 The Dance of Death by Algernon Blackwood Brown went to the dance feeling genuinely depressed, for the doctor had just warned him that his heart was weak, and that he must be exceedingly careful in the matter of exertion. Dancing, he asked, with that assumed lightness some nature's effect in the face of a severe shock, the plucky instinct to conceal pain. Well, in moderation perhaps, hummed the doctor. Not wildly, he added, with a smile that betrayed something more than mere professional sympathy. At any other time Brown would probably have laughed, but the doctor's serious manner put a touch of ice on the springs of laughter. At the age of twenty-six one hardly realizes death. Life is still endless, and it is only old people who have hearts, and such like afflictions. So it was that the professional dictum came as a real shock, and with it, too, as a sudden revelation came that little widening of sympathy for others that is part of every deep experience as the years roll up and pass. At first he thought of sending an excuse. He went about carefully, making the buses stop dead before he got out, and going very slowly up steps. Then gradually he grew more accustomed to the burden of his dread secret, the commonplace events of the day, the hated drudgery of the office where he was an underpaid clerk, the contact with other men who bore similar afflictions with assumed indifference, the fault finding of the manager, making him fearful of his position. All this helped to reduce the sense of first alarm, and instead of sending an excuse he went to the dance, as we have seen, feeling deeply depressed, and moving all the time as if he carried in his side a brittle glass globe that the least jarring might break into a thousand pieces. The spontaneous jollity natural to a boy and girl dance served, however, to emphasise vividly the contrast of his own mood, and to make him very conscious again of his little hidden source of pain. But though he would gladly have availed himself of a sympathetic ear among the many there whom he knew intimately, he nevertheless exercised the restraint natural to his character, and avoided any reference to the matter that bulked so largely in his consciousness. Once or twice he was tempted, but a pre-vision of the probable conversation that would ensue stopped him always in time. Oh, I am so sorry, Mr. Brown, and you mustn't dance too hard, you know, and then his careless laugh as he remarked that it didn't matter a bit, and his little joke as he whirled his partner off for another spin. He knew, of course, there was nothing very sensational about being told that one's heart was weak. Even the doctor had smiled a little, and he now recalled more than one acquaintance who had the same trouble and made light of it. Yet it sounded in Brown's life a note of profound and sinister gloom. It snatched beyond his reach at one fell swoop all that he most loved and enjoyed, destroying a thousand dreams, and painting the future a dull drab colour without hope. He was an idealist at heart, hating the sordid routine of the life he led as a business underling. His dreams were of the open air, of mountains, forests, and great plains, of the sea, and of the lonely places of the world. Wind and rain spoke intimately to his soul, and the storms of heaven as he heard them raging at night round his high room in Bloomsbury stirred savage yearnings that haunted him for days afterwards with the voices of the desert. Sometimes during the lunch hour, when he escaped temporarily from the artificial light and close air of his high office stool to see the white clouds sailing by overhead and to hear the wind singing in the wires, it set such a fever in his blood that for the remainder of the afternoon he found it impossible to concentrate on his work, and thus exasperated the loud-voiced manager almost to madness. Having no expectations and absolutely no practical business-ability he was fortunate, however, in having a place at all, and the hard fact that promotion was unlikely made him all the more careful to keep his dreams in their place, to do his work as well as possible and to save what little he could. His holidays were the only points of light in an otherwise dreary existence, and one day when he should have saved enough he looked forward vaguely to a life close to nature, perhaps a shepherd on a hundred hills, a dweller in the woods, within sound of his beloved trees and waters, where the smell of the earth and campfire would be ever in his nostrils, and the running stream always ready to bear his boat swiftly away into happiness. And now the knowledge that he had a weak heart came to spoil everything. It shook his dream to the very foundations. It depressed him utterly. Any moment the blow might fall. It might catch him in the water swimming, or halfway up the mountain, or midway in one of his lonely tramps, just when his enjoyment depended most upon his being reckless and forgetful of bodily limitations, that freedom of the spirit and the wilderness he so loved. He might even be forced to spend his holiday, to say nothing of the dream of the far future, in some farmhouse, quietly, instead of gloriously in the untrodden wilds. The thought made him angry with pain. All day he was haunted and dismayed, and all day he heard the wind whispering among branches, and the water lapping somewhere against sandy banks in the sun. The dance was a small subscription affair, hastily arranged and happily informal. It took place in a large hall that was used in the daytime as a gymnasium, but the floor was good, and the music more than good. Foils and helmets hung round the walls, and high up under the brown rafters were ropes, rings, and trapezes coiled away out of reach, their unsightliness further concealed by an array of brightly colored flags. Only the light was not of the best, for the hall was very long, and the gallery at the end loomed in a sort of twilight that was further deepened by the shadows of the flags overhead. But its benches afforded excellent sitting-out places, where strong light was not always an essential to happiness, and no one dreamed of finding fault. At first he danced cautiously, but by degrees the spirit of the time and place relieved his depression and helped him to forget. He had probably exaggerated the importance of his malady. Lots of other fellows, even as young as he was, had weak hearts and thought nothing of it. All the time, however, there was an undercurrent of sadness and disappointment not to be denied. Something had gone out of life. A note of darkness had crept in. He found his partner's doll, and they no doubt found him still doler. Yet this dance, with nothing apparently to distinguish it from a hundred others, stood out in all his experience with an indelible red mark against it. It is a common trick of nature, and a profoundly significant one, that just when despair is deepest she waves a wand before the weary eyes and does her best to waken an impossible hope. Her idea, presumably, being to keep her victim going actively to the very end of the chapter, lest through indifference he should lose something of the lesson she wishes to teach. Thus it was that midway in the dance, Brown's listless glance fell upon a certain girl whose appearance instantly galvanized him into a state of keenest possible desire. A flash of white light entered his heart and set him all on fire to know her. She attracted him tremendously. She was dressed in pale green and always danced with the same man, a man about his own height and colouring, whose face, however, he never could properly see. They sat out together much of the time, always in the gallery where the shadows were deepest. The girl's face he saw clearly, and there was something about her that simply lifted him bodily out of himself and sent strange thrills of delight coursing over him, like shocks of electricity. Several times their eyes met, and when this happened he could not tear his glance away. She fascinated him, and all the forces in his being merged into a single desire to be with her, to dance with her, speak with her, and to know her name. Especially he wondered who the man was she so favoured. He reminded him so oddly of himself. No one knows precisely what he himself looks like, but this tall dark figure, whose face he could never contrive to see, started the strange thought in him that it was his own double. In vain he sought to compass an introduction to this girl. No one seemed to know her. Her dress, her hair, and a certain wondrous slim grace made him think of a young tree waving in the wind, of ivy leaves, of something that belonged to the life of the woods rather than to ordinary humanity. She possessed him, filling his thoughts with wild woodland