The Woman's Ghost Story by Algernon Blackwood

"Yes," she said, from her seat in the dark corner, "I'll tell you an experience if you care to listen. And, what's more, I'll tell it briefly, without trimmings—I mean without unessentials. That's a thing story-tellers never do, you know," she laughed. "They drag in all the unessentials and leave their listeners to disentangle; but I'll give you just the essentials, and you can make of it what you please. But on one condition: that at the end you ask no questions, because I can't explain it and have no wish to."

We agreed. We were all serious. After listening to a dozen prolix stories from people who merely wished to "talk" but had nothing to tell, we wanted "essentials."

"In those days," she began, feeling from the quality of our silence that we were with her, "in those days I was interested in psychic things, and had arranged to sit up alone in a haunted house in the middle of London. It was a cheap and dingy lodging-house in a mean street, unfurnished. I had already made a preliminary examination in daylight that afternoon, and the keys from the caretaker, who lived next door, were in my pocket. The story was a good one—satisfied me, at any rate, that it was worth investigating; and I won't weary you with details as to the woman's murder and all the tiresome elaboration as to why the place was alive. Enough that it was.

"I was a good deal bored, therefore, to see a man, whom I took to be the talkative old caretaker, waiting for me on the steps when I went in at 11 p.m., for I had sufficiently explained that I wished to be there alone for the night.

"'I wished to show you the room,' he mumbled, and of course I couldn't exactly refuse, having tipped him for the temporary loan of a chair and table.

"'Come in, then, and let's be quick,' I said.

"We went in, he shuffling after me through the unlighted hall up to the first floor where the murder had taken place, and I prepared myself to hear his inevitable account before turning him out with the half-crown his persistence had earned. After lighting the gas I sat down in the arm-chair he had provided—a faded, brown plush arm-chair—and turned for the first time to face him and get through with the performance as quickly as possible. And it was in that instant I got my first shock. The man was notthe caretaker. It was not the old fool, Carey, I had interviewed earlier in the day and made my plans with. My heart gave a horrid jump.

"'Now who are you, pray?' I said. 'You're not Carey, the man I arranged with this afternoon. Who are you?'

"I felt uncomfortable, as you may imagine. I was a 'psychical researcher,' and a young woman of new tendencies, and proud of my liberty, but I did not care to find myself in an empty house with a stranger. Something of my confidence left me. Confidence with women, you know, is all humbug after a certain point. Or perhaps you don't know, for most of you are men. But anyhow my pluck ebbed in a quick rush, and I felt afraid.

"'Who are you?' I repeated quickly and nervously. The fellow was well dressed, youngish and good-looking, but with a face of great sadness. I myself was barely thirty. I am giving you essentials, or I would not mention it. Out of quite ordinary things comes this story. I think that's why it has value.

"'No,' he said; 'I'm the man who was frightened to death.'

"His voice and his words ran through me like a knife, and I felt ready to drop. In my pocket was the book I had bought to make notes in. I felt the pencil sticking in the socket. I felt, too, the extra warm things I had put on to sit up in, as no bed or sofa was available—a hundred things dashed through my mind, foolishly and without sequence or meaning, as the way is when one is really frightened. Unessentials leaped up and puzzled me, and I thought of what the papers might say if it came out, and what my 'smart' brother-in-law would think, and whether it would be told that I had cigarettes in my pocket, and was a free-thinker.

"'The man who was frightened to death!' I repeated aghast.

"'That's me,' he said stupidly.

"I stared at him just as you would have done—any one of you men now listening to me—and felt my life ebbing and flowing like a sort of hot fluid. You needn't laugh! That's how I felt. Small things, you know, touch the mind with great earnestness when terror is there—real terror. But I might have been at a middle-class tea-party, for all the ideas I had: they were so ordinary!

"'But I thought you were the caretaker I tipped this afternoon to let me sleep here!' I gasped. 'Did—did Carey send you to meet me?'

"'No,' he replied in a voice that touched my boots somehow. 'I am the man who was frightened to death. And what is more, I am frightened now!'

"'So am I!' I managed to utter, speaking instinctively. 'I'm simply terrified.'

"'Yes,' he replied in that same odd voice that seemed to sound within me. 'But you are still in the flesh, and I—am not!'

"I felt the need for vigorous self-assertion. I stood up in that empty, unfurnished room, digging the nails into my palms and clenching my teeth. I was determined to assert my individuality and my courage as a new woman and a free soul.

"'You mean to say you are not in the flesh!' I gasped. 'What in the world are you talking about?'

"The silence of the night swallowed up my voice. For the first time I realized that darkness was over the city; that dust lay upon the stairs; that the floor above was untenanted and the floor below empty. I was alone in an unoccupied and haunted house, unprotected, and a woman. I chilled. I heard the wind round the house, and knew the stars were hidden. My thoughts rushed to policemen and omnibuses, and everything that was useful and comforting. I suddenly realized what a fool I was to come to such a house alone. I was icily afraid. I thought the end of my life had come. I was an utter fool to go in for psychical research when I had not the necessary nerve.

"'Good God!' I gasped. 'If you're not Carey, the man I arranged with, who are you?'

"I was really stiff with terror. The man moved slowly towards me across the empty room. I held out my arm to stop him, getting up out of my chair at the same moment, and he came to halt just opposite to me, a smile on his worn, sad face.

"'I told you who I am,' he repeated quietly with a sigh, looking at me with the saddest eyes I have ever seen, 'and I am frightened still.'

"By this time I was convinced that I was entertaining either a rogue or a madman, and I cursed my stupidity in bringing the man in without having seen his face. My mind was quickly made up, and I knew what to do. Ghosts and psychic phenomena flew to the winds. If I angered the creature my life might pay the price. I must humor him till I got to the door, and then race for the street. I stood bolt upright and faced him. We were about of a height, and I was a strong, athletic woman who played hockey in winter and climbed Alps in summer. My hand itched for a stick, but I had none.

"'Now, of course, I remember,' I said with a sort of stiff smile that was very hard to force. 'Now I remember your case and the wonderful way you behaved. . . .'

"The man stared at me stupidly, turning his head to watch me as I backed more and more quickly to the door. But when his face broke into a smile I could control myself no longer. I reached the door in a run, and shot out on to the landing. Like a fool, I turned the wrong way, and stumbled over the stairs leading to the next story. But it was too late to change. The man was after me, I was sure, though no sound of footsteps came; and I dashed up the next flight, tearing my skirt and banging my ribs in the darkness, and rushed headlong into the first room I came to. Luckily the door stood ajar, and, still more fortunate, there was a key in the lock. In a second I had slammed the door, flung my whole weight against it, and turned the key.

"I was safe, but my heart was beating like a drum. A second later it seemed to stop altogether, for I saw that there was some one else in the room besides myself. A man's figure stood between me and the windows, where the street lamps gave just enough light to outline his shape against the glass. I'm a plucky woman, you know, for even then I didn't give up hope, but I may tell you that I have never felt so vilely frightened in all my born days. I had locked myself in with him!

