"The Black Patch": A Mystery Showcasing Suspense

 The Black Patch

by Julian Kilman

(Weird Tales, Volume II, No. 2, September 1923)

 

This image, from Volume II, Number 2, September 2, 1923 of Weird Tales, is in the public domain.

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Note: You can read “The Black Patch” free online on the Wikisource website or on the Internet Archives website. "The Black Patch" is in the public domain.

 

The dead weight about my body made me gasp as I leaped into the taxicab.

“The dead weight about [the narrator’s] body” arouses readers’ curiosity as to its cause.

The storyteller’s use of “my” and “I” reveal him to be a first-person narrator.

So far as my uncle and I were aware, there was only one other person who knew of my errand. He lived in a small town in the northern part of Ontario and was the sole surviving member of that branch of the Warren family which had left England three generations before. The gold coin I carried was a legacy to him, and I could not think he would have divulged the manner of its delivery.

The suspense generated by the curious reference to “the dead weight about [the narrator’s] body” is satisfied: it is its intended recipient’s “legacy,” the gold coin” that the narrator carries upon his person. The narrator’s statement that he “could not think” that the intended recipient “would have divulged the manner of its delivery” becomes significant following the next paragraph.

Yet twice during the short time that had elapsed since my arrival in New York I had been attacked, and on the second occasion my bag actually snatched from me. This seemed a bit thick even for a city as sophisticated as New York.

Readers learn of two attacks upon the narrator, the second ending with the theft of the bag that he carries. The narrator’s previous remark, “I could not think he would have divulged the manner of its delivery,” becomes significant, suggesting that the intended recipient may have divulged the fact that the narrator was bringing the gold to him. The narrator’s statement also implies either that the intended recipient may have set up to the robbery or that the robbers found out about the means of delivery from some other means. (When using indirect communication, writers, through their narrators, imply, or suggest, meanings; readers, in turn, infer these meanings.) (Indirect communication is the expression of meaning through the use of body language, facial expressions, word choice, tone, imagery and other figures of speech, and anecdotes. For example, fables are anecdotes that are told to illustrate a point, or “moral.”)

The taxicab bore me to the Grand Central Station, where I secured my tickets at the booking office. After the train had started there recurred to my mind the odd request of my Canadian cousin. He had demanded that the legacy be paid in gold, a decision which under the terms of the will left no choice to my uncle and me, its executors, and hence I was lugging the valuable stuff on my person.

Most readers are likely to understand that Grand Central Station is “a major transportation hub for regional and commuter trains.” By alluding to it, the narrator indirectly informs readers that he will travel by train from New York City to his destination in Canada.

Readers learn that the intended recipient of the legacy in gold is the narrator’s cousin, and that the narrator and the narrator’s uncle are the executors of the estate by which the cousin has been made a late relative’s beneficiary. This knowledge makes the notion that the cousin would have made the means of the delivery of his legacy known to others even odder and, therefore, more memorable to readers.

The visit to Niagara Falls was not to be given up, and nothing occurred to increase my apprehension during my stop-over at the famous resort.

At the end of the following day, after much discomfort from the execrable train service, I reached my destination, and hastened to a hostelry.

On his way to Canada, the narrator stops in Niagara Falls, which he describes as “the famous resort,” stating that this “visit . . . was not to be give up,” implying that he had intended to make such a trip before he had taken on the duty of delivering his cousin’s legacy to him or decided to go when he found out that he would be coming to America to deliver Warren’s legacy. By referring to Niagara Falls as a “resort” and refusing to forego his apparently planned visit to it, the narrator suggests (implies) that he is mixing pleasure (the stopover in Niagara Falls) with business (the delivery of the legacy). As readers will learn, this suggestion may be either completely false or only half-true. If readers believe that the narrator is lying, they will have to decide what motivates the narrator to lie and whether, having lied, he is an unreliable narrator (a narrator who is untruthful or otherwise untrustworthy). All unreliable narrators are untrustworthy storytellers to some extent, but not all unreliable narrators are untruthful; for example, Huckleberry Finn is an unreliable narrator because he is naive, and many of Edgar Allan Poe’s narrators are unreliable due to their various mental disorders.)

Readers understand that the narrator, an Englishman, is not a fan of New York. His earlier comment, after being twice attacked in New York and having been robbed during the second attack, that “this seemed a bit thick [excessive] even for a city as sophisticated as New York” suggests that, in his view, New York is not the “sophisticated” city it is said to be. Now, the narrator refers to Grand Central Station as a transportation hub that provides “execrable [wretched, or terrible] train service.” Since his comments have no essential purpose in relation to the events of the story’s plot, they must be regarded as incidental, at most characterizing the narrator and adding a bit of humor to his story.

That evening I ascertained something of my relatives, most of my information coming from a garrulous waitress who needed but the merest hint of a question not only to answer it but to anticipate five others.

Thus it came about that I learned that David Warren, my cousin many times removed, was a "queer duck"; that he was rarely seen down town these days because in the past he had had trouble with the authorities—whether it was intended to intimate that the man drank or what, I did not find out—and finally, that the farther away I stayed from his "dump," the better it would be for me.

From a talkative waitress who is acquainted with David Warren, the narrator learns that Warren has “had trouble with the authorities” and is best avoided. This intelligence suggests that the narrator’s cousin may have been, or may yet be, involved in criminal activity and is a man o whom to be wary. This information (provided, in this case, through exposition, or “telling,” rather than through dialogue, a more direct and active means of conveying information, also indirectly informs readers that Warren may be a dishonest, perhaps dangerous man. However, such “clues” can be true or false, the latter type being known as “red herrings.” At this point, readers do not have enough information to decide whether the waitress’s gossip provides true or false information.

It was nearly nine o’clock in the evening when I reached the Warren residence, in the outskirts of the town. The building was large and rambling, with picturesque gables that loomed out in the peculiar twilight glow of the northern country.

Warren’s “large and rambling” abode and its “picturesque gables,” as well as its rural location, suggests that it is a stylish and expensive residence and that its owner is wealthy or, at least, comes from wealth. Its description by the waitress, however, implies that the residence has seen better days, as does the narrator’s description in the story’s next paragraph.

As I passed through the gateway I perceived every evidence of dilapidation and decay. There was not a light to be seen in the house.

With considerable misgiving, I proceeded up the long grass-grown walk to the door and plied the ancient knocker. No one answered. I waited a few moments, feeling less and less inclined for my task.

Apparently, though, the house, as seen from a distance, is not the elegant edifice it would seem, but one in which “dilapidation and decay” are evident. The residence also seems to be deserted, since “there was not a light to be seen in the house,” a condition that seems to give the narrator pause, especially when his knock at the door receives no response. In fact, as he states, he feels “less and less inclined for my task.”

Suddenly the door swung open silently, I was confronted by an elderly man. He held aloft a candle and peered at me.

The candle cast but little light. As a result, the narrator isn’t able to clearly see the man who has opened the door.

"Is this my cousin?" he asked.

The man who has opened the door has been expecting his cousin to call, which suggests that he is, indeed, the narrator’s cousin. His question indicates that he does not know the identity of his caller (the narrator).

"If you are David Warren," I replied.

The narrator's response likewise indicates that the narrator does not know his cousin.

"I am David Warren," he said, slowly; and then he added more quickly, as if appreciating his remissness as a relative and host: "But come in, sir; come in."

Although Warren’s apparent reluctance to invite his visitor into his house may appear suspicious, Warren’s behavior may be, instead, merely cautious. He is elderly, lives in the country, and does not yet know whether his visitor is the cousin whom he expects or a man who means him harm.

As he lowered the candle and turned to close the door I was startled to see that he wore a black patch over one eye.

Readers should take notice of any unusual incidents and details. Accomplished authors select every detail of a story for a reason; each serves a definite narrative purpose. Here, this particular may be used to characterize Warren, adding a sinister and dangerous air to the character (pirates, for example, are often depicted as wearing black eye patches). The eye patch could also be a clue, the meaning of which would be made clear later in the story. Alternatively, the eye patch could be part of a disguise. Context, the “environment” surrounding a word, an incident, or a detail, which allows readers to discern the word’s, incident’s, or detail’s intended meaning, help readers determine the intended meaning of such details.

Whatever my first impression of the man may have been, certainly nothing occurred during the remainder of the evening to excite distrust. He carried no "side" and treated me with the greatest cordiality. Indeed, there was that about him which gave me satisfaction that he was of my own blood: his was the first low-pitched voice I had heard since I left England!

Despite the waitress’s gossip, the isolated setting of the rural house, the black eye patch, and his initial caution, the homeowner succeeds in gaining the narrator’s trust as his visitor sees that Warren is not armed (he carries no “side,” or sidearm) and that Warren treats him in a cordial manner, as befits a host.

With this opinion of my relative and host, therefore, I accepted his invitation to continue [as] his guest, and soon, with every sense of fear lulled, was shown to a chamber at the head of the stairs. I respected his sense of delicacy in not mentioning the object of my visit up to that time, and did not refer to it myself for the reason that I did not wish to have him know I had taken such precautions as to conceal the gold about my person. 

It seems strange that the narrator does not inform his host that he has Warren’s legacy upon his person and, in this context, is glad that his cousin does not ask about the gold, despite the purpose of the narrator’s visit being to deliver the gold to him. On the other hand, perhaps the narrator does not want to divulge the gold’s whereabouts because he does not want to anger him by revealing that he has hidden the gold on his person, an indication that he had not trusted Warren and an implication that could anger him. By suggesting alternative possibilities, Kilman keeps readers guessing and maintains suspense.

How long I slept I do not know, but some time must have elapsed, when suddenly I found myself wide awake. I sat up trembling, my hearing alert for the noise that had disturbed me.

Obviously, the narrator is not as much at home in Warren’s house as he might have believed himself to be. Has he lied to readers or was he merely mistaken as to his previous level of his trust in Warren?

Then it came: a faint call, near and yet far distant—like the successful effort of a ventriloquist. It seemed to me that the word I had heard was "Help!"

