmer!
This much was ascertained the next morning.
During the session of Messrs. Holcomb and
Merle at the "haunted house" a new snow had
fallen to a depth of several inches upon the
old. In this snow Palmer's trail from his
lodging in the village to the back door of
the Eckert house was conspicuous. But there
it ended: from the front door nothing led
away but the tracks of the two men who swore
that he preceded them. Palmer's disappearance
was as complete as that of "old man Eckert"
himself--whom, indeed, the editor of the
local paper somewhat graphically accused of
having "reached out and pulled him in."
~~~~~~~ THE END ~~~~~~~
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