The Trouble at Pinelands

CHAPTER I THE POLTERGEIST

I could not sleep. I am an old man now and of settled habit; a “confirmed bachelor,” the young folks call me. Even the smallest change of routine irks me; and so, on this night, I found it very hard to be comfortable in a strange bed.

Peter McGregor had gone north. He was in Baltimore to order flowers, consult the caterer, and make the final arrangements for the wedding breakfast. Only women were left in the old stone mansion; the McGregors called it “Fort House,” because it had something of the grim, forbidding look of an old fort. Dorothy, Peter’s sister, her invalid aunt, and the nurse, Miss Christie, were all here.

Miss Christie was too indifferent to care, I think; she was a very dormouse for contentment, and she slept so determinedly that I used to wonder when she found time to care for her patient. But Dorothy was timid, as most young girls are; and her Aunt Mary, who was paralyzed, was highly nervous at the best and declared that she’d never close an eye without a man in the house. And, indeed, I could not blame them much, for Fort House was a gloomy, eerie place, with its big, silent rooms and long, dark halls, wainscoted in time-stained oak and full of unexpected nooks and 12corners. Also, though well within the village, it stood far back from the street in a little grove of high, solemn pines; leafy shrubs grew thick about its gray walls, and honeysuckle vines climbed over its narrow windows and shaded them still further.

A man must be had to protect these lone women, and there was I—not a very efficient protector, I fear, since I am turned sixty-five and sadly crippled with rheumatism, but the best available. For my nephew, Lewis, Doctor C. Lewis Parker, Johns Hopkins Medical College, class of ’17, though willing enough, was scarcely the man to come, since he was to marry Dorothy in two days; whereas I was of discreet age and with none to miss me at home. In spite of his assurances I knew well enough that I was a nuisance and no help in my nephew’s house; he kept me with him simply because I was his only surviving kinsman, as he was mine, and because his kind heart would not leave me to end my days in some home for the aged. Yes, I knew that I was but a burden upon his goodness—knew it sadly, but without bitterness; a long old age tempers one’s pride.

But here I was, the guardian of my nephew’s bride to be; and I tossed upon my bed and could not sleep for long, sad thoughts. I rejoiced in the boy’s happiness; truly I rejoiced, for Dorothy McGregor was the sweetest of girls and as tender to a useless old man as if I had been her own kin. Yes, it was best, oh, surely it was best, that these two kindly, handsome young folk should marry and make their 13own home. I looked back through a vista of long, lonely years at my own friendless life, a life that might have been so different if my Dorothy had lived.

They would marry and be happy in each other. But—I am a very selfish old man, I fear—but what of me? I had no other home; and, were she never so tender of heart, what bride desires that her honeymoon should have such a worthless, worn-out satellite as I? No, these two must build their own nest; and it would have no place for me. Then I thought briefly of Aunt Mary McGregor, paralyzed from the waist down, these fourteen years, and bearing her troubles with such saintly patience; where would she go, and how would she live after the wedding? We two might marry also, I thought, and laughed mirthlessly at the idea. Old maid and old bachelor, we might join our troubles and spend the evening of our days together, enlivening each other with comparisons of our various aches and pains. For I must admit that Aunt Mary, for all her sweet patience, was overfond of discussing her symptoms.

The old house was very quiet, except for those strange creakings and rustlings which one hears at night in these old places. Faint, eerie noises, these, which made the silence more profound; I fancied that Fort House whispered to itself of days gone by.

Without was the clear, cool hush of a North Carolina summer’s night. It had been a hot June day, but the night was cool, as are all our nights, and a round, bright moon hung high, flooding the 14lawn with pale light, making the black shadows of the pines blacker yet, silvering the leaves of the honeysuckle vine at my windows. The sweet, heavy scent of a few late blossoms drifted in to me, bearing with it that faint, sinister suggestion of mystery and crime that belongs peculiarly to the cloying odor of honeysuckles in a hushed, dark night.

That odor fretted me, awaking in my mind unpleasant fancies. This was a dismal place, the old Fort House; no proper setting for such a vivid young flower as Dorothy McGregor. I strove to fancy the house filled with flowers, crowded with gay-dressed, laughing wedding guests, and I could not, even now, with a wedding two days off. I was queerly thankful that Dorothy and Lewis would not live here, but in a little white bungalow, red-roofed, banked about with flowers, open to the kindly, honest sun. For how could young lovers be happy here, in this grim stone pile among the solemn pines, this mournful old house, which creaked and whispered to itself so mysteriously of nights, whose dark, airless rooms were heavy with the scent of honeysuckle? Somewhere I seemed to have read or heard that the honeysuckle grows best and gives its strongest odor about places of secret crime. The fancy obsessed me; I wondered what might be the history of this old mansion—for I was but newly come to Pinelands, a year ago—what dark deeds these walls had known in days long gone; what dreadful histories

were bared in the self-communings of those ancient, creaking timbers.

