The Empty House
The Empty House was published in Blackwood's collection of the same title in 1906. It is featured in our collection of Halloween Stories
Certain houses, like certain persons, manage somehow to proclaim at oncetheir character for evil. In the case of the latter, no particularfeature need betray them; they may boast an open countenance and aningenuous smile; and yet a little of their company leaves theunalterable conviction that there is something radically amiss withtheir being: that they are evil. Willy nilly, they seem to communicatean atmosphere of secret and wicked thoughts which makes those in theirimmediate neighbourhood shrink from them as from a thing diseased.And, perhaps, with houses the same principle is operative, and it is thearoma of evil deeds committed under a particular roof, long after theactual doers have passed away, that makes the gooseflesh come and thehair rise. Something of the original passion of the evil-doer, and ofthe horror felt by his victim, enters the heart of the innocent watcher,and he becomes suddenly conscious of tingling nerves, creeping skin,and a chilling of the blood. He is terror-stricken without apparentcause.There was manifestly nothing in the external appearance of thisparticular house to bear out the tales of the horror that was said toreign within. It was neither lonely nor unkempt. It stood, crowded intoa corner of the square, and looked exactly like the houses on eitherside of it. It had the same number of windows as its neighbours; thesame balcony overlooking the gardens; the same white steps leading up tothe heavy black front door; and, in the rear, there was the same narrowstrip of green, with neat box borders, running up to the wall thatdivided it from the backs of the adjoining houses. Apparently, too, thenumber of chimney pots on the roof was the same; the breadth and angleof the eaves; and even the height of the dirty area railings.And yet this house in the square, that seemed precisely similar to itsfifty ugly neighbours, was as a matter of fact entirelydifferent--horribly different.Wherein lay this marked, invisible difference is impossible to say. Itcannot be ascribed wholly to the imagination, because persons who hadspent some time in the house, knowing nothing of the facts, had declaredpositively that certain rooms were so disagreeable they would rather diethan enter them again, and that the atmosphere of the whole houseproduced in them symptoms of a genuine terror; while the series ofinnocent tenants who had tried to live in it and been forced to decampat the shortest possible notice, was indeed little less than a scandalin the town.When Shorthouse arrived to pay a "week-end" visit to his Aunt Julia inher little house on the sea-front at the other end of the town, he foundher charged to the brim with mystery and excitement. He had onlyreceived her telegram that morning, and he had come anticipatingboredom; but the moment he touched her hand and kissed her apple-skinwrinkled cheek, he caught the first wave of her electrical condition.The impression deepened when he learned that there were to be no othervisitors, and that he had been telegraphed for with a very specialobject.Something was in the wind, and the "something" would doubtless bearfruit; for this elderly spinster aunt, with a mania for psychicalresearch, had brains as well as will power, and by hook or by crook sheusually managed to accomplish her ends. The revelation was made soonafter tea, when she sidled close up to him as they paced slowly alongthe sea-front in the dusk."I've got the keys," she announced in a delighted, yet half awesomevoice. "Got them till Monday!""The keys of the bathing-machine, or--?" he asked innocently, lookingfrom the sea to the town. Nothing brought her so quickly to the point asfeigning stupidity."Neither," she whispered. "I've got the keys of the haunted house in thesquare--and I'm going there to-night."Shorthouse was conscious of the slightest possible tremor down his back.He dropped his teasing tone. Something in her voice and manner thrilledhim. She was in earnest."But you can't go alone--" he began."That's why I wired for you," she said with decision.He turned to look at her. The ugly, lined, enigmatical face was alivewith excitement. There was the glow of genuine enthusiasm round it likea halo. The eyes shone. He caught another wave of her excitement, and asecond tremor, more marked than the first, accompanied it."Thanks, Aunt Julia," he said politely; "thanks awfully.""I should not dare to go quite alone," she went on, raising her voice;"but with you I should enjoy it immensely. You're afraid of nothing, Iknow.""Thanks so much," he said again. "Er--is anything likely to happen?""A great deal has happened," she whispered, "though it's been mostcleverly hushed up. Three tenants have come and gone in the last fewmonths, and the house is said to be empty for good now."In spite of himself Shorthouse became interested. His aunt was so verymuch in earnest."The house is very old