The-Crawling-Death-Chapter-05

JIM looked at me, and then with one bound, leaped toward the curtains and tore them apart. He disappeared from view, but reappeared almost instantly, brushing the front of his coat.

“Nothing in there, but I felt something like a big rat crawling up my coat. Ugh!”

We gazed about the room. It was furnished in the style of the past century, with heavy walnut chairs and dresser, and a massive canopied bed from which the curtains had been removed. And upon the bed lay the figure of a man in the position which Avery had described. It took but one glance to see that he was dead. Together we lifted the body and carried it, without molestation, to the hall. Instantly the door closed with a crash behind us.

We bore the body of the man to the room which he had occupied in life. Then we took Avery and his effects back to town with us and left him at the house where his wife was visiting. I promised to get a doctor’s certificate, and to see an undertaker, and have the body properly prepared for shipment to New York. Fortunately, there were no marks upon it, and as the man was known to have had serious heart trouble, no fears of embarrassing explanations were anticipated. 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 contained 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 Europe, I had seen the notice of his arrival in Liverpool months before, and had received several letters from him acknowledging remittances, one of which had arrived 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 paneled door.

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

The trees, stripped of their foliage, appeared 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 ominous 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 several 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 approached 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 precipitated into the room. The place was dark, but Jim had brought an electric flashlight which he was now darting around the room.

Suddenly he gave a startled exclamation.

“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 impression 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.