The Moonlit Road

1: Statement ofJoel Hetman, Jr.

I AM the most unfortunate of men. Rich, respected, fairly welleducated
and of sound health--with many other advantages usually valued bythose
having them and coveted by those who have them not--I sometimesthink
that I should be less un- happy if they had been denied me, forthen the
contrast between my outer and my inner life would not becontinually
demanding a painful attention. In the stress of privation and theneed
of effort I might sometimes forget the sombre secret everbaffling 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 andaccomplished
woman to whom he was passionately attached with what I now knowto have
been a jealous and exacting devotion. The family home was a fewmiles
from Nash- ville, Tennessee, a large, irregularly built dwell-ing of no
particular order of architecture, a little way off the road, in apark
of trees and shrubbery.
At the time of which I write I was nineteen years old, a studentat
Yale. One day I received a tele- gram from my father of suchurgency
that in com- pliance with its unexplained demand I left at oncefor
home. At the railway station in Nashville a dis- tant relativeawaited
me to apprise me of the reason for my recall: my mother had been
barbarously murdered--why and by whom none could conjec- ture,but the
circumstances were these.
My father had gone to Nashville, intending to re- turn the next
afternoon. Something prevented his accomplishing the business inhand,
so he returned on the same night, arriving just before the dawn.In his
testimony before the coroner he explained that having no latchkeyand
not caring to disturb the sleeping servants, he had, with noclearly
defined intention, gone round to the rear of the house. As heturned an
angle of the building, he heard a sound as of a door gentlyclosed, and
saw in the darkness, in- distinctly, the figure of a man, which
instantly dis- appeared among the trees of the lawn. A hasty pur-suit
and brief search of the grounds in the belief that the trespasserwas
some one secretly visiting a servant proving fruitless, heentered at
the un- locked door and mounted the stairs to my mother's chamber.Its
door was open, and stepping into black darkness he fell headlongover
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 serv- ants had heardno
sound, and excepting those ter- rible finger-marks upon the deadwoman's
throat-- dear God! that I might forget them!--no trace of theassassin
was ever found.
I gave up my studies and remained with my father, who, naturally,
was greatly changed. Always of a sedate, taciturn disposition, henow
fell into so deep a dejection that nothing could hold his atten-tion,
yet anything--a footfall, the sudden closing of a door--arousedin him a
fitful interest; one might have called it an apprehension. At anysmall
surprise of the senses he would start visibly and sometimes turnpale,
then relapse into a melancholy apathy deeper than before. Isuppose he
was what is called a 'nervous wreck.' As to me, I was youngerthen than
now--there is much in that. Youth is Gilead, in which is balm forevery
wound. Ah, that I might again dwell in that enchanted land! Un-
acquainted 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 hoursabove the
eastern horizon; the entire countryside had the solemn still-ness of a
summer night; our footfalls and the cease- less song of thekatydids
were the only sound, aloof. Black shadows of bordering trees layathwart
the road, which, in the short reaches between, gleamed a ghostlywhite.
As we approached the gate to our dwelling, whose front was inshadow,
and in which no light shone, my father suddenly stopped andclutched 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 areill.'
He had released my arm and was standing rigid and motionless inthe
centre of the illuminated road- way, staring like one bereft ofsense.
His face in the moonlight showed a pallor and fixityinexpressibly
distressing. I pulled gently at his sleeve, but he had forgottenmy
existence. Presently he began to re- tire backward, step by step,never
for an instant removing his eyes from what he saw, or thought hesaw. I
turned half round to follow, but stood ir- resolute. I do notrecall any
feeling of fear, unless a sudden chill was its physicalmanifestation.
It seemed as if an icy wind had touched my face and enfolded mybody
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, andin
obedience to an impulse that she was never able to name, had lita lamp.
When I turned to look for my father he was gone, and in all theyears
that have passed no whisper of his fate has come across theborderland
of conjecture from the realm of the unknown.

