About the Work
Present at a Hanging and Other Ghost Stories is a collection of supernatural tales and ghost narratives assembled from the broader work Can Such Things Be? by the American author Ambrose Bierce. The volume gathers a series of short stories and anecdotal accounts, each purporting to relate an encounter with the supernatural, the mysterious, or the inexplicable. The book is organized into three distinct thematic sections: “The Ways of Ghosts,” “Soldier-Folk,” and “Some Haunted Houses,” with each section containing a number of individual tales.
“His attitude had in it a suggestion of abstraction, like that of a sleepwalker.”
The collection draws heavily on a variety of settings and periods, ranging from the American frontier and the Civil War to rural communities and even an English town. The stories are presented in a straightforward, almost reportorial style, with many framed as firsthand accounts, sworn testimonies, or narratives passed along by acquaintances. The tone throughout is one of eerie restraint, with the supernatural events described plainly and without excessive embellishment, lending the tales an air of unsettling credibility. The work reflects an early-twentieth-century interest in ghost stories and the paranormal, yet it approaches its subject matter with a distinctively skeptical and often grim sensibility.
The book opens with a brief introduction by an editor figure identified only as A. B., who claims to have transcribed and arranged the narratives that follow. This framing device establishes the collection as a series of documents and testimonies rather than purely fictional inventions, though the editor himself expresses uncertainty about the truth of the accounts. The stories themselves vary in length and complexity, from brief anecdotes of a few paragraphs to more developed narratives with multiple witnesses and detailed investigations. Throughout, the collection maintains a consistent focus on the boundary between the living and the dead, the seen and the unseen, and the rational and the inexplicable.
Context
The stories in this collection emerge from a distinctly American literary tradition of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, a period when the ghost story was a popular and respected form of entertainment and moral inquiry. The author, Ambrose Bierce, was known for his cynical worldview, his service in the Civil War, and his mastery of the short story form, particularly tales of the macabre and the supernatural. The collection reflects the broader cultural fascination with spiritualism, psychic phenomena, and the possibility of communication with the dead that characterized the era, a fascination that gave rise to organizations such as the Society for Psychical Research, which is explicitly referenced in one of the tales.
The settings of the stories span a wide geographical and historical range, reflecting the author’s own experiences and interests. Several tales are set during or immediately after the American Civil War, drawing on the author’s military service and his firsthand knowledge of the conflict’s brutality and its psychological toll on soldiers. Other stories are set in the American West and Midwest, in states such as Iowa, Kentucky, Missouri, Ohio, and Alabama, depicting frontier life, rural communities, and the isolation and dangers of sparsely populated regions. The collection also includes a story set in England, indicating a familiarity with and interest in the broader English-language ghost story tradition.
The introduction by A. B. establishes a crucial context for understanding the collection’s approach to its subject matter. The editor claims to have a “peculiar relation” to the writer of the narratives and admits that his knowledge of the writer is meager, and that he cannot say whether the writer himself believed in the truth of his stories. He notes that inquiries have not always confirmed the statements made in the narratives, yet he insists that the writer’s style is “simple, direct, and almost bald, lacking artifice or art,” a manner that seems incompatible with a merely literary intention. This framing suggests a deliberate ambiguity about the truth status of the tales, positioning them as potentially genuine accounts while simultaneously acknowledging their dubious verifiability. The editor claims to have transcribed the notes and given them an orderly arrangement without embellishing them, a statement that reinforces the documentary pretense of the collection.
Structure of the Book
The book is organized into three thematic sections, each containing a number of individual stories. The first section, “The Ways of Ghosts,” opens with the editor’s introduction and contains four tales: “Present at a Hanging,” “A Cold Greeting,” “A Wireless Message,” and “An Arrest.” These stories deal with various manifestations of the supernatural, including apparitions, premonitions, and encounters with the dead. The second section, “Soldier-Folk,” contains four stories set against the backdrop of the Civil War: “A Man with Two Lives,” “Three and One Are One,” “A Baffled Ambuscade,” and “Two Military Executions.” These tales explore the supernatural experiences of soldiers and the peculiar horrors of wartime. The third section, “Some Haunted Houses,” is the largest, containing ten stories: “The Isle of Pines,” “A Fruitless Assignment,” “A Vine on a House,” “At Old Man Eckert’s,” “The Spook House,” “The Other Lodgers,” “The Thing at Nolan,” “The Difficulty of Crossing a Field,” “An Unfinished Race,” and “Charles Ashmore’s Trail.” These stories focus on haunted locations, mysterious disappearances, and the lingering presence of the dead in particular places.
The collection opens with the editor’s introduction, which establishes the framing device of transcribed narratives. The first story, “Present at a Hanging,” is set in Iowa in 1853 and concerns the fate of an old man suspected of murdering a traveling peddler. The narrative follows the discovery of the man’s body hanging from a bridge and the subsequent revelation of the peddler’s bones beneath it. “A Cold Greeting” is set in San Francisco in 1881 and involves a man who receives a cold greeting from a friend who has recently died, with the twist that the dead man’s appearance had changed. “A Wireless Message” is set in 1896 and concerns a Chicago manufacturer who, while lost in thought in rural New York, experiences a vision of his estranged wife and child at the exact moment of their deaths in a house fire. “An Arrest” begins the story of Orrin Brower, a Kentucky murderer who escapes from jail and encounters a mysterious figure in a forest.