To hear a cry for help, during the night, in an unfamiliar and remote location, especially after hearing the waitress’s warning to avoid Warren’s house, could be frightening, indeed, calling into question whatever level of trust the narrator might have had in his host. Often, writers connect and build up such details (the waitress’s gossip; the cry; the darkness of the night; and the unfamiliar, remote location) so that the series of such particulars seems to indicate a certain state of affairs which may or may not actually exist, creating suspense by this means.

Thoroughly alarmed, I thrust a hand under my pillow: The gold was still there.

Although the narrator previously carried the gold on his person, he has removed it from his body and hidden it beneath his pillow before going to bed. Obviously, the narrator is not as trusting as he has led readers (and possibly himself) to believe: his first action, now, is to ensure that he has not been robbed of the gold. Has he deceived readers, himself, or both? Again, by suggesting alternative possibilities, Kilman keeps readers guessing and maintains suspense.

I decided to reconnoitre and tip-toed downstairs to the living-room, lighting an occasional wax vesta [candle]. I had about concluded that in my nervous condition I was the victim of an hallucination, when my attention was attracted by an antique writing-desk. Something white projected from under the blotter, and quite casually I pulled it out.

It was a letter that had been in the bag snatched from me in New York! The sight of that bit of inanimate evidence—my positive knowledge that it came from the stolen Gladstone, caused my heart to flutter.

To my room I returned, but sleep was not possible, and I relieved the tedium of the wait for daylight by a thorough examination of my quarters.

Kilman gives readers and the narrator more reason to be suspicious. When the narrator searches the house’s living room, he finds, beneath a desk blotter, a letter that had been in the bag the thief had stolen from him in New York. Obviously, the robbery in New York and whatever is happening in Ontario are linked, although the narrator does not explain how they are linked, probably because he does not know himself. Since the stolen letter is here, in Warren’s house, there seems to be reason to suspect that Warren is also associated with the theft. Perhaps the narrator’s attackers worked for Warren. The waitress had said that Warren “ had had trouble with the authorities” and intimated that he was best avoided. Warren’s mysterious associations and behavior, like his unsavory reputation, create suspense, heightening readers’ interest.

 At seven o’clock there was a rap at the door. An old negress signed for me to follow.

 Of course, the term “negress” is highly offensive today; a better choice of words might be “housekeeper,” which is the one that will be employed here henceforth, in the former’s stead.

 "Good morning," I heard as I entered the dining-room. "I trust you slept well, my cousin?"

 The man with the black patch stood by the window, his good eye resting on me.

 "Splendidly," I lied.

Significantly, readers have seen that the narrator has lied, not only now, but several times before, either by withholding facts or revealing only some facts, or by prevaricating entirely. This practice causes readers to regard him with some suspicion, even if the occasions during which he is dishonest may be, to some extent, understandable, given his uncertain circumstances.

As we finished breakfast, however, and I made no mention of the purpose of my visit, my host appeared restless. He rose from the table.

"And now," he said, almost sharply, "I assume you have with you the amount of my legacy—one thousand pounds?"

"Sorry," I said, "but I thought it advisable to deposit the gold in a bank at Niagara Falls: the weight of the stuff made traveling tremendously uncomfortable."

Readers observe that, once again, the narrator is either lying outright or has withheld information from Warren. In light of this deceit and the other such acts that the narrator has committed, due to his own distrust of Warren or to protect himself or otherwise, readers may have reservations about the narrator’s own purpose and intentions.

He proved to be a consummate actor.

The narrator’s comment suggests that he sees Warren as a dishonest pretender.

"Of course; of course," he exclaimed, with quick buoyancy, "Let’s not worry about it. We can manage it later."

The manner in which Warren now appears quickly to change the subject may heighten both the narrator’s and readers’ own distrust of him. Oilman, it seems, has given readers cause to distrust both Warren and the narrator, thus doubling his story’s suspense and his readers’ interest.

Twice that day I endeavored to slip away; but each time my host, with a manner disarmingly casual, contrived to join me. On the second occasion, I had reached the road and started for the village when, with profuse apologies for his carelessness, he overtook me. I continued the walk in his company.

Warren’s insistence in keeping the narrator company is suspicious. On the other hand, though, his doing so may be motivated by his own distrust of the narrator’s intentions. Oilman maintains readers’ cause to view both characters with distrust, since each of them has behaved suspiciously and neither of them trust the other––and, of course, because there is a fortune of gold involved. The characters’ mutual suspicion of each other maintains suspense.

It accomplished nothing. Again and again as we passed along the streets of the little town I noted the curious gaze of those we met, and the words of the woman scullion recurred to me. The man with me spoke to no one and no one spoke to him, Meanwhile, he kept up a running fire of comment, his thoughts seeming to race.

Both Warren’s behavior and the waitress’s, or scullion’s, comments about Warren’s past, as well as the fact that the people they pass do not engage Warren in conversation, suggesting, perhaps, that they distrust him, are afraid of him, or both, or do not know who he is, give the narrator further cause to distrust him.

"By the way," he exclaimed, as we turned to retrace our steps. "I haven’t shown you my laboratory."

Later, in exhibiting his workshop, he evinced extreme nervousness.

"This eye," he explained, "I lost years ago in an experiment."

It seems that Warren has been keeping a few secrets of his own, including the existence of his own laboratory and the experiment that cost him his eye. Readers will, of course, wonder why Warren would withhold such information until now: was it deliberate, or simply because he hadn’t, until now, thought to mention such details to his guest? If the latter, what prompted his sudden memory? Again, the suspense that such incidents inspire maintain readers’ interest while casting further doubt on Warren’s honesty and trustworthiness, just as, no doubt, Oilman intends.

At the thought of the sightless socket beneath that black patch I felt it difficult to repress a shudder.

Both Warren’s mention of his lost eye and the narrator’s revulsion “at the thought of the sightless socket beneath the black patch” are reminders to readers of these details.

That evening with my host did not serve to allay my fears. I had definitely planned to remain and keep awake all night; and in the morning to communicate in any event with the authorities. 

The narrator’s admission that the “evening with [his] host did not serve to allay [his] fears” and his statement that he intends to stay “awake all night” before going to “the authorities” are indications to readers that they are right to be suspicious of Warren. However, readers have likely learned that the evening also suggests that they, the readers, have as much cause to be suspicious of the narrator.

During the long hours that followed I lay fully dressed on my bed, revolver in hand; but the vigil was too much for me in my exhausted condition and I finally dozed.

The narrator’s distrust––and fear––of Warren, which are evidenced by his remaining dressed and holding his revolver until, “exhausted,” he eventually dozes, show the magnitude of his suspicions and fear of his cousin––if, indeed, Warren is his cousin. Kilman has magnified the doubts and fears of the men while strengthening readers’ own doubts as to which of the two, if either, can be trusted.

It must have been after two o’clock when I awoke and lay tense; a hand was being moved cautiously back and forth beneath my pillow. The search was thorough, but the gold was not there: it was again fastened about my body. And the owner of the hand seemed to conclude that some other course was necessary, for a moment later I heard him steal out.

A frightening experience occurs, as feigning sleep, the narrator feels someone’s hand moving “back and forth beneath [his] pillow, as if searching for something hidden there, such as the gold that he is supposed to receive as his legacy. But,as the narrator points out, “the gold was not there: it was again fastened about [his] body.” He had removed the gold from his person and hid it under the pillow, presumably so that he could sleep better. What prompted him to secure it to his body again is left unstated. The narrator shares another secret that he has kept from Warren (and from readers, until now): his earlier claim to have deposited the gold, or a portion of it, in a Niagara Falls bank was an apparent lie.)

As I slid from the bed, there came a sound as if someone had stumbled in the hallway. Instantly it was followed by a horrible shriek—again and again it pierced the air.

Suspense builds again, as mysterious, dangerous incident after mysterious, dangerous incident occurs, each building on its predecessor, increasing tension.

The hair of my head stiffened with fear.

The narrator’s fear is not only emotional, but physical. This expository detail makes the abstract and subjective, concrete and objective; the general and relatively impersonal, specific and personal.

Flinging open the door of my room, I could just make out that a terrible struggle was in progress between two men. It continued for a brief bit, and presently I heard a long-drawn sigh; one of the combatants slid to the floor.

Rather than drawing out the fight, Kilman brings it to a rapid close, but maintains suspense through the narrator’s ignorance as to who is victor and who is victim and by not specifying the extent of the latter’s injuries.

I waited no longer, but leaped into the passage-way, my hands extended before me. Suddenly, in the darkness, they touched those of another. He was feeling for me!

The narrator’s fear also becomes personal, as, feeling his way along the passage-way, he feels his hands make contact with “those of another,” and realizes that the other person “was feeling for [him]!,” italics combining with exclamation point to indicate his extreme terror at the encounter.

We crouched there an instant, each reaching for the other, as in the preliminaries of a wrestling match. His fingers were hot and slippery with moisture. Then he rushed me. The pistol was knocked from my hand, and the next instant the two of us were struggling together.

With whom does the narrator struggle? Warren? Warren’s attacker, whoever he might be? A home invader? His ignorance of his assailant’s identity likely increases the narrator’s near-panic.

To and fro we staggered. Finally my feet tripped over the prostrate body of the man on the floor. My adversary and I went down together.

A trip and fall by the narrator and his adversary, over a “prostate body . . . on the floor,” no less, is apt to add to the narrator’s panic, since, in falling, he has lost mobility and maneuverability, becoming more vulnerable. The scene’s suspense again escalates.

The fall loosened his grip. I was able to breathe more freely, and I got a hand on his throat: the other hand wandered about his face, and clutched something.

Fortunately, the narrator comes out on top, as it were, breathing “more freely” and able to seize the other man by the throat as his other hand clutches “something” else. What else? Readers wonder, as suspense is added to suspense.

I shrieked with the horror of it. One of my fingers was digging into the empty socket of a human eye!