"The man leaned against the window, watching me where I lay in a collapsed heap upon the floor. So there were two men in the house with me, I reflected. Perhaps other rooms were occupied too! What could it all mean? But, as I stared something changed in the room, or in me—hard to say which—and I realized my mistake, so that my fear, which had so far been physical, at once altered its character and became psychical. I became afraid in my soul instead of in my heart, and I knew immediately who this man was.

"'How in the world did you get up here?' I stammered to him across the empty room, amazement momentarily stemming my fear.

"'Now, let me tell you,' he began, in that odd faraway voice of his that went down my spine like a knife. 'I'm in different space, for one thing, and you'd find me in any room you went into; for according to your way of measuring, I'm all over the house. Space is a bodily condition, but I am out of the body, and am not affected by space. It's my condition that keeps me here. I want something to change my condition for me, for then I could get away. What I want is sympathy. Or, really, more than sympathy; I want affection—I want love!'

"While he was speaking I gathered myself slowly upon my feet. I wanted to scream and cry and laugh all at once, but I only succeeded in sighing, for my emotion was exhausted and a numbness was coming over me. I felt for the matches in my pocket and made a movement towards the gas jet.

"'I should be much happier if you didn't light the gas,' he said at once, 'for the vibrations of your light hurt me a good deal. You need not be afraid that I shall injure you. I can't touch your body to begin with, for there's a great gulf fixed, you know; and really this half-light suits me best. Now, let me continue what I was trying to say before. You know, so many people have come to this house to see me, and most of them have seen me, and one and all have been terrified. If only, oh, if only some one would be not terrified, but kind and loving to me! Then, you see, I might be able to change my condition and get away.'

"His voice was so sad that I felt tears start somewhere at the back of my eyes; but fear kept all else in check, and I stood shaking and cold as I listened to him.

"'Who are you then? Of course Carey didn't send you, I know now,' I managed to utter. My thoughts scattered dreadfully and I could think of nothing to say. I was afraid of a stroke.

"'I know nothing about Carey, or who he is,' continued the man quietly, 'and the name my body had I have forgotten, thank God; but I am the man who was frightened to death in this house ten years ago, and I have been frightened ever since, and am frightened still; for the succession of cruel and curious people who come to this house to see the ghost, and thus keep alive its atmosphere of terror, only helps to render my condition worse. If only some one would be kind to me—laugh, speak gently and rationally with me, cry if they like, pity, comfort, soothe me—anything but come here in curiosity and tremble as you are now doing in that corner. Now, madam, won't you take pity on me?' His voice rose to a dreadful cry. 'Won't you step out into the middle of the room and try to love me a little?'

"A horrible laughter came gurgling up in my throat as I heard him, but the sense of pity was stronger than the laughter, and I found myself actually leaving the support of the wall and approaching the center of the floor.

"'By God!' he cried, at once straightening up against the window, 'you have done a kind act. That's the first attempt at sympathy that has been shown me since I died, and I feel better already. In life, you know, I was a misanthrope. Everything went wrong with me, and I came to hate my fellow men so much that I couldn't bear to see them even. Of course, like begets like, and this hate was returned. Finally I suffered from horrible delusions, and my room became haunted with demons that laughed and grimaced, and one night I ran into a whole cluster of them near the bed—and the fright stopped my heart and killed me. It's hate and remorse, as much as terror, that clogs me so thickly and keeps me here. If only some one could feel pity, and sympathy, and perhaps a little love for me, I could get away and be happy. When you came this afternoon to see over the house I watched you, and a little hope came to me for the first time. I saw you had courage, originality, resource—love. If only I could touch your heart, without frightening you, I knew I could perhaps tap that love you have stored up in your being there, and thus borrow the wings for my escape!'

"Now I must confess my heart began to ache a little, as fear left me and the man's words sank their sad meaning into me. Still, the whole affair was so incredible, and so touched with unholy quality, and the story of a woman's murder I had come to investigate had so obviously nothing to do with this thing, that I felt myself in a kind of wild dream that seemed likely to stop at any moment and leave me somewhere in bed after a nightmare.

"Moreover, his words possessed me to such an extent that I found it impossible to reflect upon anything else at all, or to consider adequately any ways or means of action or escape.

"I moved a little nearer to him in the gloom, horribly frightened, of course, but with the beginnings of a strange determination in my heart.

"'You women,' he continued, his voice plainly thrilling at my approach, 'you wonderful women, to whom life often brings no opportunity of spending your great love, oh, if you only could know how many of us simply yearn for it! It would save our souls, if but you knew. Few might find the chance that you now have, but if you only spent your love freely, without definite object, just letting it flow openly for all who need, you would reach hundreds and thousands of souls like me, and release us! Oh, madam, I ask you again to feel with me, to be kind and gentle—and if you can to love me a little!'

"My heart did leap within me and this time the tears did come, for I could not restrain them. I laughed too, for the way he called me 'madam' sounded so odd, here in this empty room at midnight in a London street, but my laughter stopped dead and merged in a flood of weeping when I saw how my change of feeling affected him. He had left his place by the window and was kneeling on the floor at my feet, his hands stretched out towards me, and the first signs of a kind of glory about his head.

"'Put your arms round me and kiss me, for the love of God!' he cried. 'Kiss me, oh, kiss me, and I shall be freed! You have done so much already—now do this!'

"I stuck there, hesitating, shaking, my determination on the verge of action, yet not quite able to compass it. But the terror had almost gone.

"'Forget that I'm a man and you're a woman,' he continued in the most beseeching voice I ever heard. 'Forget that I'm a ghost, and come out boldly and press me to you with a great kiss, and let your love flow into me. Forget yourself just for one minute and do a brave thing! Oh, love me, love me, love me! and I shall be free!'

"The words, or the deep force they somehow released in the center of my being, stirred me profoundly, and an emotion infinitely greater than fear surged up over me and carried me with it across the edge of action. Without hesitation I took two steps forward towards him where he knelt, and held out my arms. Pity and love were in my heart at that moment, genuine pity, I swear, and genuine love. I forgot myself and my little tremblings in a great desire to help another soul.

"'I love you! poor, aching, unhappy thing! I love you,' I cried through hot tears; 'and I am not the least bit afraid in the world.'

"The man uttered a curious sound, like laughter, yet not laughter, and turned his face up to me. The light from the street below fell on it, but there was another light, too, shining all round it that seemed to come from the eyes and skin. He rose to his feet and met me, and in that second I folded him to my breast and kissed him full on the lips again and again."

All our pipes had gone out, and not even a skirt rustled in that dark studio as the story-teller paused a moment to steady her voice, and put a hand softly up to her eyes before going on again.

"Now, what can I say, and how can I describe to you, all you skeptical men sitting there with pipes in your mouths, the amazing sensation I experienced of holding an intangible, impalpable thing so closely to my heart that it touched my body with equal pressure all the way down, and then melted away somewhere into my very being? For it was like seizing a rush of cool wind and feeling a touch of burning fire the moment it had struck its swift blow and passed on. A series of shocks ran all over and all through me; a momentary ecstasy of flaming sweetness and wonder thrilled down into me; my heart gave another great leap—and then I was alone.