The second section shifts to military settings. “A Man with Two Lives” and “Three and One Are One” continue the exploration of supernatural phenomena among soldiers, though the notes provide limited detail on these specific tales. “A Baffled Ambuscade” presents a narrative in which a private named Dunning warns his major of an ambush, is found dead the next morning, and is discovered to have been correct about the Confederate presence. “Two Military Executions” is set in the spring of 1862 during General Buell’s campaign leading to the Battle of Shiloh. The story concerns Private Bennett Story Greene, who strikes his officer and is sentenced to death by firing squad. After his execution, his name is called during a roll call, and he responds “Here!” three times, at which point the officer who had been his accuser is struck by a bullet and dies.
The third section, “Some Haunted Houses,” presents a series of tales about specific locations and the strange events associated with them. “The Isle of Pines” introduces Herman Deluse, an old man living near Gallipolis, Ohio, who is suspected of being a former pirate and who dies in November 1867. “A Fruitless Assignment” concerns a reporter named Saylor who is assigned to spend a night in a haunted house on Vine Street, where he encounters a severed head and a crowd of ghostly revelers, though he reports that nothing occurred. “A Vine on a House” tells of the Harding family near Norton, Missouri, and the mysterious vine that grows over their abandoned house, which is found to have roots shaped like a human figure. “The Spook House” is set in eastern Kentucky in 1862 and concerns a plantation house known to be haunted, where two men, Colonel McArdle and Judge Veigh, have a terrifying experience involving a room full of corpses. “The Other Lodgers” is set in Atlanta and involves Colonel Levering’s night at the Breathitt House. “The Thing at Nolan” concerns the disappearance of Charles May and the subsequent trial of his son John for his murder, with the mystery of what passed through a store in Nolan remaining unresolved. “The Difficulty of Crossing a Field” is set in Alabama in 1854 and concerns the inexplicable disappearance of a planter named Williamson while crossing a pasture. “An Unfinished Race” is set in Leamington, England, in 1873 and concerns a shoemaker who vanishes mid-stride during a wager to run to Coventry and back. “Charles Ashmore’s Trail” begins the story of a family in Troy, New York, though the notes cut off before its conclusion.
Detailed Section-by-Section Summary
Present at a Hanging
In 1853, an old man named Daniel Baker, living near Lebanon, Iowa, fell under suspicion of murdering a peddler who had stayed at his house. Peddling was then a common and dangerous trade in the West, as itinerant merchants relied on country hospitality and sometimes met with violence. Seven years later, the Rev. Mr. Cummings, a Baptist minister, was driving by Baker’s farm at night. At a bridge over a dry ravine, he saw a man with a pack and a heavy stick, standing like a sleepwalker. Cummings invited him into his vehicle. The man pointed downward and then disappeared. The horse, terrified, ran away. Cummings looked back and saw the figure again. He felt a sense of the supernatural and drove home. The next morning, he returned with John White Corwell and Abner Raiser. They found Baker hanging from a beam of the bridge. The only footprints on the dusty bridge were the horse’s. When they took down the body, they found human bones below, identified as the peddler’s. The coroner’s jury ruled Baker died by his own hand during temporary insanity, and that Samuel Morritz was murdered by persons unknown.
A Cold Greeting
Benson Foley of San Francisco tells a story from the summer of 1881. He met James H. Conway of Franklin, Tennessee, who brought a note from Lawrence Barting, a former Federal army captain and lawyer. Conway told Foley that he and Barting had agreed that whichever died first would communicate from beyond the grave. Weeks later, Conway greeted Foley coldly, and did so again the next day. Conway explained that Barting was in town and had greeted him the same way. Foley then revealed that Barting was dead, having died in Nashville four days prior. Conway suggested he must have mistaken another man for Barting, noting the man lacked Barting’s mustache. Foley had a photograph of Barting, taken a week before his death, showing him without a mustache.
A Wireless Message
In the summer of 1896, William Holt, a wealthy Chicago manufacturer, was visiting his brother in a central New York town. He had parted from his wife a year before. One evening, lost in thought, he became lost. He saw a strange, soft red glow behind him, and his shadow was always cast before him, no matter which way he turned. He checked his watch; it was 11:25. The light flared to an intense splendor, and he saw the apparition of his wife in night-clothing, holding his child, her eyes fixed on him. Only her upper half was visible. The vision faded. He returned to his brother’s house, haggard and gray. His brother told him to wait. An hour later, a telegram arrived: Holt’s Chicago house had burned. His wife had appeared at an upper window with her child, and the floor gave way just as firemen arrived. The time was 11:25.