indeed," she went on, "and the story--anunpleasant one--dates a long way back. It has to do with a murdercommitted by a jealous stableman who had some affair with a servant inthe house. One night he managed to secrete himself in the cellar, andwhen everyone was asleep, he crept upstairs to the servants' quarters,chased the girl down to the next landing, and before anyone could cometo the rescue threw her bodily over the banisters into the hall below.""And the stableman--?""Was caught, I believe, and hanged for murder; but it all happened acentury ago, and I've not been able to get more details of the story."Shorthouse now felt his interest thoroughly aroused; but, though he wasnot particularly nervous for himself, he hesitated a little on hisaunt's account."On one condition," he said at length."Nothing will prevent my going," she said firmly; "but I may as wellhear your condition.""That you guarantee your power of self-control if anything reallyhorrible happens. I mean--that you are sure you won't get toofrightened.""Jim," she said scornfully, "I'm not young, I know, nor are my nerves;but with you I should be afraid of nothing in the world!"This, of course, settled it, for Shorthouse had no pretensions to beingother than a very ordinary young man, and an appeal to his vanity wasirresistible. He agreed to go.Instinctively, by a sort of sub-conscious preparation, he kept himselfand his forces well in hand the whole evening, compelling anaccumulative reserve of control by that nameless inward process ofgradually putting all the emotions away and turning the key upon them--aprocess difficult to describe, but wonderfully effective, as all men whohave lived through severe trials of the inner man well understand.Later, it stood him in good stead.But it was not until half-past ten, when they stood in the hall, well inthe glare of friendly lamps and still surrounded by comforting humaninfluences, that he had to make the first call upon this store ofcollected strength. For, once the door was closed, and he saw thedeserted silent street stretching away white in the moonlight beforethem, it came to him clearly that the real test that night would be indealing with two fears instead of one. He would have to carry hisaunt's fear as well as his own. And, as he glanced down at hersphinx-like countenance and realised that it might assume no pleasantaspect in a rush of real terror, he felt satisfied with only one thingin the whole adventure--that he had confidence in his own will and powerto stand against any shock that might come.Slowly they walked along the empty streets of the town; a bright autumnmoon silvered the roofs, casting deep shadows; there was no breath ofwind; and the trees in the formal gardens by the sea-front watched themsilently as they passed along. To his aunt's occasional remarksShorthouse made no reply, realising that she was simply surroundingherself with mental buffers--saying ordinary things to prevent herselfthinking of extra-ordinary things. Few windows showed lights, and fromscarcely a single chimney came smoke or sparks. Shorthouse had alreadybegun to notice everything, even the smallest details. Presently theystopped at the street corner and looked up at the name on the side ofthe house full in the moonlight, and with one accord, but withoutremark, turned into the square and crossed over to the side of it thatlay in shadow."The number of the house is thirteen," whispered a voice at his side;and neither of them made the obvious reference, but passed across thebroad sheet of moonlight and began to march up the pavement in silence.It was about half-way up the square that Shorthouse felt an arm slippedquietly but significantly into his own, and knew then that theiradventure had begun in earnest, and that his companion was alreadyyielding imperceptibly to the influences against them. She neededsupport.A few minutes later they stopped before a tall, narrow house that rosebefore them into the night, ugly in shape and painted a dingy white.Shutterless windows, without blinds, stared down upon them, shining hereand there in the moonlight. There were weather streaks in the wall andcracks in the paint, and the balcony bulged out from the first floor alittle unnaturally. But, beyond this generally forlorn appearance of anunoccupied house, there was nothing at first sight to single out thisparticular mansion for the evil character it had most certainlyacquired.Taking a look over their shoulders to make sure they had not beenfollowed, they went boldly up the steps and stood against the huge blackdoor that fronted them forbiddingly. But the first wave of nervousnesswas now upon them, and Shorthouse fumbled a long time with the keybefore he could fit it into the lock at all. For a moment, if truth weretold, they both hoped it would not open, for they were a prey to variousunpleasant emotions as they stood there on the threshold of theirghostly adventure. Shorthouse, shuffling with the key and hampered bythe steady weight on his arm, certainly felt