"The room was empty. I turned on the gas and struck a match to prove it. All fear had left me, and something was singing round me in the air and in my heart like the joy of a spring morning in youth. Not all the devils or shadows or hauntings in the world could then have caused me a single tremor.

"I unlocked the door and went all over the dark house, even into kitchen and cellar and up among the ghostly attics. But the house was empty. Something had left it. I lingered a short hour, analyzing, thinking, wondering—you can guess what and how, perhaps, but I won't detail, for I promised only essentials, remember—and then went out to sleep the remainder of the night in my own flat, locking the door behind me upon a house no longer haunted.

"But my uncle, Sir Henry, the owner of the house, required an account of my adventure, and of course I was in duty bound to give him some kind of a true story. Before I could begin, however, he held up his hand to stop me.

"'First,' he said, 'I wish to tell you a little deception I ventured to practice on you. So many people have been to that house and seen the ghost that I came to think the story acted on their imaginations, and I wished to make a better test. So I invented for their benefit another story, with the idea that if you did see anything I could be sure it was not due merely to an excited imagination.'

"'Then what you told me about a woman having been murdered, and all that, was not the true story of the haunting?'

"'It was not. The true story is that a cousin of mine went mad in that house, and killed himself in a fit of morbid terror following upon years of miserable hypochondriasis. It is his figure that investigators see.'

"'That explains, then,' I gasped——

"'Explains what?'

"I thought of that poor struggling soul, longing all these years for escape, and determined to keep my story for the present to myself.

"'Explains, I mean, why I did not see the ghost of the murdered woman,' I concluded.

"'Precisely,' said Sir Henry, 'and why, if you had seen anything, it would have had value, inasmuch as it could not have been caused by the imagination working upon a story you already knew.'"

The Haunted House by Walter Hubbell

INTRODUCTION.
The manifestations described in this story commenced one year ago. No
person has yet been able to ascertain their cause. Scientific men from
all parts of Canada and the United States have investigated them in
vain. Some people think that electricity is the principal agent; others,
mesmerism; whilst others again, are sure they are produced by the devil.
Of the three supposed causes, the latter is certainly the most plausible
theory, for some of the manifestations are remarkably devilish in their
appearance and effect. For instance, the mysterious setting of fires,
the powerful shaking of the house, the loud and incessant noises and
distinct knocking, as if made by invisible sledge-hammers, on the walls;
also, the strange actions of the household furniture, which moves about
in the broad daylight without the slightest visible cause.

As these strange things only occur while Miss Esther Cox is present, she
has become known as the "Amherst Mystery" throughout the entire country.

The author of this work lived for six weeks in the haunted house, and
considers it his duty to place the entire matter before the public in
its true light, having been requested to do so by the family of Miss
Cox.




THE HAUNTED HOUSE.




CHAPTER I.

THE HOME OF ESTHER COX.


Amherst, Nova Scotia, is a beautiful little village on the famous Bay of
Fundy; has a population of about three thousand souls, and contains four
churches, an academy, a music hall, a large iron foundry, a large shoe
factory, and more stores of various kinds than any village of its size
in the Province.

The private residences of the more wealthy inhabitants are very
picturesque in their appearance, being surrounded by beautifully laid
out lawns, containing ornamental trees of various kinds and numerous
beds of flowers of choice and sometimes very rare varieties.

The residences of Parson Townsend, Mr. Robb, Doctor Nathan Tupper, and
Mr. G.G. Bird, proprietor of the Amherst book store; also that of Mr.
Amos Purdy, the village Post Master, and others too numerous to mention,
are sure to attract the visitor's attention and command his admiration.

On Princess street, near Church, there stands a neat two story cottage,
painted yellow. It has in front a small yard, which extends back to the
stable. The tidy appearance of the cottage and its pleasant situation
are sure to attract a stranger's attention. Upon entering the house
everything is found to be so tastefully arranged, so scrupulously clean,
and so comfortable, that the visitor feels at home in a moment, being
confident that everything is looked after by a thrifty housewife.

The first floor consists of four rooms, a parlor containing a large bay
window, filled with beautiful geraniums of every imaginable color and
variety, is the first to attract attention; then the dining room, with
its old fashioned clock, its numerous home made rugs, easy chairs, and
commodious table, makes one feel like dining, especially if the hour is
near twelve; for about that time of day savory odors are sure to issue
from the adjoining kitchen. The kitchen is all that a room of the kind
in a village cottage should be, is not very large, and contains an
ordinary wood stove, a large pine table, and a small washstand, has a
door opening into the side yard near the stable, and another into the
wash shed, besides the one connecting it with the dining room, making
three doors in all, and one window. The fourth room is very small, and
is used as a sewing room; it adjoins the dining room, and the parlor,
and has a door opening into each. Besides the four rooms on the first
floor, there is a large pantry, having a small window about four feet
from the floor, the door of this pantry opens into the dining room. Such
is the arrangement of the first floor.

Upon ascending a short flight of stairs, and turning to the left, you
find yourself in the second story of the cottage, which consists of an
entry and four small bed rooms, all opening into the entry. Each one of
the rooms has one window, and only one door. Two of these little bed
rooms face towards the street, and the other two towards the back of the
cottage. They, like the rest of the house, are conspicuous for their
neat, cosy aspect, being papered and painted, and furnished with
ordinary cottage furniture. In fact everything about the little cottage
will impress a casual observer with the fact that its inmates are happy,
and evidently at peace with God and man.

This humble cottage is the home of Daniel Teed, shoemaker. Everybody
knows and respects honest hard working Dan, who never owes a dollar if
he can help it, and never allows his family to want for any comfort that
can be procured, with his hard earned salary as foreman of the Amherst
Shoe Factory.

Dan's family consists of his wife Olive, as good a soul as ever lived,
always hard at work. From early morning until dusky eve she is on her
feet. It has always been a matter of gossip and astonishment, among the
neighbors, as to how little Mrs. Teed, for she is by no means what you
would call a large woman, could work so incessantly without becoming
weary and resting for an hour or so after dinner. But she works on all
the same, never rests, and they still look on her with astonishment. Dan
and Olive have two little boys. Willie, the eldest, is _five_ years old;
he is a strong, healthy looking lad, with a ruddy complexion, blue eyes,
and brown curly hair; his principal amusements are throwing stones,
chasing the chickens, and hurting his little brother. George, the
youngest of Dan's boys, is the finest boy of his age in the village and
is only a little over a year old; his merry little laugh, winning ways,
and cunning actions to attract attention have made him a favorite with
all who visit at the cottage.

