A Fruitless Assignment

by Ambrose Bierce

　　

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Henry Saylor, who was killed in Covington, in a quarrel with AntonioFinch, was a reporter on the Cincinnati Commercial. In the year1859 a vacant dwelling in Vine street, in Cincinnati, became thecenter of a local excitement because of the strange sights andsounds said to be observed in it nightly. According to thetestimony of many reputable residents of the vicinity these wereinconsistent with any other hypothesis than that the house washaunted. Figures with something singularly unfamiliar about themwere seen by crowds on the sidewalk to pass in and out. No onecould say just where they appeared upon the open lawn on their wayto the front door by which they entered, nor at exactly what pointthey vanished as they came out; or, rather, while each spectator waspositive enough about these matters, no two agreed. They were allsimilarly at variance in their descriptions of the figuresthemselves. Some of the bolder of the curious throng ventured onseveral evenings to stand upon the doorsteps to intercept them, orfailing 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 andseverely injured; the door immediately afterward opening, apparentlyof its own volition, to admit or free some ghostly guest. Thedwelling was known as the Roscoe house, a family of that name havinglived there for some years, and then, one by one, disappeared, thelast to leave being an old woman. Stories of foul play andsuccessive murders had always been rife, but never wereauthenticated.One day during the prevalence of the excitement Saylor presentedhimself at the office of the Commercial for orders. He received anote from the city editor which read as follows: "Go and pass thenight alone in the haunted house in Vine street and if anythingoccurs 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 entrancethrough a rear window before dark, walked through the desertedrooms, bare of furniture, dusty and desolate, and seating himself atlast in the parlor on an old sofa which he had dragged in fromanother room watched the deepening of the gloom as night came on.Before it was altogether dark the curious crowd had collected in thestreet, silent, as a rule, and expectant, with here and there ascoffer uttering his incredulity and courage with scornful remarksor ribald cries. None knew of the anxious watcher inside. Hefeared to make a light; the uncurtained windows would have betrayedhis presence, subjecting him to insult, possibly to injury.Moreover, he was too conscientious to do anything to enfeeble hisimpressions and unwilling to alter any of the customary conditionsunder which the manifestations were said to occur.It was now dark outside, but light from the street faintlyilluminated the part of the room that he was in. He had set openevery door in the whole interior, above and below, but all the outerones were locked and bolted. Sudden exclamations from the crowdcaused him to spring to the window and look out. He saw the figureof a man moving rapidly across the lawn toward the building--saw itascend the steps; then a projection of the wall concealed it. Therewas a noise as of the opening and closing of the hall door; he heardquick, heavy footsteps along the passage--heard them ascend thestairs--heard them on the uncarpeted floor of the chamberimmediately overhead.Saylor promptly drew his pistol, and groping his way up the stairsentered the chamber, dimly lighted from the street. No one wasthere. He heard footsteps in an adjoining room and entered that.It was dark and silent. He struck his foot against some object onthe floor, knelt by it, passed his hand over it. It was a humanhead--that of a woman. Lifting it by the hair this iron-nerved manreturned to the half-lighted room below, carried it near the windowand attentively examined it. While so engaged he was half consciousof the rapid opening and closing of the outer door, of footfallssounding all about him. He raised his eyes from the ghastly objectof his attention and saw himself the center of a crowd of men andwomen dimly seen; the room was thronged with them. He thought thepeople had broken in."Ladies and gentlemen," he said, coolly, "you see me undersuspicious circumstances, but"--his voice was drowned in peals oflaughter--such laughter as is heard in asylums for the insane. Thepersons about him pointed at the object in his hand and theirmerriment increased as he dropped it and it went rolling among theirfeet. They danced about it with gestures grotesque and attitudesobscene and indescribable. They struck it with their feet, urgingit about the room from wall to wall; pushed and overthrew oneanother in their struggles to kick it; cursed and screamed and sangsnatches of ribald songs as the battered head bounded about the roomas if in terror and trying to escape. At last it shot out of thedoor into the hall, followed by all, with tumultuous haste. Thatmoment 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 inhis hand, he went to a window and looked out. The street wasdeserted and silent; the lamps were extinguished; the roofs andchimneys of the houses were sharply outlined against the dawn-lightin the east. He left the house, the door yielding easily to hishand, and walked to the Commercial office. The city editor wasstill in his office--asleep. Saylor waked him and said: "I havebeen at the haunted house."The editor stared blankly as if not wholly awake. "Good God!" hecried, "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 editorsaid, trifling with a paper-weight upon which he had dropped hiseyes, "did anything occur?""Nothing whatever."

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