An Arrest
Orrin Brower of Kentucky, having murdered his brother-in-law, escaped from jail by knocking down his jailer with an iron bar. He entered a forest and became lost. He emerged onto an old road and saw the indistinct figure of a man, motionless in the gloom. Brower approached cautiously, and as he drew near, he recognized the figure as his jailer, who had apparently pursued him. The jailer stood silent and unmoving, and Brower, desperate and cornered, struck him down with the same iron bar. The man fell without a sound. Brower continued his flight, but soon found himself back at the same spot, and again the figure stood before him. He struck again, and again the figure fell, only to reappear. This happened repeatedly, until Brower, exhausted and maddened, realized he was not escaping at all. He was still on the road, and the figure was always there. Finally, he understood: the figure was not his jailer, but something else—a ghost, or a projection of his own guilt. He surrendered himself to the authorities, and when he was taken back to jail, he learned that his jailer had never left the prison. The man Brower had struck down was a phantom, and the real jailer was alive and well. Brower was hanged for his crime, and the story ends with the observation that the ghost of the man he had murdered had come to claim him.
A Man with Two Lives
The narrative shifts to a military setting, focusing on a private soldier named Dunning. The major observes that Private Dunning has “had the fight of his life” and prepares to ride forward. Dunning raises his hand, motioning the major back with a warning gesture, then points to where the road disappears into the blackness of the cedar forest. The major understands, turns his horse, rides back to his group (already retreating in fear of his displeasure), and returns to the head of his command. The major tells the captain of his leading company: “Dunning is just ahead there… He has killed his man and will have something to report.” They wait patiently, sabers drawn, but Dunning does not come. After an hour, day breaks; the force moves cautiously forward; the commander is not fully satisfied with his faith in Private Dunning. The expedition has failed, but “something remained to be done.” In a little open space off the road they find the fallen horse. Across the animal’s neck, face upward, a bullet in the brain, lies Trooper Dunning’s body—stiff as a statue, hours dead. Examination shows abundant evidence that within a half-hour the cedar forest had been occupied by a strong force of Confederate infantry—an ambuscade. Dunning had given his life to warn his comrades, and his warning had saved them.
Two Military Executions
In the spring of 1862, General Buell’s army camps, preparing for the campaign that results in the victory at Shiloh. The army is raw and untrained, though some fractions had seen service in Western Virginia and Kentucky. The war is young; soldiering is a new industry. Chief among disliked features is subordination. The American volunteer soldier, imbued with the “fascinating fallacy that all men are born equal,” finds unquestioning submission hard. Such soldiers are “among the worst known.” Private Bennett Story Greene commits the indiscretion of striking his officer. Later in the war he would not have done this (like Sir Andrew Aguecheek, he would have “seen him damned” first). He is promptly arrested, tried by court-martial, and sentenced to be shot. Greene tells the complaining witness, Lieutenant Will Dudley: “You might have thrashed me and let it go at that; that is what you used to do at school, when you were plain Will Dudley and I was as good as you. Nobody saw me strike you; discipline would not have suffered much.” Dudley replies: “Ben Greene, I guess you are right about that… Will you forgive me? That is what I came to see you about.” No reply comes; an officer announces the interview time has expired. Next morning, before the whole brigade, Private Greene is shot to death by a squad of his comrades. Lieutenant Dudley turns his back and mutters a prayer for mercy, including himself.
Weeks later, Buell’s leading division is ferried over the Tennessee River to succor Grant’s beaten army. Night falls, black and stormy. The division moves through the wreck of battle toward the enemy, who has withdrawn to reform. Lightning never ceases; thunder roars; moans of the wounded are heard; men stumble over the dead. At first gray of morning, the advance pauses to form a line of battle; skirmishers are thrown forward; word passes to call the roll. The first sergeant of Lieutenant Dudley’s company steps forward, reciting names from memory in alphabetical order. He reaches “G”: Gorham answers “Here!”; Grayrock answers “Here!” The sergeant, affected by habit, calls “Greene.” A clear, distinct, unmistakable response: “Here!” A sudden agitation shocks the entire company front. The sergeant pales and pauses. The captain strides forward and commands: “Call that name again.” (The narrator notes: “Apparently the Society for Psychical Research is not first in the field of curiosity concerning the Unknown.”) The sergeant calls “Bennett Greene.” Response: “Here!” All faces turn; the two men between whom Greene had stood in line turn and confront each other. The captain commands “Once more.” Tremulously, the name comes: “Bennett Story Greene.” Response: “Here!” At that instant, a single rifle-shot is heard ahead, beyond the skirmish line; a bullet passes through the line and strikes audibly, punctuating the captain’s exclamation: “What the devil does it mean?” Lieutenant Dudley pushes through the ranks from the rear, throwing open his coat to display a broadening crimson stain on his breast. He says: “It means this.” His knees give way; he falls awkwardly and lies dead. The regiment is later ordered out of line and is not again under fire. Bennett Greene, “expert in military executions,” never again signifies his presence at one.
The Isle of Pines
Near Gallipolis, Ohio, lives an old man named Herman Deluse. Little is known of his history; he will not speak of it nor suffer others to. Neighbors believe he had been a pirate, possibly based on his collection of boarding pikes, cutlasses, and ancient flintlock pistols. He lives alone in a small four-room house, decaying, never repaired beyond what weather requires. It stands on a slight elevation amid a stony, bramble-overgrown field, cultivated only in patches. He seems to have ready money and pays cash, buying seldom at the same store twice. People suspect he has hoards of ill-gotten gold buried about his dwelling. On November 9, 1867, the old man dies; his body is discovered on the 10th. Physicians testify death occurred from natural causes, but the circumstances of his death are strange. The house is searched, and in a hidden compartment, they find a map and a journal. The journal reveals that Deluse had been a pirate, and that he had buried his treasure on a small island in the Ohio River. The map shows the location. A party sets out to find the treasure, but when they reach the island, they find only a single pine tree, and beneath it, a grave. The treasure is never found, and the island is known thereafter as the Isle of Pines.