Besides his wife and two little boys, Dan has under his honest roof and
protection his wife's two sisters,--Jane and Esther Cox--who board with
him. Jane is a lady-like, self-possessed young woman of about
twenty-two, and is quite a beauty; her hair is very light brown and
reaches below her waist when she allows it to fall in graceful
tresses--at other times she wears it in the Grecian style; her eyes are
of a greyish hue; a clear complexion and handsome teeth add to her fine
appearance. In fact, Jane Cox is one of the village belles, and has
hosts of admirers, not of the male sex alone, for she is also popular
among the ladies; she is a member and regular attendant of Parson
Townsend's Church, which, by the way, the good Parson has had under his
care for about forty-five years. Esther Cox, Dan's other sister in-law,
is such a remarkable girl in every respect that I must give as complete
a description of her as possible. She was born in Upper Stewiacke, Nova
Scotia, on March 28th, 1860, and is consequently in her eighteenth year.
Esther has always been a queer girl. When born she was so small that her
good, kind grandmother, who raised her, (her mother having died when she
was three weeks old) had to wash and dress her on a pillow, and in fact
keep her on it all the time until she was nine months old, at which age
her weight was only five pounds. When she was quite a little girl her
father, Archibald T. Cox, married again, and moved to East Machias,
Maine, where he has since resided. Having followed his second wife to
the grave, he married a third with whom he is now living. Esther's early
years having been spent with her grandmother, she very naturally became
grave and old-fashioned, without knowing how or why. Like all little
girls, she was remarkably susceptible to surrounding influences, and the
sedate manner and actions of the old lady made an early impression on
Esther that will cling to her through life.

In person Esther is of low stature and rather inclined to be stout; her
hair is curly, of a dark brown color, and is now short, reaching only to
her shoulders; her eyes are large and grey, with a bluish tinge, and an
earnest expression which seems to say, "why do you stare at me so; I can
not help it if I am not like other people." Her eye-brows and eye-lashes
are dark and well marked, that is to say, the lashes are long and the
eye-brows very distinct. Her face is what can be called round, with well
shaped features; she has remarkably handsome teeth, and a pale
complexion. Her hands and feet are small and well shaped, and although
inclined to be stout, she is fond of work, and is a great help to her
sister Olive, although she sometimes requires a little urging.

Although Esther is not possessed of the beauty that Jane is famous for,
still there is something earnest, honest and attractive about this
simple-hearted village maiden, that wins for her lots of friends of
about her own age; in fact, she is quite in demand among the little
children of the neighborhood also, who are ever ready to have a romp and
a game with _Ester_, as they all call her. The truth is, a great many of
the grown up inhabitants of the village call her _Ester_ also, dropping
the _h_ entirely, a habit common in Nova Scotia.

Esther's disposition is naturally mild and gentle. She can at times,
however, be very self-willed, and is bound to have her own way when her
mind is made up. If asked to do anything she does not feel like doing
she becomes very sulky and has to be humored at times to keep peace in
the family. However, all things considered, she is a good little girl
and has always borne a good reputation in every sense of the word.

There are two more boarders in the little cottage, who require a passing
notice. They are William Cox and John Teed. William is the brother of
Olive, Jane, and Esther, and is a shoemaker by trade, and one of Dan's
workmen in the factory.

The other boarder, John Teed, is Dan's brother. John, like his brother,
is an honest, hard working young man, has been raised a farmer, an
occupation he still follows when not boarding with Dan in Amherst.

As the reader may, perhaps, be anxious to know how Dan, good, honest
hard working Dan, and, his thrifty little wife Olive, look, I will
endeavor to give a short description of each. So here goes. Dan is
about thirty-five years old, and stands five feet eight in his
stockings. He has light brown hair, rather thin on top, a well shaped
head, blue eyes, well defined features, a high nose, and wears a heavy
moustache and bushy side whiskers; his complexion is florid; rheumatism
of several years standing has given him a slight halt in the left leg.
He does his work, spends his salary as he should, and leads a Christian
life, has a pew in the Wesleyan Church of which Rev. R.A. Temple is
pastor, belongs to a temperance society, and, I dare say, when he dies
will be well rewarded in the next world. Olive, as I have already said,
is not a very large woman. She is good and honest, like her husband, and
goes to church with him as a wife should. Her hair is dark brown, eyes
grey, complexion pale and slightly freckled. Although not as beautiful
as Jane, nor at any time as sulky as Esther can be, she has those
motherly traits of character which command respect. Being older than her
sisters she is looked up to by them for advice when they think they need
it, and consolation when they are in sorrow. Olive's wise little head is
sure to give the right advice at the right time, and in the family of
the cottage her word is law. I do not mean to say that she rules her
husband. No! Dan is far from being a hen-pecked man, but, as two heads
are always better than one, Dan often takes her advice and profits by
it.

Such is the cottage and household of honest Dan Teed.

To-day is cool and pleasant. The hour is nearly twelve noon--the hour
for dinner in the cottage. Esther is seated on the parlor floor playing
with George to keep him from running out in the hot sun. Willie is out
in the yard near the stable tormenting a poor hen, who has had a log of
wood tied to one of her legs by Olive to prevent her from setting in the
cow's stall; but master Willie seems to think she has been tied so that
he may have a good time banging her over the head with a small club,
which he is doing in a way that means business. Suddenly his mother
comes out of the kitchen, and after soundly boxing his ears, sends him
howling into the house, much to the relief of the poor hen who has just
fallen over with exhaustion and fright, but upon finding her tormentor
gone is soon herself again. Presently Olive hears Dan at the gate, and
comes to the front door to meet him and tell him that dinner is almost
ready, remarking that he cannot guess what she has for dessert. Honest
Dan replies that no matter what it is he is hungry and will eat it, for
he has been working hard. So in he goes to wash his hands and face at
the wash-stand in the kitchen.

Jane is coming down the street. Esther, who is seated on a chair with
George on her lap, sees her sister from the bay window in the parlor.
Jane has a position in Mr. Jas. P. Dunlap's establishment, and goes to
her work every morning at seven o'clock. As soon as Esther sees Jane she
takes George up in her arms and runs in to tell Olive that Jane is
coming, and suggests that dinner be served at once, for _she_ feels
hungry. So Olive, with Esther's assistance, puts the dinner on the
table, and they all sit down to enjoy the meal, and a good substantial
meal it is; plenty of beef-steak and onions, plenty of hot mashed
potatoes, plenty of boiled cabbage, and an abundance of home made bread
and fresh butter made that very morning from the rich cream of Dan's red
cow. Little George, who is seated in his high chair at his mother's
right hand, commences to kick the bottom of the table in such a vigorous
manner that not one word can be heard, for he makes a terrible noise,
the toes of his shoes being faced with copper to prevent the youngster
from wearing them out too soon. Olive asks Esther to please get the old
pink scarf and tie his feet so that he will be unable to make such a
racket, Esther does not move, but upon being requested a second time
gets up rather reluctantly, goes to the hat rack in the hall, gets the
scarf and ties the little fellow's feet, as requested. Upon reseating
herself at the table it is noticeable that she has a sulky expression,
for she does not like to be disturbed while enjoying dinner, nor in fact
any meal, for the simple reason that her appetite is voracious, being
particularly fond of pickles, and she has been known to drink a cupful
of vinegar in a day.

