Not until after the murder of its owner and builder, old Johanna Rank, was there an explanation offered for the existence of a home in such an unwholesome locality.
Federal authorities discovered that she and her son-in-law, Dave Wolfe, were at the head of a great counterfeiting gang, and that they had been working up there in security for years, turning out spurious coins by the hundred.

One night Dave up and killed his mother-in-law, and was hanged for his good deed before he could be punished for his bad ones.
For thirty years the weather-beaten, ramshackle old cabin in the swamp had been unoccupied except by birds, lizards, and other denizens of the solitude--always, of course, including the ghost of old Mrs.Rank.
Inasmuch as Dave chopped her into small bits and buried them in the cellar, while her own daughter held the lantern, it was not beyond the range of possibility that certain atoms of the unlamented Johanna were never unearthed by the searchers.

It was generally believed in the community that Mrs.Rank's spirit came back every little while to nose around in the dirt of the cellar in quest of such portions of her person as had not been respectably interred in the village graveyard.
Mysterious noises had been heard about the place at the dead hour of night, and ghostly lights had flitted past the cellar windows.

All Tinkletown agreed that the place was haunted and kept at a most respectful distance.

The three small boys who startled Marshal Crow from his moping had gone down the river to skate instead of going to school.
They swore that the sound of muffled voices came from the interior of the cabin, near which they had inadvertently wandered.