“At last, my frantic fingers closed on the light, and I shot the beam high above my head, seeking that white something up among the trees. It was gone. I paused to wipe the perspiration from my brow, and loosened my collar. A sudden shower of leaves came down upon my head; there was another zigzag of lightning, a nearby roll of thunder, and the sinister patter of raindrops falling about me like leaden bullets. The storm had burst.
“I stumbled back to the automobile, got in, and sent it forward headlong on the road to the left—the road which bore evidence of travel. The pace was furious; for somewhere behind me was a misty, floating figure of white, and somewhere a woman screaming. Suddenly the road widened where a path cut through the dense wood. A single sidelong glance at it as I rushed past told me it was not wide enough for my car. Again the road map was at fault. I remembered that grimly, even as the automobile went splashing along through growing pools of water and invisible ruts. I clung grimly to the steering wheel with only one idea in mind: to get to Millen.
“Gradually the road turned toward the left, or so it seemed to me. But that too might have been the effect of an overwrought imagination. The road did not look so much traveled now, despite the deceptive ruts into which my wheels kept sinking. Yet beneath its sheet of water the steadily gleaming lights showed that there was a road, plainly marked. For a minute or more I went straight on, desperately, recklessly; then an illuminating flash across the sky showed me that I was plunging into open country and that the forest was gradually receding.
“Finally, through the swirling, drenching rain, I saw a faint rosy point in the distance. Whatever it was—a lantern, I supposed—it indicated the presence of some fellow human being. I drove straight toward it. The gleam did not falter or fade. Another dazzling burst of lightning answered my question as to the nature of the light. It was in a farmhouse—a farmhouse out here where there weren’t supposed to be any farmhouses! But at least it would serve to shelter me from the fury of the storm. I took it all in at one glance, even to a small shed in the rear where I could park the car.
“I didn’t pause to call out as I drew near, but drove directly to the shed and ran my car in. Then, guided by the constant lightning flashes, I walked round to the front of the farmhouse, passing through the stream of light from the window. It cheered me, that light. I knocked on the front door loudly, shaking the water from my dripping garments. I waited—waited patiently for half a minute. There was no answering sound of any sort, and again I knocked, this time more insistently. Still no answer. It was not difficult to imagine that the continuous roar of the elements had drowned my knocking, so I repeated the performance, thumping loudly. Still no answer.
“Even in this desperate strait I did not care to enter the house as a thief might, by forcing my way, and run the risk of being received as a thief, possibly with a bullet. So I stepped down from the veranda, and went to the lighted window, intending to attract attention by rapping on the glass. My first glimpse told me no one was there; but the room indicated every evidence of occupancy. A big cheerful log fire was burning, and its flickering light showed books here and there, inviting chairs, a table, and all the little knickknacks that make a comfortable living-room.
“I had no further scruples about it. I ran up the steps, and was just reaching out my hand to try the knob, when the latch clicked, and slowly, silently, the door swung open. Naturally, I expected to meet someone—someone who had anticipated me in lifting the latch—but I saw no one. The door had merely opened, revealing a long, broad hallway, with a stair in the distance, and unlighted save for the reflection from the living-room. I took just two steps across the threshold, enough to get out of the swirling rain, then stopped and called. No one answered. I called a second time. The thunder was silent just then, and there was no sound save that of my own voice. I ventured along the hall to the living-room door and looked in. It was cozy, warm, even more comfortable than I had imagined when I looked in through the window.
“All at once I was overcome by a guilty sense of intrusion. What right had I to enter a strange house at this time of night, even to get out of a storm? My personal safety seemed at stake, somehow. I turned and started back for the door by which I had entered, with the intention of remaining there till in some way I could attract the attention of the occupants of the house.
“But I didn’t reach the door: for directly in front of me stood a man. He was tall, angular, aged, and a little bent. A straggling gray beard almost covered his face, and thick gray hair hung down limply from beneath the brim of an old slouch hat. He was beside me, almost within reach of my hand, almost treading upon my toes with his great boots, and yet I had not heard a single sound of his coming.
