(Originally written by Hector Hugh Munro ‘Saki’)
Framton Nuttel was a quiet, nervous man who had come to the countryside to rest and recover. His doctor had advised him to stay away from busy cities and people for a while and instead enjoy some peaceful time in the countryside. But Framton wasn’t quite sure if this idea was helping him at all. He was following his sister’s suggestion and visiting strangers to be more social—but deep down, he doubted if it would do any good for his nerves.
“You’ll just stay locked in a room all day if no one pushes you,” his sister had told him firmly before he left. “You need to talk to people, not hide like a lonely ghost. I’ll give you letters of introduction to some families I know there. They’re good people, as far as I remember.”
And so, Framton found himself at the home of a woman named Mrs. Sappleton, who had received one of those letters. As he waited in the cozy but slightly odd living room, he was welcomed by a confident and calm young girl, about fifteen years old. Her name was Vera.
“My aunt will be down shortly, Mr. Nuttel,” she said politely, but with a kind of maturity that didn’t quite match her age. “In the meantime, you’ll have to make do with me.”
Framton smiled awkwardly. He wanted to say something that would sound polite and respectful to Vera without saying anything that might sound rude about her aunt, who hadn’t even arrived yet. But honestly, he wasn’t good at conversations—especially with strangers.
He felt uncomfortable. The house felt quiet, almost too quiet, and that made his thoughts feel louder inside his head.
“Do you know many people around here?” Vera asked after a few moments of silence.
“Not really,” he replied. “My sister stayed here once about four years ago, at the rectory nearby. She gave me these letters of introduction to a few people she met here.”
As he spoke, he sounded like he already regretted making this visit.
“So… you don’t know anything about my aunt then?” the girl asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Not really,” Framton admitted. “Just her name and address.”
Vera looked toward the big window in the room. It was a large French window that opened straight out onto the garden lawn. To Framton’s surprise, the window was wide open—even though it was an October afternoon.
“My aunt went through something terrible three years ago,” Vera said softly.
Framton turned his head quickly. “A tragedy? In a place like this?” he said. The countryside seemed too calm and peaceful for something tragic to happen.
“Yes,” Vera said in a serious voice. “You may be wondering why we keep that window open. Most people do. But it’s because of what happened.”
She paused dramatically, then began to tell the story.
“Exactly three years ago today,” she said, “my aunt’s husband and her two younger brothers left the house through that very window. They were going hunting on the moorlands, and they took their little brown spaniel with them. My uncle had his white raincoat folded over his arm, and my youngest uncle, Ronnie, was singing a silly song just to tease my aunt. He always sang, ‘Bertie, why do you bound?’ because she hated it—it annoyed her so much.”
Framton listened quietly. He noticed how Vera’s voice, which had been steady and calm before, now sounded a bit more emotional.
“But they never came back,” she continued, lowering her voice. “They walked across the moor and stepped into a deep, dangerous bog. That summer had been unusually wet, and many places that were usually safe became deadly traps. The land gave way under their feet… and they were lost forever.”
She looked down at her hands as she finished the sentence.
“No one ever found their bodies,” she said. “That’s the saddest part. My aunt never gave up hope. She believes that one day, they’ll come walking back in through that window, just like they did before. That’s why she keeps it open until sunset—every single day.”
Framton sat there in stunned silence. He felt a strange chill run down his spine. He turned and looked at the wide-open window. The soft light of the late afternoon was spilling into the room, and the garden beyond looked peaceful—but now it felt eerie.
Before he could say anything, Mrs. Sappleton entered the room with a cheerful smile and an apologetic tone.
“I’m so sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Nuttel,” she said in a lively voice. “I hope Vera has been entertaining you.”
“She’s been… very interesting,” Framton said carefully.
“I hope you don’t mind the open window,” Mrs. Sappleton said casually. “My husband and brothers will be back from their shooting trip at any moment, and they always come in through that window. Honestly, they’ll get mud all over my carpets again. But that’s just men, isn’t it?”
She laughed lightly and began chatting about the weather, the poor number of birds they’d been seeing this season, and how the duck-hunting would likely improve during winter. Her voice was full of energy, but Framton wasn’t listening. His mind was spinning.
He glanced at her in confusion. Didn’t she know? Or was this part of her denial—was she pretending that nothing had happened?
Framton began to speak, trying to steer the conversation away from these disturbing topics. He started telling her about his health problems.
“The doctors have all recommended complete rest,” he explained. “No excitement, no physical activity, no stress. Just peace and quiet. Although they can’t seem to agree on the best diet.”
He chuckled nervously, but Mrs. Sappleton looked only mildly interested. She wasn’t really paying attention. Her eyes kept drifting toward the open window and the garden beyond.
Then suddenly she brightened.
“There they are!” she said excitedly. “Right on time for tea. And just look at them—muddy from head to toe, I’m sure!”
Framton froze.
He turned toward Vera with a confused, frightened look. But what he saw in her face terrified him even more. Her eyes were wide with shock, her mouth slightly open. She looked terrified.
Framton slowly turned toward the window.
In the fading light of dusk, he saw three men walking across the lawn. All three carried guns. One of them had a white raincoat slung over his arm. A brown dog trotted beside them.
Then, from the shadows, a voice called out cheerfully, “I said, Bertie, why do you bound?”
Framton jumped to his feet, panic rising in his chest. He grabbed his hat and walking stick and dashed out of the room like a madman. He didn’t say a word. He raced through the hallway, down the gravel path, and out the front gate. He didn’t stop running until he was far down the road.
A man on a bicycle swerved to avoid him and crashed into a hedge.
Back inside the house, the three men stepped in through the window, laughing and chatting.
“We’re back, dear,” said the man with the raincoat. “Bit muddy out there, but we had a great day. Who was that man who ran off just now?”
Mrs. Sappleton looked puzzled.
“That was Mr. Nuttel,” she said. “Strangest man I’ve ever met. He only talked about his illnesses, and the moment you walked in, he ran away as if he’d seen a ghost!”
The man raised an eyebrow. “A ghost? What’s going on?”
Vera, still sitting calmly, smiled a little.
“He told me he was terrified of dogs,” she said casually. “Said he was once chased by wild dogs in India and had to hide all night in a graveyard. Poor man. It must’ve brought back memories.”
She gave a soft, innocent shrug.
Telling dramatic stories on the spot was something Vera was very, very good at.