of a near-by hill. As I grew older the
fascination of the place kept increasing, and one day it overcame my
fear and all alone I paid it a visit.

"The house was a ruin--roof fallen in, floor rotted away and pitched
into the cellar: only the walls were standing, and the beams and
rafters, like the ribs of a skeleton, still in place. I remember the
well-sweep was in the usual position, and seemed to me like a warning
finger pointing at the bleaching rafters. It took me a good half hour to
muster courage enough to go within ten rods of the ruin, but I finally
did, and at last, scared half to death, and trembling, found myself
peeping in at one window. It was dark in there and smelt queer, and I, a
nine-year-old boy, fully expected to see some new and horrible spook
appear at any moment. How long I stood there I never knew, for I forgot
all else except the belief that if I waited long enough I should see
something queer. I did, too, for all at once I saw in an inner room,
where a closet door stood half open, a white, bony hand reach out from
behind it, take hold, and seemingly shut that door from the inside! I
didn't wait any longer, you may be sure, and never stopped running until
I came in sight of home, two miles away!"

"And didn't you ever go back there?" said Pullen, "when you got older?"

"Oh, yes, I did, but not for a year after, and during that year I
dreamed of that house and one or a dozen skeleton hands, countless
times. Finally I mustered up spunk, went there one day all alone, set
the old ruin on fire, and then ran as fast as my legs would carry me to
a hilltop half a mile away, and stood and watched the fire. The place
was so hidden away no one saw it burn except me, and I never told for
fear of consequences."

"And did you ever outgrow the belief that you really saw a skeleton hand
open that door?" said Pullen, reaching forward to pick up an ember and
light the pipe he had just refilled.

Manson was silent for a few moments, as he lay resting his head on one
hand and watching the firelight play hide-and-seek among the pine boughs
overhead.

"No, to tell you the truth, Frank," he replied at last, slowly, "I do
not think I ever did. Of course, I know I did not see what I thought I
did, and yet I have not quite outgrown the scare. I won't admit that I
believe in ghosts, and yet the thought of them, owing perhaps to that
boyhood fright, has a sort of deadly fascination for me. I believe and
yet I do not