“‘I must apologize—’ I began; but I got no further. He had not heard me, had not even seen me, to judge by the manner in which he walked slowly past me with his chin upon his breast, his hands clasped behind his back. I stepped back to avoid a collision.
“‘I beg your pardon—’ I began again; but he had disappeared into the living-room, stalked away noiselessly without even a glance in my direction, leaving me overcome by that indefinable sense of impending danger.
“I paused there in the hall and considered the situation. Surely the old man must have seen me; yet—yet—
“‘I’m going in there, and I am going to stay until the storm is over!’ I told myself.
“I removed my coat, hung it on a peg, walked along the hallway, and stepped into the living-room.
“It was deserted!
“There are moments in every man’s life when the weight of a revolver in his hand is tremendously reassuring. This was mine. I drew the weapon from my hip pocket, examined it, and thrust it into my coat within easy reach of my right hand. Then I stood by the table, drumming my fingers on it idly, and debating with myself as to what I should do. I was looking toward the door by which I had entered. No one came in, and yet—
“Suddenly the gray-bearded old man was throwing a log on the fire. The flames shot up and the sparks flew; but there was not the crackle of fresh burning wood as there should have been—just this silent old man. My heart was in my throat, and I laughed sheepishly.
“‘You startled me,’ I explained foolishly.
“He did not look at me, but busied himself about the room for a moment, and laid his hat upon a couch. Then he went out by the door into the hallway.
“‘Well, upon my soul!’ I exclaimed.
“I sat down and deliberately waited for the old man to return. The uncanniness of it all was growing upon me—the silence of his great boots as he walked, the fire which didn’t crackle as it burned, the lack of any sign or movement to indicate that he had recognized my presence. Was the old man real? I came to my feet with an exclamation. Or was it—was it some weird continuation of that horrible business in the forest?
“I put out a cold, clammy hand to the fire. That seemed real—at least, a warmth came to me, and gradually my fingers lost their numbness, and looking upon my own hand I fell to remembering the hands of my strange host. They were knotted, toil-worn, and the left forefinger was missing. That fact struck sharply upon my memory, and I remembered also a scar over one eye when he removed his hat. That seemed real too, as did these things on the mantel in front of me: an empty spool; an alabaster cat, glaringly red and white; a piece of crystal of peculiar shape on the farthermost corner. And near it, so close that at first it seemed a part of it, was a queer little ivory god, sitting on his haunches, grinning.
“I lifted the ivory image and examined it curiously. It was real enough. I had stepped back from the mantel a pace to let the firelight fall upon it, when suddenly I knew that the old man had returned. I didn’t hear him, I hadn’t seen him—I merely knew he was there. I felt it. I slipped the little image into my pocket involuntarily as I turned; for all my interest was instantly transferred to a tray of food which the old man carried. And I remembered I was hungry.
“He placed the things on the table in the same gho
stly silence. There was a jug of milk, some jelly, a little pat of butter, and several biscuits. I went forward and thanked him. He was absolutely impassive, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, and seeming to have no connection with the things around him. He didn’t invite me to eat—I assumed that privilege and gingerly poked a finger into a biscuit. It felt like a biscuit. I bit it. It tasted like a biscuit. In fact, I am convinced to this day that it was a biscuit. But against the reality of that biscuit was the silent old man and his ghostly tread.
“Real, or unreal, the food was refreshing and good, and I fell to with a will. The old man sat down in a rocker by the fire and folded his hands in his lap. I ventured a remark about the storm. He didn’t answer. I really had not expected that he would. The modest supper brought a tingle back to my blood. My nerves were calmed, the room cozy, the fire comfortable. I was beginning to enjoy this singular experience; but an occasional glance at the swaying rocker where the old man sat by the fire kept me alert. The rocker swayed dismally, but without the slightest sound.
