A Spirit in My Feet by Fergus Hume
“A Spirit in My Feet” is taken from Hume’s anthology The Dancer in Red, published in 1906, by Digby, Long & Co. At its most basic, it’s a haunted house story. “A Spirit in My Feet” could also be seen as an unusual work of crime fiction, but is not a typical occult detective story. The central character is a doctor who knowingly rents a haunted property and, without his trying, is instrumental in solving a crime.
About Fergus Hume
Ferguson Wright Hume was a prolific British author of novels and short stories. He published more than 130 novels, along with several story anthologies. Although Hume is best known as a writer of thrillers, mysteries, and detective stories, he also wrote a number of ghost stories.
Hume was born in the village of Powick in Worcester, England. While he was still pr-school age, his family moved to New Zealand, where he studied law. Shortly after graduating from the University of Otago, Hume moved to Melbourne, Australia, accepted a position as a barrister’s clerk, and began writing plays in his spare time, but his attempts to place his plays with local theaters were unsuccessful.
In 1886, after publishers refused to consider his novel Mystery of a Hansom Cab, Hume published it himself. The book quickly became an international best seller. However, he sold the English and American rights to some Autralian bussinessmen for $50, so failed to cash-in on his works, phenomenal success. Often classed as the first modern mystery thriller, Mystery of a Hansom Cab is believed to have inspired Arthur Conan Doyle to write his first Sherlock Holmes story—A Study in Scarlet.
In 1888, Hume returned to England. After a few years living in London, he relocated to Thundersley, Essex. He died on 12 July 1932, and is buried in an unmarked grave in the local churchyard.
A Spirit in My Feet
By Fergus Hume
(Online Text)
If the members of Psychical Society choose to theorise on this story, they are at liberty to do so. It is authentic, and, so far as I can see, inexplicable, save by the admission of spiritual influence. Always excepting the present instance, I am unacquainted with the unseen world, and therefore do not profess to account for the unaccountable. Those connected with the Society aforesaid, which is, I understand, familiar with the laws governing spiritism, may perhaps place the matter in a more reasonable light, and if thus fortunate I trust they will furnish me with the explanation, as at present I dare not even hazard an opinion. “There are more things in heaven and earth,”—but that saying has been used many times as an excuse for ignorance.
I confess to being a doctor and sceptical as regards the supernatural—that is, I was sceptical, but this one intervention of the unseen has shaken my disbelief in the influence of the invisible. Nevertheless, I am not yet prepared to go to the other extreme and assume the existence of a hierarchy of ghostly presences ruling mortals from beyond the grave. My position is entirely neutral. I neither believe nor disbelieve, uphold nor condemn; but on the strength of my exorcism of the Marrit Grange ghost I admit a decided leaning to Hamlet’s view above quoted.
Taken in bulk medical men are decidedly sceptical. They believe in nothing but what they can see, handle, or explain away. As a watchmaker does a watch, they can take the human frame to pieces and determine the necessity and function of each component part. The heart, reservoir of the blood; the veins, so many pipes conducting the nutritious fluid to all parts of the body; the brain, seat of the intelligence and register of internal and external happenings; the muscles, a network of elastic bands expanding and contracting with the desire of the controlling power. Of all these they have determined the existence, and the reason for such existence; but not having discovered a tangible soul in any portion of the body, they, in many cases, deny existence. The case argued syllogistically stands thus:— “A soul is necessary to an incorporeal existence.” “There is no soul discoverable.” Ergo, “there can be no incorporeal existence.” Thus in one sweep do these learned men dispose of ghosts and ghostdom.
If their view be the right one, then my experience at Marrit Grange is not to be explained by natural laws; if wrong, and the existence of the supernatural be assumed, then I may claim to have been utilised by spiritual influence for the furtherance of human justice. I decline to commit myself to any opinion in so delicate a matter, for the gratification of the public curiosity I set forth clearly all that took place at the Grange. Those who run can read; those who read can expound—if they can.
