sore, famished. The thought of his
wife and children urged him on. At last he found a road which led him
in what he knew to be the right direction. It was as wide and
straight as a city street, yet it seemed untraveled. No fields
bordered it, no dwelling anywhere. Not so much as the barking of a
dog suggested human habitation. The black bodies of the trees formed
a straight wall on both sides, terminating on the horizon in a point,
like a diagram in a lesson in perspective. Overhead, as he looked up
through this rift in the wood, shone great golden stars looking
unfamiliar and grouped in strange constellations. He was sure they
were arranged in some order which had a secret and malign
significance. The wood on either side was full of singular noises,
among which--once, twice, and again--he distinctly heard whispers in
an unknown tongue.

His neck was in pain and lifting his hand to it found it horribly
swollen. He knew that it had a circle of black where the rope had
bruised it. His eyes felt congested; he could no longer close them.
His tongue was swollen with thirst; he relieved its fever by thrusting
it forward from between his teeth into the cold air. How softly the
turf had carpeted the untraveled avenue--he could no longer feel the
roadway beneath his feet!

Doubtless, despite his suffering, he had fallen asleep while walking,
for now he sees another scene--perhaps he has merely recovered from a
delirium. He stands at the gate of his own home. All is as he left
it, and all bright and beautiful in the morning sunshine. He must
have traveled the entire night. As he pushes open the gate and passes
up the wide white walk, he sees a flutter of female garments; his
wife, looking fresh and cool and sweet, steps down from the veranda to
meet him. At the bottom of the steps she stands waiting, with a smile
of ineffable joy, an attitude of matchless grace and dignity. Ah, how
beautiful she is! He springs forwards with extended arms. As he is
about to clasp her he feels a stunning blow upon the back of the neck;
a blinding white light blazes all about him with a sound like the
shock of a cannon--then all is darkness and silence!

Peyton Farquhar was dead; his body, with a broken neck, swung gently
from side to side beneath the timbers of the Owl Creek bridge.

End of Project Gutenberg's An Occurrence at Owl Creek, by Ambrose Bierce

*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AN OCCURRENC