“The warmth, the food, and my utter exhaustion conspired to make me a little drowsy, and once at least I must have closed my eyes. Then I opened them with a start. From somewhere above me, below me, or from outside where the storm still growled, came that awful, heart-tearing scream again, ending in a wail that brought me to my feet. The old man did not heed the quick movement by the slightest sign—he was still comfortably rocking.
“‘What is it?’ I demanded.
“Revolver in hand, I rushed toward the door leading into the hallway. The old man was there ahead of me. He didn’t touch me, and yet imperceptibly I was forced aside. He crossed the hall and went up the stairs. After a moment I heard a door open and shut.
“Except for the noise of the storm, the scream, and my own voice, it was the only sound I had heard since I had entered the house.
“I went up those stairs; why I cannot say, except that something, a vague, undefined curiosity, seemed to impel me. And with this impulse came again, stronger than ever, that sense of personal danger—the feeling that had possessed me ever since I had entered the house.
“I groped my way through the darkness to the top of the stairs; then my hand ran along a wall till I came to an open door. I stood there a moment, undecided whether to investigate further or to retrace my steps. I was on the point of going back down the stairs, but the flare of a candle almost in my face stopped me. The old man held the candle, shading it with his left hand, from which the forefinger was missing. The wavering light gave the withered old face a strangely drawn expression.
“He was within three feet of me, gazing straight into my face, and yet I felt that he didn’t see me. For one moment he stood there, staring; then passing me, he entered the room beyond, where he put down the candle. I followed him into the room as a moth follows a flame. It was the light, I think, that lured me in. Here, once and for all, I would make an end of the thing. The old man, still noiselessly, went out the door by which he had entered, off into the darkness. The door swung to. Like a madman I sprang forward and shot the bolt. I don’t know why.
“I felt caged. Whatever was to come, was to come here! It was an intuition that stirred more strongly in me than the sense of danger. I sat down on a clean little bed and stared thoughtfully at the single door—the only way out save by one of two small windows which I imagined overlooked the yard. I examined my revolver carefully. Every chamber was loaded, and the cylinder whirled easily. Well and good. I waited. What for? I don’t know.
“The candle burned with a straight, unwavering flame, while I crouched there on the bed for a long time. The grumble of the thunder was growing faint and far away; but the rain swished against the windows in sheets. Here was a vigil, it seemed, and a long one; for sleep seemed hopelessly out of the question despite the insistent drowsiness of exhaustion. I wondered if the candle would last throughout the night. It was not yet half-burned. I gazed at it with a certain returning sense of assurance, and as I gazed, it flickered, flared up suddenly, and went out.
“I don’t know what happened then. It might have been ten minutes later, or it might have been a half a dozen hours, when strangling, choking fumes of smoke aroused me. My lungs were bursting for air. I struggled up on the bed, and was instantly conscious of the crackling sound of burning wood—of fire. The house was on fire! I rushed toward the bolted door, to find the flames already eating through the thin panels, and huge red tongues shooting out at me. I was cut off from the stairs.
“From there to one of the little windows! The glow far out through the rain told me that the whole house was aflame. I glanced downward. Sinuous forks were below me, on each side of me, above me. There was nothing to do but jump. I had only a moment to decide. I drew in my breath and pulled myself upon the ledge.
“And then again I heard that scream. Far across the open field, where the glow from the blaze dimmed off into the shadows, I saw a misty white figure with outstretched arms fleeing toward the forest. A little behind the floating white figure, and nearer to me, well within the range of the firelight, the old man was following. Even at the distance I could see his chin drooped upon his chest and his hands clasped behind his back.
“The next instant I had jumped . . .
“I found myself in my automobile skimming along a smooth, hard road that led through a forest. It was not familiar, and I didn’t know in what direction I was headed; nor did it matter, so long as I got away from those things behind me. My ankle was badly sprained, my clothing torn and burned in spots, and my head throbbing with pain.