the solemnity of themoment. It was as if the whole world--for all experience seemed at thatinstant concentrated in his own consciousness--were listening to thegrating noise of that key. A stray puff of wind wandering down the emptystreet woke a momentary rustling in the trees behind them, but otherwisethis rattling of the key was the only sound audible; and at last itturned in the lock and the heavy door swung open and revealed a yawninggulf of darkness beyond.With a last glance at the moonlit square, they passed quickly in, andthe door slammed behind them with a roar that echoed prodigiouslythrough empty halls and passages. But, instantly, with the echoes,another sound made itself heard, and Aunt Julia leaned suddenly soheavily upon him that he had to take a step backwards to save himselffrom falling.A man had coughed close beside them--so close that it seemed they musthave been actually by his side in the darkness.With the possibility of practical jokes in his mind, Shorthouse at onceswung his heavy stick in the direction of the sound; but it met nothingmore solid than air. He heard his aunt give a little gasp beside him."There's someone here," she whispered; "I heard him.""Be quiet!" he said sternly. "It was nothing but the noise of the frontdoor.""Oh! get a light--quick!" she added, as her nephew, fumbling with a boxof matches, opened it upside down and let them all fall with a rattle onto the stone floor.The sound, however, was not repeated; and there was no evidence ofretreating footsteps. In another minute they had a candle burning, usingan empty end of a cigar case as a holder; and when the first flare haddied down he held the impromptu lamp aloft and surveyed the scene. Andit was dreary enough in all conscience, for there is nothing moredesolate in all the abodes of men than an unfurnished house dimly lit,silent, and forsaken, and yet tenanted by rumour with the memories ofevil and violent histories.They were standing in a wide hall-way; on their left was the open doorof a spacious dining-room, and in front the hall ran, ever narrowing,into a long, dark passage that led apparently to the top of the kitchenstairs. The broad uncarpeted staircase rose in a sweep before them,everywhere draped in shadows, except for a single spot about half-way upwhere the moonlight came in through the window and fell on a brightpatch on the boards. This shaft of light shed a faint radiance above andbelow it, lending to the objects within its reach a misty outline thatwas infinitely more suggestive and ghostly than complete darkness.Filtered moonlight always seems to paint faces on the surrounding gloom,and as Shorthouse peered up into the well of darkness and thought of thecountless empty rooms and passages in the upper part of the old house,he caught himself longing again for the safety of the moonlit square, orthe cosy, bright drawing-room they had left an hour before. Thenrealising that these thoughts were dangerous, he thrust them away againand summoned all his energy for concentration on the present."Aunt Julia," he said aloud, severely, "we must now go through the housefrom top to bottom and make a thorough search."The echoes of his voice died away slowly all over the building, and inthe intense silence that followed he turned to look at her. In thecandle-light he saw that her face was already ghastly pale; but shedropped his arm for a moment and said in a whisper, stepping close infront of him--"I agree. We must be sure there's no one hiding. That's the firstthing."She spoke with evident effort, and he looked at her with admiration."You feel quite sure of yourself? It's not too late--""I think so," she whispered, her eyes shifting nervously toward theshadows behind. "Quite sure, only one thing--""What's that?""You must never leave me alone for an instant.""As long as you understand that any sound or appearance must beinvestigated at once, for to hesitate means to admit fear. That isfatal.""Agreed," she said, a little shakily, after a moment's hesitation. "I'lltry--"Arm in arm, Shorthouse holding the dripping candle and the stick, whilehis aunt carried the cloak over her shoulders, figures of utter comedyto all but themselves, they began a systematic search.Stealthily, walking on tip-toe and shading the candle lest it shouldbetray their presence through the shutterless windows, they went firstinto the big dining-room. There was not a stick of furniture to beseen. Bare walls, ugly mantel-pieces and empty grates stared at them.Everything, they felt, resented their intrusion, watching them, as itwere, with veiled eyes; whispers followed them; shadows flittednoiselessly to right and left; something seemed ever at their back,watching, waiting an opportunity to do them injury. There was theinevitable sense that operations which went on when the room was emptyhad been temporarily suspended till they were well out of the way again.The whole dark interior of the old building seemed to become a malignantPresence that rose up, warning them to desist and mind