“Is there no one on the place to receive us, then?” inquired David Lindsay.
“Oh, dere’s de oberseer, in his own house, ’bout quarter ob a mile dis side ob Grippinwolf Hall; but Lor’, de people ’bout here don’t call de place Grippinwolf no more—dey calls it Ghost Hall.”
“Where does the housekeeper live?” inquired David Lindsay.
“Oh, she—she libs at de gate lodge. She moved dere when she was dejected by de ghosts.”
“Now, Gloria, we have not ridden more than two miles from the ferry. What would you like to do? Turn back, as the old man advises, and stop at the ferry for the up coach and take our places for the North, and for some other home of yours more convenient and attractive, or go on to this?” earnestly inquired David Lindsay.
“Oh, go on to Gryphynshold, by all means. Since I have heard the supernatural tales told by this old man, which well supplement the horrible stories told me by Aunt Agrippina, I am more than ever determined to go on to Gryphynshold. The overseer can certainly give you a bed in his cottage for to-night, while I shall stay at the gate lodge with the housekeeper——”
“And as for me,” put in the old negro, “soon’s ebber I gets to dat same gate-house, which won’t be ’fore midnight, I gwine to lop you all right down dere an’ turn right round and dribe my mules straight home ag’in. All de money in dis univarse wouldn’t hire ole Uncle Tubal to take up his lodgings ’long ob de dead people! Leastways, not till I’s dead myself!”
“You can do as you please,” said David; “but tell us what gave rise to these ridiculous stories?”
“What rised ’em? Why, de ghosts rised ’em! De ghost ob dat ole Satan’s demon son, Dyvyd Grippinwolf, who murdered de booful young ooman as he stole away from her friends an’ fotch to his own Debbil’s den up yonder. His unquiet ghost rages up and down all night, rushin’ t’rough de halls and up de stairs, a slammin’ and a bangin’ ob de doors like a ravin’ mad bull. And no bolts or bars ebber strong enough to keep him out. Dat’s de one what tarrifies people clean out’n deir senses, young marster, I tell yer good.”
“Is old Dyvyd Gryphyn’s ghost the only hobgoblin that haunts the hold?” inquired David Lindsay, with a smile.