dreams. Once, too, he was certain when their eyes met that she smiled at him. And the call was so well-nigh irresistible that he almost dropped his partner's arm to run after her. But it seemed impossible to obtain an introduction from anyone. Do you know who that girl is over there? He asked one of his partners, while sitting out a square dance, half-exhausted with his exertions, the one up there in the gallery? In pink? No, the one in green, I mean. Oh, next the wallflower lady in red? In the gallery, not under it, he explained impatiently. I can't see up there. It's so dark, returned the girl, after a careful survey through glasses. I don't think I see anyone at all. It is rather dark, he remarked. Why, do you know who she is? She asked foolishly. He did not like to insist. It seemed so rude to his partner. But this sort of thing happened once or twice. Evidently no one knew this girl in green, or else he described her so inaccurately that the people he asked looked at someone else instead. In that green sort of ivy-looking dress he tried another. With the rose in her hair and the red nose, or the one sitting out. After that he gave it up, finally. His partners seemed to sniff a little when he asked. Evidently La Desiree was not a popular maiden. Soon after, too, she disappeared, and he lost sight of her. Yet the thought that she might have gone home made his heart sink into a sort of horrible blackness. He lingered on much later than he intended, in the hope of getting an introduction. But at last, when he had filled all his engagements, or nearly all, he made up his mind to slip out and go home. It was already late, and he had to be in the office, that hateful office, punctually at nine o'clock. He felt tired, awfully tired, more so than ever before at a dance. It was, of course, his weak heart. He still dawdled a little while, however, hoping for another glimpse of the self in green, hungering for a last look that he could carry home with him, and perhaps mingle with his dreams. The mere thought of her filled him with pain and joy, and a sort of rarefied delight he had never known before. But he could not wait for ever, and it was already close upon two o'clock in the morning. His rooms were only a short distance down the street. He would light a cigarette and stroll home. No, he had forgotten for a moment, without a cigarette. The doctor had been very stern on that point. He was in the act of turning his back on the whirl of dancing figures, when the flags at the far end of the room parted for an instant in the moving air, and as I rested upon the gallery just visible among the shadows, a great pain ran swiftly through his heart as he looked. There were only two figures seated there, the tall dark men, who was his double, and the ivy girl in green. She was looking straight at him down the length of the room, and even at that distance he could see that she smiled. He stopped short. The flags waved back again, and hid the picture, but on the instant he made up his mind to act. There among all this dreary crowd of dancing dolls was someone he really wanted to know, to speak with, to touch, someone who drew him beyond all he had ever known, and made his soul cry aloud. The room was filled with automatic lay figures, but here was someone alive. He must know her. It was impossible to go home without speech, utterly impossible. A fresh stab of pain, worse than the first, gave him momentary pause. He leaned against the wall for an instant, just under the clock, where the hands pointed to two, waiting for the swooning blackness to go. Then he passed on, disregarding it utterly. It supplied him in truth with the extra little impetus he needed to set the will into vigorous action, for it reminded him forcibly of what might happen. His time might be short. He had known few enough of the good things of life. He would seize what he could. He had no introduction, but, to the devil with the conventions, the risk was nothing, to meet her eyes at close quarters, to hear her voice, to know something of the perfume of that hair and dress, what was the risk of a snub compared to that. He slid down the side of the long room, dodging the dancers as best he could. The tall man, he noted, had left the gallery, but the girl sat on alone. He made his way quickly up the wooden steps, light as air, trembling with anticipation. His heart beat like a quick padded hammer, and the blood played a tambourine in his ears. It was odd he did not meet the tall man on the stairs, but doubtless there was another exit from the gallery that he had not observed. He topped the stairs and turned the corner. By Jove she was still there, a few feet in front of him, sitting with her arms upon the railing, peering down upon the dancers below. His eyes swam for a moment, and something clutched at the very roots of his being. But he did not hesitate. He went up quite close past the empty seats, meaning to ask naturally and simply if he might beg for the pleasure of a dance. Then, when he was within a few feet of her side, the girl suddenly turned and faced him, and the words died away on his lips. They seemed absolutely foolish and inadequate. Yes, I am ready, she said quietly, looking straight into his eyes. But what a long time you were in coming. Was it such a great effort to leave? The form of the question struck him as odd, but he was too happy to pause. He became transfigured with joy. The sound of her voice instantly drowned all the clatter of the ballroom, and seemed to him the only thing in the whole world. It did not break on the consonants like most human speech. It flowed smoothly. It was the sound of wind among branches, of water running over pebbles. It swept into him and caught him away, so that for a moment he saw his beloved woods and hills and seas. The stars were somewhere in it, too, and the murmur of the planes. By the gods, here was a girl he could speak with in the words of silence. She stretched every string in his soul and then played on them. His spirit expanded with life and happiness. She would listen gladly to all that concerned him. To her he could talk openly about his poor broken heart, for she would sympathize. Indeed it was all he could do to prevent himself running forward at once with his arms outstretched to take her. There was a perfume of earth and woods about her. Oh, I am so awfully glad! He began lamely, his eyes on her face. Then remembering something of earthly manners, he added. My name, er, is. Something unusual, something indescribable, in her gesture, stopped him. She had moved to give him space at her side. Your name, she laughed, drawing her green skirts with a soft rustle-like leaves along the bench to make room. But you need no name now, you know. Oh, the wonder of it! She understood him. He sat down with a feeling that he had been flying in a free wind and was resting among the tops of trees. The room faded out temporarily. But my name, if you like to know, is Isidie, she said, still smiling. Miss Isidie, he stammered, making another attempt at the forms of worldly politeness. Not Miss Isidie, she laughed aloud merrily. It surely was the sound of wind and poplars. Isidie is my first name, so if you call me anything, you must call me that. The name was pure music in his ears, but though he blundered about in his memory to find his own, it had utterly vanished. For the life of him he could not recollect what his friends called him. He stared a moment, vaguely wondering, almost beside himself with delight. No other girls he had known. Ye heavens above! There were no longer any other girls. He had never known any other girl than this one. Here was his universe, framed in a green dress, with a voice of sea and wind, eyes like the sun and movements of bending grasses. All else was mere shadow and fantasy. For the first time in his existence he was alive and knew that he was alive. I was sure you would come to me, she was saying. You couldn't help yourself. Her eyes were always on his face. I was afraid at first, but your thoughts she interrupted softly. Your thoughts were up here with me all the time. You knew that, he cried, delighted. I felt them, she replied simply. They you kept me company, for I have been alone here all the evening. I know no one else here yet. Her words amazed him. He was just going to ask who the tall dark man was when he saw that she was rising to her feet and that she wanted to dance. But my heart, he stammered. It won't hurt your poor heart to dance with me, you know, she laughed. You may trust me. I shall know how to take care of it. Brown felt simply ecstatic. It was too wonderful to be true. It was impossible. This meeting in London, at an ordinary doll dance in the twentieth century, he would wake up presently from a dream