The narrator’s realization that his fingers were “digging into the empty sockets of a human eye” horrify him, as disgust is added to terror. For readers, the empty sockets of the dead man’s eye also identify the narrator’s adversary as his cousin, the actual heir, but the narrator continues to assume that the man is the impostor. This incident is an example of dramatic irony, which “occurs when the meaning of the situation is understood by the audience but not by the characters.”

Wild with the pain, my antagonist arose sheer from the floor, flinging me off as if I had been a child. An instant later I heard him running down the stairs.

Able to rise, the narrator’s foe takes flight. Will he escape? New suspense is generated, even as the suspense created by the fight between the men is alleviated, now that their struggle has ended. (The unlikeliness of a one-eyed man’s running down the stairs

It has been difficult for me since to understand my course that dreadful night. I was insensate. I followed the man with the one eye, for I felt that murder had been done. It was moonlight and I could see him plainly.

With incredible swiftness, the fugitive sped over the landscape and made for a trestle which spanned a crevice half a mile in the distance.

The narrator’s pursuit of the man whom he regards as having committed murder adds another element of suspense: will he succeed in catching his quarry?

I knew that on the opposite side of it was a heavily-wooded stretch and, fearing his escape, I endeavored to head him off. He reached the bridge a few seconds before me, however, and to my horror I saw him poise his body at one side; the next moment he went over.

The pursuit, and, thus, the suspense, continues.

I think we both screamed then; the one-eyed man as he whirled through the moonlight to his death, and I as I watched him.

The narrator has demonstrated his tactical skills in his reconnoitering of Warren’s living room, which led to his discovery of the letter that tied Warren to the robbers in New York and the theft of his bag, in his possible lie about having deposited Warren’s gold in a Niagara Falls bank, and in his secreting the gold on his own person by securing it to his body; now, again, the narrator demonstrates such skill, as he tries to cut off the fleeing fugitive. The narrator is too late, though, and the man he chases falls into the “crevice” spanned by the trestle. Despite his planning and his maneuvers, the narrator has not triumphed, or not yet; the story has not ended: there may still be a chance for the narrator to succeed. Therefore, there is still suspense.

Not until daybreak did I come to myself. The soles of my boots were scuffed through, and I seemed to have been running for hours; running to blot out of my vision the sight of that body spinning downward into the abyss—running to brush from the tentacles of my memory the horrid thought that I had driven a human being to his death.

The narrator, it appears, has run all night, as if to escape the horrific experiences he has had and his knowledge that he had “driven a human being to his death.” What will come of this bizarre, horrible sequence of events? The question generates further suspense.

Then, filled with forebodings as to the identity of the body over which I had stumbled earlier in the night, I started to return. When I reached the house it was a long time before I could summon courage to enter. Once inside, however, I gained confidence and hastened upstairs.

New suspense is created, as the narrator wonders whose body he had “stumbled earlier in the night” and returns to Warren’s house to seek an answer, only to discover that––

The body was gone from the hall. But in the small room at one end—a mere closet—I found what I was looking for: the body of the man who had fallen in the struggle in the night—evidently he had dragged himself thither. His heart was still beating, and I carried him down stairs. He was heavy, and I groaned with relief as the weight slipped from my arms to the floor.

Then I looked at the face. Never shall I forget it.

It was my host! The black patch was displaced. It had covered a perfectly good eye!

A surprise for the narrator! The man with whom the narrator had fought, had pursued, and had “driven . . . to his death” was not Warren, after all!

I must have swooned at the sight, for the next I knew there were many men about me. They came from the village and had been notified by the old [housekeeper].

I was taken into custody and lodged for three weary hours in a ridiculously small place they called a "lock-up." At the end of that time I was led before a magistrate who took my statement.

His arrest and appearance before a magistrate, suggesting the possibility of the narrator’s being charged with murder, adds another occasion of suspense.

Next morning I was informed that the body of David Warren had been found in the ravine. It confirmed my worst fears, I had driven to his death my own cousin!

The narrator receives appalling news: he is responsible, or so he believes, for his cousin’s death. In a lesser story, this might well be the conclusion of the tale: a man who is arrested for having killed his cousin and who may well spend the rest of his days in prison as a result. Kilman, however, a true master of suspense, is not yet finished.

That day the authorities obtained a confession from the man who had worn the black patch. He was unknown to them and stated that his name was Douglass. For about three months he had been employed by David Warren as an assistant in laboratory work. Having opened by mistake the first letter from our solicitor, Douglass learned of the legacy and kept my cousin in ignorance of it.

Readers learn the identity of the true murderer and how he had learned of Warren’s inheritance.

For two months he had confined David Warren under circumstances of the greatest cruelty in the little closet at the end of the hall. He insured the silence of the old [housekeeper] by threats of death.

Over the next several paragraphs, Kilman now completes the backstory, details of which are necessary to understand the story within the story, which, in turn, must be known to comprehend the story as a whole.

How Warren escaped from his room Douglass could not say. He suspected that the housekeeper finally had dared to unlock the door. In any event, my cousin met Douglass in the dark just as the latter stepped from my room after his futile attempt to steal the gold. Then ensued the struggle in the hallway that I had heard and in which Warren stabbed the impostor with a knife—a wound that later resulted in the death of the criminal. 

Although aware that we had never seen our Canadian cousin, Douglass wore the black patch fearing that we might know that David Warren had lost an eye.

The circumstances that the narrator reveals over these last four paragraphs comprise no deus ex machina, no “contrived solution” to the mystery at the heart of this suspenseful psychological thriller. Integral and necessary, they are suggested, a bit at a time, by a series of seemingly unrelated incidents and narrative sleights of hand, and, in effect, they transform a seemingly simple tale of horror into a complex detective story, complete with a surprise ending. Even now, though, Kilman has not finished; he has a final twist in store––or might have, depending on one’s interpretation of the ending.

After the inquest I hurried, shaken and trembling, to the hotel and packed the stolen Gladstone which had been found and returned to me. Then, feeling that I had a sufficiently vivid impression of America, I purchased a draft [essentially, a check] with the gold and started on the long journey home.

The narrator makes a final jibe about “The States” after packing his Gladstone returned bag, and, having had enough, or more than enough, of America, buys himself “a draft with the gold and [starts] on [his] long journey home.” It’s interesting that he uses “the gold” of Warren’s legacy to purchase the draft, which may suggest that he still wears the precious metal “fastened to his body” and plans to return with it to his own country, perhaps retaining it as his own. After all, Warren was “was the sole surviving member of that branch of the Warren family which had left England three generations before,” and there would seem to be no one to whom to return the dead man’s “legacy.” Might the narrator actually have deposited some, if not all, of the gold in the Niagara Falls bank, as he had earlier claimed, in talking to Warren, and have retrieved it before making his way back to England? The impostor Douglass, who’d held Warren prisoner in his own home, had been killed by Warren, and Warren had died from the fall off the trestle. No one, including his father, the fellow executor of the estate, need know that he had kept a portion Of the gold, if not all thousand pounds, of it. It is possible, too, that his father would not mind having half of Warren’s legacy and would keep his own son’s secret for a share of the fortune. Does Kilman suggest such a conclusion to his tale? Possibly, but not necessarily. He leaves that issue ambiguous and open, therefore, to readers’ interpretation.

 

Dramatic Structure

 

The 1,786-word story takes the three-act structure described by Aristotle in his Poetics.

The first part, the beginning, is 776 words long and begins with the first sentence, “The dead weight about my body made me gasp as I leaped into the taxicab,” and ends with the sentence “It seemed to me that the word I had heard was "Help!"

The second part, the middle, is 640 words long, and begins with the sentence, “Thoroughly alarmed, I thrust a hand under my pillow: The gold was still there,” and ends with the sentence “The hair of my head stiffened with fear.”

The last part, the end, is 946 words long, and begins with the sentence “Flinging open the door of my room, I could just make out that a terrible struggle was in progress between two men. It continued for a brief bit, and presently I heard a long-drawn sigh; one of the combatants slid to the floor.”

Thus, the beginning of the story is 43.45 percent of the total length; the middle, 35.83 percent of the total length; and the end is 52.96 percent of the total length:

 

Note: This is the summary that I derived by highlighting only enough information in the text of the story that was absolutely relevant to its plot. The summary reduces the essentials of the 2,365-word tale to 784 words, thus providing a relatively brief overview of the complete story in condensed form, facilitating the comprehension of the story as a whole, in advance of a detailed analysis of the full story.

Summary

I leaped into the taxicab. Only one other person who knew of my errand. [Actually, besides the narrator, three others knew of the narrator’s errand: the heir, a solicitor, and the narrator’s uncle, who was also an executor of the estate.] The gold coin I carried was a legacy to him. Twice since my arrival in New York I had been attacked, and on the second occasion my bag actually snatched from me. [The attackers were after the solicitor’s letter in the bag.] The taxicab bore me to the Grand Central Station. My Canadian cousin had demanded that the legacy be paid in gold. I was lugging the valuable stuff on my person.

I learned that David Warren, my cousin, had had trouble with the authorities and that the farther away I stayed from his "dump," the better it would be for me. I reached the Warren residence, in the outskirts of the town. I was confronted by my cousin David Warren. He wore a black patch over one eye.

I accepted his invitation to continue [as] his guest. I slept. Then it came: a faint call. "Help!"

I decided to reconnoiter [and found] a letter that had been in the bag snatched from me in New York!

As we finished breakfast, my host said, "I assume you have with you the amount of my legacy—one thousand pounds?"

"I thought it advisable to deposit the gold in a bank at Niagara Falls,” [the narrator explained]. “We can manage it later," [Warren said].

Twice that day I endeavored to slip away; but each time my host contrived to join me. "I haven’t shown you my laboratory."

"This eye. I lost years ago in an experiment."

At the thought of the sightless socket beneath that black patch I felt it That evening, I lay fully dressed on my bed, revolver in hand; I finally dozed.

I awoke; a hand was being moved cautiously back and forth beneath my pillow. The gold was not there: it was again fastened about my body. There came a sound as if someone had stumbled, followed by a shriek.