All ate in silence for some minutes, when Jane inquires if the cow was
milked again last night? "Yes," says Dan, and "I only wish I could find
out who does it; it would not be well for him, I can tell you. This is
the tenth time this fortnight that she has been milked. Oh! if it was
not for this rheumatism in my hip, I would stay up some night and catch
the thief in the act, have him arrested, and--"

"And then," remarks Esther, with an eye to the financial part of the
milk question, "we should have just two quarts more to sell every day;
that would be--let me see how much it would come to."

"Never mind," remarks John Teed, "how much it would come to, just hand
me that dish of potatoes, please. They are so well mashed that I must
eat some more. I can't bear potatoes with lumps all through them, can
you Jane."

"No, John, I cannot," replies Jane.

"Neither can I," joins in William Cox; "if I ever marry I hope my wife
will be as good a cook as Olive; if she prove so I shall be satisfied."

"Gim me 'nother piece of meat, do you hear," is the exclamation which
comes from master Willie.

"Ask as a good boy should," remarks Dan, "and you shall have it."

"Gim me 'nother piece of meat, do you hear," says the young rascal a
second time, louder than before.

A good sound box on the ear from his father, prevents further remarks
coming from the unruly boy during the rest of the meal. However, after a
slight pause, Dan gives him a piece of beef-steak, his mother in the
meantime says:

"I wonder how that boy learns to be so rude."

"Why," replies John Teed, "by playing with those bad boys down near the
carriage factory. I saw him there about nine o'clock this morning, and
what's more, I can tell you that unless he keeps away from them he will
be ruined."

"I'm going to take him in hand as soon as he gets a little older and
make him toe the mark," says Dan. "Well Mudge,"--Dan nearly always calls
his wife Mudge, for a pet name--"give me another cup of tea, woman, and
then I'll go back to the factory, that is as soon as I have taken a pull
or two at my pipe."

"What! are you going without eating some of the bread pudding I went to
the trouble of making because I thought you would like it?" asks Olive.

"Oh, you've got pudding have you; all right, I'll have some if it's
cold," replies Dan.

"Oh, yes, it's cold enough by this time. Come, Esther, help me to clear
away these dishes, and you, Jane, please bring in the pudding, it is out
on the door-step near the rain-water barrel."

The dishes having been cleared away, and the pudding brought, all ate a
due share, and after some further conversation about the midnight milker
of the cow, Esther remarks that she believes the thief to be one of the
Micmac Indians from the camp up the road. Everybody laughs at such a
wild idea, and they all leave the table. Esther, takes George from his
chair, after first untying his feet, and then helps Olive to remove the
dishes to the kitchen, where she washes them, and then goes to the sofa
in the parlor to take a nap. Dan in the meantime has enjoyed his smoke
and gone back to the factory, as has also William Cox. John Teed has
gone up the Main Street to see his sister Maggie, and Jane has returned
to Mr. Dunlap's. Willie is out in the street again with the bad boys,
and Olive has just commenced to make a new plaid dress for George, who
has gone to sleep in his little crib in the small sewing-room.

Esther, after sleeping for about an hour, comes into the dining room
where Olive is sewing and says, "Olive, I am going out to take a walk,
and if Bob should come while I am out, don't forget to tell him that I
will be in this evening, and shall expect him."

"All right Esther," says her sister, "but you had better be careful
about Bob, and how you keep company with him; you know what we heard
about him only the day before yesterday."

"Oh, I don't believe a word of it," replied Esther. She looked at her
sister for a moment, and then said in an injured tone, "I guess I am old
enough to take care of myself. What! half-past two already? I must be
off;" and off she went.

Supper being over, Esther put on her brown dress and took her accustomed
seat on the front door step to talk to Dan, as he smoked his evening
pipe. Jane dressed in her favorite white dress, trimmed with black
velvet, her beautiful hair fastened in a true Grecian coil, and
perfectly smooth at the temples, is in the parlor attending to her
choice plants, presently her beau comes to spend the evening with her.

So the evening passes away. Olive has sung little George to sleep,
carried him up to bed and retired herself. Dan has smoked his pipe and
retired also. It was now ten o'clock. Esther still sat on the front step
humming the tune of a well known Wesleyan hymn to herself as she gazed
up at the stars, for it must be remembered that although she was not by
any means pious, still, like a dutiful girl, she went to church with Dan
and Olive. As the girl was just passing into womanhood, and felt that
she must love something, it was perfectly natural for her to sit there
and wait for Bob to make his appearance. About half-past ten Jane's beau
took his departure, and Jane not having anything further to keep her up,
decided to retire, and advised Esther to follow her example.

Esther took a last look up and down the street, and then went into the
house with much reluctance. After locking the front door the girls went
into the dining room and Jane lighted the lamp. Esther had taken off her
shoes and thrown them on the floor, as was her custom, when it suddenly
occurred to her that there was butter-milk in the cellar, and the same
instant she made up her mind to have some. Taking the lamp from Jane,
she runs into the cellar in her stocking feet, drinks about a pint of
butter-milk and runs up again, telling her sister, who has been
meanwhile in the dark dining room, that a large rat passed between her
feet while in the cellar.

"Come right up to bed you silly girl," said Jane, "and don't be talking
about rats at this time of night." So Jane took the lamp and Esther
picked up her shoes, and they went to their bed-room.

After closing the door of their room, "Esther," said Jane, "you are
foolish to think anything at all about Bob."

"Oh, mind your own business, Jane," Esther replied "let's say our
prayers and retire;" and so they did.

Link to the full Project Gutenburg eBook here

A Room in the Tower by E F Benson

It is probable that everybody who is at all a constant dreamer has had at least one experience of an event or a sequence of circumstances which have come to his mind in sleep being subsequently realized in the material world. But, in my opinion, so far from this being a strange thing, it would be far odder if this fulfilment did not occasionally happen, since our dreams are, as a rule, concerned with people whom we know and places with which we are familiar, such as might very naturally occur in the awake and daylit world. True, these dreams are often broken into by some absurd and fantastic incident, which puts them out of court in regard to their subsequent fulfilment, but on the mere calculation of chances, it does not appear in the least unlikely that a dream imagined by anyone who dreams constantly should occasionally come true. Not long ago, for instance, I experienced such a fulfilment of a dream which seems to me in no way remarkable and to have no kind of psychical significance. The manner of it was as follows.

