We Hear the Dead Read online

  Eventually he came back into the house and joined Mother and Lizzie. A whispered conversation followed, and Father seemed doubtful about their story. We all listened for a while, but no more noises were heard.

  Sleep came slowly and uneasily that night for everyone.

  ***

  We all heard it again the next night, even Father. Of us all, he turned out to be the most disturbed, because he could not find the cause. On the third night, he searched every room in the house, ascending to the storage attic and descending to the cellar. My mother wrung her hands in nervousness, and Lizzie huddled on the bed with her arms around us.

  “You should leave this place,” Kate whispered into Lizzie’s ear. “You don’t have to suffer this haunting like the rest of us. You can go back to your mother’s house in Rochester and forget all about these nighttime rappings!”

  “As if I would leave you!” Lizzie replied indignantly. “Grandfather will soon discover how these noises are made, and then we’ll laugh at our own foolishness! I don’t believe in ghosts at all.”

  “You would if they spoke to you,” I said tartly, because I was weary from lack of sleep and wished Lizzie would leave and end it all. Kate gazed at me thoughtfully, and suddenly I regretted my words. I knew my sister well and was fearful of what new mischief she was going to contrive.

  As with the first two nights, the knockings eventually subsided, and all of us laid down to a sleep that did not seem to refresh us. On the next morning, which was the thirty-first of March, our rest had been broken for so many days that we were nearly sick. Kate lay in bed most of the day on the verge of one of her headaches. Mother and Lizzie were bedraggled and pale, but together they made broth for Kate and a thin chicken stew for the rest of us. Mother told me I could stay home from school, and Father, instead of going out to work on our new house, spent most of the day in prayer.

  In the afternoon, my brother, David, came by in his wagon to find out why Father had not been to the new house that day. Mother and Lizzie explained all about our problem while Father sat silently by.

  For just a moment, David’s eyes flicked over at me. I believe I met them steadily, because then he turned to Mother and said, “If you search, I am sure you will find a cause for it, as it must be something about the house.”

  “I have searched,” Father said gruffly, almost his first words to us all day.

  David paused, then said smoothly, “All the more reason to be out of this place as soon as possible. Can I expect to see you tomorrow at the building site?”

  “Yes, of course,” Father murmured, looking cross.

  “If the rapping comes tonight,” said Mother with a false brightness, “we will not mind it but try and get a good night’s rest. You are right, David. We have wasted too much effort on what is surely the normal creaking and groaning of a poorly constructed house. We will look forward to a more silent home in the future!”

  David departed, and we took our evening meal. The sky had hardly turned dark before Mother was urging us all to sleep. Kate had just ventured out of bed when she was suddenly ushered back into it. After sleeping away the day, Kate was the only one of us who had truly rested, and she complained bitterly about being turned back to bed. I should have known that lively events were bound to occur that night!

  The raps commenced as usual, when we had all lain down. Lizzie moaned and threw her arms over her head. “’Tis the devil!” she whispered loudly in consternation.

  Kate suddenly sat up. “If it is the devil, then let us see his tricks.” Speaking loudly, so that our parents in the next bed would not miss it, she said, “Here, Mr. Splitfoot, do as I do!” And then she snapped her fingers four times.

  Four raps immediately followed.

  “John!” Mother gasped. “John, wake up!”

  “Oh, you can hear me, can you?” said Kate, speaking to the air. “Can you see me as well? How many fingers am I showing?”

  Three sharp raps startled us all from any chance of sleep. Lizzie squeaked in fear, and we all felt a shiver of cold upon our skin. It was too dark to see Kate, but we did not have any doubt that she was holding up three fingers.

  “Count to ten!” I was startled to hear my mother give this command. She was lighting the lantern by then, and she had a shaky but determined timbre to her voice.

  By now, nobody was surprised to hear a slow, labored sequence of ten raps. We were too exhausted to be fearful, but there was a strange feeling of being separate from reality. It was as if we were all sharing the same dream, and because it was a dream, there was no reason to be afraid.