When my aunt Selina died, I was twenty-six years of age, and a duly qualified M.R.C.P. without a practice, without money, and without influence in high places to further me in my profession. I as her sole relative inherited her blessing, and the sum of two thousand pounds, with which nest-egg I proposed to improve my position. My friends advised the purchase of a practice in London, but I had no notion of sinking my all in so risky a speculation. Patients do not care to be sold like a flock of sheep, and naturally enough prefer to use their own judgment in selecting a doctor: consequently the purchaser of a practice is by no means sure of enjoying that for which he has paid. Some patients object to the new doctor, and decline his visits; others get well or die, in either of which cases they do not require him; and it generally ends in the unlucky interloper having to build up a new practice on the ruins of an old one. With these ideas I scouted the well meant advice and resolved to start “ab ovum.” Also as I did not like London it was my intention to leave the metropolis, and set up my tent in the wholesome country air.
I therefore banked my legacy, and travelled through southern England in search of a fairly unhealthy neighbourhood, where I might hope to find a sufficiency of sickly folks to physic in return for their guineas. After many weary weeks and still more weary railway journeys, I came to Denhampton, on the Sussex coast, where, attracted by the beauty of the neighbourhood, I resolved to make an end of my wanderings.
It was a rising watering-place but being yet in its infancy, had only one doctor to look after those who resorted to its breezy downs, and sandy beaches. There was ample room for another practitioner, and after exploring the locality, and making use of certain introductions, and asking innumerable questions, I came to the conclusions that here if anywhere, I would find opportunity of utilising my small fortune, and medical experience.
Absence from London was no exile to me, for country born and bred as I was, the smoky atmosphere of Bloomsbury was abhorrent to my lungs and the lack of green fields a weariness to my eyes. I infinitely preferred Denhampton, with its undulating downs, its chalky cliffs fretted by the Channel waves; and between the two that quaint little village expanded on three sides into rows of pleasant villas and desirable mansions facing the sharp sea breeze on windy heights. Moreover, Denhampton was growing rapidly, and I hoped to improve my fortunes at the same pace; so having decided my course, I sought for a residence with a sufficiently imposing door, whereon to affix my newly-graven brass plate.
Midway between old and new Denhampton stretched a broad road of no great length connecting the ancient village with the more modem town. On one side grassy fields sloped to the crumbling edges of the cliffs, on the other on a slight rise, some distance back from the highway, stood Marrit Grange. It was one of the oldest houses in that part of the country, a squat building of grey stone, fronted by a terrace, and girdled by lawns dotted with many trees, heavy boughed, and gnarled. From the iron gates giving on the road aforesaid, a winding drive led to the front door, which was placed immediately beside the terrace, and a truncated tower rising above this to no very great height, commanded a fine view of the Channel.
Neglected as were the grounds, and desolate as was the mansion—for it had been uninhabited for some considerable period—I conceived a fancy for the place.
It stood in its own grounds, it was quiet and retired; it suited my studious leanings, yet occupied an excellent position for one of my profession. Living here I would be equally placed between village and watering place, so could attend to possible patients in both without much trouble. All things considering, I did not hope to find a place offering more advantages, so went in search of the agent in whose hands, as I was informed by a board in the grounds, it was placed for letting.
Darver, the agent, was a solemn-looking creature, more like an undertaker than anything else and, welcomed my intimation that I proposed to practise in the town with a dry smile. Small as was this evidence of pleasure, it vanished altogether when I spoke of Marrit Grange, and he started at the mention of the name. Then his desire to do business swamped all other considerations, and he resumed his dry smile and buckram civilities. For some time he kept up this fine affectation of carelessness, but in the end an inborn love of gossip got the better of his desire to gain a tenant, and he warned me solemnly against the house. But that came later in our conversation.
“You wish to take Marrit Grange, I understand,” said he, eyeing me with some curiosity. “Aye, aye. It’s a fine place for a doctor that Midway between the two towns, you can physic your patients at your will. A healthy situation, too, dry and salubrious, with five acres of good land, and an orchard. A very desirable residence indeed,” he concluded with his dry smile, “and to be let furnished for ten years at a moderate rental!”
“I had not thought of taking it furnished,” I answered, after a pause, “but that will not stand in the way: always supposing that the furniture is decent”
“Oh, the furniture is as solid and plentiful as can be desired, Dr. Phelps,” he answered with a nod. “The last tenant left the house two years back, but I have had the place well looked after in case anyone took a fancy to living there. You’ll find it as spruce as a new pin and uncommonly comfortable. Maybe it is in your mind to look over the house?” he concluded with a glance, dubious and inquiring.
“Certainly; I should not think of making an offer without a thorough examination.”