A struggle was in progress between two men. One of the combatants slid to the floor.

My hands touched those of another.

The next instant the two of us were struggling together.

My feet tripped over the prostrate body of the man on the floor. My adversary and I went down together.

The fall loosened his grip. I got a hand on his throat: the other hand wandered about his face, and clutched something.

My fingers was digging into the empty socket of a human eye!

My antagonist arose. I heard him running down the stairs.

I followed the man with the one eye, for I felt that murder had been done. It was moonlight and I could see him plainly. The fugitive made for a trestle. I endeavored to head him off. He went over. The one-eyed man whirled to his death.

Not until daybreak did I come to myself. I seemed to have been running for hours. I started to return.

The body was gone from the hall. But in the small room at one end—a mere closet—I found what I was looking for: the body of the man who had fallen in the struggle in the night—evidently he had dragged himself thither. His heart was still beating.

I looked at the face. It was my host! The black patch was displaced. It had covered a perfectly good eye!

I swooned at the sight. Men from the village and had been notified.

I was led before a magistrate who took my statement.

Next morning I was informed that the body of David Warren had been found in the ravine. I had driven to his death my own cousin!

Authorities obtained a confession from the man who had worn the black patch. He stated that his name was Douglass. He had been employed by David Warren as an assistant in laboratory work. Having opened by mistake the first letter from our solicitor, Douglass learned of the legacy and kept my cousin in ignorance of it.

He had confined David Warren in the little closet at the end of the hall. He insured the silence of the old housekeeper by threats of death.

How Warren escaped from his room Douglass could not say. He suspected that the housekeeper finally had dared to unlock the door. My cousin met Douglass in the dark just as the latter stepped from my room after his futile attempt to steal the gold. Then ensued the struggle in the hallway that I had heard and in which Warren stabbed the impostor with a knife—a wound that later resulted in the death of the criminal.

Douglass wore the black patch fearing that we might know that David Warren had lost an eye.

I purchased a draft with the gold and started on the long journey home.

"The Well" by Julian Kilman: Explication du Texte

 

Gates and fences by Richard Dorrell

This file is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 2.0 Generic license.

Note: This 3,183-word story, "The Well" by Julian Kilman , appeared in Weird Tales, Volume I, No. 4, June 1923, which is in the public domain and can be read, free, on the Wikisource website or can be downloaded, free, at the Internet Archives website. The paragraph numbers coincide with those in the copy on the Internet Archives. The approximate average reading time for a story of this length is 15 minutes. For this explication du texte, the average reading time is approximately 40 minutes.

 

The story’s title, “The Well,” directs readers’ attention to a particular object, the focal point of the story.

“The Well” is divided into three parts. Part 1, the beginning (1,067 words), extends from paragraph 1 through paragraph 42; Part 2, the middle, (1,015 words) from paragraph 43 through paragraph 87; and Part 3, the end (1,101 words) from paragraph 88 though paragraph 135.

In Part I, The main character, Jeremiah Hubbard, a farmer, and other characters are introduced, as is the rural setting, and the basic conflict: the competing property boundary claims of Hubbard and his neighbor, Mr. Harper. Their legal conflict becomes physical, Hubbard killing Harper.

Part II reveals Hubbard’s increasing anxiety that his act will become known and that he will be prosecuted, ending with the police’s suspicion of his involvement in Harper’s disappearance.

Part III shows Hubbard’s increasing moral and psychological disintegration under the pressures of guilt, fear, and isolation and ends with his death and his wife’s and daughter’s terror.

Part 1

 

Paragraph 1: The first sentence introduces a character: Jeremiah Hubbard, describes his present action (toiling “with a team of horses”) and whereabouts (“in a piece of ground down the road from his dwelling”). The second sentence identifies the time of day (near “five o’clock”), the season of the year (“autumn”), and three actions taken by Hubbard (unwinding the lines from his waist,” unhooking “the traces,” and starting “home with the horses”). Unstated, but implied are Hubbard’s vocation (he is a farmer who works until five o’clock in the evening) and his work (he has been plowing a field on a farm). The first sentence of the opening paragraph also establishes the story’s point of view, which, in “The Well,” is omniscient: the storyteller is not one of the characters; rather, the narrator is external, or outside, the story and knows all, sees all, hears all, and can report and comment on everything, including both objective and subjective incidents: actions, speech (dialogue), thoughts, feelings, and the narrator’s own interpretations, judgments, and characterizations.

By virtue of his being the first character introduced in the story, Hubbard stands out, for, as Aristotle points out, the first and the last are emphasized simply by virtue of their being the first and the last to come to readers’ attention.

Paragraph 2: The first sentence describes Hubbard appearance: his weight (“heavy”), age (“a bit under middle age”), facial shape (“a dish-shaped face” with “narrow-set eyes.” The second sentence describes his action: “He walked with vigor.” The third paragraph describes the action of one of the horses (it “lagged”) and Hubbard’s reaction (“he struck it savagely with a short whip”). the adjective “savagely” is not necessary, so its presence implies the narrator’s tone; it is the storyteller who views Hubbard’s striking of the horse as “savage.” The use of the word “savagely” suggests that Hubbard may be cruel, even sadistic, although it could be that he is simply in a hurry to get home. Readers are likely to keep both possibilities in mind and seek more information that will allow them to determine which possibility, cruelty or impatience, is most plausible. Why is the horse lagging? Possibly because it is tired from pulling the plow all day. (When a narrator doesn’t explicitly explain his or her choice of words [diction], readers tend to do so, based on the context of the story.)

When using indirect communication, writers and narrators imply, or suggest, an idea or a feeling without directly stating it. For example, by writing that a character rolled his or her eyes after something was said or done by another character, the first character implies disdain, or contempt, for the other character, for what the other character said, or for both the other character and what he or she said.

Readers infer, or draw “a conclusion,” based on what characters say (dialogue), think, or do, or [their own or other characters’] “prior conclusions. For example, reading that a character rolled his or her eyes after something was said or done by another character, a reader may conclude that the character who rolled his or her eyes felt disdain, or contempt, for the other character, for what the other character said, or for both the other character and what he or she said.

Paragraph 3: The first sentence is a transition of both place and time: Hubbard and the horses, having started home from the farm, now arrive at “the Eldridge dwelling,” which, the story’s original setting having changed slightly, is located at “the opposite side of the road.” This sentence also describes “the Eldridge dwelling” as “abandoned and tumbled down.” In the second sentence, the narrator also provides more information about the farm on which Hubbard works: the farm is “worked” by a sharecropper named Simpson, who lives “five miles away” and earns enough to have afforded to purchase a “tin Lizzie,” a nickname for the Ford Model T, which originated from the automobile’s winning of a 1922 race, a feat that “surprised everyone.” The term subsequently became a slang expression meaning “a small, cheap, . . . old car.” The story’s context suggests that the latter, rather than the former, meaning applies to the Model T that Simpson owns, which, in turn, implies that he does not make much money as a farmer, although, it seems, he earns more money than Hubbard. The third sentence mentions “an ancient oak tree” that, although its trunk, “tremendous [in] circumference,” is marred by signs of decay,” rears “splendid gnarled branches skyward.”

The fact that the narrator comments upon the oak at some length, thus singling it out, suggests that it is important to the story.

Paragraph 4: This paragraph introduces the focal point of the story, which is introduced in the tale’s title: “The Well.” Since the narrative appears in Weird Tales, readers understand that the well will have an unusual, probably strange, or weird, character, and they should pay close attention to its description. It is “shaded” by the branches of the oak that grows on the Eldridge farm, the “ancient” and “decayed” and “marred” tree. In horror fiction, a tree’s appearance can be due to the unholy ground that provides its nutrients. Readers also learn that the well, “having been dug in the early fifties by the pioneering Eldridge family,” is now “disused,” having become dry due to “improved drainage.” The pump-house is in ruins, only “the crumbling circle of stonework around the mouth” providing evidence of its existence. A source of water that had once fulfilled a vital need has been abandoned.

In expository writing, such as the paragraphs of an essay, every paragraph of a written work develops a central idea. In fiction, a paragraph may also develop a central idea; however, a paragraph can also evoke emotion; create, maintain, or heighten suspense; evoke an image; introduce a character of an action; change the scene; transition from one part of a story’s structure to the next; perform another function; or, sometimes, accomplish several such objectives. For this reason, readers should note, mentally, or, indeed, literally, what each particular paragraph accomplishes.

Paragraph 5: An eight-year-old child is introduced, running “from the rear of the premises.” Hubbard’s initial reactions to the child’s sudden appearance are noted: he “frowned and stopped his team.” Just as the child’s sudden appearance and the manner of the child’s appearance captures Hubbard’s attention (and that of readers), so does Hubbard’s reaction capture readers’ attention. Why does he “frown”? Why does he stop “his team”? For readers, the child’s sudden appearance creates a mystery, evoking such questions as who the child is, why this character is where she is, and why this is character running (rather than walking). Such questions and concerns also create suspense, which prompts readers to continue reading, as they seek answers to these questions and concerns.

By alternating longer with shorter paragraphs, writers not only prevent a narrative from becoming more a chore than a pleasure to read, but also change the pace of the action. In addition, using short paragraphs emphasizes what writers introduce in them––in this case, the girl’s entrance to the tale.

Paragraph 6: In this paragraph, the reason for Hubbard’s frown, an expression that, depending on the situation and context in which it occurs, can mean “high stress, unhappiness, anger, displeasure, grief, sadness and other negative thoughts such as disapproval.” The meaning of the frown can be directed at a person, the person’s behavior, or other matters. In “The Well,” Hubbard’s frown most likely expresses his disapproval of the child’s action, which raises another question for readers, thereby generating new suspense: Why does he disapprove of the child’s action? Readers do not have to wait long to find out: the next sentence identifies the cause of Hubbard’s disapproval; he is afraid that the child’s behavior in running onto the farm, might injure or even kill her, as, earlier, readers learned that the abandoned well is forty feet deep: “you’ll fall into the well.”