It was very late, and I was tired out. Moreover 15I was sad because I must so soon give up my nephew to his new wife. My aged bones ached, and my knee joints creaked and groaned, as I paced the floor. I was feverish, perhaps, and so fanciful; or it may be that I was fey. Whatever the explanation, a sudden conviction swept over me, as of actual knowledge.

Fort House was haunted. I knew it. Without knowing how or why, that knowledge swept over me in a chill wave of fear that raced up my spine and plucked at the short hairs of my neck. It left me shaken and dismayed, with a lump of ice where my heart had been.

The place was deadly still. Even the indistinct complaints of aged timbers were hushed, and there seemed no possibility of sound in all the world. Then, from the hall below, came a whirring click, whereat I gasped; the grandfather clock on the stair landing struck twelve—deliberately, solemnly. The mellow chime of its old gong dropped dead on the still air, without an echo. The silence of the tomb, a hush intolerably profound. Then, with dreadful suddenness, a clanking as of chains, the crash of broken crockery, a shrill, horrid screech!

My veins seemed to freeze, and I could not breathe. As in nightmares, an inescapable weight dragged at every limb, held me helpless.

What was abroad I knew not, save that it could be no honest thing. Why, I would have prayed for a palpable burglar; I could have fallen on his neck with joyful tears, though he were the worst villain unhung!

16Then I heard a faint stir in the room beyond mine, where Dorothy McGregor slept; the tiniest of frightened sobs. That sound heartened me. I am no hero; but in a long life I have observed more than once that terrors which will turn a solitary man craven may be faced almost with boldness if he has but a weaker one beside him to protect. Alone, I dared not stay in my room, much less venture forth; but there was Dorothy next me, and downstairs her helpless aunt and the nurse. They would look to me for aid, for courage; and knowing that, I made shift to conquer my fears a very little.

I threw a bath robe over my shoulders and padded out into the black hall, barefoot.

“Dorothy!” I whispered; somehow, I dared not call aloud. “My dear, are you all right?”

Her answer came muffled through the door. “Yes, Uncle George. It’s nothing.” But her shaking voice belied the words. “It’s nothing to be af-f-fraid of. We’ve heard it before. Wait, I’m coming out. Aunty’ll be scared.”

In a moment her door opened, and Dorothy appeared, faintly visible by the pale moon that shone in her window. She was wrapped in some sort of filmy, lacy robe, and her fine black hair, which lay across one shoulder, in a braid thicker than my wrist, fell down the front of her negligee, right to her knees.

She groped for my arm and clutched it tight. Neither of us thought of making a light. Perhaps we both feared what that light might reveal.

“Let’s go down to Aunt Mary’s room,” she 17whispered. “She’ll be scared to death, poor thing! I’m scared, my own self, and just think of her, not able even to move!”

A plump, delicious little thing, she huddled close against me. I felt her tender body tremble and put an arm across one shoulder.

“Come along, child,” said I. “But give me a hand on the stairs here, because my rheumatism is pretty bad to-night. What was it?”

Dorothy cuddled my arm. “Poor dear!” she whispered. “Careful of that step; we’re just at the turn. Why, it was the Poltergeist.”

“Huh?” I stopped short, repeating the outlandish word. “Poltergeist? What’s that?”

“Why, that scream and everything. It comes every few nights lately, only I never said anything about it outside, because it upsets Aunt Mary so. She won’t have me even mention it to Lewis, let alone any other body; just says such things oughtn’t to be talked about. After I showed her the broken dishes she⸺Oh-h-h!”

She broke off, gripping my arm tighter still, pressing close against me, to the detriment of my sorer shoulder; then she made a quaint little sound, a sort of whispered scream.

I stared violently, too; for there was a ghostly rustling in the lower hall, just by our knees, and something dim and white and shapeless seemed to whip past us and disappear. I say seemed; for it was too dark to be sure, and I stretched out my hand toward it and felt nothing. It might have 18been pure fancy, a breath of air through the hall, a mouse scurrying along the wall.