A Fruitless Assignment
During a period of public excitement about a haunted house, a reporter named Saylor presents himself at the office of the Commercial newspaper for orders. The city editor gives him a note instructing him to spend the night alone in the haunted house on Vine street and write two columns if anything noteworthy occurs. Saylor obeys because he cannot afford to lose his position. He informs the police of his intention, enters through a rear window before dark, walks through the deserted, unfurnished, dusty rooms, and settles in the parlor on an old sofa he drags in from another room. He watches darkness fall. A curious crowd gathers in the street—mostly silent and expectant, with some scoffers making scornful remarks. No one knows he is inside. He avoids making a light because the uncurtained windows would reveal his presence, subjecting him to insult or injury. He is also too conscientious to alter the conditions under which the manifestations reportedly occur.
When it is dark, streetlight faintly illuminates his room. He has opened every interior door but locked all outer ones. Sudden exclamations from the crowd make him look out; he sees a man cross the lawn, ascend the steps, and disappear behind a wall projection. He hears the hall door open and close, quick heavy footsteps along the passage, up the stairs, and in the chamber overhead. Saylor draws his pistol, goes upstairs, and finds the chamber empty. He hears footsteps in an adjoining room, enters it—dark and silent. He strikes his foot against an object: a woman’s severed head. Lifting it by the hair, he returns downstairs, examines it near the window. He becomes half-conscious of doors opening and closing, footfalls all around. Looking up, he finds himself surrounded by a crowd of men and women; the room is thronged. He assumes people broke in and addresses them coolly, but his voice is drowned in insane laughter. They point at the head; as he drops it, it rolls among their feet. They dance about it with grotesque gestures and obscene attitudes, kick it around the room, push and overthrow one another struggling to kick it, curse, scream, and sing ribald songs while the head bounds about “as if in terror.” Finally the head shoots out the door into the hall, followed by all. The door closes sharply; Saylor is alone in dead silence. He puts away his pistol, looks out—the street is deserted, lamps extinguished, dawn breaking. He leaves easily and walks to the Commercial office. The city editor is asleep; Saylor wakes him and says he has been at the haunted house. The editor cries “Good God! are you Saylor?” Saylor confirms his identity. The editor stares. Saylor says he passed the night there. The editor remarks that things were reportedly “uncommonly quiet” out there and asks if anything occurred. Saylor answers: “Nothing whatever.”
A Vine on a House
About three miles from Norton, Missouri, on the road to Maysville, stands an old house last occupied by the Harding family. Since 1886 no one has lived there. It is becoming a picturesque ruin with an evil reputation as haunted. A large vine of an unidentifiable species overruns the structure and plays an important part in the story. Robert Harding, about forty, silent and cold-mannered, made no friends; he was frugal and industrious, farming a little place now overgrown. His wife Matilda, gentle and sad-eyed, lacked a left foot. Her sister Julia Went lived with them, along with two young children. Harding and his sister-in-law were somewhat tabooed by neighbors who thought them seen too frequently together. In 1884, it became known that Mrs. Harding had gone to visit her mother in Iowa—so her husband said. She never returned. Two years later, Harding and the rest of the family left without selling anything or appointing an agent. Movables disappeared; the house became “haunted.”
Four or five years later, the Rev. J. Gruber of Norton and Maysville attorney Hyatt met on horseback at the Harding place. They sat on the porch to discuss business. A long vine covering half the front was visibly and audibly agitated, shaking violently. Hyatt predicted a storm; Gruber pointed out that adjacent trees were motionless. They looked up at the vine—still violently agitated with no discernible cause. “Let us leave,” said the minister, and they rode away together to Norton, where they told their story. The next evening, with two others, they returned; again the vine was violently agitated under closest scrutiny; their combined strength applied to the trunk could not still it. After an hour they retreated. Crowds assembled “seeking a sign.” Someone proposed digging up the vine; this was done. Nothing was found but the root—yet nothing could have been stranger. For five or six feet it ran downward, single and straight; then divided into rootlets, fibers, and filaments, most curiously interwoven. When freed from soil, they showed a compact network having an amazing resemblance to the human figure—head, trunk, limbs, even fingers and toes defined; many saw in the fibers of the head a grotesque suggestion of a face. The figure was horizontal; smaller roots began to unite at the breast. The image was imperfect: at about ten inches from one knee, the root-fibers were broken off, as if the figure had been incomplete. The implication was clear: the vine had grown from the body of a buried woman, and the broken root at the knee suggested that the body had been mutilated—perhaps to conceal the missing foot.
