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Updated: May 5, 2025
Then panic-stricken, as wiser people have been before her, over the dreadful spookish remoteness of a perfectly normal human being who refuses either to answer or even to notice your wildest efforts at communication, she raised her waspish voice in its shrillest, harshest war-cry. "Fat Father! Fat Father! F-a-t F-a-t-h-e-r!" she screeched out frenziedly at the top of her lungs.
The old woman of the hills was an ancient character about whom clung a thousand spookish traditions, but who, in the opinion of John Tuilis, was nothing more than a wise fortune-teller and necromancer who knew every trick in the trade of hoodwinking the superstitious. He had seen her and he had been properly impressed.
Why, man, if I were superstitious, it would seem positively spookish. I am getting to believe that I shall be confronted either by Cleopatra's name, or some allusion to her, every time I pick up a book. It's getting to be decidedly interesting." "I have had," I replied, "similar, though less remarkable, experiences.
What drew him magnetically was the tall archway leading to the mysterious upper regions known as the garret, where strange old women lived in hermit cells, and whence disturbing noises issued day and night. Even as he looked up there, he could hear a spookish grating that seemed to symbolize the spirit of the place. He shuddered a little, but not unpleasantly, for he knew what caused it.
Here were the ashes of them, after a thousand years, in contemptible little urns; and they were expected to enjoy, in that much impaired state, sundry rusty bric-a-brac, dolls, and tear-vials of spookish iridescence, until, in the vast lapse of time, even a ghost must have got tired.
Here the air was damp and cool and our hero paused for a moment, for he felt tired and hot after the hard riding of the day. "Wonder where we will camp for to-night," he mused, as he gazed around him. "I hope we find some nicer spot than this. This looks so lonely and spookish. Well, I suppose I've got to go on, or they'll get ahead of me, and it would be no fun to get lost. A fellow "
"Pardon me, but I'd like to ask what you think of it, sir?" he asked hoarsely, falling into step. "If you mean what do I think of Mrs. Bashford," I replied sharply, "I think she's quite charming and delightful and all any one could ask in every way." "It's her manner of speaking of spookish things, Mr. Singleton. It doesn't seem fitting in a widow and her so lately bereaved.
A panther or mountain lion, I dare say, scenting the fumes of our cookery, and coming to claim a share." "Then it isn't Nothing spookish, uncle Phaeton?" ventured Waldo, in slightly unsteady tones.
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