  A certain friend of mine, living abroad, is amiable enough to write to me about once in a fortnight. Thus, when fourteen days or thereabouts have elapsed since I last heard from him, my mind, probably, either consciously or subconsciously, is expectant of a letter from him. One night last week I dreamed that as I was going upstairs to dress for dinner I heard, as I often heard, the sound of the postman's knock on my front door, and diverted my direction downstairs instead. There, among other correspondence, was a letter from him. Thereafter the fantastic entered, for on opening it I found inside the ace of diamonds, and scribbled across it in his well-known handwriting, "I am sending you this for safe custody, as you know it is running an unreasonable risk to keep aces in Italy." The next evening I was just preparing to go upstairs to dress when I heard the postman's knock, and did precisely as I had done in my dream. There, among other letters, was one from my friend. Only it did not contain the ace of diamonds. Had it done so, I should have attached more weight to the matter, which, as it stands, seems to me a perfectly ordinary coincidence. No doubt I consciously or subconsciously expected a letter from him, and this suggested to me my dream. Similarly, the fact that my friend had not written to me for a fortnight suggested to him that he should do so. But occasionally it is not so easy to find such an explanation, and for the following story I can find no explanation at all. It came out of the dark, and into the dark it has gone again.

  All my life I have been a habitual dreamer: the nights are few, that is to say, when I do not find on awaking in the morning that some mental experience has been mine, and sometimes, all night long, apparently, a series of the most dazzling adventures befall me. Almost without exception these adventures are pleasant, though often merely trivial. It is of an exception that I am going to speak.

  It was when I was about sixteen that a certain dream first came to me, and this is how it befell. It opened with my being set down at the door of a big red-brick house, where, I understood, I was going to stay. The servant who opened the door told me that tea was being served in the garden, and led me through a low dark-panelled hall, with a large open fireplace, on to a cheerful green lawn set round with flower beds. There were grouped about the tea-table a small party of people, but they were all strangers to me except one, who was a schoolfellow called Jack Stone, clearly the son of the house, and he introduced me to his mother and father and a couple of sisters. I was, I remember, somewhat astonished to find myself here, for the boy in question was scarcely known to me, and I rather disliked what I knew of him; moreover, he had left school nearly a year before. The afternoon was very hot, and an intolerable oppression reigned. On the far side of the lawn ran a red-brick wall, with an iron gate in its center, outside which stood a walnut tree. We sat in the shadow of the house opposite a row of long windows, inside which I could see a table with cloth laid, glimmering with glass and silver. This garden front of the house was very long, and at one end of it stood a tower of three stories, which looked to me much older than the rest of the building.

  Before long, Mrs. Stone, who, like the rest of the party, had sat in absolute silence, said to me, "Jack will show you your room: I have given you the room in the tower."

  Quite inexplicably my heart sank at her words. I felt as if I had known that I should have the room in the tower, and that it contained something dreadful and significant. Jack instantly got up, and I understood that I had to follow him. In silence we passed through the hall, and mounted a great oak staircase with many corners, and arrived at a small landing with two doors set in it. He pushed one of these open for me to enter, and without coming in himself, closed it after me. Then I knew that my conjecture had been right: there was something awful in the room, and with the terror of nightmare growing swiftly and enveloping me, I awoke in a spasm of terror.

  Now that dream or variations on it occurred to me intermittently for fifteen years. Most often it came in exactly this form, the arrival, the tea laid out on the lawn, the deadly silence succeeded by that one deadly sentence, the mounting with Jack Stone up to the room in the tower where horror dwelt, and it always came to a close in the nightmare of terror at that which was in the room, though I never saw what it was. At other times I experienced variations on this same theme. Occasionally, for instance, we would be sitting at dinner in the dining-room, into the windows of which I had looked on the first night when the dream of this house visited me, but wherever we were, there was the same silence, the same sense of dreadful oppression and foreboding. And the silence I knew would always be broken by Mrs. Stone saying to me, "Jack will show you your room: I have given you the room in the tower." Upon which (this was invariable) I had to follow him up the oak staircase with many corners, and enter the place that I dreaded more and more each time that I visited it in sleep. Or, again, I would find myself playing cards still in silence in a drawing-room lit with immense chandeliers, that gave a blinding illumination. What the game was I have no idea; what I remember, with a sense of miserable anticipation, was that soon Mrs. Stone would get up and say to me, "Jack will show you your room: I have given you the room in the tower." This drawing-room where we played cards was next to the dining-room, and, as I have said, was always brilliantly illuminated, whereas the rest of the house was full of dusk and shadows. And yet, how often, in spite of those bouquets of lights, have I not pored over the cards that were dealt me, scarcely able for some reason to see them. Their designs, too, were strange: there were no red suits, but all were black, and among them there were certain cards which were black all over. I hated and dreaded those.

  As this dream continued to recur, I got to know the greater part of the house. There was a smoking-room beyond the drawing-room, at the end of a passage with a green baize door. It was always very dark there, and as often as I went there I passed somebody whom I could not see in the doorway coming out. Curious developments, too, took place in the characters that peopled the dream as might happen to living persons. Mrs. Stone, for instance, who, when I first saw her, had been black-haired, became gray, and instead of rising briskly, as she had done at first when she said, "Jack will show you your room: I have given you the room in the tower," got up very feebly, as if the strength was leaving her limbs. Jack also grew up, and became a rather ill-looking young man, with a brown moustache, while one of the sisters ceased to appear, and I understood she was married.

  Then it so happened that I was not visited by this dream for six months or more, and I began to hope, in such inexplicable dread did I hold it, that it had passed away for good. But one night after this interval I again found myself being shown out onto the lawn for tea, and Mrs. Stone was not there, while the others were all dressed in black. At once I guessed the reason, and my heart leaped at the thought that perhaps this time I should not have to sleep in the room in the tower, and though we usually all sat in silence, on this occasion the sense of relief made me talk and laugh as I had never yet done. But even then matters were not altogether comfortable, for no one else spoke, but they all looked secretly at each other. And soon the foolish stream of my talk ran dry, and gradually an apprehension worse than anything I had previously known gained on me as the light slowly faded.

  Suddenly a voice which I knew well broke the stillness, the voice of Mrs. Stone, saying, "Jack will show you your room: I have given you the room in the tower." It seemed to come from near the gate in the red-brick wall that bounded the lawn, and looking up, I saw that the grass outside was sown thick with gravestones. A curious greyish light shone from them, and I could read the lettering on the grave nearest me, and it was, "In evil memory of Julia Stone." And as usual Jack got up, and again I followed him through the hall and up the staircase with many corners. On this occasion it was darker than usual, and when I passed into the room in the tower I could only just see the furniture, the position of which was already familiar to me. Also there was a dreadful odor of decay in the room, and I woke screaming.

  The dream, with such variations and developments as I have mentioned, went on
  at intervals for fifteen years. Sometimes I would dream it two or three nights in succession; once, as I have said, there was an intermission of six months, but taking a reasonable average, I should say that I dreamed it quite as often as once in a month. It had, as is plain, something of nightmare about it, since it always ended in the same appalling terror, which so far from getting less, seemed to me to gather fresh fear every time that I experienced it. There was, too, a strange and dreadful consistency about it. The characters in it, as I have mentioned, got regularly older, death and marriage visited this silent family, and I never in the dream, after Mrs. Stone had died, set eyes on her again. But it was always her voice that told me that the room in the tower was prepared for me, and whether we had tea out on the lawn, or the scene was laid in one of the rooms overlooking it, I could always see her gravestone standing just outside the iron gate. It was the same, too, with the married daughter; usually she was not present, but once or twice she returned again, in company with a man, whom I took to be her husband. He, too, like the rest of them, was always silent. But, owing to the constant repetition of the dream, I had  ceased to attach, in my waking hours, any significance to it. I never met Jack Stone again during all those years, nor did I ever see a house that resembled this dark house of my dream. And then something happened.


