A story about a strange figure haunting a building called a fruitless assignment.

Henry Saylor, who was killed in Covington, in a disagreement with Antonio Finch, was a reporter on the Cincinnati Commercial.

In the year 1859 a vacant property in Vine street, in Cincinnati, became the center of a local excitement because of the bizarre sights and sounds thought to be seen at night. the observation thought by several local residents of the vicinity these were with any other hypothesis than that the dwelling was
haunted. Figures with something singularly unfamiliar about them on the sidewalk to pass in and out. No one upon the open lawn to the front door by which they entered, nor at exactly what point
they disappeared as they came away; or, rather, while each watcher was positive enough about these matters, no two agreed. They were all equally at variance in their imagery of the figures themselves.

Some of the bolder of the curious throng ventured on several evenings to stand upon the doorsteps to intercept them, or failing in this, get a nearer look at them. These courageous men,
it was whispered, were unable to force the door by their united strength, and always were hurled from the steps by some invisible agency and severely injured; the door immediately afterward opening, apparently of its own volition, to admit or free some spirit guest. The
dwelling was known as the Roscoe house, a family of that name having lived there for some years, and then, one by one, disappeared, the last to leave being an old woman. Stories of foul play and successive murders had always been rife, but never were authenticated.

One day during the prevalence of the thrill Saylor presented
himself at the office of the Commercial for orders. He got a note from the city editor which read as follows: "Go and pass the night alone in the haunted property in Vine street and if anything occurs worth while make two columns." Saylor obeyed his superior; he could not afford to lose his position on the paper.

Apprising the police of his intention, he effected an entrance through a rear window before dark, walked through the deserted rooms, bare of furniture, dusty and desolate, and seating himself at last in the parlor on an old sofa which he had dragged in from another room watched the darkness of the gloom as night came on.

Before it was altogether dark the curious crowd had collected in the street, silent, as a rule, and expectant, with here and there a scoffer uttering his incredulity and courage with scornful remarks or ribald cries. None knew of the anxious watcher inside.

He feared to make a light; the uncurtained windows would have betrayed his presence, subjecting him to insult, possibly to injury. Moreover, he was too conscientious to do anything to enfeeble his impressions and unwilling to alter any of the customary conditions under which the manifestations were assumed to occur.

It was now black outside, but light from the street faintly illuminated the part of the room that he was in. He had set open every door in the whole area, above and below, but all the outer ones were locked and bolted. Sudden exclamations from the crowd caused him to spring to the window and look away. He saw the figure of a gentleman moving rapidly across the lawn toward the building--saw it ascend the steps; then a projection of the wall concealed it. There
was a noise as of the opening and closing of the hall door; he heard quick, heavy footsteps along the passage--heard them ascend the stairs--heard them on the uncarpeted floor of the chamber
immediately overhead.

Saylor promptly drew his rifle, and groping his way up the stairs entered the chamber, dimly lighted from the street. No one was there. He heard footsteps in an adjoining room and entered that. It was pitch black and silent. He struck his foot against some object on the floor, knelt by it, passed his hand over it. It was a human head--that of a woman. Lifting it by the hair this iron-nerved man returned to the half illumanated room below, carried it near the window and attentively examined it. While so engaged he was half conscious of the rapid opening and closing of the outer door, of footfalls sounding all about him. He gazzed from the ghastly object of his attention and saw himself the middle of a crowd of men and women dimly seen; the room was thronged with them. He thought the
people had broken in.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he annoinced, coolly, "you see me under suspicious circumstances, but"--his voice was drowned in peals of laughter--such laughter whats heard in asylums for the insane. The persons about him pointed at the object in his hand and their
merriment increased as he dropped it and it went rolling among their feet. They danced about it with gestures grotesque and attitudes obscene and indescribable. They kicked it with their feet, urging
it about the room from wall to wall; pushed and overthrew one another in their struggles to kick it; cursed and screamed and sang snatches of ribald songs as the bloody head bounded about the room
as if in terror and trying to escape. At last it shot out of the door into the hall, followed by all, with tumultuous haste. That moment the door closed with a sharp concussion. Saylor was alone,
in pure silence.

Carefully putting away his gun, which all the time he had held in his hand, he went to a window and looked out. The street was deserted and silent; the lamps were extinguished; the roofs and chimneys of the houses were sharply outlined against the dawn-light in the east. He left the house, the door yielding easily to his hand, and walked to the Commercial office. The city editor was still in his office--asleep. Saylor waked him and supposed: "I have been at the haunted house."

The editor stared blankly as if not wholly awake. "Good God!" he cried, "are you Saylor?"

"Yes--why not?" The editor made no answer, but continued staring.

"I passed the night there--it seems," whispered Saylor.

"They say that things were uncommonly quiet away there," the editor said, trifling with a paper-weight upon which he had dropped his eyes, "did anything occur?"

"Nothing whatever."

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