  “Are you a human being?” my mother asked. When there was no immediate response, she cried, “Are you a spirit?”

  “Margaret!” my father protested, taking her shoulder. But she shrugged his hand off and turned her back on him.

  “If you are a spirit, give me two sounds,” she said, and there came a reply of two sounds almost before she had finished speaking.

  “Are you an injured spirit?” Two raps.

  “Were you injured in this house?” Two raps.

  By this time, Father had moved to the edge of the bed and buried his face in his hands. He sat with his back to us, as if trying to separate himself.

  Lizzie, meanwhile, was gripping my arm so tightly that it was starting to go numb, and Mother was pacing the bedroom excitedly with her lantern. “Spirit,” she asked, “give me one sound for no and two sounds for yes. Did you die of natural cause?”

  One rap.

  “Were you murdered?” Two raps.

  “In this house?” Two raps.

  “Is the person who murdered you still living?” Two raps.

  “Are your remains still present in this house?” Two raps.

  Lizzie wailed, “Grandmother, stop!” My mother turned around, suddenly becoming aware that there were terrified children in the room.

  “Oh, girls!” she cried, repentant. She rushed to the bed and sheltered us with her arms. “Spirit, do you mean us any harm?”

  One rap.

  “Will you make these sounds before other people if we bring them here as witness?”

  A long pause followed, and I had almost started to relax when two sharp raps answered the question. I could hardly believe my ears. Was Mr. Splitfoot, our devil or spirit or whatever he was, going to perform now for people outside the family?

  “John!” Mother rushed back to the other bed. “Get dressed quickly and fetch the Redfields. They must witness this testimony.”

  “Are you mad?” my father whispered harshly, without removing his hands from his face.

  “No, I don’t believe I am,” Mother said indignantly. “And if the Redfields hear this spirit also, then I will know that I am not.”

  “It is too late.” This was a feeble protest, and my father knew it, because he was already on his feet and pulling on his overalls.

  “It is barely eight o’clock. While you are out, you can see if the Dueslers are home and bring them, too!”

  My mother outweighed my father in bulk and character, and so he was swiftly bundled off to bid our neighbors come visit with our ghost. While he was gone, I contemplated my course of action. Truthfully, I nearly spoke out then and there. I do not know what held my tongue, unless it was Kate’s force of will or simply my own destiny. When I heard the front door open and voices in the parlor, the time to confess had passed and I was trapped in the deception.

  “Now, what kind of tomfoolery is going on in here?” boomed the voice of Mrs. Redfield, a neighbor from across the street. She bustled into the bedroom, stout and brisk, dressed in what passed for a good cloak and hat in this tiny hamlet of Hydesville. Her commonplace appearance reminded us suddenly that we were all in our bedclothes and that we had invited this woman into our sleeping chamber, where she could see the intimate details of our threadbare lives. I retreated like a turtle into
the bedcoverings, and Mother put one hand self-consciously to her hair, which was plaited and hanging down across her bosom.

  Then Mother drew her dignity to herself as if it were a cloak much fancier than Mrs. Redfield’s and said, “Thank you for coming, Mary. We greatly appreciate your good judgment and wise counsel. Has John told you what happened here tonight?”

  Mrs. Redfield drew off her gloves, looking curiously around the room. “He has told me some tale of injured spirits and ghostly knockings. My husband refused to come for what is surely an early Fools’ Day prank by some persons who should know better.” Her eyes alighted on Lizzie and me. I imagine that I looked very guilty, but Lizzie’s surprise was genuine and indignant. Kate was ignored by all. She was eleven years old but gave the appearance of being much younger.

  “Spirit,” my mother called out, addressing the air like a madwoman, “is our good neighbor right? Are you a manifestation of an April Fools’ Day prank? Rap once for no and twice for yes.”

  One loud knock sounded.

  My father’s shoulders hunched in apparent embarrassment. My mother looked vindicated. Mrs. Redfield’s eyebrows rose sharply, and she took a few steps toward my bed, looking us over carefully. Our hands were all within sight, and we had not moved even the slightest bit.