Suspense can be generated through a number of techniques. Already, Kilman has demonstrated three: characters’ actions, or behavior; other characters’ reactions to such actions; and questions for which, at the moment, there are no answers. Suspense can be short-lived or long-lived.

Writers can extend suspense by delaying the answers to the questions, or mystery, that actions, reactions, or unanswered questions generate or by providing explanations for some of these questions while delaying explanations for others or by explaining some and not explaining others at all. In longer stories, writers can remind readers about such matters through dialogue, a character’s memories, a dream, or other devices.

In “The Well,” Kilman immediately answers the question readers have concerning Hubbard’s disapproval of the child’s action (running onto the farm) by supplying his concern for the child’s safety through the use of dialogue, as Hubbard warns the child, “You better keep away from there, . . . or you’ll fall into the well.” However, the questions about the child’s identity, her action, and her motive remain unanswered and extend readers’ suspense as it relates to these matters.

It is clear that, whether suspense is brief or long-lasting, it is effective in maintaining readers’ interest in the story and in prompting them to read further.

Paragraph 7: Until now, although Kilman has referred to “the child” several times, readers have not learned the youth’s sex; now, they are informed that the child is a girl. Furthermore, she is characterized by her demeanor (“impish”) and her behavior: she glances at Hubbard “impishly,” or mischievously. Withholding the child’s sex created a mystery; perhaps readers may have supposed her to be a boy, in which case, her identification as a girl would be a surprise. Even if such were not the case, not knowing whether the child was a girl or a boy would have created a modicum of suspense. Mystery, or the unknown, causes suspense. The characterization of the girl as “impish” also sets up her action in the next paragraph; at the same time, such characterization creates a sense of expectation: readers expect that she may do something “impish,” also creating some measure of suspense.

Handled well, even details, such as whether a child is a girl or a boy and what he or she may do, based on his or her having a particular character trait, can generate suspense, prompting further reading.

Paragraph 8: “You and Missus Hubbard don’t speak to each other, do you?” the “impish” girl asks, an impudent question for a child to ask an adult. This question supports the narrator’s characterization of the girl as “impish.” At the same time, it raises suspense as readers wonder how Hubbard will respond: will he be amused? Annoyed? Angry? His initial reaction to seeing the girl run into the farm, although tinged with apparent annoyance and concern, suggests that Hubbard’s response to the girls’ impertinent question may be similar. To find out, readers must read on.

How would an eight-year-old girl know whether Hubbard and his wife “speak to each other?” Her statement implies that the couple are targets of local gossip. Perhaps her parents have discussed Hubbard and his wife or the girl has heard other adults do so.

Paragraph 9: Hubbard’s response involves extreme anger. He lashes the girl’s legs with his whip, causing her to yelp and run. His drastic response to the girl’s presumptuous query is likely illegal as well. His action shows him to be prone to explosive and excessive anger and violence.

An abrupt, violent, and extreme, indeed, criminal, action, especially in response to a rude, although rather trivial, question, reveals Hubbard as having a severe anger-management problem. He is not a man who is prone merely to annoyance and anger, but also to violence toward a child. His action makes him an unsympathetic character to readers, but they may still wonder why he behaves in such an extreme manner, a question that creates suspense.

Paragraph 10:

Hubbard’s workday is not finished. After having worked all day tilling a field, he finally arrives home, but, before he can eat or rest, he must drive his team to the barn and feed his stock; by the time that he finishes performing these chores, “it was after six when he entered the house,” a comparatively tiny abode as compared to “the gigantic barn in the rear.”

Hubbard’s house is a symbol. A symbol is an object that stands for, or “represents, something else, “ represents something else by association, resemblance, or convention, especially a material object used to represent something invisible,” such as a quality, a trait, or a concept.

Regarding Hubbard’s house as a symbol, a house, we often hear, is not a home. The former is the physical structure in which one lives; the latter, the emotional significance of such a place. One’s home is the place in which a person feels emotionally comfortable, where a man, woman, or child feels that he or she belongs, a place of security where one can relax and be oneself.

A house’s facade, or exterior, can represent achievement and success, based on its location, appearance, size, and expense. In a way, for many, a house represents what his or her life has amounted to, a physical symbol of accomplishment or of lack of success.

The narrator gives readers a glimpse into what Hubbard’s house suggests: “This was a structure that, by comparison with the gigantic barn in the rear, seemed pygmy-like.” Hubbard’s house, like his life, is dwarfed by the barn, which, even though it occupies a place secondary to that of his house, overshadows his dwelling.

His vocation, as a farmer, depends on nature; his existence is of relative insignificance compared to the material world on which he and his wife depend for their sustenance. His life is rooted, so to speak, in the soil, which determines much of who he is and what he can do. Perhaps this sense of his own insignificance is the source, or one of the sources, of his anger and violence, just as his team and livestock, like his farming, further indicate his dependence on nature.

Paragraph 11: This paragraph introduces Hubbard’s wife. The narrator’s description of Mrs. Hubbard is factual, as is the descriptions of her and Hubbard’s behavior, but the facts imply the conditions in which the couple live and suggest the symbolic significance of these facts of their existence.

Mrs. Hubbard is “a sallow, flat-chested woman, with a wisp of hair twisted into a knot.” She has an unhealthy appearance; her skin is “sallow,” or yellow. She lacks the feminine secondary sexual characteristic of breasts, an absence symbolic of her inability to nurture, and she does little or nothing to enhance her appearance, wearing her hair in a “twisted . . . knot,” rather than styling it. Although Hubbard and his wife appear to have little money, his wife could do more to look appealing, but she makes no effort to do so.

She assists him, taking “the two pails of milk he carried” from him and setting “them in the kitchen,” but, as the eight-year-old girl whom Hubbard earlier encountered correctly stated, neither he nor “Missus Hubbard . . . speak to each other,” and, in fact, as readers will learn, they communicate with one another through their twelve-year-old daughter. Readers, of course, will wonder why the couple behave in such a fashion, the question generating suspense.

Paragraph 12: After Hubbard performs “his ablutions,” rumpling “his hair and beard, using much soap and water and blowing stertorously,” he enters the dining room, in which his twelve-year-old daughter glances “at him timorously.”

This paragraph illustrates the effectiveness of carefully used diction, or word choice. As Mark Twain states, writers should “Use the right word, not its second cousin.” Kilman’s use of the word “ablutions” suggests a ritualistic cleansing, contrasting sharply with the minimal and perfunctory procedure that he actually applies in bathing, which, in turn, tends to ridicule him while characterizing him as rustic, if not crude.

The “use [of] the right word” in these paragraphs, as elsewhere, assists Kilman in characterizing both Hubbard and his daughter in an economical and memorable fashion.

Kilman also has his narrator characterize Hubbard’s daughter as “timorous” in her father’s presence, which recalls to readers’ minds the violent lash of the whip with which he responded to the eight-year-old girl’s impudence. Does Hubbard apply the same manner of “discipline” to his daughter as he displayed toward the younger girl?

Paragraph 13: Hubbard ignores his daughter as he had his wife. He slumps “down into a chair standing before a desk . . . littered with papers.” The narrator describes the documents as “typewritten sheets of the sort referred to as ‘pleadings’ [and] ; . . . a title-search much bethumbed and black along the edges, where the ‘set-outs’ had been scanned with obvious care.”

“Slumped” suggests that Hubbard resigns himself to the task at hand, taking no pleasure in the routine that he must perform, another example of how even a single word’s choice can provide dividends of narrative technique.

The nature of the documents, “pleadings” (i. e., “ formal, written document[s] asking the court to grant relief, or to decide . . . dispute[s]”) and a “title-search” [“the examination of public records to determine and confirm a property's legal ownership”] suggest Hubbard’s concerns, and the “bethumbed and black . . . edges” and the litter of papers on the desk implies the time, frequency, and devotion with which, however reluctantly and woefully, he has executed his study of them.

The term “set-outs” refers to annotations and explanations concerning various jargon, which suggests that Hubbard has made thorough examinations of the documents before him.

Once again, the description that Kilman provides through his narrator, like the other techniques that he uses, pays dividends. In repeatedly studying these documents, what is it that he seeks? This is yet another question that generates suspense.

Paragraph 14: This paragraph acquaints readers with the facts that Hubbard wears a pair of eyeglasses so “antiquated” that they lack frames. Eyeglasses were especially expensive in Hubbard’s day. The fact that Hubbard uses an old pair of spectacles implies that he either cannot afford a new pair or that he is unwilling to part with the money to buy them. He makes do with what he has, even when, in doings so, he presents a ridiculous appearance and probably experiences only limited vision improvement or much less improvement than that which he would receive were he to purchase new glasses.

This paragraph, like many others, shows how behavior, described in declarative sentences, can characterize individuals in a story. Readers learn more than the fact that Hubbard needs glasses, although Kilman never explicitly indicates this through a direct comment by his omniscient narrator.

Readers enjoy playing detective, even on as rudimentary level as that of discerning the implicit meaning of indirect communication such as connotative words and specific, goal-directed description can effect.

Paragraph 15: A short, single sentence introduces an action: “Presently he [Hubbard] spoke to the girl [his daughter].”

Usually, authors identify the character who speaks or thinks with a simple dialogue tag, such as “Hubbard said” or “he said.” When writers use other means to identify a character as the speaker, it is usually for the sake either of variety or emphasis.

Paragraph 16: Oddly, Hubbard directs his daughter to pass a mundane message to his wife through the agency of his daughter, using the latter as an intermediary.

This action reminds readers of the fact that he and his wife do not speak to each other (perhaps the eight-year-old girl learned this from Hubbard’s daughter at school or elsewhere), a situation that suggests alienation between them.

What has caused such a breach in their relationship, readers may wonder, a question that creates more suspense. Even a seemingly mundane incident can have narrative significance when it is related to conflict.

