The Crime Of Black Swamp

Two miles south of Munger, Ohio, in the heart of what used to be called

the Black Swamp, stood the Woodbury House, a roomy mansion long gone to

decay. John Cleves, the last to live in it, was a man whose evil

practices got him into the penitentiary, but people had never associated

him with the queer sights and sounds in the lower chambers, nor with the

fact that a man named Syms, who had gone to that house in 1842, had never

been known to leave it. Ten years after Syms's disappearance it happened

that Major Ward and his friend John Stow had occasion to take shelter

there for the night--it being then deserted,--and, starting a blaze in

the parlor fireplace, they lit their pipes and talked till late. Stow

would have preferred a happier topic, but the major, who feared neither

man nor devil, constantly turned the talk on the evil reputation of the


While they chatted a door opened with a creak and a human skeleton

appeared before them.

What do you want? Speak! cried Ward. But waiting for no answer he drew

his pistols and fired two shots at the grisly object. There was a

rattling sound, but the skeleton was neither dislocated nor disconcerted.

Advancing deliberately, with upraised arm, it said, in a husky voice, I,

that am dead, yet live in a sense that mortals do not know. In my earthly

life I was James Syms, who was robbed and killed here in my sleep by John

Cleves. With bony finger it pointed to a rugged gap in its left temple.

Cleves cut off my head and buried it under the hearth. My body he cast

into his well. At these words the head disappeared and the voice was

heard beneath the floor, Take up my skull. The watchers obeyed the

call, and after digging a minute beneath the hearth a fleshless head with

a wound on the left temple came to view. Ward took it into his hands, but

in a twinkling it left them and reappeared on the shoulders of the


I have long wanted to tell my fate, it resumed, but could not until

one should be found brave enough to speak to me. I have appeared to many,

but you are the first who has commanded me to break my long silence. Give

my bones a decent burial. Write to my relative, Gilmore Syms, of

Columbus, Georgia, and tell him what I have revealed. I have found

peace. With a grateful gesture it extended its hand to Ward, who, as he

took it, shook like one with an ague, his wrist locked in its bony clasp.

As it released him it raised its hand impressively. A bluish light burned

at the doorway for an instant. The two men found themselves alone.

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