“There, Dotty!” I whispered. “It wasn’t anything—and, besides, it’s gone. See?”

“I know,” she agreed doubtfully. “I know it wasn’t anything, and Peter always says so, too. He watched two nights to make sure; only he went to sleep both times. But it scares me just the same.”

By now we had groped our way to Aunt Mary’s room. She slept on the ground floor, being, as I may have said, paralyzed from the waist down. Her nurse, Miss Christie, slept in a little chamber which opened off of her patient’s room.

We listened, our heads close together, pressed against the closed door; presently we heard the sound of heavy breathing—a ladylike snore.

“That’s Miss Christie,” whispered Dorothy. “It didn’t wake her up. Uncle George, she is the sleepingest thing! She makes me mad sometimes, she’s so placid.”

I heard the creak of springs, as some one moved in bed, and a weak, sad, patient voice called:

“Is any one there?”

“It’s me, aunty,” replied Dorothy. “We came to see if you were all right. Did you hear it?”

In the room beyond us the bed creaked again, as if some one struggled to sit up in it. Then Aunt Mary’s voice:

“Miss Christie!”

No answer.

A sigh. Then louder, but still patiently, sweetly: “Miss Christie! Nurse!”

19“Aw-ugh!” A yawn, a sleepy murmur, and then, when Aunt Mary had called once more: “Yes, Miss McGregor, I’m comin’! Ho-hum!”

Bare feet plumped to the floor and padded out toward us; I could fancy the nurse digging her fists into sleep-blurred eyes.

“Wha’s a matter?”

“Snap on the lights, please; now help me to sit up. Hand me that shawl. Open the door, please; Dorothy’s out there.”

A line of light showed at our feet, along the threshold. We heard a bustle within, and presently the door opened. I hesitated a moment, half blinded by the sudden light. Yet I saw the retreating figure of the nurse, dumpy and shapeless in a bath robe, her head an aureole of tousled blond hair. She vanished into her own alcove room, and I heard her drop upon the bed, with one more yawn, followed, without appreciable pause, by gentle snores.

Dorothy turned to me. The blue of her negligee matched her sea-blue eyes, and her soft black hair was a cloud about her dimpled face, still delicately flushed with sleep. Light and company had quite restored her courage; she laughed at me merrily.

“Come along in, Uncle George! You look lovely. No? Well, just a minute, then.”

She turned to her aunt. The old lady was propped high with pillows, a beautiful old Paisley shawl wrapped about her thin shoulders. Her snow-white hair was dressed exactly as for a ball. She was a wonderful old lady, always precise and well groomed, in spite of her invalidism. Her black eyes 20were bright, but her thin, patrician face bore a look of patient sadness. She stretched out a slender hand.

“There, child! What is it?”

“Why—why, aunty, you know! Didn’t you hear it?”

Aunt Mary sighed. “Yes, Dorothy, dear, but these are things best not spoken about.”

“Did it wake you up?”

“No, child. I haven’t been asleep. Shift that pillow, please; the pain is worse to-night.” She sighed again, with sad, upturned eyes. “It seems as if I had enough to bear, without that. But it’s all for the best, no doubt. I must be patient!” She had the sweet, resigned expression of some aged saint. “I was just getting quieted down, too. There, child, run back to bed. So sorry you were disturbed, Mr. Uhlman,” she told me over her niece’s shoulder. “This child is fanciful—nervous.”

“Did I disturb you, too, Aunt Mary?” Dorothy’s voice was remorseful. “But I thought you’d be frightened, dear.”

Aunt Mary made a little deprecatory gesture. “Why? I’m not afraid of spirits, my child; I’ll be with them soon enough. Go now, but call Miss Christie first. I want her to change my pillows.”

She closed her eyes, sighed wearily, then spoke again to me, where I stood in the dark hall.

“You mustn’t mind what you heard, Mr. Uhlman. It’s nothing—merely a materialization. Trivial spirits can’t harm us.”

We were dismissed. As Dorothy closed the door 21very gently, I heard Aunt Mary say: “Raise me a little more, Miss Christie. And another pillow, please. My head’s very bad again. This has upset me.” She sighed plaintively. Both tone and words were of an angelic resignation; I could not understand Dorothy’s manner.

For, now that we were alone in the dark hall, she gritted her little, even teeth together. “Darn!” I heard her mutter.

“What is it, child?”

“Oh, nothing! Aunt Mary’s on another rampage. Wish I’d left her alone, but you never know how to take her.”

