Elm Street. Photo by Tickle­bug.

There was in Athens a house, spa­cious and open, but with an infam­ous repu­ta­tion, as if filled with pes­ti­lence. For in the dead of night, a noise like the clash­ing of iron could be heard. And if one listened care­fully, it soun­ded like the rat­tling of chains. At first the noise seemed to be at a dis­tance, but then it would approach, nearer, nearer, nearer. Sud­denly a phantom would appear, an old man, pale and ema­ci­ated, with a long beard, and hair that appeared driven by the wind. The fet­ters on his feet and hands rattled as he moved them.

Any dwell­ers in the house passed sleep­less nights under the most dis­mal ter­rors ima­gin­able. The nights without rest led them to a kind of mad­ness, and as the hor­rors in their minds increased, onto a path toward death. Even in the daytime–when the phantom did not appear–the memory of the night­mare was so strong that it still passed before their eyes. The ter­ror remained when the cause of it was gone.

Damned as unin­hab­it­able, the house was at last deser­ted, left to the spec­tral mon­ster. But in hope that some ten­ant might be found who was unaware of the malevol­ence within it, the house was pos­ted for rent or sale.

It happened that a philo­sopher named Athen­odorus came to Athens at that time. Read­ing the pos­ted bill, he dis­covered the dwelling’s price. The extraordin­ary cheapness raised his sus­pi­cion, yet when he heard the whole story, he was not in the least put off. Indeed, he was eager to take the place. And did so immediately.

As even­ing drew near, Athen­odorus had a couch pre­pared for him in the front sec­tion of the house. He asked for a light and his writ­ing mater­i­als, then dis­missed his retain­ers. To keep his mind from being dis­trac­ted by vain ter­rors of ima­gin­ary noises and appar­i­tions, he dir­ec­ted all his energy toward his writing.

For a time the night was silent. Then came the rat­tling of fet­ters. Athen­odorus neither lif­ted up his eyes, nor laid down his pen. Instead he closed his ears by con­cen­trat­ing on his work. But the noise increased and advanced closer till it seemed to be at the door, and at last in the very cham­ber. Athen­odorus looked round and saw the appar­i­tion exactly as it had been described to him. It stood before him, beck­on­ing with one finger.

Athen­odorus made a sign with his hand that the vis­itor should wait a little, and bent over his work. The ghost, how­ever, shook the chains over the philosopher’s head, beck­on­ing as before. Athen­odorus now took up his lamp and fol­lowed. The ghost moved slowly, as if held back by his chains. Once it reached the court­yard, it sud­denly vanished.

Athen­odorus, now deser­ted, care­fully marked the spot with a hand­ful of grass and leaves. The next day he asked the magis­trate to have the spot dug up. There they found–intertwined with chains–the bones that were all that remained of a body that had long lain in the ground. Care­fully, the skeletal rel­ics were col­lec­ted and given proper burial, at pub­lic expense. The tor­tured ancient was at rest. And the house in Athens was haunted no more.

Ghost story from Pliny’s Letters

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