The Damned Thing

by Ambrose Bierce



BY the light of a tallow candle, which had been placed on one end of a rough

table, a man was reading something written in a book. It was an old account

book, greatly worn; and the writing was not, apparently, very legible, for the

man sometimes held the page close to the flame of the candle to get a stronger

light upon it. The shadow of the book would then throw into obscurity a half of

the room, darkening a number of faces and figures; for besides the reader, eight

other men were present. Seven of them sat against the rough log walls, silent

and motionless, and, the room being small, not very far from the table. By

extending an arm any one of them could have touched the eighth man, who lay on

the table, face upward, partly covered by a sheet, his arms at his sides. He was


The man with the book was not reading aloud, and no one spoke; all seemed to be

waiting for something to occur; the dead man only was without expectation. From

the blank darkness outside came in, through the aperture that served for a

window, all the ever unfamiliar noises of night in the wilderness— the long,

nameless note of a distant coyote; the stilly pulsing thrill of tireless insects

in trees; strange cries of night birds, so different from those of the birds of

day; the drone of great blundering beetles, and all that mysterious chorus of

small sounds that seem always to have been but half heard when they have

suddenly ceased, as if conscious of an indiscretion. But nothing of all this was

noted in that company; its members were not overmuch addicted to idle interest

in matters of no practical importance; that was obvious in every line of their

rugged faces— obvious even in the dim light of the single candle. They were

evidently men of the vicinity— farmers and woodmen.

The person reading was a trifle different; one would have said of him that he

was of the world, worldly, albeit there was that in his attire which attested a

certain fellowship with the organisms of his environment. His coat would hardly

have passed muster in San Francisco: his footgear was not of urban origin, and

the hat that lay by him on the floor (he was the only one uncovered) was such

that if one had considered it as an article of mere personal adornment he would

have missed its meaning. In countenance the man was rather prepossessing, with

just a hint of sternness; though that he may have assumed or cultivated, as

appropriate to one in authority. For he was a coroner. It was by virtue of his

once that he had possession of the book in which he was reading; it had been

found among the dead man's effects— in his cabin, where the inquest was now

taking place.

When the coroner had finished reading he put the book into his breast pocket. At

that moment the door was pushed open and a young man entered. He, clearly, was

not of mountain birth and breeding: he was clad as those who dwell in cities.

His clothing was dusty, however, as from travel. He had, in fact, been riding

hard to attend the inquest.

The coroner nodded; no one else greeted him.

'We have waited for you,' said the coroner. 'It is necessary to have done with

this business to-night.,'

The young man smiled. 'I am sorry to have kept you,' he said. 'I went away, not

to evade your summons, but to post to my newspaper an account of what I suppose

I am called back to relate.'

The coroner smiled.

'The account that you posted to your newspaper,' he said, 'differs probably from

that which you will give here under oath.'

'That,' replied the other, rather hotly and with a visible flush, 'is as you

choose. I used manifold paper and have a copy of what I sent. It was not written

as news, for it is incredible, but as fiction. It may go as a part of my

testimony under oath.'

'But you say it is incredible.'

'That is nothing to you, sir, if I also swear that it is true.'

The coroner was apparently not greatly affected by the young man's manifest

resentment. He was silent for some moments, his eyes upon the floor. The men

about the sides of the cabin talked in whispers, but seldom withdrew their gaze

from the face of the corpse. Presently the coroner lifted his eyes and said: 'We

will resume the inquest.'

The men removed their hats. The witness was sworn.

'What is your name?' the coroner asked.

'William Harker.'



'You knew the deceased, Hugh Morgan?'


'You were with him when he died?'

'Near him.'

'How did that happen— your presence, I mean?'

'I was visiting him at this place to shoot and fish. A part of my purpose,

however, was to study him, and his odd, solitary way of life. He seemed a good

model for a character in fiction. I sometimes write stories.'

'I sometimes read them.'

'Thank you.'

'Stories in general— not yours.'

Some of the jurors laughed. Against a sombre background humor shows high lights.

Soldiers in the intervals of battle laugh easily, and a jest in the death

chamber conquers by surprise.

'Relate the circumstances of this man's death,' said the coroner. 'You may use

any notes or memoranda that you please.'

The witness understood. Pulling a manuscript from his breast pocket he held it

near the candle, and turning the leaves until he found the passage that he

wanted, began to read.


'...The sun had hardly risen when we left the house. We were looking for quail,

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