University of Virginia Library

THE HAUNTED HOUSE.
FROM THE MSS. OF THE LATE DEIDRICH KNICKERBOCKER.

Bourne's Antiquities.

In the neighbourhood of the ancient City of
Manhattoes there stood, not very many years
since, an old mansion, which, when I was a boy,
went by the name of the Haunted House. It was
one of the very few remains of the architecture
of the early Dutch settlers, and must have been
a house of some consequence at the time when
it was built. It consisted of a centre and two
wings, the gable ends of which were shaped
like stairs. It was built partly of wood, and

partly of small Dutch bricks, such as the worthy
colonists brought with them from Holland;
before they discovered that bricks could be
manufactured elsewhere. The house stood remote
from the road, in the centre of a large
field, with an avenue of old locust[1] trees leading
up to it, several of which had been shivered
by lightning, and two or three blown down.

A few apple trees grew straggling about the
field; there were traces also of what had been
a kitchen garden, but the fences were broken
down, the vegetables had disappeared, or had
grown wild and turned to little better than
weeds, with here and there a ragged rose bush
or a tall sunflower shooting up from among the
brambles, and hanging its head sorrowfully, as
if contemplating the desolation around it. Part
of the roof of the old house had fallen in; the
windows were shattered; the pannels of the
doors broken, and mended with rough boards;
and there were two rusty weathercocks at the
ends of the house, which made a great jingling

and whistling as they whirled about, but always
pointed wrong. The appearance of the whole
was forlorn and desolate at the best of times;
but in unruly weather, the howling of the wind
about the crazy old mansion; the screeching of
the weathercocks; the slamming and banging
of a few loose window shutters—had altogether
so wild and dreary an effect, that the neighbourhood
stood perfectly in awe of the place, and
pronounced it the rendezvous of hobgoblins I
recollect the old building well, for I recollect
how many times, when an idle, unlucky urchin,
I have prowled round its precincts with some
of my graceless companions, on holyday afternoons,
when out on a freebooting cruise among
the orchards.

There was a tree standing near the house
that bore the most beautiful and tempting fruit;
but then it was on enchanted ground, for the
place was so charmed by frightful stories that we
dreaded to approach it. Sometimes we would
venture, in a body, and get near the Hesperian
tree, keeping an eye upon the old mansion, and

darting fearful glances into its shattered windows;
when, just as we were about to seize
upon our prize, an exclamation from some one
of the gang, or an accidental noise, would throw
us all into a panic, and we would scamper headlong
from the place, nor ever stop until we had
got quite into the road. Then there were sure
to be a host of anecdotes told about strange
cries, and groans; or of some hideous face, suddenly
seen staring out of one of the windows.
By degrees we ceased to venture into these lonely
grounds; but would stand at a distance, and
throw stones at the building; and there was something
fearfully pleasing in the sound, as they
rattled along the roof, or sometimes struck some
jingling fragments of glass out of the windows.

The origin of the house was lost in the obscurity
that covers the early period of the province,
whilst under the government of their High
Mightinesses the States General. Some reported
it to have been a country residence of Wilhelmus
Kieft, commonly called the Testy, one of
the Dutch governors of New-Amsterdam; others

said that it had been built by a naval commander,
who served under Van Tromp, and who, on
being disappointed of preferment, retired from
the service in disgust; became a philosopher
through sheer spite; and brought over all his
wealth to the province, that he might live according
to his humour, and despise the world. The
reason of its having fallen to decay was likewise
a matter of dispute: some said that it was in
chancery, and had already cost more than its
worth in legal expenses; but the most current,
and of course the most probable account was,
that it was haunted; and that nobody could live
quietly in it. There can in fact be very little
doubt that this last was the case; there were so
many corroborating stories to prove it; not an
old woman in the neighbourhood but could furnish
at least a score. There was a gray headed
curmudgeon of a negro that lived hard by, who
had a whole budget of them to tell; many of
which had happened to himself.

I recollect many a time stopping with my

schoolmates and getting him to relate some.
The old crone lived in a hovel, in the midst of a
small patch of potatoes and Indian corn, which
his master had given him on setting him free.
He would come to us, with his hoe in his hand,
and, as we sat perched like a row of swallows,
on the rail of the fence, in the mellow twilight
of a summer evening, he would tell us such
fearful stories, accompanied by such awful
rollings of his white eyes, that we were almost
afraid of our own footsteps as we returned home
afterwards in the dark.

Poor old Pompey! many years are past since
he died, and went to keep company with the
ghosts he was so fond of talking about.

He was buried in a corner of his own little
potato patch; the plough soon passed over his
grave, and levelled it with the rest of the field,
and nobody thought any more of the gray headed
negro. By singular chance I was strolling in
that neighbourhood several years afterwards,
when I had grown up to be a young man, and I
found a knot of gossips speculating on a skull

which had just been turned up by a plough-share.

They of course determined it to be the remains
of some one that had been murdered; and
they had raked up with it some of the traditionary
tales of the haunted house. I knew it at
once to be the relique of poor Pompey, but I
held my tongue; for I am too considerate of
other people's enjoyment, ever to mar a story of
a ghost or a murder. I took care, however, to
see the bones of my old friend once more buried,
in a place where they were not likely to be disturbed.
As I sat on the turf and watched the
interment, I fell into a long conversation with an
old gentleman of the neighbourhood, John Josse
Vandermoere, a pleasant gossiping man, whose
whole life was spent in hearing and telling the
news of the province. He recollected old Pompey
and his stories about the haunted house;
but he assured me he could give me one still
more strange than any that Pompey had related;
and on my expressing a great curiosity to hear it,
he sat down beside me on the turf, and told the

following tale. I have endeavoured to give it as
nearly as possible in his words; but it is now
many years since, and I am grown old, and my
memory is not over good. I cannot, therefore,
vouch for the language; but I am always scrupulous
as to facts.

D. K.