to glimpse the spectral couple
seated at table in the high-paneled dining hall of which you have heard
so many tales. Tales of gleaming silver, white-clad Negro servants
bowing with deference before the master and mistress of the green-gabled
house.

Through the uncurtained windows you gape wide-eyed. Instead of the scene
you expected, there looms before your eyes plunder of all sorts tossed
about helter-skelter: sections of broken bookcases, old tables, musty
books, broken-down chairs.

You are about to retreat in utter disgust when you hear the sound of
footsteps on the cobblestone walk that leads around the house. The sound
draws nearer.

The wary photographer pulls his flashlight. Its bright beam plays upon
the stone walk, catching first in its lighted circle the feet of a man.
The light plays upward quickly. It holds now in its bright orb the
smiling face of a man. A middle-aged man with pleasant blue eyes.

"--could--we see--the owner of this place?" stammers the reporter.

"You're looking at him, sir!" the fellow replies courteously. "What can
I do for you?" It is a pleasant voice with an accent that is almost
Harvard.

"Who--who--are you?" the reporter stammers.

"Hedrick's my name. Ray Hedrick! What's yours?"

When the uninvited visitors have identified themselves the owner invites
you most graciously to take a seat on the doorstep.

You learn that this "eccentric old man," of whom you have heard such
ridiculously fantastic tales, is and has been for a number of years
telegraph operator for the Chesapeake and Ohio Railroad at their little
wayside station, Kilgore. It is within a few miles of the mill town of
thriving Ashland, Boyd County, Kentucky, and the county seat of Carter
County. The little railroad station is within a stone's throw, as the
crow flies, of "the haunted house."

"Pleasant weather we are having," the owner observes casually.

"Yes," the reporter replies reluctantly, "but this house--here"--the
reporter is obviously peeved for having been snipe-hunting--"what about
this house?"

"Well," drawls the owner tolerantly, "a house can't help what's been
told about it, can it?"

"But how did the story get started--about it being haunted?" the
reporter is persistent.

The owner jerks a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of U. S. 60.
"Is that your car parked over there?"

There is in his tone that which impels you to stand not on the order of
your going. You go at once--annoy