statement of joel hetman, jr.
I am the most unfortunate of men. Rich, respected, fairly well
educated and of sound health—with many other advantages
usually valued by those having them and coveted by those who
have them not—I sometimes think that I should be less unhappy
if they had been denied me, for then the contrast
between my outer and my inner life would not be continually
demanding a painful attention. In the stress of privation and
the need of effort I might sometimes forget the somber secret
ever baffling the conjecture that it compels.
I am the only child of Joel and Julia Hetman. The one was a
well-to-do country gentleman, the other a beautiful and accomplished
woman to whom he was passionately attached
with what I now know to have been a jealous and exacting devotion.
The family home was a few miles from Nashville, Tennessee,
a large, irregularly built dwelling of no particular order
of architecture, a little way off the road, in a park of trees and
shrubbery.
At the time of which I write I was nineteen years old, a student
at Yale. One day I received a telegram from my father of
such urgency that in compliance with its unexplained demand
I left at once for home. At the railway station in Nashville a
distant relative awaited me to apprise me of the reason for my
recall: my mother had been barbarously murdered—why and
by whom none could conjecture, but the circumstances were
these:
My father had gone to Nashville, intending to return the next
afternoon. Something prevented his accomplishing the business
in hand, so he returned on the same night, arriving just
The Library of America • Story of the Week
Excerpt from American Fantastic Tales: Terror and the Uncanny from Poe to
the Pulps (The Library of America, 2009), pages 302–311.
© 2009 Literary Classics of the U.S., Inc.
Originally appeared in Cosmopolitan (January 1907) and reprinted in the
1910 edition of the Collected Works of Ambrose Bierce.
before the dawn. In his testimony before the coroner he explained
that having no latchkey and not caring to disturb the
sleeping servants, he had, with no clearly defined intention,
gone round to the rear of the house. As he turned an angle of
the building, he heard a sound as of a door gently closed, and
saw in the darkness, indistinctly, the figure of a man, which instantly
disappeared among the trees of the lawn. A hasty pursuit
and brief search of the grounds in the belief that the
trespasser was some one secretly visiting a servant proving fruitless,
he entered at the unlocked door and mounted the stairs
to my mother’s chamber. Its door was open, and stepping into
black darkness he fell headlong over some heavy object on the
floor. I may spare myself the details; it was my poor mother,
dead of strangulation by human hands!
Nothing had been taken from the house, the servants had
heard no sound, and excepting those terrible finger-marks
upon the dead woman’s throat—dear God! that I might forget
them!—no trace of the assassin was ever found.
I gave up my studies and remained with my father, who,
naturally, was greatly changed. Always of a sedate, taciturn disposition,
he now fell into so deep a dejection that nothing
could hold his attention, yet anything—a footfall, the sudden
closing of a door—aroused in him a fitful interest; one might
have called it an apprehension.At any smallsurprise ofthe senses
he would start visibly and sometimes turn pale, then relapse
into a melancholy apathy deeper than before. I suppose he was
what is called a “nervous wreck.” As to me, I was younger
then than now—there is much in that. Youth is Gilead, in
which is balm for every wound. Ah, that I might again dwell in
that enchanted land! Unacquainted with grief, I knew not how
to appraise my bereavement; I could not rightly estimate the
strength of the stroke.
One night, a few months after the dreadful event, my father
and I walked home from the city. The full moon was about
three hours above the eastern horizon; the entire countryside
had the solemn stillness of a summer night; our footfalls and
the ceaseless song of the katydids were the only sound aloof.
Black shadows of bordering trees lay athwart the road, which,
in the short reaches between, gleamed a ghostly white. As we
the moonlit road 303
approached the gate to our dwelling, whose front was in
shadow, and in which no light shone, my father suddenly
stopped and clutched my arm, saying, hardly above his breath:
“God! God! what is that?”
“I hear nothing,” I replied.
“But see—see!” he said, pointing along the road, directly
ahead.
I said: “Nothing is there. Come, father, let us go in—you
are ill.”
He had released my arm and was standing rigid and motionless
in the center of the illuminated roadway, staring like one
bereft of sense. His face in the moonlight showed a pallor and
fixity inexpressibly distressing. I pulled gently at his sleeve, but
he had forgotten my existence. Presently he began to retire
backward, step by step, never for an instant removing his eyes
from what he saw, or thought he saw. I turned half round to
follow, but stood irresolute. I do not recall any feeling of fear,
unless a sudden chill was its physical manifestation. It seemed
as if an icy wind had touched my face and enfolded my body
from head to foot; I could feel the stir of it in my hair.