“Sensible enough,” said he, selecting a bunch of keys from several dangling from the wall. “If you are not engaged we will walk over now. Just so.”
This proposition falling in with my views, I readily accepted the same, and in a few minutes we were on our road to the Grange. Darver, lean and lank, and wondrous grim, expatiated on the comfort of the house, the excellence of the position, and the moderation of the rent. When he informed me of this last I was a trifle surprised at the smallness of the sum demanded for so well-furnished and large a mansion.
We were then standing in the drawing-room, beside one of three French windows which overlooked a stone-flagged terrace, beyond which spread the lawn, girded by laurel trees. A sun-dial stood in the centre of the greenness, and broad shallow steps led from the terrace to the gravelled paths. On the other side of the laurels ran the road, and to right and left I could catch a glimpse of red roofs and lean chimneys. All this with the leaping waves of the Channel whitening in the distance, looked extremely cheerful under a bright sky filled with sunshine, and more than ever was I determined to secure the house. But the ridiculously small rent at once surprised me, and raised my suspicions.
“Are the drains all right, Mr. Darver?”
“Aye, Doctor, in perfect order.”
“H’m; the situation is healthy, the house comfortable,” said I dubiously; “why has it not been let before?”
“It has been let several times,” said Mr. Darver; “but the tenants left.”
“For what reason?”
“Because they were fools,” said he scoffingly “Not one of them stayed over the month.”
“The rent you ask is very small considering the advantages you offer.”
“Just so, Doctor. It’s a bargain not to be met with every day.”
“So much of a bargain that I think there must be some drawback!” said I, dryly; “come, now, Mr. Darver, is there anything wrong about this place?”
“Well, Doctor,” said he, jingling the keys; “it has been in my mind to tell you, so I’ll make a clean breast of it. This house is said to be haunted.”
I burst out laughing at this communication. The mountain had only produced a mouse after all.
“Bah! Ghosts went out with gas; you can’t frighten me with an old woman’s tale of that sort”
“I’m glad to hear it,” said Darver, grimly; “several of the tenants were of the same way of thinking, but they left, bag and baggage, for all that”
“This is becoming interesting,” I said, with a scorn which I took no pains to conceal. “Do you believe in the ghost?”
“I can’t say. I never slept there,” was the laconic answer.
“Prevention is better than cure? Eh? Well, Mr. Darver, in what form does the ghost make its appearance—winding sheet, rusty armour, brocaded gown, or what?”
“It’s an invisible ghost,” replied Darver; “nothing is seen—nothing is heard—but something is felt.”
The explanation was so ridiculous that I made no further objection to concluding the bargain. This nonsense about supernatural influence was more than balanced by the advantages to be gained. Indeed, thinking of my lean purse, I mentally thanked the ghost for having reduced the rent to such small proportions.
“Well, Mr. Darver,” said I, promptly, “if no one else will take the house I am not afraid to do so. Let us walk back to your office and discuss the matter. On the way you can tell me the story, whence originated this belief that the Grange is haunted.
“Then you really intend to take this house,” exclaimed Darver, with considerable satisfaction.
“At once. As soon as the lease is signed I shall move in and commence practice. I hope to exorcise the ghost, and if I do the rent will, of course, remain at the same figure. The lease will place all that on a proper footing. Well, Mr. Darver, tell me the story and let me hear what I have to expect.”
“It has to do with a disappearance,” said Darver promptly. “A Mrs. Brunei lived here ten years ago. She was a wealthy old widow with a distrust of banks and investments, and so kept a large portion of her wealth in the house. Being of a miserly disposition, she kept only two servants,—a woman nearly as old, and quite as avaricious as herself, and a man who was considerably younger than either. They grubbed on here in a sparse fashion, and—well, to make along story short, the three of them disappeared one week and were never heard of again.”
“It is certainly strange that three people should disappear at one and the same time.”
“So everybody remarked,” replied Darver, shrugging his shoulders. “But whether the man murdered the two women, or they killed him and fled, it is hard to say. The heirs of Mrs. Brunei found no money in the house, so no doubt there was robbery mixed up in the affair.”
“A very unsatisfactory story,” I answered, “those three people could not have been murdered, or evidence of the crime would have been found. On the other hand, there was no reason as far as I can see, why they should disappear. However, I accept the tale for what it is worth, though I do not see the connection between this disappearance of three people and your ghost.”