of silver and gold, yet he felt even then that she was drawing his arm about her waist for the dance, and with that first magical touch he almost lost consciousness and passed with her into a state of pure spirit. It puzzled him for a moment how they reached the floor so quickly and found themselves among the whirling couples. He had no recollection of coming down the stairs. But meanwhile he was dancing on wings, and the girl in green beside him seemed to fly too, and as he pressed her to his heart he found it impossible to think of anything else in the world but that, that and his astounding happiness. And the music was within them rather than without. Indeed, they seemed to make their own music out of their swift whirling movements, for it never ceased and he never grew tired. His heart had ceased to pain him. Other curious things happened too, but he hardly noticed them, or rather they no longer seemed strange. In that crowded ballroom they never once touched other people. His partner required no steering. She made no sound. Then suddenly he realized that his own feet made no sound either. They skimmed the floor with noiseless feet like spirits dancing. No one else appeared to take the least notice of them. Most of the faces seemed, indeed, strange to him now, as though he had not seen them before. But once or twice he could have sworn that he passed couples who were dancing almost as happily and lightly as themselves, couples he had known in past years, couples who were dead. Gradually the room emptied of its original comers, and others filled their places silently, with airy graceful movements and happy faces, till the whole floor at length was covered with the soundless feet and whirling forms of those who had already left the world. And as the artificial light faded away there came in its place a soft white light that filled the room with beauty and made all the faces look radiant. And once, as they skimmed past a mirror, he saw that the girl beside him was not there, that he seemed to be dancing alone, clasping no one, yet when he glanced down there was her magical face at his shoulder and he felt her little form pressing up against him. Such dancing, too, he had never even dreamed about, for it was like swinging with the treetops in the winds. Then they danced farther out, ever swifter and swifter past the shadows beneath the gallery, under the motionless hanging flags, and out into the night. The walls were behind them, they were off their feet, and the wind was in their hair. They were rising, rising, rising towards the stars. He felt the cool air of the open sky in his cheeks, and when he looked down, as they cleared the summit of the dark lying hills, he saw that Iceti had melted away into himself, and they had become one being, and he knew then that his heart would never pain him again on earth, or cause him to fear for any of his beloved dreams. But the manager of the hateful office only knew two days later why Brown had not turned up to his desk, nor sent any word to explain his absence. He read it in the paper, how he had dropped down dead at a dance, suddenly stricken by heart disease. It happened just before two o'clock in the morning. Well, thought the manager, he's no loss to us anyhow. He had no real business instincts. Smith will do his work much better, and for less money, too. End of The Dance of Death. The Empty House by Algernon Blackwood This is a LibriVox recording. Several LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Will Tijorina The Empty House by Algernon Blackwood Certain houses, like certain persons, manage somehow to proclaim at once their character for evil. In the case of the latter, no particular feature need betray them. They may boast an open countenance and an ingenuous smile, and yet a little of their company leaves the unalterable conviction that there is something radically amiss with their being, that they are evil. Willy-nilly they seem to communicate an atmosphere of secret and wicked thoughts, which makes those in their immediate neighborhood shrink from them as from a thing diseased, and, perhaps, with houses the same principle is operative, and it is the aroma of evil deeds committed under a particular roof long after the actual doers have passed away that makes the goose flesh come and the hair rise. Speaking of the original passion of the evil doer, and of the horror felt by its victim enters the heart of the innocent watcher, and he becomes suddenly conscious of tingling nerves, creeping flesh, and a chilling of the blood. He is terror-stricken without apparent cause. There was manifestly nothing in the external appearance of this particular house to bear out the tale of the horror that was said to reign within. It was neither lonely nor unkempt. It stood, crowded in a corner of the square, and looked exactly like the houses on either side of it. It had the same number of windows as its neighbors, the same balcony overlooking the gardens, the same white steps leading up to the heavy black front door, and in the rear there was the same narrow strip of green with neat box borders running up to the wall that divided it from the backs of the adjoining houses. Apparently, too, the number of chimney pots on the roof was the same, the breadth and angle of the eaves and even the height of the dirty area railings, and yet this house in the square that seemed precisely similar to its fifty ugly neighbors was as a matter of fact entirely different, horribly different. Wherein lay this marked invisible difference is impossible to say. It cannot be ascribed wholly to the imagination because persons who had spent some time in the house knowing nothing of the facts had declared positively that certain rooms were so disagreeable they would rather die than enter them again, and that the atmosphere of the whole house produced in them symptoms of a genuine terror, while the series of innocent tenants who had tried to live in it and been forced to decamp at the shortest possible notice was indeed little less than a scandal in the town. When Short House arrived to pay a weekend visit to his Aunt Julia in her house on the seafront at the other end of town, he found her charged to the brim with mystery and excitement. He had only received her telegram that morning, and he had come anticipating boredom. But the moment he touched her hand and kissed her apple skin wrinkled cheek, he caught the first wave of her electric condition. The impression deepened when he learned that there were to be no other visitors, and that he had been telegraphed for a very special object. Everything was in the wind, and the something would doubtless bear fruit. For this elderly spinster aunt, with a mania for psychical research, had brains as well as willpower, and by hook or by crook she usually managed to accomplish her ends. The revelation was made soon after tea, when she sidled up close to him as they paced slowly along the seafront in the dusk. I've got the keys! She announced in a delighted yet half-awesome voice. Got them till Monday! The keys of the bathing machine? Or he asked innocently, looking from the sea to the town. Nothing brought her so quickly to the point as feigning stupidity. Neither, she whispered, I've got the keys of the haunted house in the square, and I'm going there to-night. The haunted house was conscious of the slightest possible tremor down his back. He dropped his teasing tone. Something in her voice and manner thrilled him. She was an 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, enigmatic face was alive with excitement. There was the glow of genuine enthusiasm round it like a halo, the eyes shown. He caught another wave of her excitement, and a second tremor, more marked than the first, accompanied it. Thanks, on 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, I know. Thanks so much, he said again. Is anything likely to happen? A great deal has happened, she whispered, though it's been most cleverly hushed up. Three tenants have come and gone in the last few months, and the house is said to be empty for good now. In spite of himself, Shorthouse became interested. His aunt was so very much an earnest. The house is very old indeed, she went on, and the story, an unpleasant one, dates a long way back. It has to do with a murder committed by a jealous stableman who had some affair with a servant in the house. One night he managed to secrete himself in the cellar, and when everyone was asleep, he crept upstairs to the servants' quarters, chased the girl down to the next landing, and before anyone could come to the rescue threw her bodily over the banister into the hall below. And the stableman was caught, I believe, and hanged for murder. But it all happened a century ago, and I've not