At that moment my attention was drawn to a light that suddenly
streamed from an upper window of the house: one of
the servants, awakened by what mysterious premonition of evil
who can say, and in obedience to an impulse that she was never
able to name, had lit a lamp. When I turned to look for my
father he was gone, and in all the years that have passed no
whisper of his fate has come across the borderland of conjecture
from the realm of the unknown
statement of joel hetman, jr.I am the most unfortunate of men. Rich, respected, fairly welleducated and of sound health—with many other advantagesusually valued by those having them and coveted by those whohave them not—I sometimes think that I should be less unhappyif they had been denied me, for then the contrastbetween my outer and my inner life would not be continuallydemanding a painful attention. In the stress of privation andthe need of effort I might sometimes forget the somber secretever baffling the conjecture that it compels.I am the only child of Joel and Julia Hetman. The one was awell-to-do country gentleman, the other a beautiful and accomplishedwoman to whom he was passionately attachedwith what I now know to have been a jealous and exacting devotion.The family home was a few miles from Nashville, Tennessee,a large, irregularly built dwelling of no particular orderof architecture, a little way off the road, in a park of trees andshrubbery.At the time of which I write I was nineteen years old, a studentat Yale. One day I received a telegram from my father ofsuch urgency that in compliance with its unexplained demandI left at once for home. At the railway station in Nashville adistant relative awaited me to apprise me of the reason for myrecall: my mother had been barbarously murdered—why andby whom none could conjecture, but the circumstances werethese:My father had gone to Nashville, intending to return the nextafternoon. Something prevented his accomplishing the businessin hand, so he returned on the same night, arriving justThe Library of America • Story of the WeekExcerpt from American Fantastic Tales: Terror and the Uncanny from Poe tothe Pulps (The Library of America, 2009), pages 302–311.© 2009 Literary Classics of the U.S., Inc.Originally appeared in Cosmopolitan (January 1907) and reprinted in the1910 edition of the Collected Works of Ambrose Bierce.before the dawn. In his testimony before the coroner he explainedthat having no latchkey and not caring to disturb thesleeping servants, he had, with no clearly defined intention,gone round to the rear of the house. As he turned an angle ofthe building, he heard a sound as of a door gently closed, andsaw in the darkness, indistinctly, the figure of a man, which instantlydisappeared among the trees of the lawn. A hasty pursuitand brief search of the grounds in the belief that thetrespasser was some one secretly visiting a servant proving fruitless,he entered at the unlocked door and mounted the stairsto my mother’s chamber. Its door was open, and stepping intoblack darkness he fell headlong over some heavy object on thefloor. I may spare myself the details; it was my poor mother,dead of strangulation by human hands!Nothing had been taken from the house, the servants hadheard no sound, and excepting those terrible finger-marksupon the dead woman’s throat—dear God! that I might forgetthem!—no trace of the assassin was ever found.I gave up my studies and remained with my father, who,naturally, was greatly changed. Always of a sedate, taciturn disposition,he now fell into so deep a dejection that nothingcould hold his attention, yet anything—a footfall, the suddenclosing of a door—aroused in him a fitful interest; one mighthave called it an apprehension.At any smallsurprise ofthe senseshe would start visibly and sometimes turn pale, then relapseinto a melancholy apathy deeper than before. I suppose he waswhat is called a “nervous wreck.” As to me, I was youngerthen than now—there is much in that. Youth is Gilead, inwhich is balm for every wound. Ah, that I might again dwell inthat enchanted land! Unacquainted with grief, I knew not howto appraise my bereavement; I could not rightly estimate thestrength of the stroke.One night, a few months after the dreadful event, my fatherand I walked home from the city. The full moon was aboutthree hours above the eastern horizon; the entire countrysidehad the solemn stillness of a summer night; our footfalls andthe ceaseless song of the katydids were the only sound aloof.Black shadows of bordering trees lay athwart the road, which,in the short reaches between, gleamed a ghostly white. As wethe moonlit road 303approached the gate to our dwelling, whose front was inshadow, and in which no light shone, my father suddenlystopped and clutched my arm, saying, hardly above his breath:“God! God! what is that?”“I hear nothing,” I replied.“But see—see!” he said, pointing along the road, directlyahead.I said: “Nothing is there. Come, father, let us go in—youare ill.”He had released my arm and was standing rigid and motionlessin the center of the illuminated roadway, staring like onebereft of sense. His face in the moonlight showed a pallor andfixity inexpressibly distressing. I pulled gently at his sleeve, buthe had forgotten my existence. Presently he began to retirebackward, step by step, never for an instant removing his eyesfrom what he saw, or thought he saw. I turned half round tofollow, but stood irresolute. I do not recall any feeling of fear,unless a sudden chill was its physical manifestation. It seemedas if an icy wind had touched my face and enfolded my bodyfrom head to foot; I could feel the stir of it in my hair.At that moment my attention was drawn to a light that suddenlystreamed from an upper window of the house: one ofthe servants, awakened by what mysterious premonition of evilwho can say, and in obedience to an impulse that she was neverable to name, had lit a lamp. When I turned to look for myfather he was gone, and in all the years that have passed nowhisper of his fate has come across the borderland of conjecturefrom the realm of the unknown
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