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At Old Man Eckerts by Ambrose Bierce. Philip Eckert lived for many years in

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an old, weather stained wooden house
about three miles from the little town of

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Marion in Vermont. There must be
quite a number of persons living who remember

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him, not unkindly, I trust
and know something of the story I am

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about to tell. Old Man Eckert, as he was called, was not

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of a sociable disposition and lived alone. As he was never known to speak

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of his own affairs. Nobody thereabout
knew anything of his past, nor of

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his relatives, if he had any. Without being particularly ungracious or repellent in

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manner of speech, he managed somehow
to be immune to impertinent curiosity, yet

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exempt from the evil reputation with which
it commonly revenges itself when baffled. So

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far as I know, mister Eckerts, renowned as a reformed assassin or a

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retired pirate of the Spanish main,
had not reached any ear in Marion.

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He got his living cultivating a small, not very fertile farm. One day

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he disappeared, and a prolonged search
by his neighbors failed to turn him up

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or throw any light upon his whereabouts
or whyabouts. Nothing indicated preparation to leave.

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All was as he might have left
it to go to the spring for

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a bucket of water. For a
few weeks, little else was talked of

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in that region. Then old man
Eckert became a village tale for the ears

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of strangers. I do not know
what was done regarding his property, the

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correct legal thing, doubtless, the
house was standing still vacant and conspicuously unfit

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when I last heard of it twenty
years afterwards. Of course, it came

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to be considered haunted, and the
customary tales were told of moving lights,

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dolorous sounds, and startling apparitions.
At one time, about five years after

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the disappearance, these stories of the
supernatural became so rife, or, through

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some attesting circumstance, seemed so important, that some of Marion's most serious citizens

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deemed it well to investigate, and
to that end are arranged for a night's

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session on the premises. The parties
to this undertaking were John Holcombe, an

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apothecary, Wilson Merle, a lawyer, and Andrews C. Palmer, the

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teacher of the public school, all
men of consequence and repute. They were

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to meet at Holcombe's house at eight
o'clock in the evening of the appointed day,

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and go together to the scene of
their vigil, where certain arrangements for

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their comfort a provision of fuel in
the like where the season was winter had

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been already made. Palmer did not
keep the engagement, and after waiting half

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an hour for him, the others
went to the Eckert house without him.

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They established themselves in the principal room, before a glowing fire, and without

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other light than it gave a waiting
events he it had been agreed to speak

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as little as possible. They did
not even renew or exchange views regarding the

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defection of Palmer, which had occupied
their minds on the way. Probably an

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hour had passed without incident, when
they heard, not without emotion, doubtless,

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the sound of an opening door in
the rear of the house, followed

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by footfalls in the room adjoining that
in which they sat. The watchers rose

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to their feet, but stood firm, prepared for whatever might ensue. A

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long silence followed. How long neither
would afterward undertake to say. Then the

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door between the two rooms opened and
a man entered. It was Palmer.

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He was pale, as if from
excitement, as pale as the others felt

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themselves to be. His manner,
too, was singularly distraught. He neither

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responded to their salutations, nor so
much as looked at them, but walked

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slowly across the room in the light
of the failing fire, and, opening

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the front door, passed out into
the darkness. It seems to have been

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the first thought of both men that
Palmer was suffering from fright, that something

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seen or heard or imagined in the
back room had deprived him of his senses.

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Acting on the same friendly impulse,
both ran after him through the open

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door. But neither they nor anyone
ever again saw or heard of Andres Palmer.

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This much was ascertained the next morning, during the session of Messrs Holcombe

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and Merle at the Haunted House,
a new snow had fallen to a depth

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of several inches upon the old.
In this snow, Palmer's trail from his

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lodging in the village to the back
door of the eckered house was conspicuous,

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But there it ended. From the
front door nothing led away but the tracks

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of the two men, who swore
that he preceded them Palmer's disappearance was as

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complete as that of Old Man Eckered
himself, whom, indeed, the editor

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of the local paper somewhat graphically accused
of having reached out and pulled him in

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the end of at Old Man Eats
by Ambrose Bierce,