been able to get more detail of the story. Shorthouse now felt his interest thoroughly aroused, but, though he was not particularly nervous for himself, he hesitated a little on his aunt's account. On one condition, he said at length, Nothing will prevent my going, she said firmly, but I may as well hear your condition. That you guarantee your power of self-control, if anything really horrible happens, I mean that you are sure you won't get too frightened. Jim, she said scornfully, I'm not young, I know, nor are my nerves, but with you I shouldn't be afraid of nothing in the world. This, of course, settled it, for Shorthouse had no pretensions of being other than a very ordinary young man, and an appeal to his vanity was irresistible. He agreed to go. Instinctively, by a sort of subconscious preparation, he kept himself and his forces well in hand the whole evening, compelling an accumulative reserve of control by that nameless inward process of gradually putting all the emotions away and turning the key upon them, a process difficult to describe, but wonderfully effective, as all men who have 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 in the glare of friendly lamps, and still surrounded by comforting human influences, that he had to make the first call upon his store of collected strength, for once the door was closed, and he saw the deserted silent street stretching away white in the moonlight before them, it came to him clearly that the real test that night would be in dealing with two fears instead of one. He would have to carry his onsphere as well as his own, and as he glanced down at her sphinx-like countenance, and realized that it might assume no pleasant aspect in a rush of real terror, he felt satisfied with only one thing in the whole adventure, that he had confidence in his own will and power to stand against any shock that might come. Slowly they walked along the empty streets of the town, a bright autumn moon slivered the roofs, casting deep shadows, there was no breath of wind, and the trees in the formal gardens by the sea front watched them silently as they passed along. To his unsoccasional remarks, Shorthouse made no reply, realizing that she was simply surrounding herself with mental buffers, saying ordinary things to prevent herself thinking of extraordinary things. Two windows showed lights, and from scarcely a single chimney came smoke or sparks. Shorthouse had already begun to notice everything, even the smallest details. Presently they stopped at the street corner and looked up at the name on the side of the house full in the moonlight, and with one accord, but without remark, turned into the square and crossed over to the side of it that lay 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 along the broad street of moonlight and began to march up the pavement in silence. It was about half way up the square that Shorthouse felt an arm slip quietly, but significantly into his own, and knew then that their adventure had begun in earnest, and that his companion was already yielding imperceptibly to the influences against them. She needed support. A few minutes later they stopped before a tall, narrow house that rose before them into the night, ugly in shape and painted a dingy white. Shudderless windows without blinds stared down upon them, shining here and there in the moonlight. There were weather streaks in the wall and cracks in the paint, and the balcony bulged out from the first floor a little unnaturally, but beyond this generally for Lorne appearance of an unoccupied house, there was nothing at first sight to single out this particular mansion for the evil character it had most certainly acquired. Taking a look over their shoulders to make sure they had not been followed, they went boldly up the steps and stood against the huge black door that fronted them forbiddingly. But the first wave of nervousness was now upon them, and Shorthouse fumbled a long time with the key before he could fit it into the lock at all. For a moment, if truth were told, they both hoped it would not open. For they were a prey to various unpleasant emotions as they stood there on the threshold of their ghostly adventure. Shorthouse, shuffling with the key and hampered by the steady weight on his arm, certainly felt the solemnity of the moment. It was as if the whole world, for all experience seemed at that instant concentrated in his own consciousness, were listening to the grating noise of that key. A stray puff of wind, wandering down the empty street, woke a momentary rustling in the trees behind them, but otherwise this rattling of the key was the only sound audible. And at last it turned in the lock, and the heavy door swung opened and revealed a yawning gulf of darkness beyond. With the last glance at the moonlit square, they passed quickly in, and the door slammed behind them with a roar that echoed prodigiously through empty halls and passages. But instantly, with the echoes another sound made itself heard, and Aunt Julia leaned suddenly so heavily upon him that he had to take a step backwards to save himself from falling. A man coughed close beside them, so close that it seemed they must have been actually by his side in the darkness. With the possibility of practical jokes in his mind, Shorthouse at once swung his heavy stick in the direction of the sound, but it met nothing more solid than air. He heard his aunt give a little gas beside him. There's something here, she whispered, I heard him. Be quiet, he said sternly, it was nothing but the noise of the front door. Oh, get a light quick, she added, as her nephew fumbled with a box of matches, opened it upside down and let them all fall with a rattle on the stone floor. The sound, however, was not repeated, and there was no evidence of retreating footsteps. In another minute they had a candle burning using an empty end of a cigar case as a holder. When the first flare had died down, he held the impromptu lamp deloft and surveyed the scene. It was dreary enough in all conscience, for there is nothing more desolate in all the abodes of men than an unfurnished house dimly lit, silent, and forsaken, yet tenanted by rumor with the memories of evil and violent histories. They were standing in a wide hallway, on their left was the open door of 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 kitchen stairs. The broad, uncarpeted staircase rose in a sweep before them, everywhere draped in shadows except for a single spot about half way up where the moonlight came in through the windows and fell upon a bright patch on the boards. This shaft of light shed a faint radiance above and below it, lending to the objects within its reach a misty outline that was infinitely more suggestive and ghostly than complete darkness. Filtered moonlight always seems to paint faces on the surrounding gloom, and a short house peered up into the well of darkness and thought of the countless empty rooms and passages in the upper part of the old house, he caught himself longing again for the safety of the moonlit square, or the cozy bright drawing room they had left an hour before. Then realizing that these thoughts were dangerous, he thrust them away again and summoned all his energy for concentration on the present. On Julia, he said aloud severely, we must now go through the house from top to bottom and make a thorough search. The echoes of his voice died away slowly all over the building, and in the intense silence that followed he turned to look at her. In the candlelight he saw that her face was already ghastly pale, but she dropped his arm for a moment and said in a whisper, stepping close in front of him. I agree. We must be sure there's no one hiding. That's the first thing. 