Five nights at the Five Pines

by Harriet A. Gaul

One of the features of the House of the Five Pines was that everything in it was included in the sale. Perhaps because there were no heirs, or because Judge Bell, as the trustee, was not grasping; perhaps, and most probable of all, because the townspeople had such a dread of it that they would take nothing from it. The family linen still was packed away in the big sea-chest—homespun sheets and thin yellow blankets, pillow-cases with crocheted lace. The family china remained in the cupboard behind the front hall—firestone pitchers and teapots, in pink and faded purple, luster bowls, and white plates as heavy as dumb bells, each with a gold leaf in the center; and in a corner cupboard in the dining-room was almost a full set of willow-ware, with all the lids unbroken on the little rice-cups. The big mahogany bureaus, and there were at least two in each room, four drawers below and three little ones above, contained the clothing of two generations of Haweses. This meant more in the Old Captain’s family than the usual sixty years; it meant a hundred, for two more generations could easily have been born in the old homestead if “Mis’ Hawes” had not been so set against the New Captain’s marriage. Her brass-handled high-boy held calico dresses and muslin underwear, yellow and stiff with starch, that Mattie had neither disposed of nor used. Upstairs there was apparel that must have dated back past the era of the New Captain into that of his father, Jeremiah. In Mattie’s room was less than in the others. She had found herself at the end of her life with barely a change of linen.

In the study two doors at either side of the finely carved mantel opened into closets. One was filled with shelves on which were papers and magazines that had been stored for twenty years. The other was filled with the out-of-door clothes of the New Captain—a worn cardigan jacket, and a thick blue coat with brass buttons, two felt hats, and a yellow oilskin. A red shawl hung on a hook at the end of the closet. I took it down to see if there were moths in it, then dropped it and backed away. The hook that I had lifted the shawl from was an old iron latch. The whole end of the closet was a wall-paper covered door.

I was afraid. The flat sealed door might open on the latch, or it might not. It might be fastened on the other side. I could not tell. But I did not want to know what was on the other side. I did not want to stay here any longer.

I fled out to the sunlight and around to the back of the house. There was nothing visible; I had known that all the time. The wall-paper covered door inside must lead either up or down. Down, there was nothing but space beneath the house, the “under,” filled with rubbish. Up—?

I remembered the footsteps of the night before and knew now why the kitchen door and the little one in the upper room had looked so unmolested. Those steps that I had heard had been traveling not the kitchen companionway nor the main front stairway, but secret stairs built in this wall behind the chimney, connecting with the room above. That was where the restless spirit had been promenading, just as it had been the first night, and that was where it still must be.

I could not wait for Jasper to return from New York to solve this mystery. Neither did I dare to face it alone nor put it off longer. I would go and get Judge Bell, and together we would hurry back and find out who or what was living in my house.

But the Judge was not at home. Dropping down on his front porch I thought of what Ruth had said to me last summer, that the first three times you attempted to call on any one that person was always out! Well, I could wait. I was in no rush to return to the House of the Five Pines. I could stay here all day, if necessary.

At noon Judge Bell’s Portuguese cook came out and looked me over.

“The judge he won’t be back,” she volunteered.

“Why not?”