Charles Ashmore’s Trail by Ambrose Bierce
The family of Christian Ashmore consisted of his wife, his mother, two
grown daughters, and a son of sixteen years. They lived in Troy,
New York, were well-to-do, respectable persons, and had many friends,
some of whom, reading these lines, will doubtless learn for the first
time the extraordinary fate of the young man. From Troy the Ashmores
moved in 1871 or 1872 to Richmond, Indiana, and a year or two later
to the vicinity of Quincy, Illinois, where Mr. Ashmore bought a farm
and lived on it. At some little distance from the farmhouse was
a spring with a constant flow of clear, cold water, whence the family
derived its supply for domestic use at all seasons.
On the evening of the 9th of November in 1878, at about nine o’clock,
young Charles Ashmore left the family circle about the hearth, took
a tin bucket and started toward the spring. As he did not return,
the family became uneasy, and going to the door by which he had left
the house, his father called without receiving an answer. He then
lighted a lantern and with the eldest daughter, Martha, who insisted
on accompanying him, went in search. A light snow had fallen,
obliterating the path, but making the young man’s trail conspicuous;
each footprint was plainly defined. After going a little more
than half-way - perhaps seventy-five yards - the father, who was in
advance, halted, and elevating his lantern stood peering intently into
the darkness ahead.
“What is the matter, father?” the girl asked.
This was the matter: the trail of the young man had abruptly ended,
and all beyond was smooth, unbroken snow. The last footprints
were as conspicuous as any in the line; the very nail-marks were distinctly
visible. Mr. Ashmore looked upward, shading his eyes with his
hat held between them and the lantern. The stars were shining;
there was not a cloud in the sky; he was denied the explanation which
had suggested itself, doubtful as it would have been - a new snowfall
with a limit so plainly defined. Taking a wide circuit round the
ultimate tracks, so as to leave them undisturbed for further examination,
the man proceeded to the spring, the girl following, weak and terrified.
Neither had spoken a word of what both had observed. The spring
was covered with ice, hours old.
Returning to the house they noted the appearance of the snow on both
sides of the trail its entire length. No tracks led away from
The morning light showed nothing more. Smooth, spotless, unbroken,
the shallow snow lay everywhere.
Four days later the grief-stricken mother herself went to the spring
for water. She came back and related that in passing the spot
where the footprints had ended she had heard the voice of her son and
had been eagerly calling to him, wandering about the place, as she had
fancied the voice to be now in one direction, now in another, until
she was exhausted with fatigue and emotion.
Questioned as to what the voice had said, she was unable to tell, yet
averred that the words were perfectly distinct. In a moment the
entire family was at the place, but nothing was heard, and the voice
was believed to be an hallucination caused by the mother’s great
anxiety and her disordered nerves. But for months afterward, at
irregular intervals of a few days, the voice was heard by the several
members of the family, and by others. All declared it unmistakably
the voice of Charles Ashmore; all agreed that it seemed to come from
a great distance, faintly, yet with entire distinctness of articulation;
yet none could determine its direction, nor repeat its words.
The intervals of silence grew longer and longer, the voice fainter and
farther, and by midsummer it was heard no more.
If anybody knows the fate of Charles Ashmore it is probably his mother.
She is dead.