their ownbusiness; every moment the strain on the nerves increased.Out of the gloomy dining-room they passed through large folding doorsinto a sort of library or smoking-room, wrapt equally in silence,darkness, and dust; and from this they regained the hall near the top ofthe back stairs.Here a pitch black tunnel opened before them into the lower regions,and--it must be confessed--they hesitated. But only for a minute. Withthe worst of the night still to come it was essential to turn fromnothing. Aunt Julia stumbled at the top step of the dark descent, illlit by the flickering candle, and even Shorthouse felt at least halfthe decision go out of his legs."Come on!" he said peremptorily, and his voice ran on and lost itself inthe dark, empty spaces below."I'm coming," she faltered, catching his arm with unnecessary violence.They went a little unsteadily down the stone steps, a cold, damp airmeeting them in the face, close and mal-odorous. The kitchen, into whichthe stairs led along a narrow passage, was large, with a lofty ceiling.Several doors opened out of it--some into cupboards with empty jarsstill standing on the shelves, and others into horrible little ghostlyback offices, each colder and less inviting than the last. Black beetlesscurried over the floor, and once, when they knocked against a dealtable standing in a corner, something about the size of a cat jumpeddown with a rush and fled, scampering across the stone floor into thedarkness. Everywhere there was a sense of recent occupation, animpression of sadness and gloom.Leaving the main kitchen, they next went towards the scullery. The doorwas standing ajar, and as they pushed it open to its full extent AuntJulia uttered a piercing scream, which she instantly tried to stifle byplacing her hand over her mouth. For a second Shorthouse stoodstock-still, catching his breath. He felt as if his spine had suddenlybecome hollow and someone had filled it with particles of ice.Facing them, directly in their way between the doorposts, stood thefigure of a woman. She had dishevelled hair and wildly staring eyes, andher face was terrified and white as death.She stood there motionless for the space of a single second. Then thecandle flickered and she was gone--gone utterly--and the door framednothing but empty darkness."Only the beastly jumping candle-light," he said quickly, in a voicethat sounded like someone else's and was only half under control. "Comeon, aunt. There's nothing there."He dragged her forward. With a clattering of feet and a great appearanceof boldness they went on, but over his body the skin moved as ifcrawling ants covered it, and he knew by the weight on his arm that hewas supplying the force of locomotion for two. The scullery was cold,bare, and empty; more like a large prison cell than anything else. Theywent round it, tried the door into the yard, and the windows, but foundthem all fastened securely. His aunt moved beside him like a person ina dream. Her eyes were tightly shut, and she seemed merely to follow thepressure of his arm. Her courage filled him with amazement. At the sametime he noticed that a certain odd change had come over her face, achange which somehow evaded his power of analysis."There's nothing here, aunty," he repeated aloud quickly. "Let's goupstairs and see the rest of the house. Then we'll choose a room to waitup in."She followed him obediently, keeping close to his side, and they lockedthe kitchen door behind them. It was a relief to get up again. In thehall there was more light than before, for the moon had travelled alittle further down the stairs. Cautiously they began to go up into thedark vault of the upper house, the boards creaking under their weight.On the first floor they found the large double drawing-rooms, a searchof which revealed nothing. Here also was no sign of furniture or recentoccupancy; nothing but dust and neglect and shadows. They opened the bigfolding doors between front and back drawing-rooms and then came outagain to the landing and went on upstairs.They had not gone up more than a dozen steps when they bothsimultaneously stopped to listen, looking into each other's eyes with anew apprehension across the flickering candle flame. From the room theyhad left hardly ten seconds before came the sound of doors quietlyclosing. It was beyond all question; they heard the booming noise thataccompanies the shutting of heavy doors, followed by the sharp catchingof the latch."We must go back and see," said Shorthouse briefly, in a low tone, andturning to go downstairs again.Somehow she managed to drag after him, her feet catching in her dress,her face livid.When they entered the front drawing-room it was plain that the foldingdoors had been closed--half a minute before. Without hesitationShorthouse opened them. He almost expected to see someone facing him inthe back room; but only darkness and cold air met him. They went throughboth rooms, finding nothing unusual. They tried in every way to make thedoors close of themselves, but there was