2: Statement of Caspar Grattan
To-day I am said to live, to-morrow, here in this room, will liea
senseless shape of clay that all too long was I. If anyone liftthe
cloth from the face of that unpleasant thing it will be ingratification
of a mere morbid curiosity. Some, doubtless, will go further and
inquire, 'Who was he?' In this writing I supply the only answerthat I
am able to make-- Caspar Grattan. Surely, that should be enough.The
name has served my small need for more than twenty years of alife of
unknown length. True, I gave it to myself, but lacking another Ihad the
right. In this world one must have a name; it prevents confusion,even
when it does not establish identity. Some, though, are known bynumbers,
which also seem inadequate distinctions.
One day, for illustration, I was passing along a street of acity,
far from here, when I met two men in uniform, one of whom, halfpausing
and looking curiously into my face, said to his companion, 'Thatman
looks like 767.' Something in the number seemed familiar andhorrible.
Moved by an uncon- trollable impulse, I sprang into a side streetand
ran until I fell exhausted in a country lane.
I have never forgotten that number, and always it comes to memory
attended by gibbering obscenity, peals of joyless laughter, theclang of
iron doors. So I say a name, even if self-bestowed, is betterthan a
number. In the register of the potter's field I shall soon haveboth.
What wealth!
Of him who shall find this paper I must beg a littleconsideration.
It is not the history of my life; the knowledge to write that isdenied
me. This is only a record of broken and apparently unrelated memo-ries,
some of them as distinct and sequent as brilliant beads upon athread,
others remote and strange, having the character of crimson dreamswith
inter- spaces blank and black--witch-fires glowing still and redin a
great desolation.
Standing upon the shore of eternity, I turn for a last looklandward
over the course by which I came. There are twenty years offootprints
fairly distinct, the impressions of bleeding feet. They leadthrough
poverty and pain, devious and unsure, as of one staggeringbeneath a
burden--
Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow.
Ah, the poet's prophecy of Me--how admirable, how dreadfully
admirable!
Backward beyond the beginning of this via do- lorosa--this epicof
suffering with episodes of sin --I see nothing clearly; it comesout of
a cloud. I know that it spans only twenty years, yet I am an oldman.
One does not remember one's birth--one has to be told. But withme
it was different; life came to me full-handed and dowered me withall my
facul- ties and powers. Of a previous existence I know no morethan
others, for all have stammering intima- tions that may bememories and
may be dreams. I know only that my first consciousness was of ma-turity
in body and mind--a consciousness accepted without surprise or
conjecture. I merely found myself walking in a forest, half-clad,
footsore, unutterably weary and hungry. Seeing a farmhouse, Iapproached
and asked for food, which was given me by one who inquired myname. I
did not know, yet knew that all had names. Greatly embarrassed, I
retreated, and night coming on, lay down in the forest and slept.
The next day I entered a large town which I shall not name. Nor
shall I recount further incidents of the life that is now to end--alife
of wandering, always and everywhere haunted by an overmaster- ingsense
of crime in punishment of wrong and of terror in punishment ofcrime.
Let me see if I can reduce it to narrative.
I seem once to have lived near a great city, a prosperousplanter,
married to a woman whom I loved and distrusted. We had, itsometimes
seems, one child, a youth of brilliant parts and promise. He isat all
times a vague figure, never clearly drawn, frequently altogetherout of
the picture.
One luckless evening it occurred to me to test my wife's fidelityin
a vulgar, commonplace way fa- miliar to everyone who hasacquaintance
with the literature of fact and fiction. I went to the city, tell-ing
my wife that I should be absent until the follow- ing afternoon.But I
returned before daybreak and went to the rear of the house,purposing to
enter by a door with which I had secretly so tampered that itwould seem
to lock, yet not actually fasten. As I approached it, I heard itgently
open and close, and saw a man steal away into the darkness. Withmur-
der in my heart, I sprang after him, but he had vanished withouteven
the bad luck of identification. Sometimes now I cannot evenpersuade
myself that it was a human being.
Crazed with jealousy and rage, blind and bestial with all the
elemental passions of insulted manhood, I entered the house andsprang
up the stairs to the door of my wife's chamber. It was closed,but
having tampered with its lock also, I easily entered, and despitethe
black darkness soon stood by the side of her bed. My gropinghands told
me that although disarranged it was unoccupied.