“It is simple enough. The heirs of Mrs. Brunei let the house furnished, and it was speedily taken, being as you see in an excellent position. In less than a month the tenants cleared out, because they said an Influence pervaded the house, and made them get out of their beds and wander about the house. Moreover, they insisted that something or someone was invariably looking over their shoulders, when they talked, or ate, or read. In short, they declared that the house was haunted, and made them uncomfortable, so they cleared out. The next tenants told the same story, and acted in the same manner; so did the third lot till the belief became general that the Grange was haunted. Of course, the rumour depreciated the value of the place, as no tenant would lease the property. You are the first person for twelve months who has made up his mind to brave the superstition. That is,” added Darver, significantly, “if you are still of the same mind.”
“Am I a child to be frightened by a bogey?” I retorted smartly, “of course I am of the same mind. If this influence or ghost, or whatever you call it, can make a hardworked doctor keep midnight vigils, I may become a convert to spiritualism. However, as such a thing is not likely to happen, I accept the situation.”
Having come to this decision, I lost no time in acting in accordance therewith, and within a fortnight was installed at the Grange. My experience of the first night forced me to recognised that the former tenants had some excuse for leaving so ill-omened a mansion.
* * *
The drawing-room, as I have said, was lighted by three French windows, which opened on to the terrace. A large and lofty apartment it was, sparsely furnished in an old-fashioned manner, and pervaded by a chilly atmosphere, highly suggestive of ghosts. Here, if anywhere, the Influence was most likely to exercise its powers, and, anxious to test the truth of Darver’s extraordinary story, I waited in that apartment the whole of the first evening, expectant of the supernatural.
Notwithstanding the heat of June the room, long uninhabited, was so cold that I lighted the fire, and drawing my chair close to its cheerful blaze, meditated over a new medical work which had lately made its appearance. My nerves were strong, my scepticism confirmed, so I was quite prepared to face the power which had made exiles of the former tenants. Twice or thrice I glanced at the closed door expecting it to open, and admit the ghostly forms of Mrs. Brunei and her servants; but, needless to say, nothing of the sort happened, and it was close on eleven o’clock before I felt the first manifestation of the unseen. Then I became aware that someone was looking over my shoulder as I read. Turning suddenly round I saw nothing, as I expected; and, in the revulsion of feeling, I laughed at myself for the momentary panic which had seized me.
The same feeling occurred in ten minutes, and again I beheld nothing. Then the idea that there was something or someone in the room became rooted in my mind, and laying down my book, I paced slowly up and down the polished floor. One shaded lamp placed on a small table by the fire alone gave light to the vast apartment, and merely hollowed out a tiny gulf of light in the surrounding gloom. More lights were necessary for the adequate illumination of so large a space, but I was resolved on giving the ghost every chance, and judged it would find the semi darkness more congenial to its visitation. As the minute hand drew past eleven I became nervous.
My three servants were in a distant part of the mansion, and worn out by unpacking and arranging furniture, were doubtless sound asleep. In all that desolate place I was the only wakeful being, and, isolated in the chilly drawing-room in company with some invisible being, I own frankly that my nerves were rather shaken. In vain I reminded myself of my confirmed scepticism; that there were no such things as spirits, that I entirely disbelieved in the existence of the supernatural; it was all of no use, for the feeling that someone walked beside me grew stronger and stronger, till I was quite panic-stricken.
“Now,” said I aloud, and the sound of my own voice somewhat restored my courage, “now I am in a frame of mind likely to admit of apparitions appearing. If there is any spectre here, let him or her, or it appear.”
The ghost did not accept my invitation, and the silence seemed to deepen, though occasionally it was broken by the splutter of the fire. So strongly did the memory of that story and my present isolation from human intercourse work on my nerves that I unexpectedly found myself standing in the centre of the room, straining my ears to hear, straining my eyes to see. Of course, I neither saw nor heard anything to occasion me the least alarm; yet all the same I found a cold sweat on my forehead, and my hand trembled as I drew out my handkerchief.