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 towards the shadows behind. Quite sure. Only one thing. What's that? You must never leave me for an instant. As long as you understand that any sound or appearance must be investigated at once, for to hesitate means to admit fear. That is fatal. Agreed, she said a little shakily, after a moment's hesitation, I'll try. Arm in arm, short house holding the dripping candle and the stick, while his aunt carried the cloak over his shoulders. Figures of utter comedy to all but themselves, they began a systematic search. Stealthily, walking on tiptoes, and shading the candle lest it should betray their presence through the shutterless windows, they went first into the big dining room. There was not a stick of furniture to be seen. Bare walls, ugly mantel pieces, and empty grates stared at them. Everything they felt, resented their intrusion, watching them as it were, with veiled eyes. Whispers followed them. Shadows flitted noiselessly to the right and left. Something seemed ever at their back, watching, waiting for an opportunity to do them injury. There was the inevitable sense that operations which went on when the room was empty, had been temporarily suspended till they were well out of the way again. The whole dark interior of the old building seemed to become a malignant presence that rose up, warning them to desist and mind their own business. Every moment the strain on the nerves increased. Out of the gloomy dining room they passed through large folding doors into a sort of library, or smoking room, wrapped equally in silence, darkness, and dust, and from this they regained the hall near the top of the 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. With the worst of the night still to come, it was essential to turn from nothing. Aunt Julia stumbled at the top of the steps of the dark descent, ill-lit by the flickering candle, and even short house fell at least half the decision go out of his legs. Come on, he said, preemptorily, and his voice ran on and lost itself in the 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 air meeting them in the face, close and malodorous. The kitchen, into which the stairs led along a narrow passage, was large with a lofty ceiling. Several doors opened out of it, some into cupboards with empty jars still standing on the shelves, and others into horrible little ghostly back offices, each colder and less inviting than the last. Black beetles scurried over the floor, and once, when they knocked against a deal table standing in a corner, something about the size of a cat jumped down with a rush and fled, scampering across the stone floor into the darkness. Everywhere there was a sense of recent occupation, an impression of sadness and gloom. Leaving the main kitchen, they next went towards the scullery. The door was standing ajar, and as they pushed it open to its full extent, Aunt Julia uttered a piercing scream, which she instantly tried to stifle by placing a hand over her mouth. For a second, short house stood stock still, catching his breath. He felt as if his spine had suddenly become hollow, and someone had filled it with particles of ice. Facing them, directly in their way between the doorpost, stood the figure of a woman. She had disheveled hair and wildly staring eyes, and her face was terrified and white as death. She stood there motionless for the space of a single second. Then the candle flickered and she was gone, gone utterly, and the door framed nothing but empty darkness. Only the beastly jumping candlelight, he said quickly in a voice that sounded like someone else's and was only half under control. Come on Aunt, there's nothing there. He dragged her forward, with a clattering of feet and a great appearance of boldness they went on. But over his body the skin moved as if crawling ants covered it, and he knew by the weight on his arm that he was supplying the force of locomotion for two. The scullery was cold, bare, and empty. More like a large prison cell than anything else. They went round it, tried the door into the yard and the windows, but found them all fastened securely. His aunt moved beside him like a person in a dream. Her eyes were tightly shut, and she seemed merely to follow the pressure of his arm. Her courage filled him with amazement. At the same time he noticed that a certain odd change had come over her face, a change which somehow evaded his power of analysis. There's nothing here, auntie, he repeated aloud quickly. Let's go upstairs and see the rest of the house. Then we'll choose a room to wait up in. She followed him, obediently, keeping close to his side, and they locked the kitchen door behind them. It was a relief to get up again. In the hall there was more light than before, for the moon had traveled a little further down the stairs. Cautiously they began to go into the dark vault of the upper house, the boards creaking under their weight. On the first floor they found the large double drawing rooms, a search of which revealed nothing. Here also was no sign of furniture or recent occupancy, nothing but dust and neglect and shadows. They opened the big folding doors between front and back drawing rooms, and then came out again to the landing and went upstairs. They had not gone more than a dozen steps when they both simultaneously stopped to listen, looking into each other's eyes with a new apprehension across the flickering candle flame. From the room they had left hardly ten seconds before came the sound of doors quietly closing. It was beyond all question. They heard the booming noise that accompanied the shutting of heavy doors, followed by the sharp catch of the latch. We must go back and see, said Shorthouse briefly, in a low tone, and turning 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 folding doors had been closed half a minute before. Without hesitation Shorthouse opened them. He almost expected to see someone facing him in the back room, but only darkness and cold air met him. They went through both doors, finding nothing unusual. They tried in every way to make the doors close themselves, but there was not wind enough even to set the candle flame flickering. The doors would not move without strong pressure. All was silent as the grave. Undeniably the rooms were utterly empty, and the house utterly still. It's beginning, whispered a voice at his elbow which he hardly recognized as his aunts. He nodded acquiescence, taking out his watch to note the time. It was fifteen minutes before midnight. He made the entry of exactly what had occurred in his notebook, setting the candle in its case upon the floor in order to do so. It took a moment or two to balance it safely against the wall. Count Julia always declared that this moment she was not actually watching him, but had turned her head towards the inner room. Where she fancied she heard something moving, but at any rate both positively agree that there came a sound of rushing feet, heavy and very swift, and the next instant the candle was out. But to Shorthouse himself had come more than this, and he had always thanked his fortunate stars that it came to him alone and not to his aunt too. For, as he rose from the stooping position of balancing the candle, and before it actually extinguished, a face thrust itself forward so close to his own that he could almost have touched it with his lips. It was a face working with passion, a man's face dark with thick features and angry savage eyes. It belonged to a common man, and it was evil in its ordinary normal expression, no doubt, but as he saw it alive with intense aggressive emotion, it was a malignant and terrible human countenance. There was no movement in the air, nothing but the sound of rushing feet, stockinged or muffled feet, the apparition of the face, and the almost simultaneous extinguishing of the candle. In spite of himself, Shorthouse uttered a little cry, nearly losing his balance as his aunt clung to him with her whole weight in one moment of real uncontrollable terror. She made no sound, but simply seized him bodily. Fortunately, however, she had seen nothing, but had only heard the rushing feet, for her control returned almost at once, and he was able to disengage himself and strike a match. The shadows ran away on all sides before the glare, and his aunt stooped down and groped for the cigar case with the precious candle. Then they discovered that the candle had not been blown out at all. It had been crushed out. The wick was pressed down into the wax, which was flattened as if by some smooth, heavy instrument. How his companions so quickly overcame her terror, Shorthouse never properly understood, but his admiration for her self-control increased tenfold, and at the same time served to feed his own dying flame, for which he was undeniably grateful. Equally inexplicable to him was the evidence of physical force they had just witnessed. He at once suppressed the memory of stories he had heard of physical mediums and their dangerous phenomena, for if these were true, and either his aunt or himself had unwittingly a physical medium, it meant that they were simply aiding to focus the forces of a haunted house already charged to the brim. It was like walking with unprotected lamps among uncovered stores of gunpowder. So with as little reflection as possible, he simply refit the candle and went up to the next floor. The arm in his trembled, it is true, and his own tread was often uncertain, but they went on with thoroughness, and after a search revealing nothing, they climbed the last flight of stairs to the top floor of all. Here they found a perfect nest of small servants' rooms, with broken pieces of furniture, dirty cane-bottom chairs, chest of drawers, cracked mirrors, and decrepit bedsteads. The