  I had been in London in this year, up till the end of the July, and during the first week in August went down to stay with a friend in a house he had taken for the summer months, in the Ashdown Forest district of Sussex. I left London early, for John Clinton was to meet me at Forest Row Station, and we were going to spend the day golfing, and go to his house in the evening. He had his motor with him, and we set off, about five of the afternoon, after a thoroughly delightful day, for the drive, the distance being some ten miles. As it was still so early we did not have tea at the club house, but waited till we should get home. As we drove, the weather, which up till then had been, though hot, deliciously fresh, seemed to me to alter in quality, and become very stagnant and oppressive, and I felt that indefinable sense of ominous apprehension that I am accustomed to before thunder. John, however, did not share my views, attributing my loss of lightness to the fact that I had lost both my matches. Events proved, however, that I was right, though I do not think that the thunderstorm that broke that night was the sole cause of my depression.

  Our way lay through deep high-banked lanes, and before we had gone very far I fell asleep, and was only awakened by the stopping of the motor. And with a sudden thrill, partly of fear but chiefly of curiosity, I found myself standing in the doorway of my house of dream. We went, I half wondering whether or not I was dreaming still, through a low oak-panelled hall, and out onto the lawn, where tea was laid in the shadow of the house. It was set in flower beds, a red-brick wall, with a gate in it, bounded one side, and out beyond that was a space of rough grass with a walnut tree. The facade of the house was very long, and at one end stood a three-storied tower, markedly older than the rest.

  Here for the moment all resemblance to the repeated dream ceased. There was no  silent and somehow terrible family, but a large assembly of exceedingly cheerful persons, all of whom were known to me. And in spite of the horror with which the dream itself had always filled me, I felt nothing of it now that the scene of it was thus reproduced before me. But I felt intensest curiosity as to what was going to happen.


  Tea pursued its cheerful course, and before long Mrs. Clinton got up. And at that moment I think I knew what she was going to say. She spoke to me, and what she said was:
  "Jack will show you your room: I have given you the room in the tower."
  At that, for half a second, the horror of the dream took hold of me again. But it quickly passed, and again I felt nothing more than the most intense curiosity. It was not very long before it was amply satisfied.

John turned to me.   "Right up at the top of the house," he said, "but I think you'll be comfortable. We're absolutely full up. Would you like to go and see it now? By Jove, I believe that you are right, and that we are going to have a thunderstorm. How dark it has become."


  I got up and followed him. We passed through the hall, and up the perfectly familiar staircase. Then he opened the door, and I went in. And at that moment sheer unreasoning terror again possessed me. I did not know what I feared: I simply feared. Then like a sudden recollection, when one remembers a name which has long escaped the memory, I knew what I feared. I feared Mrs. Stone, whose grave with the sinister inscription, "In evil memory," I had so often seen in my dream, just beyond the lawn which lay below my window. And then once more the fear passed so completely that I wondered what there was to fear, and I found myself, sober and quiet and sane, in the room in the tower, the name of which I had so often heard in my dream, and the scene of which was so familiar.

  I looked around it with a certain sense of proprietorship, and found that nothing had been changed from the dreaming nights in which I knew it so well. Just to the left of the door was the bed, lengthways along the wall, with the head of it in the angle. In a line with it was the fireplace and a small bookcase; opposite the door the outer wall was pierced by two lattice-paned windows, between which stood the dressing-table, while ranged along the fourth wall was the washing-stand and a big cupboard. My luggage had already been unpacked, for the furniture of dressing and undressing lay orderly on the wash-stand and toilet-table, while my dinner clothes were spread out on the coverlet of the bed. And then, with a sudden start of unexplained dismay, I saw that there were two rather conspicuous objects which I had not seen before in my dreams: one a life-sized oil painting of Mrs. Stone, the other a black-and-white sketch of Jack Stone, representing him as he had appeared to me only a week before in the last of the series of these repeated dreams, a rather secret and evil-looking man of about thirty. His picture hung between the windows, looking straight across the room to the other portrait, which hung at the side of the bed. At that I looked next, and as I looked I felt once more the horror of nightmare seize me.

  It represented Mrs. Stone as I had seen her last in my dreams: old and withered and white-haired. But in spite of the evident feebleness of body, a dreadful exuberance and vitality shone through the envelope of flesh, an exuberance wholly malign, a vitality that foamed and frothed with unimaginable evil. Evil beamed from the narrow, leering eyes; it laughed in the demon-like mouth. The whole face was instinct with some secret and appalling mirth; the hands, clasped together on the knee, seemed shaking with suppressed and nameless glee. Then I saw also that it was signed in the left-hand bottom corner, and wondering who the artist could be, I looked more closely, and read the inscription, "Julia Stone by Julia Stone."
  There came a tap at the door, and John Clinton entered.

  "Got everything you want?" he asked.

  "Rather more than I want," said I, pointing to the picture.

  He laughed.

  "Hard-featured old lady," he said. "By herself, too, I remember. Anyhow she can't have flattered herself much."
  "But don't you see?" said I. "It's scarcely a human face at all. It's the face of some witch, of some devil."
  He looked at it more closely.

  "Yes; it isn't very pleasant," he said. "Scarcely a bedside manner, eh? Yes; I can imagine getting the nightmare if I went to sleep with that close by my bed. I'll have it taken down if you like."

  "I really wish you would," I said. He rang the bell, and with the help of a servant we detached the picture and carried it out onto the landing, and put it with its face to the wall.

  "By Jove, the old lady is a weight," said John, mopping his forehead. "I wonder if she had something on her mind."

  The extraordinary weight of the picture had struck me too. I was about to reply, when I caught sight of my own hand. There was blood on it, in considerable quantities, covering the whole palm.
  "I've cut myself somehow," said I.

  John gave a little startled exclamation.
  "Why, I have too," he said.

  Simultaneously the footman took out his handkerchief and wiped his hand with it. I saw that there was blood also on his handkerchief.

  John and I went back into the tower room and washed the blood off; but neither on his hand nor on mine was there the slightest trace of a scratch or cut. It seemed to me that, having ascertained this, we both, by a sort of tacit consent, did not allude to it again. Something in my case had dimly occurred to me that I did not wish to think about. It was but a conjecture, but I fancied that I knew the same thing had occurred to him.
  The heat and oppression of the air, for the storm we had expected was still undischarged, increased very much after dinner, and for some time most of the party, among whom were John Clinton and myself, sat outside on the path bounding the lawn, where we had had tea. The night was absolutely dark, and no twinkle of star or moon ray could penetrate the pall of cloud that overset the sky. By degrees our assembly thinned, the women went up to bed, men dispersed to the smoking or billiard room, and by eleven o'clock my host and I were the only two left. All the evening I thought that he had something on his mind, and as soon as we were alone he spoke.
  "The man who helped us with the picture had blood on his hand, too, did you notice?" he said.
  "I asked him just now if he had cut himself, and he said he supposed he had, but that he could find no mark of it. Now where did that blood come from?"

