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One night we stopped at a very desolate hotel in Opelika, Alabama; the stairs leading up from the “lobby”—really just one large, stained spittoon—were merely rough boards loosely nailed to the rail. Our rooms were on the second floor, which was a blessing, as the third floor was reachable only by ladder!

The few inhabitants we had seen on the first floor were of such rough, dissipated appearance that our entire company was happy to gather in one room for the night, especially as Commodore Nutt was feeling poorly, suffering from the quinsy. We passed an uneasy few minutes until we heard a sudden scratching at the door, followed by retreating footsteps.

“Look here,” Charles suddenly said, as we all rushed to open the door; on it was freshly chalked the message 11:35.

“Whatever can it mean?” I wondered, and Rodney Nutt piped up, “It must be a message from the Ku Klux! It must mean someone is going to die at precisely eleven-thirty-five tonight!”

At this, we all froze in fear. The Ku Klux had just started to make its terrible presence felt, swearing vengeance against former slaves and northerners, and the name alone could strike terror in even the stoutest heart. Just as we were absorbing this, we heard the unmistakable report of two pistols fired successively.

“Sylvester!” Mrs. Bleeker cried; Mr. Bleeker had remained outside to settle the horses. She wanted to run downstairs, but we enjoined her to stay; just at that moment, Mr. Bleeker burst into the room, his long face pale, his hair standing on end.

“Get your wraps, there’s a ’bus for the station at the door; we need to be on it.”

Half the company ran downstairs; the other half remained to bundle up Commodore Nutt, who was carried downstairs in Mr. Bleeker’s arms. Just as our half reached the door, we saw the ’bus pull off with the rest of the party, to our dismay.

“It’ll be back soon enough,” the toothless hotel proprietor told us as he spat on the floor. “And if it ain’t, you can all stay here until the morning, when the train comes.”

“No!” Mr. Bleeker said in a strange, strangled voice. “We must get to the station!”

I was surprised by his urgency, for Mr. Bleeker was such a patient, mild man. Minnie held tightly to my hand, and I felt her shivering. Charles, I noticed, was trying very hard to look as brave as Mr. Bleeker, but he could not help but tremble, too.

Finally the omnibus returned, and we all piled in, Mr. Bleeker urging the driver to hurry the horses on as he kept looking over his shoulder. But before we could reach the station, the driver pulled up with a cry.

“Get down!” Mr. Bleeker hissed, pushing Charles down to the floor of the wagon. I pulled Minnie down next to me, and we hid behind the seat in front of us. But I could still see; passing us on the narrow road was a line of horses, all covered in white fabric, with only holes cut out for their eyes and ears. Upon these horses were ghostly figures in white sheets and hoods; they passed us in silence as they rode in the direction of the hotel. Not a breath was exhaled, not a sound was made, from our party or theirs. Even the horses did not whinny. Minnie trembled and clutched at my hand, and Charles shut his eyes, like a child who wishes to believe himself invisible. But I did not blink as I watched those masked men ride by, erect in their saddles, ominous in their number.

Finally they passed, and we proceeded to the station at a breakneck speed; once we joined the rest of our party, Mr. Bleeker finally exhaled, a little color returning to his face.

“Those shots you heard back at the hotel,” he began, pausing to take a gulp of whiskey from the Commodore’s ever-present flask. “There were two men downstairs who tried to get me to take a drink with them. I said I had to get upstairs to my friends, but they kept insisting, getting meaner by the minute. Finally, I broke away, only to see them exchange a look and run outside. I was curious. So when I got upstairs, I went to take a look out on the landing. In the yard were