rooms had low sloping ceilings already hung here and there with cobwebs, small windows and badly plastered walls, a depressing and dismal region which they were glad to leave behind. It was on the stroke of midnight when they entered a small room on the third floor, close to the top of the stairs, and arranged to make themselves comfortable for the remainder of their adventure. It was absolutely bare and was said to be the room, then used as a clothes-closet, into which the infuriated groom had chased his victim and finally caught her. Outside across the narrow landing began the stairs leading up to the floor above, and the servants' quarters where they had just searched. In spite of the chilliness of the night, there was something in the air of this room that cried for an open window. But there was more than this. Short House could only describe it by saying that he felt less master of himself here than in any other part of the house. There was something that acted directly on his nerves. He was conscious of this result before he had been in the room five minutes, and it was in the short time they stayed there that he suffered the wholesale depletion of his vital forces, which was, for himself, the chief horror of the whole experience. They put the candle on the floor of the cupboard, leaving the door a few inches ajar, so that there was no glare to confuse the eyes and no shadow to shift about on walls and ceilings. Then they spread the cloak on the floor and sat down to wait, with their backs against the wall. Short House was within two feet of the door and onto the landing. His position commanded a good view of the main staircase leading down into the darkness, and also of the beginning of the servant stairs going to the floor above. The heavy stick lay beside him within easy reach. The moon was now high above the house. Through the open window they could see the comforting stars like friendly eyes watching in the sky. One by one the clocks in the town struck midnight, and when the sounds died away, the deep silence of a windless night fell again over everything. Only the boom of the sea, far away and lugubrious, filled the air with hollow murmurs. Inside the house the silence became awful. Awful he thought, because any minute now it might be broken by sounds pretending terror. The strain of waiting told more and more severely on the nerves. They talked and whispers when they talked at all, for their voices aloud sounded queer and unnatural. The chillness not altogether due to the night air invaded the room and made them cold. The influences against them, whatever these might be, were slowly robbing them of their self-confidence and the power of decisive action. Their forces were on the wane, and the possibility of real fear took on a new and terrible meaning. He began to tremble for the elderly woman by his side, whose pluck could hardly save her beyond a certain extent. He heard the blood singing in his veins. It sometimes seemed so loud that he fancied it prevented his hearing properly certain other sounds that were beginning very faintly to make themselves audible in the depths of the house. Every time he fastened his attention on these sounds they instantly ceased. They certainly came no nearer. Yet he could not rid himself of the idea that movement was going on somewhere in the lower regions of the house. The drawing room floor where the doors had been so strangely closed seemed too near. The sounds were further off than that. He thought of the great kitchen with the scurrying black beetles and of the dismal little scullery, but somehow or other they did not seem to come from there either. Surely they were not outside the house. Then suddenly the truth flashed into his mind, and for the space of a minute 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 their bits of broken furniture, low ceiling, and cramped windows. Upstairs where the victim had first been disturbed and stalked to her death, and the moment he discovered where the sounds were he began to hear them more clearly. It was the sound of feet moving stealthily along the passage overhead, in and out amongst the rooms and past the furniture. He turned quickly to steal a glance at the motionless figure seated beside him to note whether she had shared his discovery. The faint candlelight coming through the crack and the cupboard door threw her strongly marked face into vivid relief against the white of the wall. But it was something else that made him catch his breath and stare again. An extraordinary something had come unto her face and seemed to spread over her features like a mask. It smoothed out the deep lines and drew the skin everywhere a little tighter so that the wrinkles disappeared. It brought into the face, with the sole exception of the old eyes, an appearance of youth and of almost childhood. He stared in speechless amazement, amazement that was dangerously near to horror. It was his aunt's face indeed, but it was her face of 40 years ago, the vacant innocent face of a girl. He had heard stories of that strange effect of terror which could wipe a human countenance clean of other emotions, obliterating all previous expressions. But he had never realized that it could be literally true, or could mean anything so simply horrible as what he saw now. For the dreadful signature of overmastering fear was written plainly in that utter vacancy of the girlish face beside him, and when, feeling his intense gaze, she turned to look at him. He instinctively closed his eyes tightly to shut out the sight. Yet, when he turned a minute later, his feelings well in hand, he saw to his intense relief another expression. His aunt was smiling, and though her face was deathly white, the awful veil had lifted and the normal look was returning. Anything wrong? Was all he could think of to say at the moment? And the 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 begged him not to leave her side even for an instant. It's upstairs, I know, she whispered with an odd and half laugh, but I can't possibly go up. But Shorthouse thought otherwise, knowing that in action lay their best hope of self-control. He took the brandy flask and poured out a glass of neat spirit, stiff enough to help anybody over anything. She swallowed it with a little shiver. His only idea now was to get out of the house before her collapse became inevitable. But this could not safely be done by turning tail and running from the enemy. In action was no longer possible. Every minute he was growing less master of himself, and desperate, aggressive measures were imperative without further delay. Moreover, the action must be taken towards the enemy not away from it. The climax, if necessary, and unavoidable, would have to be faced boldly. He could do it now, but in ten minutes he might not have the force left to act for himself, much less for both. Upstairs the sounds were meanwhile becoming louder and closer, accompanied by occasional creaking of the boards. Someone was moving stealthily about, stumbling now and then awkwardly against the furniture. Waiting a few moments to allow the tremendous dose of spirits to produce its effect, and knowing this would last but a short time under the circumstances, Short House then quietly got on his feet, saying in a determined voice, Now, Aunt Julia, we'll go upstairs and find out what all this noise is about. You must come too, it's what we agreed. He picked up a stick and went to the cupboard for the candle. A limp form rose shakily beside him, breathing hard, and he heard a voice say, very faintly something about being ready to come. The woman's courage amazed him. It was so much greater than his own, and as they advanced holding aloft the dripping candle, some subtle force, exhaled from this trembling, white-faced old woman at his side, that was the true source of his inspiration. It held something really great, and shamed him, and gave him the support without which he could have proved far less equal to the occasion. They crossed the dark landing, avoiding with their eyes the deep black space over the banisters. Then they began to mount the narrow staircase to meet the sounds which, minute by minute, grew louder and nearer. About half way up the stairs Aunt Julia stumbled, and Short House turned to catch her by the arm, and just at that moment there came a terrific crash in the servants' corridor overhead. It was instantly followed by a shrill agonizing scream that was a cry of terror and a cry for help melted into one. Before they could move aside or go down a single step, something came rushing along the passage overhead, blundering horribly, racing madly at full speed, three steps at a time down the very staircase where they stood. The steps were light and uncertain, but