It's a house that used to belong to Cram, who was an overseer. The
niggers hated him, and he was killed in bed by a big black nigger
chief from Africa. The niggers won't go near the place. They say it's
haunted."

"Get up," said I; "we're going there now."

Nick sprang out of bed and began to get into his clothes.

"Is it a game?" he asked.

"Yes." He was always ready for a game.

We climbed out of the window, and made our way in the mist through the
long, wet grass, Nick leading. He took a path through a dark forest
swamp, over logs that spanned the stagnant waters, and at length,
just as the mist was growing pearly in the light, we came out at a
tumble-down house that stood in an open glade by the river's bank.

"What's to do now?" said Nick.

"We must get into the house," I answered. But I confess I didn't care
for the looks of it.

Nick stared at me.

"Very good, Davy," he said; "I'll follow where you go."

It was a Saturday morning. Why I recall this I do not know. It has no
special significance.

I tried the door. With a groan and a shriek it gave way, disclosing the
blackness inside. We started back involuntarily. I looked at Nick, and
Nick at me. He was very pale, and so must I have been. But such was the
respect we each held for the other's courage that neither dared flinch.
And so I walked in, although it seemed as if my shirt was made of needle
points and my hair stood on end. The crackings of the old floor were to
me like the shots in Charlestown Bay. Our hearts beating wildly, we made
our way into a farther room. It was like walking into the beyond.

"Is there a window here?" I asked Nick, my voice sounding like a shout.

"Yes, ahead of us."

Groping for it, I suddenly received a shock that set me reeling. Human
nature could stand no more. We both turned tail and ran out of the house
as fast as we could, and stood in the wet grass, panting. Then shame
came.

"Let's open the window first," I suggested. So we walked around the
house and pried the solid shutter from its fastenings. Then, gathering
our courage, we went in again at the door. In the dim light let into
the farther room we saw a four-poster bed, old and cheap, with ragged
curtains. It was this that I had struck in my groping.

"The chief killed Cram there," said Nick, in an awed voice, "in that
bed. What do you want to do here, Davy?"

"Wait," I said, though I had as little mind to wait as ever in my life.
"Stand here by the w