The Spook House
In 1862, a wooden plantation house stood on the road north from Manchester, in eastern Kentucky, to Booneville, twenty miles away. The house was destroyed by fire the following year, likely by stragglers from General George W. Morgan’s retreating column, when he was driven from Cumberland Gap to the Ohio river by General Kirby Smith. At the time of destruction, the house had been vacant for four or five years; fields were overgrown, fences gone, and negro quarters and out-houses had fallen into ruin from neglect and pillage. Negroes and poor whites took fuel from the buildings openly by daylight; after nightfall, no one except passing strangers went near the place. It was known as the “Spook House,” believed to be tenanted by evil spirits—visible, audible, and active—as unquestioned as the traveling preacher’s Sunday sermons. The owner’s opinion was unknown; he and his family had disappeared one night, leaving everything—household goods, clothing, provisions, horses in the stable, cows in the field, negroes in the quarters—nothing missing except a man, a woman, three girls, a boy, and a babe (seven people).
One night in June 1859, Col. J. C. McArdle (a lawyer) and Judge Myron Veigh (of the State Militia), both of Frankfort, were driving from Booneville to Manchester. Their business was important, so they pushed on despite darkness and an approaching storm, which broke upon them opposite the “Spook House.” Lightning was incessant; they found their way through the gateway into a shed, hitched and unharnessed their team, then went to the house and knocked at all doors without response. Attributing the silence to thunder, they pushed open a door and entered; the instant they closed it, they were in darkness and silence—no lightning, no thunder. McArdle believed for a moment he had been killed by lightning as he crossed the threshold.
Recovering from the dazing transition, McArdle’s first impulse was to reopen the door; he still felt the knob in his hand. He turned it and pulled open the door—it led into another room. The apartment was suffused with a faint greenish light, source unknown, making everything visible but not sharply defined. The only objects within the blank stone walls were human corpses—perhaps eight or ten, of different ages (from infancy up) and both sexes, all prostrate on the floor. One, a young woman, sat up with her back against the wall; a babe was clasped in the arms of an older woman; a half-grown lad lay face downward across the legs of a full-bearded man; one or two were nearly naked; a young girl’s hand held the fragment of a gown she had torn open at the breast. Bodies were in various stages of decay, all greatly shrunken; some were little more than skeletons. McArdle’s attention diverted to trifles: the door was of heavy iron plates, riveted, with three strong bolts protruding from the beveled edge, equidistant; turning the knob retracted them, releasing shot them out—a spring lock. The inside had no knob, only a smooth iron surface. Judge Veigh, whom McArdle had forgotten, pushed past him into the room. McArdle cried out, “For God’s sake, do not go in there! Let us get out of this dreadful place!” Veigh, fearless, walked to the center, knelt beside a body, and tenderly raised its blackened, shriveled head. A strong disagreeable odor overpowered McArdle; his senses reeled, and clutching the door edge, he pushed it shut with a sharp click. McArdle remembered no more; six weeks later he recovered reason in a hotel at Manchester, taken there by strangers the next day. He had suffered a nervous fever with constant delirium, found lying in the road several miles from the house; he never knew how he escaped. On recovery, physicians told him (to quiet him) that Judge Veigh was well and at home. No one believed his story. Arriving home in Frankfort two months later, he learned Judge Veigh had never been heard of since that night. He regretted his pride that had forbidden him to repeat his discredited story. He references later events: examination of the house, failure to find any room corresponding to his description, an attempt to have him adjudged insane, and his triumph over his accusers—all familiar to readers of the Advocate. He remains confident that excavations (which he lacks legal right and wealth to make) would disclose the secret of his friend’s disappearance and possibly of the former occupants of the now-destroyed house. Colonel McArdle died in Frankfort on December 13, 1879.
The Other Lodgers
Colonel Levering, sitting in the Waldorf-Astoria hotel, advises against staying at the Breathitt House in Atlanta—an old wooden building in urgent need of repairs, with breaches in the walls, no locks on bedroom doors, no furniture but a single chair and a bedstead with just a mattress; one must take chances of being stowed with others. Levering’s night there: he got in late, shown to a room on the upper floor. He lay down on the mattress, but could not sleep. He heard sounds of movement in the adjoining room—footsteps, whispers, the rustle of clothing. He assumed other lodgers had arrived. The sounds grew louder, more insistent, and then he heard a voice, clear and distinct, calling his name. He rose and went to the door, but it was locked from the outside. He called out, but there was no answer. The sounds continued through the night, and in the morning, when he finally forced the door open, he found the adjoining room empty. The dust on the floor was undisturbed, save for a single set of footprints that led from the window to the door and back again. He left the house at dawn, and never returned.
The May Case (Continued)
The disappearance of Charles May left his son, John May, in a perilous position. John did not return to the family home, and a search of the wood near the spring by neighbors that night and the following day yielded nothing but the impressions of both men’s feet in the clay. John’s physical and mental state deteriorated rapidly; a physician diagnosed his condition as brain fever, and in his delirium he raved about murder, though he never named a victim or a perpetrator. The brothers Jackson, recalling his earlier threat against his father, reported it to the authorities, and John was arrested on suspicion of murder. A deputy sheriff was stationed at his home to guard him, as public opinion had turned violently against him. Indeed, it was widely believed that a mob would have hanged him on the spot had his illness not made such an act seem unnecessarily cruel. On Tuesday, the neighbors held a formal meeting and appointed a committee to watch the case, a measure that suggested the community was preparing to take justice into its own hands.
