vainly striven to lift the tons of earth that held him a captive. His right arm was stretched out along the side of his prison, and the nails of his fingers were torn off. The sides of the casket were clawed and scratched, and the scalp of the dead man was frightfully lacerated. All his hair had been pulled out by the roots and a wad of it was still fiercely clasped in the miser's left hand.
Even while they looked on a greater fear consumed them.
"Ha-ha, ha-ha," demoniacal laughter came to their ears.
This was too much. Clawing and scrambling, they clambered over each other in trying to get out of the pit.
"Ha-ha, ha-ha," the shrill laughter continued from far up the hillside.
It pursued the fleeing men. To their terrified minds the fiendish sounds seemed to be taken up and re-echoed by each of the tombstones which they passed in their fight.
"Ha-ha, ha-ha! He-ha, ha-ha! Ha-ha, ha-ha!" The ghostly shrieks rang in their ears, as they raced toward the village.
Unexplained, the mystery continued to frighten the superstitious for two days after the miser had been reburied. Then a tragedy partially turned their attention from this weird affair.
The body of the girl whose mother had been turned out of her home, was found floating in the river not far from the little village.
"Too bad!" the Doctor had said. "She must have lost her mind brooding over her mother's death," and this was the consensus of opinion.
And no one ever thought to associate the gentle young school teacher with the fiendish laughter which had floated over the cemetery.
This Story Has a Horrifying Climax
THE FLOOR ABOVE
By M. HUMPHREYS
SEPTEMBER 17, 1922.—I sat down to breakfast this morning with a good appetite. The heat seemed over, and a cool wind blew in from my garden, where chrysanthemums were already budding. The sunshine streamed into the room and fell pleasantly on Mrs. O'Brien's broad face as she brought in the eggs and coffee. For a supposedly lonely old bachelor the world seemed to me a pretty good place. I was buttering my third set of waffles when the housekeeper again appeared, this time with the mail.
I glanced carelessly at the three or four letters beside my plate. One of them bore a strangely familiar handwriting. I gazed at it a minute, then seized it with a beating heart. Tears almost came into my eyes. There was no doubt about it—it was Arthur Barker's handwriting! Shaky and changed, to be sure, but ten years have passed since I have seen Arthur, or, rather, since his mysterious disappearance.
For ten years I have not had a word from him. His people know no more than I what has become of him, and long ago we gave him up for dead. He vanished without leaving a trace behind him. It seemed to me, too, that with him vanished the last shreds of my youth. For Arthur was my dearest friend in that happy time. We were boon companions, and many a mad prank we played together.
And now, after ten years of silence, Arthur was writing to me!
The envelope was postmarked Baltimore. Almost reluctantly—for I feared what it might contain—I passed my finger under the flap and opened it. It held a single sheet of paper torn from a pad. But it was Arthur's writing:
"Dear Tom: Old man, can you run down to see me for a few days? I'm afraid I'm in a bad way. ARTHUR."
Scrawled across the bottom was the address, 536 N. Marathon street.
I have often visited Baltimore, but I cannot recall a street of that name.
Of course I shall go. . . . But what a strange letter after ten years! There is something almost uncanny about it.
I shall go tomorrow evening. I cannot possibly get off before then.
SEPTEMBER 18.—I am leaving tonight, Mrs. O'Brien has packed my two suitcases, and everything is in readiness for my departure. Ten minutes ago I handed her the keys and she went off tearfully. She has been sniffling all day and I have been perplexed, for a curious thing occurred this morning.
It was about Arthur's letter. Yesterday, when I had finished reading it, I took it to my desk and placed it in a small compartment together with other personal papers, I remember distinctly that it was on top, with a lavender card from my sister directly underneath. This morning I went to get it. It was gone.
There was the lavender card exactly where I had seen it, but Arthur's letter had completely disappeared. I turned everything upside down, then called Mrs. O'Brien and we both searched, but in vain. Mrs. O'Brien, in spite of all I could say, took it upon herself to feel that I suspected her. . . . But what could have become of it? Fortunately I remember the address.
SEPTEMBER 19.—I have arrived. I have seen Arthur. Even now he is in the next room and I am supposed to be preparing for bed. But something tells me I shall not sleep a wink this night. I am strangely wrought up, though there is not the shadow of an excuse for my excitement. I should be rejoicing to have found my friend again. And yet. . . .
I reached Baltimore this morning at eleven o'clock. The day was warm and beautiful, and I loitered outside the station a few minutes before calling a taxi. The driver seemed well acquainted with the street I gave him, and we rolled off across the bridge.
As I drew near my destination, I began to feel anxious and afraid. But the ride lasted longer than I expected—Marathon Street seemed to be located in the suburbs of the city. At last we turned into a dusty street, paved only in patches and lined with linden and aspen trees. The fallen leaves crunched beneath the tires. The September sun beat down with a white intensity. The taxi drew up before a house in the middle of a block that boasted not more than six dwellings. On each side of the house was a vacant lot, and it was set far back at the end of a long narrow yard crowded with trees.
