The-Crawling-Death-Chapter-04

THE summer passed uneventfully, with no word from our tenants, ex-
cept for the monthly remittance. And then, one morning late in October, as Jim and I were preparing to make a visit of inspection to several properties, I was called to the telephone, and in answer to my response a voice, which, in spite of its tremor and excitement, I recognized as Avery’s, asked me to come immedi-
ately to Hedgewood. It was not until we were in the car that I told Jim, who was driving, to head for Ormond’s place, and put on all speed.

“What’s the trouble?” he asked, obey-
ing my wishes, but taking time to cast a curious glance at me.

“I don’t know. Avery telephoned me to come at once on a matter of great importance.”

It was only good fortune that kept Jim from arrest for breaking the speed law, for twenty minutes later he drew up in front of the gate at Hedgewood. Avery was there to meet us. His face was pale, and his eyes had a look of horror in them.

“What’s the matter?” I demanded, as he jumped into the car and we drove to the house.

“Brooks is dead—murdered, I think.”

“Who is Brooks?”

“My brother-in-law; he came last week to spend a few days with us and—”

“Was he in the secret room?” I de-
manded. He flushed and stammered.

“Yes—yes. I told him the story and showed him the key, but put him on his honor not to use it. I didn’t think he’d do it. But it seems he was interested in that sort of thing. And—and—” His voice trailed off, then suddenly rose, and he turned on me in a fit of fury. “What the devil do you mean by putting us in a house like that?” he snarled. “What devilish thing have you got in that room? It might have been my wife—my wife!” He stood over me with distorted face and threatening gesture.

“Sit down!” I said coldly. “I told you the conditions. I know nothing of the room other than what you know. Where is your brother-in-law?”

He sank back in the tonneau, his face twitching nervously, while the car drove slowly toward the house.

“He is still in the room,” he whispered with a shudder, “and I can’t get him out.”

“Can’t?” I asked.

No fears of embarrassing explanations were anticipated as serious heart trouble. Upon my return to the office, I found a cablegram awaiting me. I tore it open with trembling fingers. It was from Italy and signed “Ormond,” and con-
tained this brief statement: “Fools rush in where angels fear to tread.”

I read the characters with quickening pulse. Was it possible that the man was aware of what had happened? Could he have an agent concealed in the house to keep him informed of all that occurred? Or was the man so finely constituted and possessed of so keen a knowledge of, and power over, the unseen forces of the universe that he could keep in constant telepathic communication with affairs in all parts of the world?

My reading and belief did not forbid the thought; I knew Ormond was in Eu-
rope, I had seen the notice of his arrival in Liverpool months before, and had re-
ceived several letters from him acknowl-
edging remittances, one of which had ar-
rived but three days before. The cable bore the date of the preceding day—the day on which Brooks was murdered.

I laid it on my desk and shuddered. In my imagination I saw the yellow slip of paper assume the grisly shape of John Ormond’s hand. Was it possible that I, too, would fall a victim to that terrible unseen power which we had left behind at Hedgewood?

But no! and I clenched my teeth. I was possessed of a still greater power, and I would cope with and overcome that other force, or lose my life in the effort. For Jim and I had determined to spend that night in the room with the red pan-
eled door.

It was dusk when we arrived. The house looked especially gloomy and un-
inviting in the closing darkness.

The trees, stripped of their foliage, ap-
peared gaunt and spectral against the sky. There was no wind. The usual woodland sounds, the sighing of the trees, the scraping of boughs, the twitter of birds and insects, were absent. An om-
inous silence brooded over the place.

I waited at the top of the steps while Jim was doing something about the car. He had shut off the power. I noticed that he examined the gasoline and water tank, and then, before joining me, he started the engine and immediately stopped it. Was Jim preparing for an emergency, I wondered? Was he going to flunk at the last minute? Courage in broad daylight sometimes evaporates under the spell of darkness. But one glance at Jim’s face as he rejoined me was reassuring. The square set jaw, the eager look in his eyes—these did not denote a failing courage.

The intense silence was broken by the shooting back of the heavy bolt in the front door. Together, we entered the hall and stood a moment in the darkness. The house felt close and oppressive. Walking over to the switch, I flooded the rooms with light. Jim threw open sev-
eral of the windows and let in the cool autumn air.

“There, that looks and feels better. How is your nerve, Dick?”

“I’ve got a grip on it,” I replied, “but we’re not to have such things as nerves tonight.”

“Right you are; but I’ve brought this along as a substitute.” He showed the butt of an automatic.

I smiled.

“What do you expect to do with that, Jim? Shoot ghosts?”

“I’ll shoot anything that shows itself, man or ghost, or—devil.”

Jim went to the piano and woke the echoes of the old house with selections of popular songs, while I found a congenial book in the library, and for an hour or more lost myself in its contents. About ten o’clock Jim sauntered in, smoking a pipe, and looking bored.

“There’s nothing doing down here, Dick,” he said. “Let’s go upstairs.”

I laid down my book and together we mounted the steps. On the landing I turned the electric switch which lighted the hall. Back in the shadows we could see the dull gleam of the red paneled door. Not a sound broke the stillness. The thick carpet on the hall floor buried the sound of our footsteps as we ap-
proached the room. For a moment we paused in front of it, while I selected the key. And then, just as I was about to insert it in the lock, the knob rattled loudly. We looked at each other.

“Are you afraid, Jim?”

“No!” he answered.

“Because, if you are, you’d better not go in. Remember Brooks.”

He paled slightly and swallowed once or twice.

“I’m not afraid, I tell you.”

“Very well; here goes.”

I turned the key and the knob, and pressed against the door. Again I felt a resistance which gradually yielded, then ceased altogether, and, the door giving away under my weight, I was precipi-
tated into the room. The place was dark, but Jim had brought an electric flash-
light which he was now darting around the room.

Suddenly he gave a startled exclama-
tion.

“Quick, Dick, look!”

He pointed toward the bed. It had been made up probably years before. The linen and counterpane, once snowy white, were yellow with age. The im-
pression of Brooks’ body still remained. Then, before our eyes, the pillows were taken up and laid at the foot of the bed, the covering was turned back, and the pillows returned and neatly arranged, just as a maid would do. Only there was no maid, absolutely nothing. Jim’s hand was clutching my arm.