The middle toe of the right foot
I
It is well known that the old Manton house is haunted. In all the
rural district near about, and even in the town of Marshall, a mile
away, not one person of unbiased mind entertains a doubt of it;
incredulity is confined to those opinionated persons who will be
called "cranks" as soon as the useful word shall have penetrated the
intellectual demesne of the Marshall Advance. The evidence that the
house is haunted is of two kinds: the testimony of disinterested
witnesses who have had ocular proof, and that of the house itself.
The former may be disregarded and ruled out on any of the various
grounds of objection which may be urged against it by the ingenious;
but facts within the observation of all are material and controlling.
In the first place, the Manton house has been unoccupied by mortals
for more than ten years, and with its outbuildings is slowly falling
into decay--a circumstance which in itself the judicious will hardly
venture to ignore. It stands a little way off the loneliest reach of
the Marshall and Harriston road, in an opening which was once a farm
and is still disfigured with strips of rotting fence and half covered
with brambles overrunning a stony and sterile soil long unacquainted
with the plow. The house itself is in tolerably good condition,
though badly weather-stained and in dire need of attention from the
glazier, the smaller male population of the region having attested in
the manner of its kind its disapproval of dwelling without dwellers.
It is two stories in height, nearly square, its front pierced by a
single doorway flanked on each side by a window boarded up to the
very top. Corresponding windows above, not protected, serve to admit
light and rain to the rooms of the upper floor. Grass and weeds grow
pretty rankly all about, and a few shade trees, somewhat the worse
for wind, and leaning all in one direction, seem to be making a
concerted effort to run away. In short, as the Marshall town
humorist explained in the columns of the Advance, "the proposition
that the Manton house is badly haunted is the only logical conclusion
from the premises." The fact that in this dwelling Mr. Manton
thought it expedient one night some ten years ago to rise and cut the
throats of his wife and two small children, removing at once to
another part of the country, has no doubt done its share in directing
public attention to the fitness of the place for supernatural
phenomena.
To this house, one summer evening, came four men in a wagon. Three
of them promptly alighted, and the one who had been driving hitched
the team to the only remaining post of what had been a fence. The
fourth remained seated in the wagon. "Come," said one of his
companions, approaching him, while the others moved away in the
direction of the dwelling--"this is the place."
The man addressed did not move. "By God!" he said harshly, "this is
a trick, and it looks to me as if you were in it."
"Perhaps I am," the other said, looking him straight in the face and
speaking in a tone which had something of contempt in it. "You will
remember, however, that the choice of place was with your own assent
left to the other side. Of course if you are afraid of spooks--"
"I am afraid of nothing," the man interrupted with another oath, and
sprang to the ground. The two then joined the others at the door,
which one of them had already opened with some difficulty, caused by
rust of lock and hinge. All entered. Inside it was dark, but the
man who had unlocked the door produced a candle and matches and made
a light. He then unlocked a door on their right as they stood in the
passage. This gave them entrance to a large, square room that the
candle but dimly lighted. The floor had a thick carpeting of dust,
which partly muffled their footfalls. Cobwebs were in the angles of
the walls and depended from the ceiling like strips of rotting lace,
making undulatory movements in the disturbed air. The room had two
windows in adjoining sides, but from neither could anything be seen
except the rough inner surfaces of boards a few inches from the
glass. There was no fireplace, no furniture; there was nothing:
besides the cobwebs and the dust, the four men were the only objects
there which were not a part of the structure.
Strange enough they looked in the yellow light of the candle. The
one who had so reluctantly alighted was especially spectacular--he
might have been called sensational. He was of middle age, heavily
built, deep chested and broad shouldered. Looking at his figure, one
would have said that he had a giant's strength; at his features, that
he would use it like a giant. He was clean shaven, his hair rather
closely cropped and gray. His low forehead was seamed with wrinkles
above the eyes, and over the nose these became vertical. The heavy
black brows followed the same law, saved from meeting only by an
upward turn at what would otherwise have been the point of contact.
Deeply sunken beneath these, glowed in the obscure light a pair of
eyes of uncertain color, but obviously enough too small. There was
something forbidding in their expression, which was not bettered by
the cruel mouth and wide jaw. The nose was well enough, as noses go;
one does not expect much of noses. All that was sinister in the
man's face seemed accentuated by an unnatural pallor--he appeared
altogether bloodless.
The appearance of the other men was sufficiently commonplace: they
were such persons as one meets and forgets that he met. All were
younger than the man described, between whom and the eldest of the
others, who stood apart, there was apparently no kindly feeling.
They avoided looking at each other.
"Gentlemen," said the man holding the candle and keys, "I believe
everything is right. Are you ready, Mr. Rosser?"
The man standing apart from the group bowed and smiled.
"And you, Mr. Grossmith?"
The heavy man bowed and scowled.
"You will be pleased to remove your outer clothing."
Their hats, coats, waistcoats and neckwear were soon removed and
thrown outside the door, in the passage. The man with the candle now
nodded, and the fourth man--he who had urged Grossmith to leave the
wagon--produced from the pocket of his overcoat two long, murderous-
looking bowie-knives, which he drew now from their leather scabbards.
