Three years ago, while taking a tramp through the wilderness of the Santeetlah and Unaka mountains, I stopped for a few days with an intelligent, elderly farmer on the bank of Cheowah river. One pleasant afternoon, during the time of my visit, I took a ramble with my host over his extensive farm. Through the cool woods, upward along the roaring stream, we slowly walked for probably half a mile, when suddenly the rough wagon-trail we were following led away from the river; and, looking through the thick undergrowth in the direction where with redoubled roar the waters still kept their way, I saw the outlines of an old building.
“What ancient looking structure is that?” I asked, pointing toward it.
“That,” my companion answered, “is a worn out mill.”
“Why,” I returned, “this is the first mill I have noticed on the river. It does, in fact, appear dilapidated; but, looking at the heavy thickets and tall trees that stand so close to it, I should think that at the time it was abandoned it might have been in pretty good condition. See, there’s a tree apparently fifteen years old thrusting its whole top through a window, and the casements that are around it are not yet rotted away.”
“You are a close observer,” said Mr. Staley, “but, nevertheless, we quit running that mill because it couldn’t be worked.”
“Why so?” I asked with interest.
“Because it was haunted!”
“Haunted! A haunted mill!”
“Yes, sir; the subject is one I don’t like to commence on, but I suppose now you must hear it.”
“Yes, by all means, but wait first till I see the mill.”