  “Can you count to five for Mrs. Redfield?” my mother continued.

  We all heard five raps while Mrs. Redfield scrutinized Lizzie and me for some kind of movement. Finding nothing, she walked quickly around the room, looking in the corners and under the beds.

  “If you are the spirit of a murdered person, demonstrate this by two raps,” my mother then commanded. By the time we had heard these two raps, Mrs. Redfield had finished her search of the room and her demeanor suddenly changed.

  “Girls, you look so terrified!” she exclaimed. I, for one, certainly was, but not for the reasons she imagined! “I am going to bring my husband here to see this for himself, but I admit I am loath to leave you here so frightened!”

  Kate reached over and gripped Mrs. Redfield’s hands earnestly, looking frail but determined. “We can be brave until your return.”

  Chapter Three

  Maggie

  Made bold by our high success with Mrs. Redfield, I regained a little of my own spirit and bounded out of the bed to take my mother’s arm. “Mother,” I urged, “if Mrs. Redfield is returning with her husband, then we should cover ourselves more decently, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, child. This haunting has quite addled my wits!” exclaimed Mother. “We are in no state to receive visitors.”

  Mother and Lizzie put on their housedresses over their nightclothes while Kate and I merely donned our cloaks and climbed back into bed, pulling the blankets up over our legs. I felt excited and giddy. So the house was haunted by the spirit of a murder victim, was it? Surely I had something to add to this story, for I would be ashamed to be outdone by my little sister!

  We did not have long to wait. Soon there was a great deal of commotion at our front door. Mother quickly went to meet the visitors, and we heard a confusion of voices talking all at once. Mrs. Redfield had indeed brought her husband but had also stopped at the Dueslers’ house and pressed both of them to come, along with Mr. and Mrs. Artemus Hyde, who had just been departing from a visit with the Dueslers. In addition, they were joined by three men all in fishing gear, who had been night-fishing at the creek when they spotted the activity outside our house and decided to investigate. All in all, there were more than a dozen people crowded into the little bedroom of our house, and I had to pinch myself to keep from laughing at the hilarity of it.

  Mr. Redfield was a little wisp of a man, not nearly as imposing as his wife. With the Dueslers it was the opposite, for Mrs. Duesler resembled a wilted flower while her husband was large, loud, and athletic, with dark, curling hair and a fashionably large mustache. Mr. and Mrs. Hyde were both tall and dignified, exquisitely dressed as befitted their station as the richest family in town. Mr. Hyde’s father had founded Hydesville, and Mr. Hyde owned the house in which we now lived.

  Mr. Hyde was proclaiming in a loud voice that he had never heard any complaint about this house before, and it was certainly nonsense that a murdered man was buried here. Mr. Duesler was quick to agree, pointing out that he would know if anyone had been murdered on the street behind his own home!

  In this, Kate and I quickly discovered that we had a friend in Mrs. Redfield. Having been convinced herself, she did not wish to be made ridiculous. Her voice rose above the others as she repeated what she had heard.

  “’Tis a prank,” scoffed Mr. Hyde. “Tomorrow is April Fools’ Day, and I am afraid you have been made the April fool, Mary!”

  “Artemus, it is no prank. I will vouch for these girls myself! If you used your ears instead of your tongue, even an old dog like you might learn something!” scolded Mrs. Redfield.

  As if it had been waiting for its introduction, our ghost suddenly rapped loudly. All present heard it and began to look around uneasily for the source of the sound.

  “Is this the injured spirit who communicated to me and the Foxes earlier this evening?” Mrs. Redfield inquired in a loud, dramatic voice.

  Two raps.

  “Two means yes, and one means no,” Mrs. Redfield explained to the crowd.

  “Why, someone’s having a game with us!” exclaimed Mr. Hyde. “They’re in the attic and knocking on the ceiling above us!”

  This caused the fishermen to hurry out of the bedroom and into the hallway, where we heard their feet pounding up the attic stairs.

