One "Creepy" Night in a
House of Death
The
Living Nightmare
"You mean to tell me," demanded Jim Brown, "that those people left town and expect you to stay in that house alone tonight?"
"Why, yes," said MacMillen, preparing to leave. "They've gone to Virginia and will be back Thursday, when the funeral will take place."
"And they left the body lying in the living-room?"
"Of course. Where did you expect them to leave it—on the porch?"
"And you are going to sleep in that house alone—with the corpse?"
"Yes. What of it? There's nothing to be afraid of."
Taking his hat and coat, MacMillen departed.
"Pleasant dreams!" called Brown, as the door slammed behind him.
The night was cold and the atmosphere was clear and "hard." The snow crackled under his feet as he walked.
"Silly idea," he muttered: but he couldn't help wondering why the Mitchells, with whom he made his home, had left the house on the same day that Mrs. Mitchell's grandmother had passed away.
In his mind he went over Mrs. Mitchell's explanation. She had told him that they were going to Wheeling, the deceased lady's old home, where a sister lived, and would remain there until the funeral. And she had asked, "You are not afraid to stay here alone, are you?"
No, of course, he was not afraid; but it was strange that they should leave the corpse in his charge and depart.
Then it came to him. Funny he hadn't thought of it before. The Mitchells must be superstitious. They probably had some silly notion about a house being haunted while a corpse was in it, or something of that sort. That must be it. But how ridiculous!
Still, the Mitchells were a little queer anyway, reflected Mac, as he turned up the ice-covered path of the Mitchell residence.
It stood, surrounded by high buildings and stores. in a section of town which in days gone by had been the very heart of the city's social life. It was one of the largest and oldest homes in the city. And now it was an outcast, so to say, among the monuments to industry and progress. Built years ago by the husband of the woman who now lay dead within its walls, it was in a style of architecture long since abandoned. Everything about it was high and narrow—the building itself, the windows and doors, the porch columns, and the roof high up among the tree branches.
Mac walked unhesitatingly toward the big dark house. But, somehow, the formidable brick walls that always looked so inviting seemed cold and