Suddenly, and without the least warning, I heard a light footstep on the flagged terrace. It passed the first window, the second, and paused irresolutely at the third, which was furthest away from where I was standing. In that instant I pictured to myself an eye looking into the room through a chink in the Venetian blind, and surveying a solitary man struck motionless with panic in the semi-darkness. Never till that moment did I experience fear, for I can safely say that I am not a coward; but all my nerve and scepticism were not proof against that deadly qualm which gripped me at the moment. It lengthened to a century of agonised fear, and then by a strong effort I recovered the use of my limbs, and darted towards the third window. With inconceivable rapidity I whirled up the blind and flung open the window only to behold— nothing. Before me stretched the broad expanse of the terrace, the shallow steps, the green lawn with its central sun-dial, and the laurel hedges dark and sombre. Over all lay the cold moonlight still and white, but no sign could I see of any one, no sound could I catch of breathing or of footstep.
“Bah! I am a child,” said I, reclosing the window, but leaving the blind up so as to watch for a possible visitor; “my nerves are unstrung by this isolation. I shall go to bed, and to-morrow take steps to investigate the cause of these silly fears.”
The footsteps echoed no more, and curiously enough the feeling of a presence in the room passed away. I recovered my nerve, and having banked up the fire [1], took book and lamp and retired to bed. So far as I was concerned the ghostly visitation was over for that night. I was not sorry to leave the uncanny atmosphere of the drawing-room.
Safely in bed, I laughed at my fears and wondered how it was that my boasted scepticism had not been able to sustain me in the hour of trial. Yet I could not but admit that there was something about the drawing-room not to be explained by the ordinary laws of nature. The feeling of an invisible presence, the echoing footsteps, the deadly qualms, and consequent paralysis of action—all these hinted at the supernatural; I did not believe in ghosts; I laughed to scorn the tales of haunted houses; yet now that I was in one credited with possessing a spectre I felt uncommonly doubtful about my previous scepticism. With these thoughts in my mind I fell into an easy slumber.
At what time I woke I know not; as in putting out my hand for the matches I swept them on to the floor, and could not find them again. In the darkness I could not see the time, and so lay there wondering why I had so unexpectedly been aroused from sleep. It had not been a gradual awaking, but in the instant, I had opened my eyes and sat up in bed in full possession of my senses. Every nerve was tingling, every muscle was braced, every faculty was on the alert—for what I know not. The thick darkness was cold and heavy as I sat there qualmish and fearful; apparently forgotten of God, and given over to the powers of the air, in whose existence I had previously been a firm disbeliever.
In thought-reading the idea of what he is to do is impressed on the mind of the subject, by the person who wills the act. The thought grows and grows until the mind controls the body, and the individual so willed moves towards the desired goal as by an overpowering impulse, At this moment my feelings were precisely the same. Into my mind flashed a thought—whence I know not—which impelled me to rise, so, mechanically obeying the impulse which, I solemnly declare I was unable to resist, I sprang out of bed and threw my dressing gown over my shoulders. Thus scantily attired, with my bare feet taking a chill from the floor, I stood in the thick darkness; a mere instrument, my intelligence powerless in the grip of some unseen force. It was not a trance for I knew what I was doing, nor somnambulism, for my brain was quite open to external impressions. Here I, Edward Phelps, medical practitioner, sceptic, man of science, stood awaiting like a child the order of a power of which I saw nothing, knew nothing, heard nothing.
I had no time to think of Darver’s story, or of the Influence mentioned therein; for all my thoughts were directed to obeying the orders which seemed to steal imperceptibly into my mind. But a moment I paused by the bed, when in obedience to the over-conquering impulse—just like thought-reading—I moved towards the door. Out into the dark corridor I glided like a ghost. I turned to the right, descended the stairs, walked to the left and paused before the drawing-room door. As in Shelley’s poem, a spirit in my feet drew me onward, though to what end I could not conceive. All my efforts were powerless to shake off the imperious spell, and though I hesitated at the door (to struggle with the impulse) in the end I was compelled to obey.
I entered the drawing-room and saw the red glow of the fire shine on the polished floor. With an almost devilish dexterity I evaded the furniture—this seemed to be extraordinary in that I was not familiarly acquainted with its disposition—and moved towards the third window. The blind yet remained up, and I looked out on a white, cold world, still and weird. Again I struggled with the Influence; again it overmastered my reason, and I raised my hand to the latch of the window. Thence I walked on to the terrace, down the shallow steps, across the wet grass, and finally laid my hands on the cold stone of the dial. The impulse ceased, and I looked round in a bewildered fashion wondering what I was doing outside at that hour of the morning.