Paragraph 17: The manner in which the girl responds to her father’s request suggests that it is a command, and one that she dare not disobey. The rapidity of his wife’s response to his directive also implies that Mrs. Hubbard is equally reluctant to disobey. Silence continues throughout the meal, Hubbard consuming his portion as quickly as his wife and daughter followed his commands. For a second time, Hubbard communicates with his wife through his daughter: “Tell your mother . . . that I’ll want breakfast at five o’clock tomorrow morning.”

Through their respective dialogue and actions, Hubbard is characterized as tyrannical, his wife and daughter as cowed and subservient. Hubbard’s notification of his intention to have an early breakfast suggests that he has something unusual planned, a sort of foreshadowing.

Paragraph 18: The daughter asks her father where he intends to go in the morning.

The fact that the daughter is never named during the story and is identified only impersonally, as “the girl,” indicates a lack of familial love on Hubbard’s part and his dehumanization of both his wife and his daughter.

Paragraph 19: Hubbard’s response to his daughter indicates, as does his earlier study of the legal papers on his desk, that he is absorbed by a legal matter that, judging by paragraph 13, concerns a dispute over property ownership.

By presenting expository material in the form of dialogue, writers keep the story moving while providing information important to the reader and to the narrative itself.

Paragraph 20: Hubbard tracks his daughter as the girl helps her mother clear the table.

The fact that Hubbard does not pose the question he has in mind until his daughter has finished helping to clear the table may suggest that he views his next communication with his daughter to be important; he wants to speak to her without interruption, so that he has her full attention, an indication that creates suspense.

His behavior may also imply that, for him, work (at least, the work of others) takes precedent over other interactions, further characterizing him.

Paragraphs 21-22: Hubbard’s daughter denies having spoken to “that Harper child.”

It’s possible that, just as readers may have suspected, that Harper’s daughter learned from the Hubbard’s daughter that the Hubbard couple do not speak to each other. Hubbard himself suspects as much, which is why he asks his daughter whether she had spoken to “that Harper girl.”

Diction comes into play again, in Hubbard’s use of the phrases “look-a here” and a-talking,” these nonstandard expressions characterizing Hubbard as a rustic.

Paragraphs 23-26: Hubbard’s interrogation of his daughter continues; the fact that she didn’t ask Harper what he is doing “over by the fence” and left, fearing that Harper might “catch [her] watchin’ him” annoys Hubbard, who glowers, reaches for his hat, and declares his intention to “find out.”

Hubbard’s concern that his daughter might have been talking to “that Harper child,” his desire to know what Harper is doing at the fence, his annoyance at Harper’s presence near the fence, and his “snarl” that he would “find out” suggest that the men do not get along.

Perhaps, readers may wonder, the point of their animosity is associated with the title-search and pleadings that Hubbard has been studying, matters that could be connected to a dispute concerning the properties that the two men, apparently neighbors, own––or presume that they own. If so, these incidents could explain the conflict between them and foreshadow upcoming, related incidents.

Paragraphs 27-29: Hubbard’s haste to reach the fence indicates the degree of his interest in discovering what Harper is doing.

Hubbard’s strong concern about Harper’s behavior sharpens readers’ interest in the story’s unfolding events, anticipation heightening suspense. Hubbard’s concern, evident in his impatience to confront Harper, also intensifies the apparent conflict between them.

Paragraph 30: The narrator confirms readers’ suspicion as to the nature of the conflict between Hubbard and Harper: it is based on “litigation over the boundary claim that had gone on between them for four years.”

The “litter” of papers on Hubbard’s desk, his repeated study of them, and his early morning appointment with an attorney underscore the length and intensity of his property dispute with Harper and the seriousness of their conflict to both men.

By preparing for this encounter, which introduces the turning point of the story, by including such materials, Kilman has made the men’s confrontation both believable and significant. Likewise, Kilman’s emphasis of the importance of nature, as represented, in part, by his farm and those of others, to his and his family’s lives and livelihood, underscores the stakes. These details follow Edgar Allan Poe’s requirement, as set forth in both “The Importance of the Single Effect in a Prose Tale” and “The Philosophy of Composition,” that every particular of a tale should lead toward its ending’s unity of effect.

Paragraph 31: The “twin fences” have become “one of the show places in the country,” the narrator informs readers.

The narrator’s statement seems ironic, or tongue in cheek. Diction (“odd spectacle,” “twin fences,” “show places”) imply that the scene they thus create is one that amuses the public and, more to the point, writers, photographers, and editors of “agricultural journals” who share their opinion that the “spectacle” is absurd and laughable. In effect, Hubbard and Harper have become laughingstocks, which also might anger Hubbard.

Paragraphs 32-34: Hubbard, admitting his fear that Harper, having colluded with Judge Bissell, intends to deprive him of part of his land, is laughed at by Harper, who replies that he will win, but not “because Judge Bissell is unfair,” implying that justice is on his side, not Hubbard’s, and that, as a result, Hubbard will be the loser.

Action and dialogue, which reveal the characters’ respective beliefs, both characterizes the disputants and the heightens the conflict between them.

Paragraphs 35-37: Hubbard, enraged, climbs over both fences, intent upon assaulting Harper. “Startled by [Hubbard’s] outburst of temper, retreats. When Hubbard continues toward him, Harper strikes Hubbard with the shovel that he (Harper) holds. (Harper had been working on his fence when Hubbard confronted him.)

Kilman has well prepared for this moment of the story by earlier showing Hubbard’s quick temper in his lashing the eight-year-old’s legs in response to the girl’s “impish” comment that she has heard that his wife does not speak to him, which is certainly an extreme, criminal act, and by showing the fear that both Hubbard’s wife and daughter seem to experience in his presence

By foreshadowing Hubbard’s explosive temper and rash predisposition to violence, Kilman has made this incident between Hubbard and Harper believable and has indicated the danger that Hubbard’s enraged behavior represents. It is believable, thanks to this foreshadowing, to believe that Hubbard might, indeed, kill Harper. Therefore, Harper’s self-defense is justified.

Ending paragraph 35 with Harper’s striking Hubbard with the shovel creates suspense concerning the effect of Harper’s action: did he miss Hubbard, further enraging him? Injure Hubbard? Kill him?

Paragraph 38: This paragraph, one of the story’s longer ones, advises readers that Harper, who is “slightly-built,” did not miss Hubbard, but neither did he injure or kill him, and, now, Hubbard, blind with intensified rage, seemingly seeks to kill Harper.

Intensifying the conflict between the men, Kilman again ends the paragraph without its denouement: “With his huge fists [Hubbard] began to hammer [Harper’s] body. . . until it was limp. This ending heightens already heightened suspense, since Harper’s body, lying “limp” at the paragraph’s conclusion, suggests that he could be dead, Hubbard’s rage having ended in murder, whereas the previous paragraph (paragraph 35) suggested three possible outcomes of the fight to that point: a miss with the shovel, an injury, or a killing.

Paragraph 39: The storm of Hubbard’s rage subsides as quickly as it began, as he stares at Hubbard’s limp body lying on the ground before him.

Hubbard’s action, coupled with the narrator’s observation, maintain the suspense: readers still don’t know whether Harper is alive or dead, although it seems certain that he must be severely injured.

The abrupt exhaustion of Hubbard’s rage, like its sudden eruption, indicate that his anger, and thus his actions, is both uncontrollable and unpredictable, which, in turn, emphasizes the danger that he represents.

Paragraph 40: Hubbard’s single word expression reveals his shock at what he sees, if not at what he has done.

Hubbard seems to be emerging from an altered state of consciousness, as if, in his rage, he was not conscious of his actions, his single word “So!,” followed by a gasp, indicating his return to self-consciousness and horror. It is unclear whether, at this point, he associates himself with Harper’s condition.

Paragraph 41: A strange note in the action of the story occurs: “the sound of someone singing.”

After the intense fight, what can an author introduce that will continue to hold readers’ attention? Kilman’s solution is “the sound of someone singing,” which, after the spectacle of the fight (which only readers have “witnessed”) an incident that is itself startling in its apparent incongruity.

The very oddness of “the sound of someone singing” after a battle, perhaps one in which someone was killed––readers still don’t for certain whether Harper was killed––strikes an eerie narrative chord, which reignites readers’ interest with the implicit questions, Who is singing? What is being sung? And why?

The answer to at least one of these questions is answered: The omniscient narrator reports that the singer is “an itinerant Free Methodist preacher, whose church in Ovid he [Hubbard] and his family occasionally attended.”

It seems odd, given Hubbard’s personality, explosive temper, and abusive behavior, that he would be interested in attending church services or in taking his wife and daughter to them. In any case, the other two questions remain, so suspense continues.

Paragraph 42: This paragraph delivers an answer to the second question: “The song rolling forth, as the Man of God drove along the highway in his rig, was Jesus, Lover of My Soul.”

As questions are answered, suspense declines, but reader satisfaction increases. A series of implied questions related to an action or an incident allows writers to serve both their own narrative purposes while repeatedly satisfying readers’ interest in obtaining answers to such questions.

Why the preacher sings this particular song in the context of what has just occurred is unclear, although it may be simply to contrast the love of God with Hubbard’s hatred, rage, and violence, the former being a foil of sorts to the latter, giving emphasis to Hubbard’s personality and actions.

Part 2

Paragraph 43: Hubbard’s action, shielding “his face with an arm as if to ward off an invisible thing,” is also difficult to interpret.

What is the “invisible thing” that Hubbard seeks to fend off? Knowledge? Horror? Truth? Guilt? Perhaps it is nothing more than the fact that he believes that he may have done what he suspects he has done, a gesture similar to one’s wishing that what has happened hadn’t occurred. If so, the addition of his gesture, seeking to shield “his face with an arm as if to ward off an invisible thing,” adds a concrete element to the emotion implicit in the moment.

At this point, suspense continues, since readers still do not know, for certain, Harper’s fate. If nothing more, the singing, the passage of the minister driving “along the highway in his rig” (paragraph 41), and Hubbard’s action in seeming to shield “his face with an arm” serve to delay the answer to the question of whether Hubbard has, in fact, murdered Harper and, therefore, extends the suspense associated with this question.

Paragraphs 44-45: Hubbard confirms that he has murdered Harper.

