“No! I never——” I leaned forward.
“To begin with——”
He stopped, looking around.
“Your kitchen—don’t be scared—is close by a haunted room of a house on Pine Street. It’s no story. A chorus girl lived—well, some five years ago—in that house with her step-mother. Just think! The old hen of sixty-five fell in love with her daughter’s lover. Do you understand? She saw one morning the young fellow kissing her daughter. She went crazy. She shot him. Isn’t it awful? The murderess leaned against the wall by your kitchen, and cried, ‘I killed him!’ I swear to you that it is all true. So, people say, a wail is heard at night from your side.”
“Mah! Mah!” I breathed.
“That is all.”
He retired heavily.
Do I believe it?
“No! No!” I denied.
But I was thickly swarmed by sickening air. How could I trust me in the kitchen!