"They are exactly alike," he said, presenting one to each of the two
principals--for by this time the dullest observer would have
understood the nature of this meeting. It was to be a duel to the
death.
Each combatant took a knife, examined it critically near the candle
and tested the strength of blade and handle across his lifted knee.
Their persons were then searched in turn, each by the second of the
other.
"If it is agreeable to you, Mr. Grossmith," said the man holding the
light, "you will place yourself in that corner."
He indicated the angle of the room farthest from the door, whither
Grossmith retired, his second parting from him with a grasp of the
hand which had nothing of cordiality in it. In the angle nearest the
door Mr. Rosser stationed himself, and after a whispered consultation
his second left him, joining the other near the door. At that moment
the candle was suddenly extinguished, leaving all in profound
darkness. This may have been done by a draught from the opened door;
whatever the cause, the effect was startling.
"Gentlemen," said a voice which sounded strangely unfamiliar in the
altered condition affecting the relations of the senses--"gentlemen,
you will not move until you hear the closing of the outer door."
A sound of trampling ensued, then the closing of the inner door; and
finally the outer one closed with a concussion which shook the entire
building.
A few minutes afterward a belated farmer's boy met a light wagon
which was being driven furiously toward the town of Marshall. He
declared that behind the two figures on the front seat stood a third,
with its hands upon the bowed shoulders of the others, who appeared
to struggle vainly to free themselves from its grasp. This figure,
unlike the others, was clad in white, and had undoubtedly boarded the
wagon as it passed the haunted house. As the lad could boast a
considerable former experience with the supernatural thereabouts his
word had the weight justly due to the testimony of an expert. The
story (in connection with the next day's events) eventually appeared
in the Advance, with some slight literary embellishments and a
concluding intimation that the gentlemen referred to would be allowed
the use of the paper's columns for their version of the night's
adventure. But the privilege remained without a claimant.
II
The events that led up to this "duel in the dark" were simple enough.
One evening three young men of the town of Marshall were sitting in a
quiet corner of the porch of the village hotel, smoking and
discussing such matters as three educated young men of a Southern
village would naturally find interesting. Their names were King,
Sancher and Rosser. At a little distance, within easy hearing, but
taking no part in the conversation, sat a fourth. He was a stranger
to the others. They merely knew that on his arrival by the stage-
coach that afternoon he had written in the hotel register the name
Robert Grossmith. He had not been observed to speak to anyone except
the hotel clerk. He seemed, indeed, singularly fond of his own
company--or, as the PERSONNEL of the Advance expressed it, "grossly
addicted to evil associations." But then it should be said in
justice to the stranger that the PERSONNEL was himself of a too
convivial disposition fairly to judge one differently gifted, and
had, moreover, experienced a slight rebuff in an effort at an
"interview."
"I hate any kind of deformity in a woman," said King, "whether
natural or--acquired. I have a theory that any physical defect has
its correlative mental and moral defect."
"I infer, then," said Rosser, gravely, "that a lady lacking the moral
advantage of a nose would find the struggle to become Mrs. King an
arduous enterprise."
"Of course you may put it that way," was the reply; "but, seriously,
I once threw over a most charming girl on learning quite accidentally
that she had suffered amputation of a toe. My conduct was brutal if
you like, but if I had married that girl I should have been miserable
for life and should have made her so."
"Whereas," said Sancher, with a light laugh, "by marrying a gentleman
of more liberal views she escaped with a parted throat."
"Ah, you know to whom I refer. Yes, she married Manton, but I don't
know about his liberality; I'm not sure but he cut her throat because
he discovered that she lacked that excellent thing in woman, the
middle toe of the right foot."
"Look at that chap!" said Rosser in a low voice, his eyes fixed upon
the stranger.
That chap was obviously listening intently to the conversation.
"Damn his impudence!" muttered King--"what ought we to do?"
"That's an easy one," Rosser replied, rising. "Sir," he continued,
addressing the stranger, "I think it would be better if you would
remove your chair to the other end of the veranda. The presence of
gentlemen is evidently an unfamiliar situation to you."
The man sprang to his feet and strode forward with clenched hands,
his face white with rage. All were now standing. Sancher stepped
between the belligerents.
"You are hasty and unjust," he said to Rosser; "this gentleman has
done nothing to deserve such language."
But Rosser would not withdraw a word. By the custom of the country
and the time there could be but one outcome to the quarrel.
"I demand the satisfaction due to a gentleman," said the stranger,
who had become more calm. "I have not an acquaintance in this
region. Perhaps you, sir," bowing to Sancher, "will be kind enough
to represent me in this matter."
Sancher accepted the trust--somewhat reluctantly it must be
confessed, for the man's appearance and manner were not at all to his
liking. King, who during the colloquy had hardly removed his eyes
from the stranger's face and had not spoken a word, consented with a
nod to act for Rosser, and the upshot of it was that, the principals
having retired, a meeting was arranged for the next evening. The
nature of the arrangements has been already disclosed. The duel with
knives in a dark room was once a commoner feature of Southwestern
life than it is likely to be again. How thin a veneering of
"chivalry" covered the essential brutality of the code under which
such encounters were possible we shall see.