“Then I found myself in what seemed to be a street in a small city. A faint, rosy line was just tinging the eastern sky. Houses to the right and left of me were closed forbiddingly; but just ahead was the solitary figure of a man, walking slowly, swinging a stick. I ran the automobile alongside him, shouting some senseless question, then fell forward in a faint.
“When I recovered consciousness it was to find myself lying on a cot in a strange room, perhaps a hospital. A physician was bandaging my ankle. A thousand questions leaped to my lips and some burst out.
“Don’t talk!’ commanded the physician.
‘“But where am I?’ I insisted.
“‘Millen,’ he responded tersely.
“It struck me as curious that I should be here—that I should have reached the point for which I was bound even after all that had happened to me. It seemed centuries since I had left Pelham somewhere behind. Perhaps it was all a dream. But those screams! That silent old man! After a while I dropped into a sleep of sheer exhaustion . . .
“On the following day I was calmer. The physician asked me some questions, and I answered them to the best of my ability. He did not smile at my fright, only shook his head and gave me something which made me sleep again. And so for a week I lay there, helpless. But one day I awoke to clear consciousness. Then the physician and I discussed the matter at length.
“He listened respectfully, and at the end shook his head.
“There is no intersecting road between the small store of which you speak and the outskirts of Millen,’ he said positively.
‘“But, man, I was there!’ I protested. ‘I turned into the other road and drove till I saw the house in the open field. I tell you—’
“But he let me go no further. I knew why. He thought it was some mental vagary; for after a while he gave me a pill and went away. So I determined to solve the matter for myself. I would go back along that road by day, and find that silent old man, and, if not the house itself, the charred spot where it had stood. I would know that intersection; I would know even the path which led from the mysterious road off into the wood. When I found these I knew the maze would fade into some simple, plain explanation—perhaps even an absurd one.
“So I bided my time. In the course of another week I was able to leave my cot and hobble about with the aid of a crutch. It was then that I took the physician in my car and we went back along the highway toward Pelham. It was all u
nfamiliar ground to me; there was no road, and suddenly there ahead of me was the little store where I had bought gasoline that night. I would question the old man I had seen there; but there was no old man. The little store was unoccupied; it seemed to have been unoccupied for weeks.
“I turned back and traversed the road toward Millen again. I recognized nothing; I could find no trace whatever of a bypath from the highway, in any direction. And once more I went over the ground at night. Nothing! After that, the physician—a singularly patient man—accompanied me as I hobbled through the forest on each side of the road, seeking the house, or its ashes. But I never saw anything that even suggested a single incident of that awful night.
‘“I know the country, every inch of it,’ the physician told me. ‘There isn’t any such place as you mention.’
“And—well, that’s all. I know the doctor’s opinion—that my story was some sort of delusion—a dream. And in time I came to believe the entire experience an hallucination. I was growing content with this interpretation, even knowing it to be wrong, because it brought mental rest, and I was beginning to be myself again.
“Then one day I had occasion to look through the pockets of the coat I had worn that night. In the course of the search I thrust my hand into an outside pocket, and drew out—a little ivory god, sitting on his haunches, grinning . .
When he had finished reading, The Thinking Machine dropped back into the chair, with squint eyes turned steadily upward, and long slender fingers pressed tip to tip. Hutchinson Hatch, the reporter, sat staring in silence at the drawn, inscrutable face of the scientist.
“And the writer of this?” asked The Thinking Machine at last.
“His name is William Fairbanks,” the reporter explained. “He was removed to an asylum yesterday, hopelessly insane.”
The House That Was By Jacques Futrelle (1875-1912)
THE Thinking Machine rose and walked the length of the room three times. Finally he stopped before the newspaperman. “And is there really such a thing as the grinning god that he describes?” he demanded.
Death Locked In Page 52
