At Old Man Eckert's

by Ambrose Bierce

　　

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Philip Eckert lived for many years in an old, weather-stained woodenhouse about three miles from the little town of Marion, in Vermont.There must be quite a number of persons living who remember him, notunkindly, I trust, and know something of the story that I am aboutto tell."Old Man Eckert," as he was always called, was not of a sociabledisposition and lived alone. As he was never known to speak of hisown affairs nobody thereabout knew anything of his past, nor of hisrelatives if he had any. Without being particularly ungracious orrepellent in manner or speech, he managed somehow to be immune toimpertinent curiosity, yet exempt from the evil repute with which itcommonly revenges itself when baffled; so far as I know, Mr.Eckert's renown as a reformed assassin or a retired pirate of theSpanish Main had not reached any ear in Marion. He got his livingcultivating a small and not very fertile farm.One day he disappeared and a prolonged search by his neighborsfailed to turn him up or throw any light upon his whereabouts orwhyabouts. Nothing indicated preparation to leave: all was as hemight have left it to go to the spring for a bucket of water. For afew weeks little else was talked of in that region; then "old manEckert" became a village tale for the ear of the stranger. I do notknow what was done regarding his property--the correct legal thing,doubtless. The house was standing, still vacant and conspicuouslyunfit, when I last heard of it, some twenty years afterward.Of course it came to be considered "haunted," and the customarytales were told of moving lights, dolorous sounds and startlingapparitions. At one time, about five years after the disappearance,these stories of the supernatural became so rife, or through someattesting circumstances seemed so important, that some of Marion'smost serious citizens deemed it well to investigate, and to that endarranged for a night session on the premises. The parties to thisundertaking were John Holcomb, an apothecary; Wilson Merle, alawyer, and Andrus C. Palmer, the teacher of the public school, allmen of consequence and repute. They were to meet at Holcomb's houseat eight o'clock in the evening of the appointed day and go togetherto the scene of their vigil, where certain arrangements for theircomfort, a provision of fuel and the like, for the season waswinter, had been already made.Palmer did not keep the engagement, and after waiting a half-hourfor him the others went to the Eckert house without him. Theyestablished themselves in the principal room, before a glowing fire,and without other light than it gave, awaited events. It had beenagreed to speak as little as possible: they did not even renew theexchange of views regarding the defection of Palmer, which hadoccupied their minds on the way.Probably an hour had passed without incident when they heard (notwithout emotion, doubtless) the sound of an opening door in the rearof the house, followed by footfalls in the room adjoining that inwhich they sat. The watchers rose to their feet, but stood firm,prepared for whatever might ensue. A long silence followed--howlong neither would afterward undertake to say. Then the doorbetween the two rooms opened and a man entered.It was Palmer. He was pale, as if from excitement--as pale as theothers felt themselves to be. His manner, too, was singularlydistrait: he neither responded to their salutations nor so much aslooked at them, but walked slowly across the room in the light ofthe failing fire and opening the front door passed out into thedarkness.It seems to have been the first thought of both men that Palmer wassuffering from fright--that something seen, heard or imagined in theback room had deprived him of his senses. Acting on the samefriendly impulse both ran after him through the open door. Butneither they nor anyone ever again saw or heard of Andrus Palmer!This much was ascertained the next morning. During the session ofMessrs. Holcomb and Merle at the "haunted house" a new snow hadfallen to a depth of several inches upon the old. In this snowPalmer's trail from his lodging in the village to the back door ofthe Eckert house was conspicuous. But there it ended: from thefront door nothing led away but the tracks of the two men who sworethat he preceded them. Palmer's disappearance was as complete asthat of "old man Eckert" himself--whom, indeed, the editor of thelocal paper somewhat graphically accused of having "reached out andpulled him in."

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