"Ever in a haunted house before?" he asked.
"Not that I remember," Kerwin answered.
"Guess you'd remember if you had been," suggested Billy. "Used to be one down in my town about six years ago. Fellow murdered there once, they said. Funniest things used to happen.... A hand would open the doors in front of you. You could see the tracks of a man's bare-feet in the dust when you went up-stairs...."
"Aw, shut up, Billy, cancha!" his companion muttered edging near him. "What's the use talkin' such stuff?"
"Why, I was just tellin' you," Billy replied, defensively. "I never took any stock in the stories, but one day, a fellow by the name of Thurber—Hank Thurber, regular dare-devil sort of chap—swore he'd spend the night in that house or die in the attempt. Next morning he didn't show up. The town marshal went to find him. He found him all right. It was in one of the up-stairs' rooms, and there he sat in a busted chair, stone dead, with his fishy eyes staring at a hole in the wall. They got a bundle of old letters out of the hole. Seems it was a sort of secret cupboard in the first place, and had been plastered over. That wasn't all though; they found Thurber's dog jammed into the fireplace of a room down-stairs, with his neck broken...."
"Good Heavens! Billy! Billy! What was that!"
The story-teller caught himself quickly and he and his companion turned frightened eyes upon each other. In that moment's stillness they noted that the wind had freshened. Something creaked somewhere. Billy clutched his companion's leg.
"What was it?" His whisper rasped.
"Thought I heard something click...."
"Sure?"