close behind them sounded the heavier tread of another person, and the staircase seemed to shake. Short House and his companion just had time to flatten themselves against the wall when the jumble of flying steps was upon them, and two persons with the slightest possible interval between them dashed past at full speed. It was a perfect whirlwind of sound breaking in upon the midnight silence of the empty house. The two runners, pursuer and pursued, had passed clean through them where they stood, and already with a thud the boards below had received first one, then the other. Yet they had seen absolutely nothing, not a hand or arm or face or even a shred of flying clothing. There came a second pause. Then the first one, the lighter one of the two, obviously the pursued one, ran with uncertain footsteps into the little room which Short House and his aunt had just left. The heavier one followed. There was a sound of scuffling, gasping, and smothered screaming, and then out on the landing came the step of a single person treading waitily. A dead silence followed for the space of half a minute, and then there was 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 of the hall. Utter silence reigned after. Nothing moved. The flame of the candle was steady. It had been steady the whole time, and the air had been undisturbed 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 Short House put his arm around her and half carried her, he felt that she was trembling like a leaf. He went 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 once behind them, they marched down the three flights into the hall. In the hall they saw nothing, but the hallway down the stairs, they were conscious that something followed them step by step. When they went faster, it was left behind, and when they went more slowly, it caught them up. But never once did they look behind to see, and at each turning of the staircase, they lowered their eyes for fear of the following horror they might see upon the stairs above. With trembling hands, Short House opened the front door, and they walked out into the moonlight and drew a deep breath of the cool night air blowing in from the sea. End of The Empty House, Recording by Will T. Harina, Vancouver, Washington. The Evil Eye by Lady Jane Wilde. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Evil Eye by Lady Jane Wilde. There is nothing more dreaded by the people nor considered more deadly in its effects than the Evil Eye. There are several modes in which the Evil Eye can act, some much more deadly than others. If certain persons are met the first thing in the morning, you will be unlucky for the whole of that day and all you do. If the Evil Eye comes into rest and looks fixedly on anything, on cattle or on a child, there is doom in the glance, a fatality which cannot be evaded except by a powerful counter charm. But if the Evil Eye mutters a verse over a sleeping child, that child will assuredly die, for the incantation is of the devil and no charm has power to resist it or to turn away the Evil. Sometimes the process of the witching is affected by looking fixedly at the object through nine fingers, especially as the magic fatal, if the victim is seated by the fire in the evening when the moon is full. Therefore, to avoid being suspected of having the Evil Eye, it is necessary at once when looking at a child to say, God bless it, and when passing a farmyard where the cows are collected for milking to say, the blessing of God be on you and on all your labors. If this form is omitted, the worst results may be apprehended and the people would be filled with terror and alarm unless a counter charm were not instantly employed. The singular, malefic influence of a glance has been felt by most persons in life, an influence that seems to paralyze intellect and speech simply by the mere presence in a room of someone who is mystically antipathetic to our nature. For the soul is like a fine-toned harp that vibrates to the slightest external force or movement and the presence and glance of some persons can radiate around us divine joy while others may kill the soul with a smear or a frown. We call these subtle influences mysteries, but the early races believe them to be produced by spirits, good or evil, as they acted on the nerves or the intellect. Some years ago, an old woman was living in Cary and it was thought so unlucky to meet her in the morning that all the girls used to go out after sunset to bring water for the following day so that they might avoid her evil glance for whatever she looked on came to loss and grief. There was a man also equally dreaded on account of the strange fatal power of his glance and so many accidents and misfortunes were traced to his presence that finally the neighbors insisted that he should wear a black patch over the evil eye not to be removed unless by request for a learned gentleman curious in such things. Sometimes came to ask for a proof of his power and he would try it for a wager while drinking with his friends. One day near an old ruin of a castle he met a boy weeping in great grief for his pet pigeon which had got up to the very top of the ruin and could not be coaxed down. What will you give me? asked the man if I could bring it down for you. I have nothing to give, said the boy, but I will pray to God for you only give me back my pigeon and I shall be happy. Then the man took off the black patch and looked up steadfastly at the bird when all of a sudden it fell to the ground and lay motionless as if stunned but there was no harm done to it and the boy took it up and went his way rejoicing. Some years ago a woman in Cary declared that she was overlooked by the evil eye. She had no pleasure in her life and no comfort and she wasted away because of the fear that was on her caused by the following singular circumstance. Every time that she happened to leave home alone and that no one was within call she was met by a woman totally unknown to her who fixing her eyes on her in silence with a terrible expression cast her to the ground and proceeded to beat and pinch her till she was nearly senseless after which her tormentor disappeared. Having experienced this treatment several times the poor woman finally abstained altogether from leaving the house unless protected by a servant or companion and this precautions she observed for several years during which she was never molested. So at last she began to believe that the spell was broken and that her strange enemy had departed forever. In consequence she grew less careful about the usual precaution and one day stepped down alone to a little stream that ran by the house to wash some clothes. Stooping down over her work she never thought of any danger and began to sing as she used to do in the light hearted days before the spell was on her when suddenly a dark shadow fell across the water and looking up she beheld to her horror the strange woman on the opposite side of the stream with her terrible eyes intently fixed on her as hard and still as if she were of stone. Springing up with a scream of terror she flung down her work and ran towards the house but soon she heard footsteps behind her and in an instant she was seized thrown down to the ground and her tormentor began to beat her even worse than before till she lost all consciousness and in this state she was found by her husband lying on her face and speechless. She was at once carried to the house and all the care that affection and rural skill could bestow were lavished on her but in vain. She however regained sufficient consciousness to tell them of the terrible encounter she had gone through but died before the night had passed away. It was believed that the power of fascination by glance which is not necessarily an evil power like the evil eye was possessed in a remarkable degree by learned and wise people especially poets so that they could make themselves loved and followed by any girl they liked simply by the influence of this glance. About the year 1790 a young man resided in the county of Limerick who had this power in a singular and unusual degree. He was a clever witty rhymeer of the Irish language and probably had the deep poet eyes that characterize warm and passionate poet natures. Eyes that even without necromancy have been known to exercise a powerful magnetic influence over female minds. One day while traveling far from home he came upon a bright pleasant looking farmhouse and feeling weary he stopped and requested a drink of milk and leave to rest. The farmer's daughter, a young handsome girl not liking to admit a stranger as all the maids were churning and she was alone in the house, refused him admittance. The young poet fixed his eyes earnestly on her face for some time in