The Mystery Above the Boots

THE MYSTERY ABOVE THE BOOTS By Carter E. Grant This is a true story of what happened to me when I was a boy about sixteen. The midnight thrill I received at that time has never been forgotten. Midnight has alwaysi seemed to be the time when one gets the fullest benefit of that horrible chill of fright. Then, too, this occurred, very properly, in our old barn. This huge affair was used for many purposes. It contained the grain-bins, harness-room, stallion's box-stall, open stalls for the other horses, buggy shed, hay mow, etc. Our home at West Bountiful was situated between two railroads; the Oregon Short Line, east about a quarter of a mile; the Rio Grande, west about two hundred yards below the barn. Most of our visitors came up from this latter track. A willowy lane led from the right- of-way to the lower barn-yard. All unobserved one could slip up here and into our barn. Visiting tramps often did this, even in the day-time, but especially did they come after we had done our chores and left the stable for the night. Every time I was after dark with my chores, I always felt that some fellow was watching me all the time. I would sometimes go get a lantern, but that only made it better for the observer; he always knew what you were doing and just where you were, while he, himself, could easily slip through the dark stalls and alleyways. My older brothers had been no braver than I was. A sense of dread for that old roomy inclosure grew up with us all. At night we had a feeling of apprehension, almost a persistent, inevitable sense of fear. On a number of occasions, when father was away, I saw strangers enter the hay-mow. They seemed to know when the men were gone. The most horrifying dreams of my boyhood were those I had about being alone at night in the hay-loft, and being overcome by some big, half-clad, grizzly fellow! But just as he was spiking me through with a pitch-fork, I would awake with a terrible jump, grab my bed-fellow and determine never to go into the barn again. Several times, during these night mares, my mother heard me scream in my sleep. This experience, however, "The mystery above the boots," was to be real; no dream or pulling covers for safety. I was to have it all by myself — and alone. As I live through it today, trying to tell the story again, the chills start creeping up my back. There seems to be an inexplicable, peculiar something about this fleshy- tabernacle of ours that causes fear to cower and chill us when we are in some dark, lonely place. The instinctive self seems just to/ invite, and then

432 IMPROVEMENT ERA urge on, a creepy feeling; the very blood races with the nerves in making us frightened, bringing on dreaded images of impossible existence. More than once I have tried to flee — tried to out-run it, but to no use. The demonistic, clutchy stuff seems to expand through the very efforts of speed. Well, on this particular night when I led my sorrel pony into that dark, cavernous barn, I could not flee; that was out of the question. When I rode into the spacious front barn-yard and pro- ceeded down toward the stable, it was a few1 minutes past midnight. I had seen my girl home, after the party at Centerville, some three miles distant; and, until this very minute, I had felt myself every inch a man. As my horse walked slowly forward, that old barn, as usual, loomed up in the blackness. Strange imaginations, in spite of my young manhood, immediately began stirring up past experiences. Trying to ward off my lonesomeness, I looked toward the house for the usual light. It wasn't there. This rather surprised me. I knew father had been away for several days. Could it be possible that the rest of the family were away also, and I was alone on the ranch? I did not know where mother and the children could be, but it occurred to me that they might be visiting somewhere. I stopped and listened. Everything up there, except the flowing well, was still and quiet. The folks were all asleep, or gone. Either was bad enough. These thoughts only tended to deepen my fear. Drawing my horse to a stand-still a few paces in front of the dark, open barn door, I dismounted. To gain courage with myself, I spoke rather loudly to my pony. My boyish voice echoed so strangely within the barn that I did not try speaking the second time. Then, too, the thought flashed upon me, "There may be tramps inside! If they hear your voice they can tell, even in the blackness of the night, that you are not a man coming into the barn." A peculiarly creepy feeling answered such a thought. For some reason I turned and looked toward the barn door. Then I resolved, "I'll never go into that place tonight! Molly can stay loose in the stack yard." As I hesitated, the thought of being taunted next morning at the family breakfast table, got the best of me. I knew they would all know that I went to see my girl and did not dare to put up my horse, etc. Either the thought of my best girl, or the fear of the jokes, made me deter- mined to go in at any rate. I turned just a moment to look about. The empty black-willow trees, with their long stretching limbs above the barn, stood naked against the sky. A regular March storm-breeze was coming in from the South. The recent rains made everything underfoot sloppy and muddy. The wind was now blowing harder; scattering drops of rain began splashing on my hands as I untied the wet saddle girdles. I was ready to proceed, but upon reaching for the halter-rope, I found it wa9 gone! Then, as my heart began pounding heavily,