“My dear!” I reproved. “You oughtn’t to speak of your aunt so. She has a hard time, poor lady!”

Dorothy laughed shortly. “So do I! Oh, I know you think I’m horrid, but you just stick around and see for yourself.”

I sighed. The young are intolerant of invalidism. “But about the other thing, Dorothy—the scream we heard, and all that? What did you mean by ‘Poltergeist?’”

The girl shook her head. “Come away, Uncle George. She’ll hear us. Never mind that now. Oh”—as I persisted—“that’s what Aunt Mary calls ‘manifestations,’ screams at night, broken dishes, things missing from the pantry, and all that. She wrote to some learned society about it, and they said it was a Poltergeist, a little, malicious ghost that plays tricks like that. They wanted to send somebody here to investigate. Come, we’ve got to get out of here; Aunt Mary has ears like a lynx. In the 22morning she’ll tell how our talking kept her awake all night long. Come on, Uncle George, do! Never mind the ghost. I hear enough about that; Aunt Mary talks of it to me for hours on end, when she’s in the right humor. She’s a great spiritualist, you know.”

In silence she bustled me back to my room. One would have thought that she was actually afraid of that sweet, patient old saint, her Aunt Mary.

CHAPTER II BOBWHITE

I went back to bed, but not to sleep. The moon had set, and the pitch dark of the old house intensified all my foolish fancies. Over and over I went through the round of morbid thought: my nephew’s marriage, the bleak, friendless future that awaited me; this dismal old barracks, pervaded by the sinister odor of honeysuckle; the faint, mysterious creakings and stirrings of its ancient walls. I caught myself listening, breathless, for a repetition of that awful screech; I vowed that nothing should induce me to spend another night in the haunted place. I paid Dorothy and her aunt the meed of a tremendous admiration because they accepted this Poltergeist so calmly.

Sleep stood far off from me, while the night dragged inexorably on, and the deep-toned grandfather clock on the landing tolled out hour after hour. At last I felt the first subtle changes of coming dawn.

From somewhere a fugitive breeze, the merest vagrant breath of air, stirred in the solemn pines, so that they whispered. The leaves of the honeysuckle vines at my window moved, and the heavy scent of their flowers poured in more strongly. The air seemed cleaner, cooler. One could not say that it was lighter, but the darkness grew more bearable. And then, little by little, the east faded, turned gray, 24lavender, pink; then it began to flush with the first, faint, exquisite tints that precede sunrise.

I sighed deep and turned over. My weary, strained limbs relaxed. Now that the night was gone, and daylight began to be a promise almost fulfilled, ghosts troubled me no longer, nor did sad thoughts have power to haunt me. “Joy cometh in the morning,” the psalmist said. To me came peace at least, and I settled to rest.

My lids were heavy with that delicious languor which welcomes sleep after a long, troubled night; an insistent whistling, right under my window, roused me.

I sat up, muttering angrily. Some milkman, no doubt, or some furnace boy, wooing the cook. There it was again; a fine hour for love-making! Would she never wake up? Confound all cooks and their swains!

Then my delightful drowse fled away, leaving me wide awake, my last hope of slumber gone. I knew that this was no amorous milkman, whose racket might be hushed by well-directed abuse.

“Bobwhite! Bobwhite!”

I held an aching head between my hands. That insistent two-toned whistle, repeated again and again, in maddening iteration, came from no man, but a bird—the “bobwhite,” the quail of North Carolina, which some misguided idiots would have protected as a songbird!

But now it was full light, and, I suppose, something after five o’clock. With a dispirited sigh I arose and began to dress slowly. I had made more 25of a sacrifice than I realized when I offered, in my innocence, to spend the night at Fort House.

I shaved and dressed leisurely, to the accompaniment of bobwhite’s continual clamor; at last I descended the wide stairs silently, lest I wake others. I heard no stir from Dorothy’s room; she, no doubt, was well used to the song of quail. As I may have said, Fort House stood apart and alone in its grove of pines, and wild quail might well nest in the tangle of scrub oaks behind it. They sang under her window every morning, I suppose, so that Dorothy heard them no longer. But I rejoiced privately that the house I shared with my nephew, Lewis Parker, stood close to its neighbors and far off from wild birds and, I hoped, wilder ghosts.

But, as I reached the ground floor and tiptoed past Aunt Mary’s door, I had proof that bobwhite had disturbed others beside myself. For all her long stay in this house, Miss McGregor was not yet used to the outcry of quail, it appeared.