At that moment the moon threw the shadow of a man on the grass beside me. I turned with a cry and he leaped at my throat. Over and over he rolled on the sward, and I tried to save myself from his cruel fingers. Strong as I was, he was stronger, and at length he gained the mastery. Forcing me under he gripped my throat so that I could not cry out; then I lost all consciousness. The Influence had led me to my death.
* * *
I awoke to a consciousness of the external some three weeks later shorn, shaven, hollow-eyed, and weak. My memory stopped short at that struggle beside the sun-dial, the reason of which I was unable to conjecture, and I wondered how it was I was confined to a sick bed. Darver, who daily visited me soon enlightened me on that point,
“I am glad to see you better, Dr. Phelps,” said he, with his dry smile. “It was touch and go with you. Had not some passer-by on the high road been attracted by your cries and the sounds of your fighting, that man would have strangled you to a certainty.”
“Who was the man, Darver, and why did he wish to kill me?”
“There now, Doctor, that is the queer part of the whole aflair. That man is none other than Mrs. Brunei’s servant, who killed her nine years ago, for the sake of her money.”
“Impossible!” I gasped, utterly bewildered by this remarkable statement.
“Not at all; he has made a full confession of his crime. It appears that the female servant of whom I told you, was his mother. They both knew that Mrs. Brunei kept large sums in the house, and they resolved to rob her. Unfortunately for herself, she caught the pair red-handed, so to hide their guilt the son killed the old lady, and assisted by his hag of a mother, buried the body under the sun dial. Then they fled with their spoils to America, and there lived in comfort. Remorse haunted both, and the mother died while the son, always anticipating that his crime would be discovered, returned to Denhampton, and kept a close watch on the house.”
“To see if the body of his victim would be discovered, I suppose.”
“Precisely. He saw the tenants take the house and leave it, so deemed that his secret was safe. Then you took the place, and on your first night the murderer watched the drawing-room from the shadow of the laurels. He stole on to the terrace, and saw you standing in the centre of the room.”
“Ah,” said I, suddenly, recollecting the footstep. “I heard him stealing along the terrace on that night.”
“You did, and came to the window, but by that time he had regained his hiding place. He confessed this amongst other things. Then when you walked out of the house in the early hours of the morning, and went straight to the sun-dial, he thought that you had in some manner discovered his secret. You stood over the grave of Mrs. Brunei.”
“So he tried to kill me in order to hide his former crime?”
“Yes, but as I told you, some passers-by arrived on the scene, captured him, and saved you. He confessed, and we dug under the dial, where we found the skeleton of Mrs. Brunei. You have been ill for three weeks, but now will soon be well enough to appear in court and give evidence as to how you knew that the body was under the dial.”
“I did not know that—I knew nothing. That influence you spoke of, took me out of my bed and led me to the dial. I cannot account for it.”
“Then you believe my story,” said Darver, with a nod of satisfaction.
“I am forced to; sceptical as I am, there was something that led me to seek the grave of the murdered woman.”
“No doubt it was her spirit that led you to avenge her death.”
“Perhaps; I am not now so sceptical as I was. However, of one thing I am certain: now that the crime is discovered and there is a prospect of the criminal being punished, the ghost of Mrs. Brunei will no longer trouble Marrit Grange.”
“What! do you intend still to remain in the house?”
“I do. I have exorcised the ghost, and now intend to reap the benefit of my work.”
And in the end I did. Recovering from my sickness, I gave evidence which taken in conjunction with the murderer’s confession, put a rope round his neck. My story of the Influence which led me to the sundial was laughed at, and I have no doubt both judge and jury deemed my brain still weak from the effects of my illness. When the criminal was hanged I returned to Marrit Grange, and began my practice. Since that terrible first night I have never had occasion to complain of ghosts haunting the house. The spirit of the murdered woman was appeased by the punishment of her murderer. So ends my story. I cannot account for the matter, which is to be explained on no natural grounds. Perhaps the Psychical Society may help me to an understanding.
Ferguson Hume (1859 – 1932)
1. When the central character says he “banked up the fire“, he is referring to a process that used to be common in homes heated by coal fires. When somebody banked up a fire for the night, they covered the remaining hot coals with ashes. Doing this helped to prevent the heat from escaping, making it easier to rekindle the fire in the morning.