A Night in Monk-Hall

Six years ago, in 1836, on a foggy night in spring, at the hour of one
o'clock, I found myself reposing in one of the chambers of this
mansion, on an old-fashioned bed, side by side with a girl, who,
before her seduction, had resided in my native village. It was one
o'clock when I was aroused by a hushed sound, like the noise of a
distant struggle. I awoke, started up in bed, and looked round. The
room was entirely without light, save from the fire-place, where a few
pieces of half-burned wood, emitted a dim and uncertain flame. Now it
flashed up brightly, giving a strange lustre to the old furniture of
the room, the high-backed mahogany chairs, the antiquated bureau, and
the low ceiling, with heavy cornices around the walls. Again the flame
died away and all was darkness. I listened intently. I could hear no
sound, save the breathing of the girl who slept by my side. And as I
listened, a sudden awe came over me. True, I heard no noise, but that
my sleep had been broken by a most appalling sound, I could not doubt.
And the stories I had heard of Monk-hall came over me. Years before,
in my native village, a wild rollicking fellow, Paul Western, Cashier
of the County Bank, had indulged my fancy with strange stories of a
brothel, situated in the outskirts of Philadelphia. Paul was a wild
fellow, rather good looking, and went often to the city on business.
He spoke of Monk-hall as a place hard to find, abounding in mysteries,
and darkened by hideous crimes committed within its walls. It had
three stories of chambers beneath the earth, as well as above. Each of
these chambers was supplied with trap doors, through the which the
unsuspecting man might be flung by his murderer, without a moment's
warning. There was but one range of rooms above the ground, where
these trap-doors existed. From the garret to the first story, all in
the same line, like the hatchways in a storehouse, sank this range of
trap-doors, all carefully concealed by the manner in which the carpets
were fixed. A secret spring in the wall of any one of these chambers,
communicated with the spring hidden beneath the carpet. The spring in
the wall might be so arranged, that a single footstep pressed on the
spring, under the carpet, would open the trap-door, and plunge the
victim headlong through the aperture. In such cases no man could
stride across the floor without peril of his life. Beneath the ground
another range of trap-doors were placed in the same manner, in the
floors of three stories of the subterranean chambers. They plunged the
victim--God knows where! With such arrangements for murder above and
beneath the earth, might there not exist hideous pits or deep wells,
far below the third story under ground, where the body of the victim
would rot in darkness forever?