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“Blame it, I don’t like ha’nted houses, Tom. Why they’re a dem sight worse’n
dead people. Dead people might talk, maybe, but they don’t come sliding
around in a shroud, when you ain’t noticing, and peep over your shoulder all of
a sudden and grit their teeth, the way a ghost does. I couldn’t stand such a thing
as that, Tom-nobody could.” “Yes, but Huck, ghosts don’t travel around only at
night. They won’t hender us from digging there in the daytime.” “Well that’s so.
But you know mighty well people don’t go about that ha’nted house in the day
nor the night.” “Well, that’s mostly because they don’t like to go where a man’s
been murdered, anyway-but nothing’s ever been seen around that house except
in the night-just some blue lights slipping by the windows-no regular ghosts.”
“Well where you see one of them blue lights flickering around, Tom, you can bet
there’s a ghost mighty close behind it. It stands to reason. Becuz you know that
they don’t anybody but ghosts use ‘em.” “Yes, that’s so. But anyway they don’t
come around in the daytime, so what’s the use of our being afeared?” “Well, all
right. We’ll tackle the ha’nted house if you say so-but I reckon it’s taking
chances.” They had started down the hill by this time. There in the middle of the
moonlit valley below them stood the “ha’nted” house, utterly isolated, its fences
gone long ago, rank weeds smothering the very doorsteps, the chimney
crumbled to ruin, the window-sashes vacant, a corner of the roof caved in. The
boys gazed a while, half expecting to see a blue light flit past a window; then
talking in a low tone, as befitted the time and the circumstances, they struck far
off to the right, to give the haunted house a wide berth, and took their way
homeward through the woods that adorned the rearward side of Cardiff Hill.