Stalking Night Shadows

Madonna Merced is a third generation ghost tracker who uses the latest techniques and equipment to investigate your home or business!

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Ghost Story

Posted on April 5, 2013 at 10:00 PM

A FRUITLESS ASSIGNMENT

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

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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.

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“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.”

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