III
In the blaze of a midsummer noonday the old Manton house was hardly
true to its traditions. It was of the earth, earthy. The sunshine
caressed it warmly and affectionately, with evident disregard of its
bad reputation. The grass greening all the expanse in its front
seemed to grow, not rankly, but with a natural and joyous exuberance,
and the weeds blossomed quite like plants. Full of charming lights
and shadows and populous with pleasant-voiced birds, the neglected
shade trees no longer struggled to run away, but bent reverently
beneath their burdens of sun and song. Even in the glassless upper
windows was an expression of peace and contentment, due to the light
within. Over the stony fields the visible heat danced with a lively
tremor incompatible with the gravity which is an attribute of the
supernatural.
Such was the aspect under which the place presented itself to Sheriff
Adams and two other men who had come out from Marshall to look at it.
One of these men was Mr. King, the sheriff's deputy; the other, whose
name was Brewer, was a brother of the late Mrs. Manton. Under a
beneficent law of the State relating to property which has been for a
certain period abandoned by an owner whose residence cannot be
ascertained, the sheriff was legal custodian of the Manton farm and
appurtenances thereunto belonging. His present visit was in mere
perfunctory compliance with some order of a court in which Mr. Brewer
had an action to get possession of the property as heir to his
deceased sister. By a mere coincidence, the visit was made on the
day after the night that Deputy King had unlocked the house for
another and very different purpose. His presence now was not of his
own choosing: he had been ordered to accompany his superior and at
the moment could think of nothing more prudent than simulated
alacrity in obedience to the command.
Carelessly opening the front door, which to his surprise was not
locked, the sheriff was amazed to see, lying on the floor of the
passage into which it opened, a confused heap of men's apparel.
Examination showed it to consist of two hats, and the same number of
coats, waistcoats and scarves, all in a remarkably good state of
preservation, albeit somewhat defiled by the dust in which they lay.
Mr. Brewer was equally astonished, but Mr. King's emotion is not of
record. With a new and lively interest in his own actions the
sheriff now unlatched and pushed open a door on the right, and the
three entered. The room was apparently vacant--no; as their eyes
became accustomed to the dimmer light something was visible in the
farthest angle of the wall. It was a human figure--that of a man
crouching close in the corner. Something in the attitude made the
intruders halt when they had barely passed the threshold. The figure
more and more clearly defined itself. The man was upon one knee, his
back in the angle of the wall, his shoulders elevated to the level of
his ears, his hands before his face, palms outward, the fingers
spread and crooked like claws; the white face turned upward on the
retracted neck had an expression of unutterable fright, the mouth
half open, the eyes incredibly expanded. He was stone dead. Yet,
with the exception of a bowie-knife, which had evidently fallen from
his own hand, not another object was in the room.
In thick dust that covered the floor were some confused footprints
near the door and along the wall through which it opened. Along one
of the adjoining walls, too, past the boarded-up windows, was the
trail made by the man himself in reaching his corner. Instinctively
in approaching the body the three men followed that trail. The
sheriff grasped one of the outthrown arms; it was as rigid as iron,
and the application of a gentle force rocked the entire body without
altering the relation of its parts. Brewer, pale with excitement,
gazed intently into the distorted face. "God of mercy!" he suddenly
cried, "it is Manton!"
"You are right," said King, with an evident attempt at calmness: "I
knew Manton. He then wore a full beard and his hair long, but this
is he."
He might have added: "I recognized him when he challenged Rosser. I
told Rosser and Sancher who he was before we played him this horrible
trick. When Rosser left this dark room at our heels, forgetting his
outer clothing in the excitement, and driving away with us in his
shirt sleeves--all through the discreditable proceedings we knew whom
we were dealing with, murderer and coward that he was!"
But nothing of this did Mr. King say. With his better light he was
trying to penetrate the mystery of the man's death. That he had not
once moved from the corner where he had been stationed; that his
posture was that of neither attack nor defense; that he had dropped
his weapon; that he had obviously perished of sheer horror of
something that he saw--these were circumstances which Mr. King's
disturbed intelligence could not rightly comprehend.
Groping in intellectual darkness for a clew to his maze of doubt, his
gaze, directed mechanically downward in the way of one who ponders
momentous matters, fell upon something which, there, in the light of
day and in the presence of living companions, affected him with
terror. In the dust of years that lay thick upon the floor--leading
from the door by which they had entered, straight across the room to
within a yard of Manton's crouching corpse--were three parallel lines
of footprints--light but definite impressions of bare feet, the outer
ones those of small children, the inner a woman's. From the point at
which they ended they did not return; they pointed all one way.
Brewer, who had observed them at the same moment, was leaning forward
in an attitude of rapt attention, horribly pale.
"Look at that!" he cried, pointing with both hands at the nearest
print of the woman's right foot, where she had apparently stopped and
stood. "The middle toe is missing--it was Gertrude!"
Gertrude was the late Mrs. Manton, sister to Mr. Brewer.
-THE END-
Ambrose Bierce's short story: The middle toe of the right foot
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