not wind enough even to set thecandle flame flickering. The doors would not move without strongpressure. All was silent as the grave. Undeniably the rooms were utterlyempty, and the house utterly still."It's beginning," whispered a voice at his elbow which he hardlyrecognised as his aunt's.He nodded acquiescence, taking out his watch to note the time. It wasfifteen minutes before midnight; he made the entry of exactly what hadoccurred in his notebook, setting the candle in its case upon the floorin order to do so. It took a moment or two to balance it safely againstthe wall.Aunt Julia always declared that at this moment she was not actuallywatching him, but had turned her head towards the inner room, where shefancied she heard something moving; but, at any rate, both positivelyagreed that there came a sound of rushing feet, heavy and veryswift--and the next instant the candle was out!But to Shorthouse himself had come more than this, and he has alwaysthanked his fortunate stars that it came to him alone and not to hisaunt too. For, as he rose from the stooping position of balancing thecandle, and before it was actually extinguished, a face thrust itselfforward so close to his own that he could almost have touched it withhis lips. It was a face working with passion; a man's face, dark, withthick features, and angry, savage eyes. It belonged to a common man, andit was evil in its ordinary normal expression, no doubt, but as he sawit, alive with intense, aggressive emotion, it was a malignant andterrible human countenance.There was no movement of the air; nothing but the sound of rushingfeet--stockinged or muffled feet; the apparition of the face; and thealmost simultaneous extinguishing of the candle.In spite of himself, Shorthouse uttered a little cry, nearly losing hisbalance as his aunt clung to him with her whole weight in one moment ofreal, uncontrollable terror. She made no sound, but simply seized himbodily. Fortunately, however, she had seen nothing, but had only heardthe rushing feet, for her control returned almost at once, and he wasable to disentangle himself and strike a match.The shadows ran away on all sides before the glare, and his aunt stoopeddown and groped for the cigar case with the precious candle. Then theydiscovered that the candle had not been blown out at all; it had beencrushed out. The wick was pressed down into the wax, which wasflattened as if by some smooth, heavy instrument.How his companion so quickly overcame her terror, Shorthouse neverproperly understood; but his admiration for her self-control increasedtenfold, and at the same time served to feed his own dying flame--forwhich he was undeniably grateful. Equally inexplicable to him was theevidence of physical force they had just witnessed. He at oncesuppressed the memory of stories he had heard of "physical mediums" andtheir dangerous phenomena; for if these were true, and either his auntor himself was unwittingly a physical medium, it meant that they weresimply aiding to focus the forces of a haunted house already charged tothe brim. It was like walking with unprotected lamps among uncoveredstores of gun-powder.So, with as little reflection as possible, he simply relit the candleand went up to the next floor. The arm in his trembled, it is true, andhis own tread was often uncertain, but they went on with thoroughness,and after a search revealing nothing they climbed the last flight ofstairs to the top floor of all.Here they found a perfect nest of small servants' rooms, with brokenpieces of furniture, dirty cane-bottomed chairs, chests of drawers,cracked mirrors, and decrepit bedsteads. The rooms had low slopingceilings already hung here and there with cobwebs, small windows, andbadly plastered walls--a depressing and dismal region which they wereglad to leave behind.It was on the stroke of midnight when they entered a small room on thethird floor, close to the top of the stairs, and arranged to makethemselves comfortable for the remainder of their adventure. It wasabsolutely bare, and was said to be the room--then used as a clothescloset--into which the infuriated groom had chased his victim andfinally caught her. Outside, across the narrow landing, began the stairsleading up to the floor above, and the servants' quarters where they hadjust searched.In spite of the chilliness of the night there was something in the airof this room that cried for an open window. But there was more thanthis. Shorthouse could only describe it by saying that he felt lessmaster of himself here than in any other part of the house. There wassomething that acted directly on the nerves, tiring the resolution,enfeebling the will. He was conscious of this result before he had beenin the room five minutes, and it was in the short time they stayed therethat he suffered the wholesale depletion of his vital forces, whichwas, for himself, the chief horror of the whole experience.They put the candle on the floor of the cupboard, leaving the door a fewinches ajar, so that there was no glare