  By dint of telling myself that I was not going to think about it, I had succeeded in not doing so, and I did not want, especially just at bedtime, to be reminded of it.

  "I don't know," said I, "and I don't really care so long as the picture of Mrs. Stone is not by my bed."
  He got up.

  "But it's odd," he said. "Ha! Now you'll see another odd thing."
  A dog of his, an Irish terrier by breed, had come out of the house as we talked. The door behind us into the hall was open, and a bright oblong of light shone across the lawn to the iron gate which led on to the rough grass outside, where the walnut tree stood. I saw that the dog had all his hackles up, bristling with rage and fright; his lips were curled back from his teeth, as if he was ready to spring at something, and he was growling to himself. He took not the slightest notice of his master or me, but stiffly and tensely walked across the grass to the iron gate. There he stood for a moment, looking through the bars and still growling. Then of a sudden his courage seemed to desert him: he gave one long howl, and scuttled back to the house with a curious crouching sort of movement.
  "He does that half-a-dozen times a day." said John. "He sees something which he both hates and fears."
  I walked to the gate and looked over it. Something was moving on the grass outside, and soon a sound which I could not instantly identify came to my ears. Then I remembered what it was: it was the purring of a cat. I lit a match, and saw the purrer, a big blue Persian, walking round and round in a little circle just outside the gate, stepping high and ecstatically, with tail carried aloft like a banner. Its eyes were bright and shining, and every now and then it put its head down and sniffed at the grass.
  I laughed.
  "The end of that mystery, I am afraid." I said. "Here's a large cat having Walpurgis night all alone."
  "Yes, that's Darius," said John. "He spends half the day and all night there. But that's not the end of the dog mystery, for Toby and he are the best of friends, but the beginning of the cat mystery. What's the cat doing there? And why is Darius pleased, while Toby is terror-stricken?"
  At that moment I remembered the rather horrible detail of my dreams when I saw through the gate, just where the cat was now, the white tombstone with the sinister inscription. But before I could answer the rain began, as suddenly and heavily as if a tap had been turned on, and simultaneously the big cat squeezed through the bars of the gate, and came leaping across the lawn to the house for shelter. Then it sat in the doorway, looking out eagerly into the dark. It spat and struck at John with its paw, as he pushed it in, in order to close the door.

  Somehow, with the portrait of Julia Stone in the passage outside, the room in the tower had absolutely no alarm for me, and as I went to bed, feeling very sleepy and heavy, I had nothing more than interest for the curious incident about our bleeding hands, and the conduct of the cat and dog. The last thing I looked at before I put out my light was the square empty space by my bed where the portrait had been. Here the paper was of its original full tint of dark red: over the rest of the walls it had faded. Then I blew out my candle and instantly fell asleep.

  My awaking was equally instantaneous, and I sat bolt upright in bed under the impression that some bright light had been flashed in my face, though it was now absolutely pitch dark. I knew exactly where I was, in the room which I had dreaded in dreams, but no horror that I ever felt when asleep approached the fear that now invaded and froze my brain. Immediately after a peal of thunder crackled just above the house, but the probability that it was only a flash of lightning which awoke me gave no reassurance to my galloping heart. Something I knew was in the room with me, and instinctively I put out my right hand, which was nearest the wall, to keep it away. And my hand touched the edge of a picture-frame hanging close to me.
  I sprang out of bed, upsetting the small table that stood by it, and I heard my watch, candle, and matches clatter onto the floor. But for the moment there was no need of light, for a blinding flash leaped out of the clouds, and showed me that by my bed again hung the picture of Mrs. Stone. And instantly the room went into blackness again. But in that flash I saw another thing also, namely a figure that leaned over the end of my bed, watching me. It was dressed in some close-clinging white garment, spotted and stained with mold, and the face was that of the portrait.

  Overhead the thunder cracked and roared, and when it ceased and the deathly stillness succeeded, I heard the rustle of movement coming nearer me, and, more horrible yet, perceived an odor of corruption and decay. And then a hand was laid on the side of my neck, and close beside my ear I heard quick-taken, eager breathing. Yet I knew that this thing, though it could be perceived by touch, by smell, by eye and by ear, was still not of this earth, but something that had passed out of the body and had power to make itself manifest. Then a voice, already familiar to me, spoke.

  "I knew you would come to the room in the tower," it said. "I have been long waiting for you. At last you have come. Tonight I shall feast; before long we will feast together."
  And the quick breathing came closer to me; I could feel it on my neck.

  At that the terror, which I think had paralyzed me for the moment, gave way to the wild instinct of self-preservation. I hit wildly with both arms, kicking out at the same moment, and heard a little animal-squeal, and something soft dropped with a thud beside me. I took a couple of steps forward, nearly tripping up over whatever it was that lay there, and by the merest good-luck found the handle of the door. In another second I ran out on the landing, and had banged the door behind me. Almost at the same moment I heard a door open somewhere below, and John Clinton, candle in hand, came running upstairs.

  "What is it?" he said. "I sleep just below you, and heard a noise as if--Good heavens, there's blood on your shoulder."
  I stood there, so he told me afterwards, swaying from side to side, white as a sheet, with the mark on my shoulder as if a hand covered with blood had been laid there.
  "It's in there," I said, pointing. "She, you know. The portrait is in there, too, hanging up on the place we took it from."
  At that he laughed.
  "My dear fellow, this is mere nightmare," he said.
  He pushed by me, and opened the door, I standing there simply inert with terror, unable to stop him, unable to move.
  "Phew! What an awful smell," he said.
  Then there was silence; he had passed out of my sight behind the open door. Next moment he came out again, as white as myself, and instantly shut it.
  "Yes, the portrait's there," he said, "and on the floor is a thing--a thing spotted with earth, like what they bury people in. Come away, quick, come away."

  How I got downstairs I hardly know. An awful shuddering and nausea of the spirit rather than of the flesh had seized me, and more than once he had to place my feet upon the steps, while every now and then he cast glances of terror and apprehension up the stairs. But in time we came to his dressing-room on the floor below, and there I told him what I have here described.

  The sequel can be made short; indeed, some of my readers have perhaps already guessed what it was, if they remember that inexplicable affair of the churchyard at West Fawley, some eight years ago, where an attempt was made three times to bury the body of a certain woman who had committed suicide. On each occasion the coffin was found in the course of a few days again protruding from the ground. After the third attempt, in order that the thing should not be talked about, the body was buried elsewhere in unconsecrated ground. Where it was buried was just outside the iron gate of the garden belonging to the house where this woman had lived. She had committed suicide in a room at the top of the tower in that house. Her name was Julia Stone.

  Subsequently the body was again secretly dug up, and the coffin was found to be full of blood.