On Wednesday, however, a new story arrived from Nolan, a small settlement eight miles away. Nolan was a meager place, consisting of a school house, a blacksmith’s shop, a store, and a half-dozen dwellings. The store was kept by Henry Odell, a cousin of the elder May. On the Sunday of Charles May’s disappearance, Odell and four credible neighbors were sitting in the store. At about three o’clock in the afternoon, Charles May entered through the front door and passed out the rear. Three of the men present knew him well. He was without a hat or coat, and he did not look at them or return their greeting. He was evidently hurt: above his left eyebrow was a deep gash, and blood covered the left side of his face and neck, saturating his light-gray shirt. The men all assumed he was going to the brook behind the store to wash his wound. They waited for him to return, but he never did.
Behind the store, a forest extended six miles to the Medicine Lodge Hills. When news of this sighting spread, public sentiment shifted dramatically. The vigilance committee dissolved, and the search was relocated to Nolan and the surrounding hills. Despite the extensive effort, no trace of Charles May was found. The case nonetheless proceeded to a formal indictment and trial for the murder of a man no one had seen dead. John May was indicted for murdering his missing father. The defense, however, established a powerful alibi for the deceased: if Charles May had been seen miles away from where John May must have been at the time of the disappearance, then the deceased could not have died at John’s hands. John May was acquitted. He left the country and was never heard from again. His mother and sisters moved to St. Louis, and the May house became vacant, reputedly haunted by the restless spirit of the missing man.
Years later, a group of boys found a spade concealed under dead leaves, partly exposed by the rooting of hogs. The spade was nearly new, with a rusted, blood-stained spot on one edge, and the initials “C. M.” were cut into the handle. An examination of the earth nearby revealed a man’s body buried under two or three feet of soil, covered with leaves. Little decomposition had occurred, a fact attributed to the mineral-bearing soil. Above the left eyebrow was the same deep gash that had been described by the witnesses in Nolan; the skull was cut through. The body was that of Charles May. The passage ends with a haunting question: what was it that passed through Odell’s store at Nolan?
Mysterious Disappearances
The Difficulty of Crossing a Field
In July 1854, a planter named Williamson was living six miles from Selma, Alabama. He was sitting with his wife and child on the veranda of his house. Before the house lay a lawn, then the “pike” road, then a ten-acre pasture, level and empty. Beyond the pasture, slaves worked under an overseer named Andrew. Williamson rose from his chair, saying he had forgotten to tell Andrew about some horses. He strolled across the road and into the pasture, pausing to greet his neighbor, Armour Wren, who was passing in an open carriage with his thirteen-year-old son, James. After driving about two hundred yards, Wren remembered that he had forgotten to tell Williamson about the horses—horses Williamson had bought, which were to be sent for that day but could only be delivered the next. The coachman turned the carriage around. As the vehicle turned, all three of them saw Williamson walking across the pasture. One of the coach horses stumbled; when it recovered, James cried out: “Why, father, what has become of Mr. Williamson?”
Wren’s sworn testimony follows. Looking toward the spot where he had last seen Williamson, the man was gone. Wren was not greatly startled at first, thinking it a trick of the light or a momentary lapse of attention. His son, however, was astonished and repeated his question over and over. The black boy Sam, who was driving the carriage, was also affected, likely by the son’s manner. Mrs. Williamson ran down the walk crying, “He is gone, he is gone! O God! what an awful thing!” Her manner was wild but not insane. Wren never saw or heard of Williamson again.
The testimony was corroborated by James, though James had initially claimed he saw the disappearance itself but said nothing of this in court. Mrs. Williamson lost her reason, and the servants were judged incompetent to testify. The field hands had not seen Williamson. A rigorous search of the area failed to produce any clue. Monstrous fictions originated among the blacks and circulated for years, but no explanation was ever found. The courts eventually declared Williamson dead, and his estate was distributed among his heirs.
An Unfinished Race
James Burne Worson was a shoemaker in Leamington, Warwickshire, England. He was addicted to drink and, when in liquor, was prone to making foolish wagers. Boasting of his skill as a pedestrian, he wagered one sovereign that he could run to Coventry and back, a distance of over forty miles. On September 3, 1873, he set out. The man who had made the bet with him, Barham Wise, a linen draper, and Hamerson Burns, a photographer, followed in a light cart to observe the race. Worson went well for several miles, maintaining a steady pace. Suddenly, in the middle of the roadway, not a dozen yards from the cart, with the eyes of both men full upon him, he seemed to stumble. He pitched forward, uttered a terrible cry, and vanished—before touching the earth. No trace of him was ever found. The three men returned to town and told their story. They were taken into custody, but they were men of good standing and were sober at the time. Nothing discredited their sworn account, though public opinion throughout the United Kingdom remained divided between belief and skepticism.