to confuse the eyes, and noshadow to shift about on walls and ceiling. Then they spread the cloakon the floor and sat down to wait, with their backs against the wall.Shorthouse was within two feet of the door on to the landing; hisposition commanded a good view of the main staircase leading down intothe darkness, and also of the beginning of the servants' stairs going tothe floor above; the heavy stick lay beside him within easy reach.The moon was now high above the house. Through the open window theycould see the comforting stars like friendly eyes watching in the sky.One by one the clocks of the town struck midnight, and when the soundsdied away the deep silence of a windless night fell again overeverything. Only the boom of the sea, far away and lugubrious, filledthe air with hollow murmurs.Inside the house the silence became awful; awful, he thought, becauseany minute now it might be broken by sounds portending terror. Thestrain of waiting told more and more severely on the nerves; theytalked in whispers when they talked at all, for their voices aloudsounded queer and unnatural. A chilliness, not altogether due to thenight air, invaded the room, and made them cold. The influences againstthem, whatever these might be, were slowly robbing them ofself-confidence, and the power of decisive action; their forces were onthe wane, and the possibility of real fear took on a new and terriblemeaning. He began to tremble for the elderly woman by his side, whosepluck could hardly save her beyond a certain extent.He heard the blood singing in his veins. It sometimes seemed so loudthat he fancied it prevented his hearing properly certain other soundsthat were beginning very faintly to make themselves audible in thedepths of the house. Every time he fastened his attention on thesesounds, they instantly ceased. They certainly came no nearer. Yet hecould not rid himself of the idea that movement was going on somewherein the lower regions of the house. The drawing-room floor, where thedoors had been so strangely closed, seemed too near; the sounds werefurther off than that. He thought of the great kitchen, with thescurrying black-beetles, and of the dismal little scullery; but,somehow or other, they did not seem to come from there either. Surelythey were not outside the house!Then, suddenly, the truth flashed into his mind, and for the space of aminute he felt as if his blood had stopped flowing and turned to ice.The sounds were not downstairs at all; they were upstairs--upstairs,somewhere among those horrid gloomy little servants' rooms with theirbits of broken furniture, low ceilings, and cramped windows--upstairswhere the victim had first been disturbed and stalked to her death.And the moment he discovered where the sounds were, he began to hearthem more clearly. It was the sound of feet, moving stealthily along thepassage overhead, in and out among the rooms, and past the furniture.He turned quickly to steal a glance at the motionless figure seatedbeside him, to note whether she had shared his discovery. The faintcandle-light coming through the crack in the cupboard door, threw herstrongly-marked face into vivid relief against the white of the wall.But it was something else that made him catch his breath and stareagain. An extraordinary something had come into her face and seemed tospread over her features like a mask; it smoothed out the deep linesand drew the skin everywhere a little tighter so that the wrinklesdisappeared; it brought into the face--with the sole exception of theold eyes--an appearance of youth and almost of childhood.He stared in speechless amazement--amazement that was dangerously nearto horror. It was his aunt's face indeed, but it was her face of fortyyears ago, the vacant innocent face of a girl. He had heard stories ofthat strange effect of terror which could wipe a human countenance cleanof other emotions, obliterating all previous expressions; but he hadnever realised that it could be literally true, or could mean anythingso simply horrible as what he now saw. For the dreadful signature ofovermastering fear was written plainly in that utter vacancy of thegirlish face beside him; and when, feeling his intense gaze, she turnedto look at him, he instinctively closed his eyes tightly to shut out thesight.Yet, when he turned a minute later, his feelings well in hand, he saw tohis intense relief another expression; his aunt was smiling, and thoughthe face was deathly white, the awful veil had lifted and the normallook was returning."Anything wrong?" was all he could think of to say at the moment. Andthe answer was eloquent, coming from such a woman."I feel cold--and a little frightened," she whispered.He offered to close the window, but she seized hold of him and beggedhim not to leave her side even for an instant."It's upstairs, I know," she whispered, with an odd half laugh; "but Ican't possibly go up."But Shorthouse thought otherwise, knowing that in action lay their besthope of self-control.He took the brandy flask and poured out