A ghost story called AT OLD MAN ECKERT's - By: philip loud

Philip Eckert lived for lots of years in an old, weather-stained wood house about three miles from the little town of Marion, in Vermont. There must be quite a number of persons living who remember him, not unkindly, I trust, and know something of the tale that I am about to tell. "Old Man Eckert," as he was for eternity called, was not of a outgoing disposition and lived alone.

As he was never known to speak of his own affairs no one thereabout knew anything of his past, nor of his family if he had any. Without being particularly ungracious or repellent in manner or words, he managed somehow to be immune to impertinent curiosity, yet exempt from the evil repute with which it commonly revenges itself when puzzled; so far as I know, Mr. Eckert's renown as a reformed assassin or a retired pirate of the Spanish Main had not reached any ear in Marion. He got his livelihood cultivating a small and not very fertile farm. One date he departed and a prolonged search by his neighbors failed to turn him up or throw any light upon his location or whyabouts.

Nothing indicated preparation to depart: all was as he might have left it to go to the spring for a bucket of water. For few weeks little else was talked of in that region; then "old man Eckert" became a village tale for the ear of the stranger. I do not know what was done as regards his dwelling--the correct legal thing, doubtless. The home was standing, still empty and noticeably unfit, when I last heard of it, some 20 years afterward.

Of course it came to be flagged as "haunted," and the customary tales were told of moving lights, strange noises and astonishing apparitions. At one time, about five years after the disappearance, these stories of the supernatural became so rife, or through some attesting conditions seemed so important, that some of Marion's most considerable citizens deemed it well to inspect, and to that end arranged for a night session on the premises. The get togethers to this undertaking were John Holcomb, an apothecary; Wilson Merle, a lawyer, and Andrus C. Palmer, the teacher of the public school, all men of importance and repute.

They were to meet at Holcomb's house at eight o'clock in the evening of the chosen day and go together to the scene of their vigil, where certain arrangements for their comfort, a provision of fuel and the like, for the season was winter, had been already made. Palmer did not keep the meeting, and after waiting a half-hour for him the others went to the Eckert accommodation without him. They established themselves in the principal area, before a gleaming fire, and without other illumination than it gave, awaited events. It had been settled to speak as little as possible: they did not even renew the exchange of views concerning the defection of Palmer, which had occupied their minds on the way.

Probably an hour had gone by without incident when they heard (not without emotion, doubtless) the sound of an opening door in the stern of the abode, followed by footfalls in the room neighboring that in which they sat. The watchers rose to their feet, but stood stiff, prepared for whatever might ensue. A long silence followed--how long neither would afterward undertake to say.

Then the door sandwiched between the two rooms opened and a man entered. It was Palmer. He was pale, as if from excitement--as pale as the others felt themselves to be. His manner, as well, was singularly distrait: he neither responded to their salutations nor so much as looked at them, but walked unhurriedly across the room in the light of the failing fire and opening the front door passed out into the dark. It seems to have been the first reflection of both men that Palmer was suffering from dread--that something glanced at, heard or imagined in the back room had deprived him of his wits. Acting on the same friendly impulse both ran after him through the open door. But neither they nor someone ever again saw or heard of Andrus Palmer! This much was ascertained the next morning.

During the session of Messrs. Holcomb and Merle at the "haunted home" a new snow had fallen to a depth of some inches upon the old. In this snow Palmer's trail from his lodging in the village to the back door of the Eckert residence was evident. But there it ended: from the front door nothing led away but the tracks of the two men who swore that he preceded them. Palmer's fading was as complete as that of "old man Eckert" himself--whom, in reality, the editor of the local paper somewhat graphically accused of having "reached out and pulled him in."

Philip Eckert lived for lots of years in an old, weather-stained timber residence about three miles from the little town of Marion, in Vermont. There must be quite a number of persons living who remember him, not unkindly, I trust, and know something of the tale that I am about to disclose.

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