  Mr. Hyde followed them out into the hall and called up to them, “There’s a cellar as well. The steps lead down from the buttery.” The fishermen came down with their light and tramped off to the buttery, where they found the cellar steps and descended. I tried to picture that horrible damp place with its soggy wet floor, and I knew that it was a place well suited to harboring a ghost.

  After a brief time, the fishermen returned, reporting to Mr. Hyde that they had found no living soul. A sharp rap followed closely upon this pronouncement, as if our spirit had been waiting to make itself heard.

  “Are you the spirit of a man, then?” asked Mr. Duesler, speaking into the air. He received two raps in reply. “Murdered in this house?” Mr. Duesler went on, ignoring Mr. Hyde’s huff of indignation. Two raps. “How were you murdered?”

  There was a long silence. I wondered if I was going to have to say something, when Mrs. Hyde unexpectedly spoke up and pointed out that the spirit could only give yes or no answers.

  “Was it a rope?” Mr. Duesler then asked. One rap.

  “A knife?” Two raps.

  “Were you stabbed?” Two raps.

  “In the chest?”—one rap. “In the throat?”—two raps. “Aha, so your throat was cut?” Two raps.

  Mrs. Duesler moaned softly and held hands with Mrs. Hyde. Lizzie covered her face with her hands, but Kate looked as if she was enjoying a deliciously horrifying story.

  “Now, Bill,” protested Mr. Hyde, “don’t you think we’d have noticed if one of our people had disappeared from town?”

  “Spirit,” continued Mr. Duesler, “were you a resident of Hydesville?”

  One rap. Of course not. As Mr. Hyde said, people would have noticed.

  “Were you a visitor to town, a guest?”

  After a moment, there were three raps.

  “Now what the devil does that mean?” asked Mr. Duesler.

  “Bill, your language!” whispered his wife.

  “You asked two things at once,” interjected Mrs. Redfield. “A visitor and a guest.”

  “Were you a visitor?” Two raps.

  “A guest of someone in town?” One rap.

  “A visitor but not a guest?” pondered Mr. Duesler.

  “A peddler!” guessed Mrs. Redfield. That was not what I had in mind, but it pr
esented interesting possibilities. Two raps.

  “You were a peddler,” repeated Mr. Duesler. “You visited the people in this house, and they murdered you by cutting your throat with a knife.”

  “Preposterous!” exclaimed Mr. Hyde.

  “Who had this house before John Fox?” asked one of the fishermen.

  “It was the Weekmans,” declared one of the other fishermen. “And they left all suddenlike, without telling anyone they were going!”

  Mrs. Redfield spoke up immediately. “They told me they were going! Mr. Weekman had an offer of employment back east, and they had to leave at once or lose the position. They could not possibly have done this terrible thing! Why, Hannah Weekman was the mildest of women, and her husband, Michael, was a soft-spoken gentleman!”

  Mr. Duesler asked the spirit, “Was it the Weekmans who murdered you?”

  One rap. Mrs. Redfield liked the Weekmans, and I liked Mrs. Redfield.

  Our neighbors worked their way backward through the former tenants of the home, and finally the spirit agreed that Mr. Bell, a man of whom I knew nothing, had been the dreaded murderer. Mrs. Redfield narrowed her eyes and declared, “I never liked John Bell.”

  The questions went on well into the night. Mr. Hyde slowly became convinced that he was hearing something extraordinary. He exclaimed again and again that the newspapers would hear of this crime and that no villain could get away with such an act in a house he owned!

  Eventually the raps diminished and vanished. Questions went unanswered and no more sounds could be summoned. Kate was asleep across the bed, and my own eyes were drooping uncontrollably. Mrs. Redfield invited my mother to bring us to her house across the street for the remainder of the night. Her husband, Charles, she announced, would stay with my father and watch the house for further disturbance until morning.

  Mr. Duesler gathered Kate up in his arms and carried her from the room. Mr. Hyde himself offered me his arm and helped me out of bed. As the crowd dispersed, my eyes caught those of Mr. Redfield, who was shaking his head solemnly. Speaking his only words of the evening, he stated, “I still say this is a prank.”