Hubbard’s confirmation that he has murdered Harper eliminates the suspense generated by his assault on his neighbor, but new suspense is generated by his discovery of Harper’s destination: he was taking the train to Ovid to attend a trial, which means “that he would not be missed by his wife for at least twenty-four hours,” which should give Hubbard enough time to dispose of his victim’s body.

Will Hubbard succeed in doing so? This question launches new suspense, prompting readers to read further, as does the question as to what he will do to accomplish this goal. Although this question and others are answered fairly soon after the narrative’s action implicitly evokes them, related questions continue to surface, keeping the suspense going.

Paragraphs 46-47: As Hubbard considers his next action, “where to secrete the body,” he considers several possibilities.

Each possibility poses problems, causing Hubbard to reject them: a woods is “constantly combed by squirrel hunters”; although he might make it look as thought Harper were killed in a railroad accident “by the very train he was bound for,” he realizes that the distance to which he would have to haul Harper’s body is too far in the time he has at his disposal. By raising and rejecting these possibilities, Kilman keeps readers guessing, as it were, as to what means, if any, Hubbard will accomplish his task. Thus, he maintains suspense.

Paragraph 48: At last, Hubbard decides on a place at which to secrete Harper’s body: the abandoned well on the Eldridge premises.

This solution to the problem of where to hide Harper’s body bring this chain of suspense to an end. Readers will wonder, now, what will happen next. This question itself creates new suspense.

Paragraphs 49-50: Returning home, Hubbard finds the itinerant preacher praying with his wife and daughter and urges him to stop.

This incident creates new suspense, as readers wonder how the preacher or Hubbard’s family will react to his directive and whether any of them will consider Hubbard’s action suspicious.

Paragraphs 51-53: Although the preacher seems, initially, to object to Hubbard’s telling him not to pray any longer, Hubbard insists, saying he needs to speak in private to his family, and, when Hubbard gives him a silver coin, the preacher leaves.

Again, the suspense raised by paragraphs 48-49 is brief, but the question as to what Hubbard will say to his wife and daughter raises new suspense.

Paragraphs 54-57: Hubbard establishes an alibi, telling his daughter that Harper had left the fence by the time he’d arrived and that he was delayed in returning home because he had to check on raccoons that could devastate their corn crop.

Paragraphs 58-61: Neither Hubbard’s wife nor his daughter appear to believe his story; angered, he sends them off to bed.

Perhaps Hubbard’s approach, uncharacteristically patient and even generous (by his terms)––he offers to share the bounty on their pelts if they can “catch ‘em”––makes Mrs. Hubbard and their daughter wary; for whatever reason, he sends them to bed. This change in his typical tyrannical and abusive manner may indicate the beginning of a transformation or, more likely, it is nothing more than a result of his manipulation and duplicity.

The attempt would be mildly suspenseful if it were more believable that Hubbard would be capable of genuine generosity and change; instead, readers are more likely to consider it to be a means of further characterization regarding Hubbard. In determining the nature of such elements, context is the key.

Neither the wife nor the daughter is convinced by his ruse, Hubbard sees, and the fact that the daughter whimpers indicates her fear: she sees through her father’s act and is unconvinced and fearful.

Paragraphs 62 and 63: These paragraphs recount two instances that tighten the emotional noose around Hubbard’s neck: his court case is adjourned because of Harper’s failure to appear and, the next day, as he is working in the field, passersby call him “to the roadside” to “discuss the disappearance of Harper.”

Readers can imagine how stress, if not guilt, builds within Hubbard. These paragraphs also increase the tension of stress in readers as suspense continues to mount: will Hubbard get away with his crime or will justice be served?

Paragraph 64: Hubbard is “haunted” again, as it were, when he sees Harper’s daughter sitting at the edge of the well.

Readers learn what they may already have suspected: the eight-year-old girl whom Hubbard earlier chastised and struck with a whip is Harper’s daughter. Her presence at the site at which he has hidden Harper’s body must have frightened Hubbard badly, and, in the next four paragraphs, he acts angrily and violently, as is his custom.

Paragraphs 65-69: Hastening toward the girl, he reminds her of his warning “to stay away from” the well, except, this time, he replaces the word “well” with “there,” almost as though he is afraid to speak of the place as if, in doing so, he might jinx himself. The narrator characterizes his manner of speech as explosive, indicating his extreme anger. He has enough presence of mind, however, to glance at the road to make sure that no one is walking or driving by before seizing the girl by her arm, spinning “her roughly,” and demanding that she return home.

Like the two previous paragraphs, this one shows Hubbard’s growing anxiety and fear, to which he reacts as he does everything else that annoys, frustrates, frightens, or inconveniences him: with anger and violence.

The fact that this scene occurs a week after Harper’s disappearance had become known to the public suggests that Hubbard’s fear of being discovered as his murderer has grown worse, and his behavior worsens accordingly. Will he be caught? This question continues the situation’s suspense.

Paragraphs 70-71: Hubbard “works his horses hard,” awaiting the opportunity to return to the well to ensure that the Harper girl has not returned. When she is not present, he seems relieved, attributing her absence to her having lunch. However, when he returns again, at four o’clock, she is back, sitting beside the well, into which she peers, “acting queerly.”

Hubbard’s anxiety is relieved when he finds that the Harper girl has not returned to the well, as he’d feared she might, but his relief is temporary, for, when he returns four hours later, the girl is back at the well. Kilman does a good job of alternately escalating and relieving Hubbard’s anxiety and, thus, the story’s suspense and readers’ tension.

Paragraphs 72-77: Upon seeing the Harper girl at the well, Hubbard dismounts from his wagon, takes her hand, and leads her to her house “a short distance away,” where he encounters Mrs. Harper, distraught and weeping. He delivers her daughter, admonishing her to keep “her at home,” lest she “fall into the well.”

Hubbard’s anxiety continues to mount, as does his superstitious behavior. Whereas previously, he substituted “there” for “well,” as if, by saying “well,” he would bring down bad luck upon himself (paragraph 65), he now makes a point not to look into the well, probably because he fears that he may find it empty (paragraph 71), meaning that his victim’s body has been discovered and removed and that, of course, his murder will almost certainly be suspected.

Readers may wonder whether his recommendation that Mrs. Harper keep her daughter at home so that the girl doesn’t “fall into the well” could foreshadow Hubbard’s future means of dispatching the girl, whose visits to the well could attract the attention of the police and result in the discovery of Harper’s body. If this idea does occur to readers, it is apt to evoke a new line of suspense.

Mrs. Hubbard’s grief is so strong that she is able to respond to her daughter’s return only by holding her hands out to receive the child, an indication of the suffering that Hubbard’s murder of Harper has caused for both his wife and daughter.

Paragraphs 78-79: Although Hubbard attempts to engage Mrs. Harper in conversation concerning he husband’s disappearance, she makes it clear that she doesn’t “want to talk to” him.

Although Hubbard has just returned Mrs. Harper’s daughter after rescuing her from a potentially dangerous situation, she does not thank him, nor is she willing to talk to him.

Aware of both the longstanding legal issue between the men and its cause as well as, most probably, her husband’s having gone to work on the fence on the day of his death, does she suspect that Hubbard may have killed her husband, refusing to speak to him because of her anger toward and fear of him, or is she simply unwilling to converse with him because of her oppressive grief?

By implicitly multiplying her motives, Kilman both complexifies and enriches the possible directions of the tale.

Paragraphs 80-83: As he leaves the Harper’s abode, Hubbard finds the deputy sheriff waiting for him. The lawman suggests that Hubbard might be a suspect in Harper’s disappearance, based on the fact that the two men had long been at odds over the boundary between their respective properties.

The deputy’s announcement must have made Hubbard’s blood pressure rise considerably, but he plays it cool, even managing to laugh. By having Hubbard control his emotions for once, Kilman extends the suspense concerning whether he will be charged with Harper’s murder.

At the same time, Kilman further characterizes Hubbard by showing that, should circumstances promote self-control, Hubbard is able to exercise it. This fact makes his murder of Harper even more reprehensible.

Paragraph 84: Not only is Hubbard able to remain calm, outwardly, at least, but he is also able to counter the deputy’s argument with one of his own (Harper’s desertion of his wife and child).

A rational counter to the deputy’s argument that the boundary feud between Hubbard and Harper could constitute a motive for Hubbard’s having murdered Harper shows, even more, that Hubbard can both control his temper and think clearly under stress. His reply to the deputy twice indicates his ability to retain self-control: he did not “explode” when the deputy directed suspicion at him, and he provided a possible reason for Harper’s disappearance unrelated to murder.

Moreover, rather than Hubbard’s devising this alternative explanation of Harper’s disappearance on the spot, under pressure, seems unlikely. Instead, it seems more probable that that he conceived it prior to his encounter with the lawman, having previously given some thought to his crime, its effects, and ways to divert suspicion from himself.

Paragraphs 85-87: For several nights after his encounter with the deputy sheriff, the narrator tells readers, Hubbard experienced sleepless nights, perhaps, readers may assume, due to his continued anxiety about being charged with Harper’s murder. During “an electric storm,” he walks, through the downpour, to the well, where he observes that lightning has split the oak, part of which has fallen over the “mouth” of the well.

This change in the situation shows how well Kilman plotted his story. At the outset of the tale, he called readers’ attention to the oak that stands beside the well, describing the tree in some detail so that it would stand out and be memorable.

The attention given to the tree indicated that it was likely to be important to the story; now, as the narrator reintroduces the oak, readers are likely to take note and pay close attention to its description.

Although readers are not provided an account of Hubbard’s reaction to the sight of the split tree, part of which now lies across the opening to the well, they may well imagine that Hubbard is elated, since the fallen part of the oak now closes off the well, all but preventing the discovery and identification of the murder victim’s body.

It might seem safe to assume that Hubbard believes, or hopes, that he has committed murder with impunity, although, of course, more remains of the story. Readers’ hope that the villain will be brought to justice, even now, creates the suspense that inspires them to continue reading. What further “surprises” might Kilman have in store?

