“What is the matter with old Gryphynshold that you would not stay all night in the place?” again questioned David Lindsay, whose interest in the ancient house had been deeply excited by the story of the last owner.
“What de matter long ob Grippinwolf, you ax? Now, look here, young marster, I dunno who yer is, nor what yer arter comin’ up here to Grippinwolf, whar no decent Christian hasn’t been visitin’ in de memory ob man! But you jes’ take a fool’s advice an’ turn right square roun’ an’ go right straight back whar yer come from. Don’t keep on to Grippinwolf,” said the old man, solemnly.
“Why shouldn’t we go on? What is the matter with Gryphynshold, I ask you again?” inquired David.
“Debbil’s de matter wid it, young marster, jes’ de debbil! Not as I’d mind dat so much, if it war on’y de debbil, ’cause we read so much about him in de catechism dat he feels like a ole acquaintance ob ourn—natural like—on’y we don’t want to fall in his hands. No, I don’t mind him so much; but dere’s heap wuss dan de debbil as ails old Grippinwolf.”
“What is it, then?” inquired David, interested, in spite of his better reason.
The old negro paused, as if to give full effect to his words, and then solemnly replied:
“Dead people!”
“Dead people!” echoed David Lindsay, in amazement.
“Ooome!” groaned the old man.
“How can the dead trouble the place?” inquired the young man.