'She is below,' I thought, 'and terrified by my entrance hasevaded
me in the darkness of the hall.' With the purpose of seeking herI
turned to leave the room, but took a wrong direction--the rightone! My
foot struck her, cowering in a corner of the room. Instantly myhands
were at her throat, stifling a shriek, my knees were upon herstruggling
body; and there in the darkness, without a word of accusa- tionor
reproach, I strangled her till she died! There ends the dream. Ihave
related it in the past tense, but the present would be the fitterform,
for again and again the sombre tragedy re-enacts itself in my
consciousness--over and over I lay the plan, I suffer theconfirmation,
I redress the wrong. Then all is blank; and afterward the rainsbeat
against the grimy windowpanes, or the snows fall upon my scantattire,
the wheels rattle in the squalid streets where my life lies inpoverty
and mean employment. If there is ever sunshine I do not recallit; if
there are birds they do not sing.
There is another dream, another vision of the night. I standamong
the shadows in a moonlit road. I am aware of another presence,but whose
I cannot rightly determine. In the shadow of a great dwelling Icatch
the gleam of white garments; then the figure of a woman confrontsme in
the road--my mur- dered wife! There is death in the face; thereare
marks upon the throat. The eyes are fixed on mine with aninfinite
gravity which is not reproach, nor hate, nor menace, nor anythingless
terrible than recognition. Before this awful apparition I retreatin
terror--a terror that is upon me as I write. I can no longerrightly
shape the words. See! they--
Now I am calm, but truly there is no more to tell: the incidentends
where it began--in darkness and in doubt.
Yes, I am again in control of myself: 'the captain of my soul.'But
that is not respite; it is another stage and phase of expiation.My
penance, constant in de- gree, is mutable in kind: one of itsvariants
is tran- quillity. After all, it is only a life-sentence. 'ToHell for
life'--that is a foolish penalty: the culprit chooses theduration of
his punishment. To-day my term expires.
To each and all, the peace that was not mine.

3: Statement of the Late Julia Hetman, through the MediumBayrolles
I had retired early and fallen almost immediately into a peaceful
sleep, from which I awoke with that indefinable sense of perilwhich is,
I think, a com- mon experience in that other, earlier life. Ofits
unmeaning character, too, I was entirely persuaded, yet that didnot
banish it. My husband, Joel Het- man, was away from home; theservants
slept in another part of the house. But these were familiarconditions;
they had never before distressed me. Nevertheless, the strangeterror
grew so insupport- able that conquering my reluctance to move Isat up
and lit the lamp at my bedside. Contrary to my expectation thisgave me
no relief; the light seemed rather an added danger, for Ireflected that
it would shine out under the door, disclosing my presence towhatever
evil thing might lurk outside. You that are still in the flesh,subject
to horrors of the imagi- nation, think what a monstrous fear thatmust
be which seeks in darkness security from malevolent existences ofthe
night. That is to spring to close quarters with an unseen enemy--the
strategy of despair!
Extinguishing the lamp I pulled the bedclothing about my head and
lay trembling and silent, unable to shriek, forgetful to pray. Inthis
pitiable state I must have lain for what you call hours--with usthere
are no hours, there is no time.
At last it came--a soft, irregular sound of footfalls on thestairs!
They were slow, hesitant, uncertain, as of something that did notsee
its way; to my dis- ordered reason all the more terrifying forthat, as
the approach of some blind and mindless malevo- lence to which isno
appeal. I even thought that I must have left the hall lampburning and
the grop- ing of this creature proved it a monster of the night.This
was foolish and inconsistent with my previous dread of the light,but
what would you have? Fear has no brains; it is an idiot. Thedismal
witness that it bears and the cowardly counsel that it whispersare
unrelated. We know this well, we who have passed into the Realmof
Terror, who skulk in eternal dusk among the scenes of our formerlives,
invisible even to ourselves, and one another, yet hiding forlornin
lonely places; yearning for speech with our loved ones, yet dumb,and as
fearful of them as they of us. Sometimes the disability is re-moved,
the law suspended: by the deathless power of love or hate webreak the
spell--we are seen by those whom we would warn, console, orpunish. What
form we seem to them to bear we know not; we know only that weterrify
even those whom we most wish to comfort, and from whom we mostcrave
tenderness and sympathy.
