Maynard High School - Screech Owl Yearbook (Maynard, MA)

Page 15 text:

THE SCREECH OWL 13 prietor, who had indentified himself as Mr. Bearce, brightened perceptibly. “That’s a real interesting house. It’s haunted.” Jennison laughed. “All my life, I’ve wanted to see a haunted house.” Mr. Bearce looked reprovingly over his glasses. “Won’t nobody live in this one,” he said solemnly, “It’s the old Sumner place. Real sightly it was, too, when the Sumners lived in it. But since the . . . since Mis’ Abbie was taken away, people say there’s noises in it you can’t explain. Different ones rented it, but nobody stayed any length of time. One family left in the middle of the night with the womenfolks a - yelling for all they was worth.” “Well, well,” smiled Jennison, “What did they see?” “Oh, they didn’t see nothing, “Mr. Bearce explained, “They heard it, .... heard somebody walking and walking and walking in the front up- stairs room, just as plain; and that room’s never been unlocked since Mis’ Abbie went away.” “You mean she died?” “Oh, no. Poor thing, been a lot better if she had. It was her husband that died and she went out of her mind and her brother locked up that room — forever, he said — and went away. He pays regular for Mis’ Abbie at the asylum. Comes to see her regular, too, and has the family lot in the cemetery fixed up, where Loren Beal’s grave is. Abbie is Mis’ Loren Beal, or was, I mean. She’s never spoke one word since the day of his funeral. Poor thing, she was a real nice girl.” Mr. Bearce sighed and handed Jen- nison his change as though there were no more to tell. But his customer was curious. “Was there anything wrong about her husband’s death?” he asked. “Well, yes, there was, . . . something,” admitted the storekeeper. “Likely as not, though, you’re in a hurry,” he looked wistful, “and it’s kind of a long story.” So Jennison sat on a nail-keg, and Mr. Bearce upon an orange crate. “This Abbie Sumner,” he began, “and her brother Wendell were the last of the family. They lived pretty well off in the old home, had plenty of money and all that, and Wendell had quite a law practice. Real smart fella, he was, and is, for that matter. He was about thirty and Abbie a year or so younger when this Loren Beal come to town. Didn’t nobody seem to know much about him except that he seemed to have money; but he was a pleasant, good-living, handsome chap. One way or another, he got to know Abbie, and in spite of all Wendell could do to prevent it, he married her. “Well, in time Wendell got over his grudge. Loren was one of them people nobody can stay mad at for long and he was a real good husband to Abbie. They all got along fine there for about five years. “Then, one day this Loren got a letter that upset him something awful. He never did tell what was in it. He told Abbie he was called away to Idaho or New Mexico or some such outlandish place and might be gone quite a while. Whatever explanation he made, it seemed to satisfy even Wendell. And Loren went away. Abbie used to write to him in care of somebody or other; and he wrote back cheerful letters about what he was doing and when he would be back. “Then came word he was dead! Yes, sir, dead. Seems he got one of them terrible things like typhus, and it was contagious, and so they sent his body home in a sealed coffin with strict orders not to open it. “Poor Mis’ Abbie, it just about killed her; and Wendell took it kind of hard, too, but in a different way. Around here, they thought he suspic- ioned some one had not told the truth about how Loren died. “Well, anyway, Mis’ Abbie made them take the coffin up to the little upstairs setting room that had been hers and Loren’s.” Mr. Bearce paused a moment, lost in thought. “That night, long after Abbie had gone upstairs, Wendell was down in the parlor talking to the minister and Mr.

Page 14 text:

12 THE SCREECH OWL So mix’d in him that Nature might stand up And say to all the world, ‘This was a man!’ ” Will Rogers by P. J. O’Brien con- sisted of a series of incidents which occurred during the life of this prince of wit and wisdom. O’Brien’s book, unlike most bio- graphies, is not written in continuous form, for it tells of Rogers’ many characteristics and occupations as if each were a different short story, in- stead of as in most biographies, with the events occurring in the same order as in real life. One would have to read this book, however, in order to appreciate the very many interesting phases of the life of this truly great American. — Lyli Tervo, ’38. The following poems were inspired by the Indian poetry in “Of to Arcady”, a textbook used in the Junior year: A PLEA Oh moon god, hear my plea, Send your light o’er this land tonight, Help your children do what is right. Oh moon god, our enemy is strong, Give us strength to quell the wrong, For we are few, but we have might, Oh moon god, send us your light to- night. — Evelyn Saari, ’37. AN INDIAN WAR DANCE The soft pad-pad of moccasined feet on the sod, In mysterious supplication to the great War-God Resounds through the valley now shadowed with night, Lighted only by the campfire’s eerie light. Faster and faster the warriors dance round, Now shouting to heaven, now heads near the ground. The drummer’s tempo grows more rapid and fierce, As each soul-stirring cry the night air does pierce. — Helmi S. Tikkanen, ’37. JUST BEFORE MORNING Jennison was bored. He regarded with weary hatred the job he had left behind, the car he was driving, and the destination that lay ahead of him. The sultry day pressed down upon him, and the gravel road, peculiarly luminous under a leaden sky, reminded him of those unhealthy, phosphorescent things you find in swamps. He cursed the doctor who had sent him away “because you need a com- plete change and something new to think about”; he cursed the radio which was giving forth that ear-split- ting static that means lightning; and he gave particularly profane attention to the straggling village into which he was just coming. It was not all the sort of place to cheer one up. There was that first house on the left. It must have been rather good once; but the white paint was almost completely worn away, bricks from the chimney littered the roof, and the windows had that death- like stare that only the windows of a deserted house can give. Behind a picketless fence, flowers and weeds grew in shamless disorder. Jennison remembered that he needed cigarettes. There must be a store somewhere. There was. The proprietor was a lean, cheerful, little old man, avid for company. He looked over his glasses at his customer and detained him by the simple exped- ient of not giving back his change. “Touring, I suppose,” he ventured. “Going to my camp in Northern Vermont,” replied Jennison, somewhat avid for company, too. “Vacation!” “Well, an enforced one.” “You been sick!” “No, merely tired, I guess. You know,” Jennison paused to light a cigarette, “Im just about bored to death with this trip.” “Well, now, that’s real too bad,” sympathized the proprietor, absently inspecting the change in his hand but not parting with it. Jennison spoke about the house he had seen on the way in. The pro-

Page 16 text:

14 THE SCREECH OWL Atkins, the undertaker, who had come in to stay with him a while. “All at once, they heard Mis’ Abbie scream, — an awful scream, Mr. Atkins said it was. They all run upstains. Wendell was the first one into the little setting room, and the first thing he done was to close the coffin lid that Mis’ Abbie had broke open. Then he picked up his sister who was lying on the floor as if she was dead. The other two men said the look on his face was the most terrible look they’d ever seen in their lives. Poor Loren must have died an awful death. But nobody ever knew. You see, the min- ister and Mr. Atkins, they was real honorable men; and they repaired the seal that Mis’ Abbie had broke without ever opening the cofin again.” Mr. Bearce shook his head sadly. “Mis’ Abbie never spoke one word from that day to this. She just sets quiet, looking down at her hands or at the floor. I suppose when she thought about Loren suffering and dying alone, away from here, . . . well, I suppose in a way, she died, too.” They both sat smoking for a few minutes in silence. Jennison. awakening from an un- comfortable nap in the car, turned on the dash light to look at his watch. Two o’clock. The long-threatening thunder rolled and rumbled in black sky over which reflected lightning played. The dim occasional flashes illuminated the front of the old Sumner place across the road. He pulled his raincoat out from be- hind the seat and put it on, picked up his flashlight, and in a moment was fitting into the rusty lock of the Sumner house the key that Mr. Bearce had given him. This, he told himself, was all non- sense; and as he told himself this a chill travelled from his neck to his feet and back again. His heart was pounding so loudly that he almost expected it to echo in the cobweb-hung darkness of the empty hall. Then he and his heart stood perfectly still. Somewhere above him, some one was walking! Some one was pacing back and forth, back and forth, tirelessly without pausing. There was no mistake about it, either. It was the familiar monotonous sound of feet. It seemed unbelievable to Jennison that such a commonplace sound could become so horrible. He stood for an instant with his hand on the railing and wished himself anywhere on earth but where he was. Unfortunately he was a man of his word. He had told Bearce he would open the locked room. He also had said that the Sumner tenants were imaginative fools. So he went firmly up the stairs. The feet never stopped. Slowly, steadily they walked. Even as Jen- nison turned his flashlight on the closed door to find the lock, even as his hand seized the knob and opened the door, the feet went on and on. He snapped off the flashlight as he went in; he did not know why. The thunder crashed near at hand now, and the plae violet lightning made a weird daylight in the room. One flash showed Jennison the shad- owy figure of a man who was pacing the floor. It was certainly the figure of a man. For a moment he thought that Bearce might have tricked him, but he could not doubt the genuineness of the old man’s belief in the legend. No, it was not Bearce. Perhaps the brother Wendell had devised a hoax to keep the house vacant. Jennison stepped a little way into the room. The lightning flared again, and Jen- nison ’s horror-stricken eyes saw for the first time that the restless feet . . . were leaving no imprint in the thick white dust. Jennison stepped back to the thresh- hold, instinctively shrinking away from the figure. Just then, amid the deafen- ing cries of thunder, a wavering white blaze of light fell upon a face that he would never forget. It was a swollen, tortured, disfigured face; the throat was ridged and blackened and twisted; and beneath the ear was a great ugly bruise. It was the face of a man who had been hanged.