In 1830, a few miles from what would one day become Cincinnati, the forest still ran unbroken. A man named Murlock lived alone at the edge of it, in a log house with one door and one window. The window was boarded shut. Nobody living could remember it any other way. He looked seventy and was closer to fifty, and whatever had done that to him was not the work of years.
Ambrose Bierce tells it the way frontier stories actually traveled, thirdhand, handed down from a grandfather who knew the man.