“Play playthings, then, and not ha’nts,” said Mary.
So I never said anything more to her, save about plates and fritters and such things.
To this recital Mary Elizabeth listened sympathetically.
“There’s just one great big one lives down in our cellar,” she confided in turn. “Not in the wall—but out loose. When the apples and stuff go down there, I always think how glad he is.”
“Are you afraid of him?” I asked.
“Afraid!” Mary Elizabeth repeated. “Why, no. Once, when I was down there, I tried to pretend there wasn’t anything lived there—and then it was frightening and I was scared.”
I understood. It would indeed be a great, lonely, terrifying world if these little friendly folk did not live in cellars, walls, attics, stair-closets and the like. Of course they were friendly. Why should they be otherwise?
“R-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-t,” something went, close by Mary Elizabeth’s head.
We looked up. The dimness of the ceiling was miles deep. We could not see a ceiling.
“St-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t,” it went again. And this time it did not stop, and it began to be accompanied by a rumbling sound as from the very cave inside the world.