Forgive, I pray you, this inconsequent digression by what wasonce a
woman. You who consult us in this imperfect way--you do notunderstand.
You ask foolish questions about things unknown and thingsforbidden.
Much that we know and could impart in our speech is meaninglessin
yours. We must communicate with you through a stammeringintelligence in
that small fraction of our language that you yourselves can speak.You
think that we are of another world. No, we have knowledge of noworld
but yours, though for us it holds no sunlight, no warmth, nomusic, no
laughter, no song of birds, nor any companionship. O God! what athing
it is to be a ghost, cowering and shivering in an altered world,a prey
to apprehension and despair!
No, I did not die of fright: the Thing turned and went away. Iheard
it go down the stairs, hurriedly, I thought, as if itself insudden
fear. Then I rose to call for help. Hardly had my shaking handfound the
door-knob when--merciful heaven!--I heard it returning. Itsfootfalls as
it remounted the stairs were rapid, heavy and loud; they shookthe
house. I fled to an angle of the wall and crouched upon the floor.I
tried to pray. I tried to call the name of my dear husband. ThenI heard
the door thrown open. There was an interval of unconsciousness,and when
I revived I felt a strangling clutch upon my throat-- felt myarms
feebly beating against something that bore me backward--felt mytongue
thrusting itself from between my teeth! And then I passed intothis
life.
No, I have no knowledge of what it was. The sum of what we knewat
death is the measure of what we know afterward of all that wentbefore.
Of this exist- ence we know many things, but no new light fallsupon any
page of that; in memory is written all of it that we can read.Here are
no heights of truth over- looking the confused landscape of that
dubitable domain. We still dwell in the Valley of the Shadow,lurk in
its desolate places, peering from brambles and thickets at itsmad,
malign inhabitants. How should we have new knowledge of thatfading
past?
What I am about to relate happened on a night. We know when it is
night, for then you retire to your houses and we can venture fromour
places of con- cealment to move unafraid about our old homes, tolook in
at the windows, even to enter and gaze upon your faces as yousleep. I
had lingered long near the dwelling where I had been so cruellychanged
to what I am, as we do while any that we love or hate re- main.Vainly I
had sought some method of manifes- tation, some way to make mycontinued
existence and my great love and poignant pity understood by myhusband
and son. Always if they slept they would wake, or if in mydesperation I
dared ap- proach them when they were awake, would turn toward methe
terrible eyes of the living, frightening me by the glances that Isought
from the purpose that I held.
On this night I had searched for them without success, fearing to
find them; they were nowhere in the house, nor about the moonlitdawn.
For, al- though the sun is lost to us for ever, the moon, full-orbed or
slender, remains to us. Sometimes it shines by night, sometimesby day,
but always it rises and sets, as in that other life.
I left the lawn and moved in the white light and silence alongthe
road, aimless and sorrowing. Sud- denly I heard the voice of mypoor
husband in exclamations of astonishment, with that of my son in
reassurance and dissuasion; and there by the shadow of a group oftrees
they stood--near, so near! Their faces were toward me, the eyesof the
elder man fixed upon mine. He saw me--at last, at last, he saw me!In
the consciousness of that, my terror fled as a cruel dream. The
death-spell was broken: Love had conquered Law! Mad with exulta-tion I
shouted--I must have shouted,' He sees, he sees: he willunderstand!'
Then, controlling myself, I moved forward, smiling andconsciously
beautiful, to offer myself to his arms, to comfort him with en-
dearments, and, with my son's hand in mine, to speak words thatshould
restore the broken bonds between the living and the dead.
Alas! alas! his face went white with fear, his eyes were as thoseof
a hunted animal. He backed away from me, as I advanced, and atlast
turned and fled into the wood--whither, it is not given to me toknow.
To my poor boy, left doubly desolate, I have never been able to
impart a sense of my presence. Soon he, too, must pass to thisLife
Invisible and be lost to me for ever.