Charles Ashmore’s Trail
Christian Ashmore’s family—his wife, his mother, two grown daughters, and a sixteen-year-old son—lived in Troy, New York. The family was respectable and quiet, and their home was a modest one on the outskirts of the town. One evening, Christian Ashmore left the house to fetch water from a spring that lay a short distance away, a chore he had performed countless times before. The path to the spring was well-worn and familiar. He did not return. His family, after a reasonable interval, grew concerned and went out to look for him. The trail of his footprints in the snow was clear and distinct, leading from the house toward the spring. It did not stop or turn; it simply ended abruptly in the middle of the path, as if he had been lifted from the earth. There were no signs of a struggle, no other tracks, and no explanation. The family searched the surrounding woods and fields for days, but Christian Ashmore was never seen again. The trail of his footprints, which had been so clear, became a subject of local legend, and the spot where it ended was pointed out to visitors for years afterward. The family, unable to bear the mystery, eventually left Troy, but the story of Charles Ashmore’s disappearance remained a cautionary tale of the inexplicable.
Main Arguments
The collection advances several implicit arguments about the nature of the supernatural and the relationship between the living and the dead. Perhaps the most persistent argument is that the dead do not simply vanish but leave traces that can manifest in the world of the living. This is demonstrated repeatedly throughout the tales: the hanged man’s ghost appears to a minister before his body is discovered; a dead man’s spirit greets a friend in a manner consistent with his appearance at death; a murdered man’s body is found beneath the bridge where his killer hanged himself; a vine growing over a grave takes on the shape of the buried body. The collection suggests that death is not an absolute end but rather a transition that leaves lingering connections to the physical world and to those who knew the deceased.
A related argument concerns the reliability of testimony and the difficulty of establishing the truth of supernatural claims. The editor’s introduction explicitly raises this issue, noting that inquiries have not always confirmed the statements made in the narratives. Several stories are presented as sworn testimonies or as accounts by credible witnesses, yet the events they describe defy rational explanation. The collection seems to argue that supernatural occurrences are real but that they resist verification through ordinary means. The stories often involve multiple witnesses, yet the events remain inexplicable, suggesting that the supernatural operates according to rules that are not accessible to human understanding or investigation.
The collection also argues, particularly in its military stories, that the horrors of war create a particularly fertile ground for supernatural phenomena. The story of Private Greene, executed by his comrades and then responding to roll call, suggests that the violence and injustice of war leave psychic wounds that persist beyond death. The story of Private Dunning, who warns his commander of an ambush and is found dead with a bullet in his brain, suggests that soldiers may have premonitions or supernatural knowledge of danger. The collection implies that the extreme emotions and moral violations of war create conditions in which the boundary between the living and the dead becomes permeable.
Another argument advanced by the collection concerns the inadequacy of rational explanation for certain phenomena. The stories repeatedly present events that cannot be explained by natural causes: a man vanishes in the middle of a road in full view of witnesses; a vine’s roots grow in the shape of a human body; a severed head appears in a haunted house and is kicked about by ghostly revelers. The collection does not offer explanations for these events but rather presents them as mysteries that resist rational understanding. The tone is not one of wonder or awe but of grim acceptance of the inexplicable.
Key Concepts
The collection introduces and develops several recurring motifs and concepts that give it coherence and depth. One of the most prominent is the idea of the “ways of ghosts,” the title of the first section, which suggests that ghosts have their own patterns of behavior, their own logic, and their own purposes. The stories in this section present ghosts as beings that appear for specific reasons: to reveal a crime, to communicate a death, to greet a friend. They are not random or malevolent but rather purposeful, though their purposes are not always clear to the living.
Another key concept is the “unfinished race,” the title of one of the stories, which suggests that some lives are cut short before their natural completion and that this incompleteness leaves a residue that manifests in the supernatural. The shoemaker who vanishes mid-stride during his wager is the literal embodiment of this concept, but it applies more broadly to the collection’s other figures: the executed soldier who responds to roll call, the murdered man whose body is discovered years later, the family that disappears from their home leaving everything behind. The concept suggests that death is not always a clean break but can be an interruption that leaves the deceased in a state of suspension.
The collection also develops the concept of the “haunted house” as a specific type of supernatural location. The stories in the third section present haunted houses as places where the boundary between the living and the dead is particularly thin, where the dead remain present and active. These houses are often abandoned or in ruins, suggesting that the departure of the living allows the dead to take possession. The haunted house is not merely a setting but an active participant in the stories, a character in its own right that shapes the events that occur within it.
A further key concept is the idea of the “witness” or the “testimony.” Many of the stories are framed as accounts by witnesses, sometimes with legal or quasi-legal status. The story of Williamson’s disappearance includes sworn testimony; the story of the unfinished race involves three witnesses whose account is described as credible; the story of the thing at Nolan involves multiple witnesses who saw the missing man. The collection repeatedly emphasizes the reliability of these witnesses, suggesting that the supernatural events are real even if they cannot be explained. The concept of testimony also connects to the editor’s framing of the collection as a set of transcribed documents.
Themes
The collection explores a number of deeper themes that give it resonance beyond its surface-level ghost stories. One of the most persistent themes is the relationship between guilt and punishment, particularly in the stories that involve crimes and their consequences. “Present at a Hanging” concerns a man suspected of murder who is found hanged, with the bones of his victim beneath him, suggesting a cosmic justice that operates beyond human law. “The Thing at Nolan” involves a son accused of murdering his father, with the father’s body eventually discovered, suggesting that the truth will out even when it takes years to emerge. The collection repeatedly suggests that guilt leaves traces that cannot be erased and that punishment, whether human or supernatural, will eventually follow.
