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The Ghost of Boot Hill

When first Morrison heard the tapping sound he thought nothing of it.  The wind was blowing in the cold October evening, and soon it would rain.  Nevertheless, he sat straighter in his leather chair, straining to hear the cound, but convinced himself it was a playful trick cast by the wind, causing the limbs of the cottonwood to bump and clatter up against the walls of his clapboard home.

Again, he heard the noise, three distinct tapping sounds, rhythmic and soft, barely audible over the whistling of the wind as it seeped in through various, previously undiscovered chinks in the walls of his modest abode.  he stiffened, his resolve weakening.  His faith, that the sounds were being caused by the winds, was diminishing, but still intact.

But the third time he heard the trio of taps, again soft, yet clear and intentional, his heart began to beat faster...