Part 3 (starts with paragraph 88)

Paragraphs 88-98: The end of the story begins with a visit to Hubbard by Simpson, “the man with the tin Lizzie,” the narrator informs readers, thus sparking their memory of the character who was introduced toward the beginning of the story but has not been mentioned since, until now. Simpson brings word of the discovery of a “skeleton in the center of that tree” that was recently split by lightning. According to the sheriff, the skeleton might be that of a man who was killed in Ovid seventy-five years ago, whose remains were never found. Clearing his throat, Hubbard asks what Simpson did with the skeleton. In seeking to recover the bones, replies Simpson, “the skull and one of the leg bones fell down into the well,” and he wants to borrow a rope so he can climb down inside the well and retrieve the skull, which he intends to display. Hubbard recommends that Simpson fill in the well instead, since it is “dangerous,” but, when Simpson won’t be deterred, Hubbard says that he will get the rope and assist Simpson.

Hubbard must find Simpson’s news terrifying, and he attempts to dissuade him from his endeavor to retrieve the skeleton’s skull. Unsuccessful, he offers to help Simpson accomplish his task. Again, under pressure, Hubbard remains relatively calm and introduces measures intended first to dissuade Simpson and then to accompany him.

Will Hubbard murder another man to prevent the discovery of the first one he killed? Suspense continues along this new line of action.

By referencing Hubbard’s sharp clearing of his throat, Kilman indicates his shock upon hearing of the news of the skeleton’s discovery (paragraph 91), and by stating that Hubbard was silent was “for a bare second” (paragraph 93), Kilman suggests that Hubbard was thinking of a way to dissuade Simpson from retrieving the skeleton’s skull, which results in his statement that “What you ought to do . . . is to fill up that hole [i. e., well]” because “it’s dangerous.”

When Simpson agrees, but states that he will refrain from doing so until he has retrieved the skull, Hubbard offers to assist him, showing, again, that, under pressure, he can be cool and think clearly, again making his murder of Harper during a moment of rage despicable.

Kilman is adept at using description and dialogue to advance his plot while also characterizing his protagonist in the process.

Paragraphs 99-107: These paragraphs continue to advance and develop the story as, surprisingly, Hubbard volunteers to descend into the well to retrieve the bones and then fill in the well. Simpson wires “the bleached bones together and [suspends] them from one of the branches of the fallen tree,” creating an exhibit that draws crowds.

These paragraphs suggest that, although they might not themselves commit murder, people are, in general, intrigued by the effects of the crime, an indirect and cynical assessment of human nature in general that is appropriate to the horror genre.

Paragraph 108: The narrator informs readers that the display of the skeleton and the delay in filling in the well prey upon Hubbard, who thought that by filling in the well he would, in effect, have sealed off his conscience and that his “mind” would then “be at rest.”

The skeleton is a reminder of Hubbard’s crime; the crowds it draws, a reminder of the public’s interest in Harper’s disappearance; the well, a symbol of the secret crime that Hubbard has committed and his unending guilt and fear of discovery, just as the presence of the Harper child at the time that Hubbard and Simpson arrived at the well to collect the bones therein is likely a reminder to Hubbard of the murder of the girl’s father.

By reminding readers of these events, the author keeps them before their minds, as they are kept before Hubbard’s mind. The question as to whether Hubbard will be found out and prosecuted continues the story’s suspense.

Paragraph 109: Hubbard’s fear and guilt cause him sleepless nights, during which, after his wife and daughter are asleep, he slips out of the house.

The effects of fear and guilt are shown not only to persist, but also to intensify, prompting action even when action has before proved ineffective. Readers are apt to wonder what Hubbard does after he slips out of the house at night, another source of suspense.

Paragraphs 110-113: Hubbard walks, then, later, runs at night, attracting attention and inspiring the story that the skeleton’s ghost haunts “the locality of the well.” Could this be foreshadowing? Even if it turns out not to be, the suggestion creates suspense. Some night, he runs for miles, but he always ends his “nightly prowls” at the well, where, exhausted, he sits, until nearly dawn, “staring at the swinging skeleton, mouthing incoherencies, praying, singing hymns beneath his breath, laughing.”

The effects of his long-term guilt and fear have driven Hubbard, instinctively, to seek to escape, but his nightly walks-become-runs are of no avail. Eventually, he turns to ritualized attempts to exorcise his inner demons, babbling, “praying, singing hymns below his breath, laughing,” all, again, to no avail. No matter what he tries, he cannot escape the guilt and fear caused by his murder of Harper.

The fact that he mouths “incoherencies” suggests than he may be approaching madness. The question of whether he will become mad is another source of suspense.

Paragraphs 114-115: After the public’s interest in the skeleton’s display wanes, Hubbard returns to the well to fill it in, bringing, over a period of two days, “stones and small boulders” to the site, and dumping the loads into the well. On the second day, he begins “to experience surcease”––until, that is, Simpson joins him in the afternoon.

At last, it seems that Hubbard may find peace. By filling in the well, he may, in effect, cap off his conscience, as he hopes. Simpson’s arrival, introduced by the preposition “but,” indicating “if it were not for the fact that,” suggests that such will not be the case:

Paragraphs 116-122: Simpson introduces two plot complication: the Harper girl has “dropped a pair of andirons down the well” while playing at the site, and Hubbard must retrieve them because they are “relics.” In addition, Hubbard cannot fill in the well, since Simpson does not have the authority to authorize such an action; as he explains, “I was kiddin’ you. . . . I’m only rentin’ the farm. I ain’t got nothin’ to do with the house and yard.”

Many plot complications are introduced by character’s actions, although situational developments, new conflicts between or among characters, and new incidents can also accomplish this objective.

Paragraphs 123-126: Returning home for his rope and returning with it and a laborer to assist him, Hubbard methodically removes the stones he has already dumped into the well, but he is unable to find the andirons. Exhausted by his work, he returns home.

Hubbard’s hopes of continuing to conceal his crime are frustrated or defeated time after time. Will he ever succeed? The question promotes suspense.

Paragraph 127-129: Unable to sleep despite resorting to sleeping powders, Hubbard gets up “sometime after midnight” and sees a light in his wife’s room. Hearing his wife and daughter conversing “in low voices,” he imagines that they are talking about “Harper’s disappearance,” and he leaves, “mumbling to himself,” and runs past the Eldridge house, but returns on his path after thinking that he has spotted someone approaching.

Harper’s inability to sleep, even after taking “sleeping powders,” suggests the depths of his guilt and fear. Although his wife and daughter may be speaking low only to avoid awakening him, he imagines, from his perspective, a sinister motive: they may be discussing “Harper’s disappearance.”

His action in fleeing into the night, with no apparent purpose or direction, as he mumbles “to himself,” indicates his panic.

It may be, also, that he mumbles to himself because he has no one to whom to talk, because he has no one in whom he trusts, an ironic reversal on the Harper girl’s earlier remark that Mrs. Hubbard wont speak to him.

His only thought, as he runs, is to bypass the “Eldridge place.” Nevertheless, he turns back upon seeing, or thinking that he sees, someone approaching him. For some reason, or, perhaps for no reason, the apparently approaching figure seems to frighten him more than the Eldridge place, which creates an element of suspense.

Paragraphs 130-131: The narrator identifies “an irresistible force” that draws Hubbard forward, down the Eldridge pathway to the well, “which [seems to gape] at him.” After staring into “the black depths,” he screams and plunges “in headfirst.”

What is the “irresistible force,” readers are likely to wonder. How did it draw Hubbard to the “Eldridge pathway” and, down it, to the well? Why did he stare “into the black depths” of the well before, “screaming, he plunged in headfirst”? Who hears his cry “quivering on the night air”? Each of these questions generates suspense anew.

Paragraph 132-135: This paragraph answers the question of who heard Hubbard’s scream: his frightened wife and daughter, “in the Hubbard home, a quarter or a mile away.”

Although his wife has known Hubbard for at least more than a decade (the couple have a twelve-year-old daughter), and probably longer, she does not recognize the sound of her husband’s scream. Indeed, to her ears, the sound appears to be inhuman; she asks not “Who’s that?” but “What’s that?”

Her shock, fear, and uncertainty encourage readers to suppose that the screams that she hears, ostensibly of her husband, may be something ethereal and uncanny. The ghost of the murdered man, perhaps?

On the other hand, on a figurative level, such a spirit could symbolize the guilt and fear that Hubbard has experienced since murdering Harper, which, in the psychological sense of obsession, clearly “haunts” him. He certainly seems to have gone mad, by degrees, and the well appears to be associated, symbolically, with his mind, which conceals not only his deed but also its psychological consequences, guilt and fear of exposure and, probably, of punishment.

Perhaps the “irresistible force” was nothing more than his obsession, his guilt, and his fear and his seemingly inhuman scream the sound of a madman’s obsessions with his crime and its effects upon him as well as a reflection of his wife’s terror.

The story does not present any obviously supernatural effects or entities. Instead, it presents an uneducated rustic given to tyranny and abuse who is apparently driven mad by the guilt and fear that he experiences after he murders a neighbor in a fit of rage. Hubbard has a vivid imagination and few effective coping mechanisms.

What suggestions of supernatural forces there are in the story are based on Hubbard’s own distorted reasoning, emotions, perceptions, and obsession. For these reasons, “The Well” is a psychological story concerning the inescapable consequences of murder, guilt, and fear, namely, madness, rather than a supernatural tale of ghostly vengeance.

Note: This analysis is an example of an explication du texte, “a French formalist method . . . similar to close reading in the English-speaking literary tradition. . . . [that involves] a detailed, relatively objective examination of structure, style, imagery, and other aspects of a work” (“Explication de Texte”), but it is one that is informed, also, by the approaches to literary criticism set forth by Aristotle in his Poetics, by Gustav Freytag in his Die Technik des Dramas, and Edgar Allan Poe in his “The Importance of the Single Effect in a Prose Tale” and “The Philosophy of Composition.”

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