THE MYSTERY ABOVE THE BOOTS 433 I remembered that, when I rode away in the early evening, I had dropped the rope on the board floor against the side of the wall, about eight feet back of the stall where my horse was to be tied. I was sure I knew just where it was. I simply must have it. Quietly leading my horse a few steps inside the door, I pulled off the saddle and hung it on its regular hook. One of the horses near by, that had been lying down, gave a lunge and struggled to its feet; then the stallion gave his shrill whinny. These startled me somewhat, but I now went slowly forward, however, leading my horse, and half feeling my way with my feet. I was now sure I was even with the empty stall. It was black! No other word could tell it. And unless someone was below me, looking toward me and the open door-way, they could not see me any more than I could see them. I knew it then and had thought of it other times before. For just a moment, with one hand holding to my pony's mane and the other to the reins, I stood getting my proper bearing. The rope, I felt sure, was just even with me, over against the box-stall. Knowing that Molly would stand for a jiffy, I dropped the reins, which, possibly, under the circumstances, was a foolish thing to do. For if anything were really to happen, it would be much better to hang onto the horse for it might, during the excitement, fly backward toward the open door, jerking me through the darkness with it. I now leaned down, almost on my hands and knees; placing one hand close to the board floor, I moved carefully and stealthily forward, all the while reaching for the rope. Suddenly, my anxiously searching hand took right hold of an upright booted foot. Unconsciously my hand reached over a little; there was the other! I pulled my hand back; but, for the moment, I was so terrified I simply could not move. Someone was standing before me, and here I was on my hands and knees feeling of his feet, and possibly at this time with a pitch-fork in his hands, he was leaning down over me. Immediately a crampy feeling took all my strength. I felt faint. Things whirled in my brain. A terrible flush, like a chill, rushed through every vein, and up to my head. I managed to draw back a little, Here I was in the darkest corner of the old barn — it was worse than a dream! As the ruffian made no attack, my wits returned as quickly as they had fled. Not daring, however, to lift myself from my crouching position, I noiselessly slipped back and to one side a few feet. As I moved, one hand came in contact with the end of the rope. Unwittingly I pulled a little. The man was standing on it, for when I tightened the rope a bit, he moved one foot. I wasn't long dropping the rope. Quick as lightning my right hand found its way into my pocket — not for a gun, no such good luck. I have always been glad since that

434 IMPROVEMENT ERA I did not have one, for I surely would have used it. I was after matches. Still crouching close to the floor, I hurriedly shaped a half dozen matches together ready for striking. Just what I would do when brought face to face with my enemy, I did not know; I could not think. My hand and matches met the floor. I gave a short, sharp pull. The matches all flared in unison. An electric light, for the moment, would not have served me better. There before my bulging eyes, not four feet away, one standing, the other lying, were my brother's empty boots. He had placed them there after I had gone to the party. An Alleged Relic Elder Rolla M. Rich sent this picture to President John H. Taylor of the Northern States mission, who forwarded it to the Improvement Era. President Taylor says he knows nothing about its authenticity. It is claimed that this is the bench that was used in Nauvoo temple for the twelve apostles, and was about the only thing that was saved when the temple was burned, on Monday morning, three o'clock, November 19, 1848. The fire broke out in the upper story, and was evidently the work of an incendiary. The bench is now located at 1574 South Center Street, Terra Haute, Indiana, and is owned by a Mr. Milks, who has had it in his possession for twenty-three years. He bought it from an old curiosity shop in Terre Haute, Indiana. The claim that the bench, or seat, or chair, is from Nauvoo Temple, is not authenticated, and is not verified by anyone in Utah who has so far seen it.