The Haunted House (1959-60)

THERE is a waste strip of land between the river and the hills; nothing is there but an old house, and that is haunted.

There is something so depressing about the loneliness and desolation of the place, about the weird silence that reigns, the rank weeds that smother the very doorstep, the vacant window sashes, the crumbled ruin of a chimney, that one half expects a green light to flit eerily past an upper window, or glide through the strange old arch of a doorway, with its ancient masonry.

If one peeps through the door, one can see a weed-grown room, with some remnants of rotted plants clinging to the cracked foundations ; a ruinous stairway leading to the upper part of the house; and an ancient fireplace draped with ragged cobwebs. The plaster is flaking off the walls, and old faded wallpaper hangs in damp fronds from the mildewy ceiling. Everywhere there are the same signs of decay: an old closet stands on the corner of the staircase, one rusted hinge holding the door; a musty smell issuing from the bottom draws one's attention to an abandoned pile of mould-rotted clothes lying in crumpled confusion just as the owner left them, long years ago.

No one goes near the old house now, which stands alone in the waste strip of land between the river and the distant grey roll of the hills. Everyone avoids it; but no one now knows why, or can say why it stands so empty, so desolate.

P. JORDAN, IA.