a glass of neat spirit, stiffenough to help anybody over anything. She swallowed it with a littleshiver. His only idea now was to get out of the house before hercollapse became inevitable; but this could not safely be done by turningtail and running from the enemy. Inaction was no longer possible; everyminute he was growing less master of himself, and desperate, aggressivemeasures were imperative without further delay. Moreover, the actionmust be taken towards the enemy, not away from it; the climax, ifnecessary and unavoidable, would have to be faced boldly. He could do itnow; but in ten minutes he might not have the force left to act forhimself, much less for both!Upstairs, the sounds were meanwhile becoming louder and closer,accompanied by occasional creaking of the boards. Someone was movingstealthily about, stumbling now and then awkwardly against thefurniture.Waiting a few moments to allow the tremendous dose of spirits to produceits effect, and knowing this would last but a short time under thecircumstances, Shorthouse then quietly got on his feet, saying in adetermined voice--"Now, Aunt Julia, we'll go upstairs and find out what all this noise isabout. You must come too. It's what we agreed."He picked up his stick and went to the cupboard for the candle. A limpform rose shakily beside him breathing hard, and he heard a voice sayvery faintly something about being "ready to come." The woman's courageamazed him; it was so much greater than his own; and, as they advanced,holding aloft the dripping candle, some subtle force exhaled from thistrembling, white-faced old woman at his side that was the true source ofhis inspiration. It held something really great that shamed him and gavehim the support without which he would have proved far less equal to theoccasion.They crossed the dark landing, avoiding with their eyes the deep blackspace over the banisters. Then they began to mount the narrow staircaseto meet the sounds which, minute by minute, grew louder and nearer.About half-way up the stairs Aunt Julia stumbled and Shorthouse turnedto catch her by the arm, and just at that moment there came a terrificcrash in the servants' corridor overhead. It was instantly followed by ashrill, agonised scream that was a cry of terror and a cry for helpmelted into one.Before they could move aside, or go down a single step, someone camerushing along the passage overhead, blundering horribly, racing madly,at full speed, three steps at a time, down the very staircase where theystood. The steps were light and uncertain; but close behind them soundedthe heavier tread of another person, and the staircase seemed to shake.Shorthouse and his companion just had time to flatten themselves againstthe wall when the jumble of flying steps was upon them, and two persons,with the slightest possible interval between them, dashed past at fullspeed. It was a perfect whirlwind of sound breaking in upon the midnightsilence of the empty building.The two runners, pursuer and pursued, had passed clean through themwhere they stood, and already with a thud the boards below had receivedfirst one, then the other. Yet they had seen absolutely nothing--not ahand, or arm, or face, or even a shred of flying clothing.There came a second's pause. Then the first one, the lighter of the two,obviously the pursued one, ran with uncertain footsteps into the littleroom which Shorthouse and his aunt had just left. The heavier onefollowed. There was a sound of scuffling, gasping, and smotheredscreaming; and then out on to the landing came the step--of a singleperson treading weightily.A dead silence followed for the space of half a minute, and then washeard a rushing sound through the air. It was followed by a dull,crashing thud in the depths of the house below--on the stone floor ofthe hall.Utter silence reigned after. Nothing moved. The flame of the candle wassteady. It had been steady the whole time, and the air had beenundisturbed by any movement whatsoever. Palsied with terror, Aunt Julia,without waiting for her companion, began fumbling her way downstairs;she was crying gently to herself, and when Shorthouse put his arm roundher and half carried her he felt that she was trembling like a leaf. Hewent into the little room and picked up the cloak from the floor, and,arm in arm, walking very slowly, without speaking a word or looking oncebehind them, they marched down the three flights into the hall.In the hall they saw nothing, but the whole way down the stairs theywere conscious that someone followed them; step by step; when they wentfaster IT was left behind, and when they went more slowly IT caught themup. But never once did they look behind to see; and at each turning ofthe staircase they lowered their eyes for fear of the following horrorthey might see upon the stairs above.With trembling hands Shorthouse opened the front door, and they walkedout into the moonlight and drew a deep breath of the cool night airblowing in from the sea.
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