[adapted]

by
Ambrose Bierce

In 1830, not far from what is now the big city of Cincinnati, there was a huge, wild forest. The whole area had very few people, and most of them were frontier settlers—restless people who, as soon as they had built simple homes and found some success, would suddenly leave everything behind and move farther west. They seemed to have a strange need to leave comfort behind and face new dangers, just to rebuild what they had given up.

Many of these settlers had already left for the more distant settlements, but among those who remained was a man who had been one of the first to arrive. He lived alone in a small log house, completely surrounded by the dark and silent forest. He seemed like a part of it, because no one had ever seen him smile or speak without a reason.

His simple needs were met by selling or trading animal skins in the nearby river town. He did not farm the land, even though he could have claimed it as his own if he wanted to. There were some signs of farming—a few acres around the house had once been cleared of trees, but now new plants had grown back. The old tree stumps were now half-hidden, showing that he had once tried farming but then gave up.

The small log house had a chimney made of sticks, a roof of wooden boards held down with poles, and gaps filled with clay. It had one door and, on the opposite wall, a single window. However, the window was covered with wooden boards. Nobody could remember a time when it was not closed, and no one knew why.

It was not because the man disliked light or fresh air, because on the rare occasions when a hunter passed by, the man could be seen sitting on his doorstep, enjoying the sunshine—if the weather allowed it.

I think that very few people today know the secret of that boarded-up window. But I am one of them. And as you will soon see, I will tell you why.

The man’s name was said to be Murlock. He looked about seventy years old, but he was actually only fifty. Something other than age had made him look so old. His hair and long beard were white, his gray eyes dull, and his face deeply lined with wrinkles. The wrinkles seemed to form two different patterns.

He was tall and thin, with stooped shoulders, like someone who had carried heavy burdens. I never saw him myself. I learned these details from my grandfather, who also told me Murlock’s story when I was a young boy. My grandfather had known him long ago when he had lived nearby.

One day, Murlock was found dead in his cabin. There were no doctors or newspapers in that place, so I believe people simply decided that he had died naturally. If it had been otherwise, I would have been told, and I would remember. I only know that, as was fitting, his body was buried near his cabin, next to the grave of his wife. She had died many years before, so long ago that people barely remembered her.

That is the end of the story—except for one last thing. Many years later, with a brave friend, I went to the place. We got close enough to the old cabin to throw a stone at it and then ran away. Every boy in the area knew the place was haunted. But there is more to the story—the part my grandfather told me.

When Murlock first built his cabin and began cutting down trees to make a farm, he was young, strong, and full of hope. He had come from the eastern part of the country, where he had married a young woman. As was common, she was hardworking, kind, and loving. She was happy to share his life, full of dangers and hardships, with a strong spirit and a cheerful heart. There are no records of her name, and no one remembers what she looked like. A doubter might even question if she was as wonderful as the story suggests. But I could never doubt it!

We know one thing for certain—they were deeply in love. That is clear in every single day Murlock lived alone after she died. What else could have kept him in that lonely place for so many years except the power of a beautiful memory?

One day, Murlock returned from hunting in a far part of the forest to find his wife lying on the floor, sick with fever and delirious. There was no doctor for miles, no neighbors nearby, and she was too weak to be left alone while he went for help. So he stayed and tried to care for her himself. But on the third day, she fell into unconsciousness and then passed away, never showing any sign of recovery.

From what we know about a man like Murlock, we can imagine some of the details that my grandfather’s story left out.

When he was sure she was dead, Murlock remembered that he needed to prepare her for burial. This was a sacred duty, but in his grief, he made mistakes. Some things he did wrong, while others he did again and again, even when they were already done correctly.

At times, he failed to do simple tasks, and this shocked him—it felt as if the normal rules of the world had changed. He felt like a drunk man, confused that things didn’t work the way they should. He was also surprised that he could not cry. This made him feel ashamed—surely, it was unkind not to weep for the dead.

“Tomorrow,” he said out loud, “I will have to make the coffin and dig the grave. Then I will miss her, when she is no longer here. But now—she is dead, of course, but it is all right—it must be all right, somehow. Things cannot be as bad as they seem.”

He stood over the body in the fading light, carefully adjusting her hair and finishing the simple preparations. He did everything without feeling, as if his mind and heart were empty. But deep inside, he still felt that everything was fine—that somehow, he would have her back again, and everything would be explained.

Murlock had never experienced grief before. His heart had never learned how to hold such pain, and his mind could not fully understand it. He did not know yet how deeply he had been hurt. That understanding would come later, and it would never leave him.

Grief is like a musician playing a sad song for the dead, using different instruments. Some people feel it like a sharp, piercing note, others like a deep, slow drum that never stops beating. Some are shaken awake by grief, others are stunned and numb. For some, it feels like the sting of an arrow, bringing sharp pain. For others, it is like a heavy club, crushing them into emptiness.

Murlock was likely one of the numb ones, for (and here we are more certain of what happened) as soon as he finished his painful task, he collapsed into a chair by the table where the body lay. He looked at her white, still face in the growing darkness, then laid his arms on the table’s edge, dropped his head onto them, and fell into an exhausted, tearless sleep. At that moment, from the dark forest outside, a long, wailing cry came through the open window—a sound like a lost child calling out from the depths of the woods!

But Murlock did not move. Again, the terrible cry came, this time closer. Maybe it was a wild animal. Maybe it was just a dream. Because Murlock was asleep.

Some hours later, as it was later known, Murlock woke up and lifted his head from his arms. He listened carefully, though he did not know why. Sitting in complete darkness, next to the dead body, he remembered everything without shock. He strained his eyes, trying to see—but what was he looking for? His senses were sharp, his breath held, his blood seemed to stop flowing, as if his body wanted to help the silence. Who—or what—had woken him? And where was it?

Suddenly, the table shook beneath his arms! At the same moment, he heard—or thought he heard—a soft step. Then another step. It sounded like bare feet moving across the floor! He was so terrified that he could not cry out or move. He had no choice but to sit and wait—wait through what felt like centuries of fear, the kind of fear that a person can feel and still live to tell about. He tried to say his wife’s name but could not. He tried to reach his hand across the table to see if she was still there, but his arms felt like they were made of lead. His throat was frozen, unable to make a sound.

Then, something even more terrifying happened. A heavy body suddenly crashed into the table with such force that it pushed against Murlock’s chest, nearly knocking him over. At the same moment, he heard and felt something fall to the floor with a loud, violent thump—so powerful that the entire house shook. There was a struggle—a wild, chaotic noise that could not be described. Murlock jumped to his feet. His fear was so strong that it had completely taken over his mind. He threw his hands onto the table—but there was nothing there!

There is a moment when fear can turn into madness, and madness can drive a person to act. Without thinking, with no clear reason, Murlock jumped toward the wall, felt around in the dark for his loaded rifle, and fired it without aiming. The flash of the gun lit up the room for an instant, and in that moment, he saw a terrifying sight—a huge panther was dragging the dead woman toward the window, its teeth buried in her throat! Then, the room went black again, even darker than before, and everything fell silent. When Murlock woke up, the sun was high in the sky, and the forest outside was alive with birds singing.

The body lay near the window, where the panther had dropped it after being frightened by the gunshot. Her clothes were in disarray, her long hair was messy, and her limbs lay awkwardly on the floor. Her throat was horribly torn, and a pool of blood had spread around her. The blood had started to thicken, but it was not yet completely dry. The ribbon that Murlock had tied around her wrists was broken. Her hands were tightly clenched. And between her teeth, she held a piece of the animal’s ear.