Another significant theme is the fragility of identity and the instability of the self. Several stories involve characters who are mistaken for others or whose identities are called into question. In “A Cold Greeting,” a man greets a friend coldly, and the friend later learns that the man was dead, having appeared without the mustache he had worn in life. In “Two Military Executions,” the executed soldier responds to roll call, asserting his presence even after death. The collection suggests that identity is not fixed but can be altered by death, by circumstance, or by supernatural forces.
The theme of isolation and loneliness runs through many of the stories. The characters in the collection are often solitary figures: the old man suspected of piracy who lives alone, the reporter who spends the night alone in a haunted house, the planter who disappears while crossing a field, the shoemaker who vanishes while running alone. Even when others are present, the supernatural events often isolate the witnesses, cutting them off from the ordinary world and from the comfort of human company. The collection suggests that the encounter with the supernatural is fundamentally a solitary experience, one that cannot be fully shared or communicated.
The theme of death and its aftermath is, of course, central to the collection. The stories present death in many forms: murder, execution, accident, fire, disappearance. Yet in every case, death is not presented as an absolute end but rather as a transition to a different state of being. The dead remain present, whether as apparitions, as voices, as shapes in the roots of a vine, or as presences in haunted houses. The collection suggests that death is not the end of the story but rather the beginning of a different kind of narrative, one that the living can sometimes glimpse but never fully understand.
The theme of the unreliability of perception and the limits of human knowledge is also prominent. The stories repeatedly present events that defy rational explanation and witnesses who cannot fully account for what they have seen. The editor’s introduction establishes this theme by questioning whether the writer believed in his own stories and noting that inquiries have not always confirmed the statements. The collection suggests that the world is stranger than we can know and that our senses and our reason are inadequate to capture its full complexity.
The Author’s Conclusions
The collection concludes with a series of stories about mysterious disappearances, suggesting that the ultimate mystery is not death itself but the vanishing of individuals without a trace. The final stories present disappearances that are never explained: the planter who vanishes while crossing a field in full view of witnesses, the shoemaker who vanishes mid-stride during a race, and the beginning of the story of Charles Ashmore, whose trail is followed but whose fate remains unknown. These stories suggest that the supernatural is not limited to ghosts and apparitions but extends to the very fabric of reality, which can sometimes open up and swallow the living.
The author’s conclusions, as expressed through the collection, are deeply skeptical about the possibility of understanding the supernatural. The stories do not offer explanations or resolutions but rather present mysteries that resist interpretation. The tone is one of grim acceptance: the supernatural exists, it manifests in unpredictable ways, and it cannot be controlled or comprehended. The collection does not offer comfort or reassurance but rather a stark vision of a world in which the dead remain present and the living are never safe from the intrusion of the inexplicable.
The final story, “Charles Ashmore’s Trail,” begins with the description of a family in Troy, New York, and the trail that the young son leaves behind. Though the notes cut off before the story’s conclusion, the title suggests that the trail leads somewhere but that the destination remains mysterious. The collection ends on a note of unresolved mystery, suggesting that the supernatural is not a puzzle to be solved but a reality to be acknowledged. The author’s conclusions are thus consistent with the overall tone of the collection: the world is stranger than we can know, and the dead are never truly gone.
Significance
The collection represents a significant contribution to the American ghost story tradition, distinguished by its author’s distinctive voice and worldview. The stories are notable for their restraint and their refusal to offer easy explanations or moral lessons. Unlike many ghost stories of the period, which often used the supernatural to deliver a moral or religious message, these tales present the supernatural as a fact of life, neither good nor evil, simply present. This approach anticipates the more modern and skeptical treatment of the supernatural in twentieth-century literature.
The collection is also significant for its treatment of the Civil War, which serves as the backdrop for several of the stories. The author’s own experience as a soldier informs these tales, which present war not as a glorious adventure but as a brutal and dehumanizing experience. The supernatural elements in these stories are not escapes from the horrors of war but rather extensions of them: the executed soldier who responds to roll call, the private who warns of an ambush and is found dead. The collection suggests that war creates its own ghosts, that the violence and injustice of combat leave psychic wounds that persist long after the fighting ends.
The collection’s treatment of haunted houses and mysterious disappearances also contributes to its significance. The stories present the American landscape as haunted, filled with the traces of those who came before and the crimes that were committed. The abandoned houses, the overgrown fields, the forgotten graves all suggest a history that is not fully buried, a past that continues to intrude on the present. The collection thus participates in a broader American literary tradition of exploring the dark side of the national experience, the violence and guilt that underlie the nation’s founding and expansion.
The collection’s framing device, with its editor who claims to have transcribed the narratives without embellishment, also contributes to its significance. This pretense of documentary authenticity gives the stories a power that purely fictional ghost stories might lack, suggesting that the supernatural is not merely a literary convention but a real phenomenon that has been witnessed and recorded. The editor’s skepticism, his admission that he cannot say whether the writer believed in his own stories, adds another layer of ambiguity, leaving the reader uncertain whether the tales are true, fictional, or somewhere in between. This uncertainty is central to the collection’s effect, creating a sense of unease that persists long after the stories are finished. The collection thus stands as a notable example of the ghost story’s power to unsettle and disturb, to suggest that the world is not as we understand it and that the dead are never truly gone.