silence then slowly turning round left the house and walked towards a small grove of trees just opposite. There he stood for a few minutes resting against the tree and facing the house as if to take one last vengeful or admiring glance then went his way without once turning round. The young girl had been watching him from the windows and at the moment he stopped she passed out of the door like one in a dream and followed him slowly step by step down the avenue. The maids grew alarmed and called to her father who ran out and shouted loudly for her to stop but she never turned or seemed to heed. The young man however looked round and seeing the whole family in pursuit quickened his pace first glancing fixedly at the girl for a moment. Immediately she sprang towards him and they were both almost out of sight when one of the maids espied a piece of paper tied to the branch of a tree where the poet had rested. From curiosity she took it down and the moment the knot was untied the farmer's daughter suddenly stopped and became quite still and when her father came up she allowed him to lead her back to the house without resistance. When questioned she said that she felt herself drawn by an invisible force to follow the young stranger wherever he might lead and that she would have followed him through the world for her life seemed to be bound up in his. She had no will to resist and was conscious of nothing else but his presence. Suddenly however the spell was broken and then she heard her father's voice and knew how strangely she had acted. At the same time the power of the young man over her vanished and the impulse to follow him was no longer in her heart. The paper on being opened was found to contain five mysterious words written in blood and in this order. Sator, arepo, tenet, opera, rotos. These letters are arranged so that read in any way right to left, left to right, up or down the same words are produced and when written in blood with a pin made of an eagle's feather they form a charm which no woman it is said can resist but the incredulous reader can easily test the truth of this assertion for himself. End of The Evil Eye by Lady Jane Wilde. The Hand by Guy de Mokosso. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. The Hand by Guy de Mokosso. All were crowding around Imber Mutier, the judge who is giving his opinion about the Saint Cloud mystery. For a month this explicable crime had been the talk of Paris. Nobody could make head or tail of it. Imber Mutier, standing with his back to the fireplace, was talking, citing the evidence, discussing the various theories but arriving at no conclusion. Some women had risen in order to get nearer to him and were standing with their eyes fastened on the clean-shaven face of the judge. He was saying such weighty things. They were shaking and trembling, moved by fear and curiosity and by the eager and insatiable desire for the horrible which haunts the soul of every woman. One of them, paler than the others, said during a pause, it's terrible, it verges on the supernatural. The truth will never be known. The judge turned to her, true madam, it is likely that the actual facts will never be discovered. As for the words supernatural, which you have just used, it has nothing to do with the matter. We are in the presence of a very cleverly conceived and executed crime, so well and shrouded in mystery that we cannot disentangle it from the involved circumstances which surround it. But once I had to take charge of an affair in which the uncanny seemed to play a part, in fact, the case became so confused that it had to be given up. Several women exclaimed at once, oh, tell us about it. Imre Mutier smiled in a dignified manner as a judge should and went on. Do not think, however, that I for one minute, described anything in the case to supernatural influences. I believe only in normal causes. But if, instead of using the word supernatural to express what we do not understand, we were simply to make use of the word inexplicable, it would be much better. At any rate, in the affair at which I am about to tell you, it is especially the surrounding preliminary circumstances which impressed me. Here are the facts. I was, at the time, a judge at Isaacshire, a white little city on the edge of a bay which is surrounded by high mountains. The majority of the cases which came up before me concerned vendettas. There are some that are superb, dramatic, ferocious, heroic. We find that there are the most beautiful causes for revenge of which one could dream. And Nimity's hundreds of years old, quieted for a time but never extinguished. Abominable, strategicians. Murderers becoming massacres and almost deeds of glory. For two years I heard nothing but the price of blood of this terrible, Corsian prejudice which compels revenge for insults meted out to the offended person and all his defendants and relatives. I have seen old men, children, cousins murdered. My head was full of these stories. One day I learned that an Englishman had just hired a little villa at the end of the bay for several years. He had brought with him a French servant whom he had engaged on the way to Marseille. Soon this particular person living alone only going out to hunt and fish aroused a widespread interest. He never spoke to anyone, never went to the town and every morning he would practice for an hour or so with his revolver and rifle. Legends were built up around him. It was said that he was some high personage fleeing from his fatherland for political reasons. Then it was affirmed that he was in hiding after committed some abominable crime. Some particularly horrible circumstances were even mentioned. In my judicial position I thought it necessary to get some information about this man but it was impossible to learn anything. He called himself Sir John Rowell. I therefore had to be satisfied with watching him as closely as I could but I could see nothing suspicious about his actions. However as the rumors about him were growing and becoming more widespread I decided to see this stranger myself and I began to hunt regularly in the neighborhood of his grounds. For a long time I watched without finding an opportunity. At last it came to me in the shape of a partridge which I shot and killed right in front of the Englishman. My dog fetched it for me but taking the bird I went at once to Sir John Rowell and begging his pardon asked him to accept it. He was a big man with red hair and a beard, very tall, very broad, a kind of calm and polite Hercules. He had nothing of the so-called British stiffness and in a broad English accent he thanked me warmly for my attention. At the end of the month we had had five or six conversations. One night at last as I was passing his door I saw him in the garden seating a strided chair, smoking his pipe. I bowed and he invited me to come and have a glass of beer. I needed no urging. He received me with the most punctilious English courtesy saying the praise of France and of Croatia and declared that he was quite in love with this country. Then with great caution and under a guise of vivid interest I asked him a few questions about his life and his plans. He answered without embarrassment telling me that he had traveled a great deal in Africa in the Indies in America. He added, laughing, I have had many adventures. Then I turned the conversation on hunting and he gave me the most curious details on hunting the hippopotamus, the tiger, the elephant and even the gorilla. I said, are all these animals dangerous? He smiled, oh no, man is the worst. And he laughed a good broad laugh, the wholesome laugh of a contented Englishman. I have also frequently been man hunting. Then he began to talk about weapons and he invited me to come in and see different makes of guns. His parlor was draped in black, black silk and embroidered in gold. Big yellow flowers, as brilliant as fire, were worked on the dark material. He said, it is a Japanese material. But in the middle of the widest panel a strange thing attracted my attention. A black object stood out against a square of red velvet. I went up to it and it was a hand, a human hand. Not the clean white hand of a skeleton but a dried black hand with yellow nails, the muscle exposed in traces of old blood on the bones which were cut off as clean as though it had been chopped up with an axe near the middle of the forearm. Around the wrist an enormous iron chain riveted and soldered to this unclean member, fastened it to the wall by a ring, strong enough to hold an elephant and leash. I asked, what is that? The Englishman answered quietly, that is my best enemy. It comes from America too. The bones were severed by a sword and the skin cut off with a sharp stone and dried in the sun for a week. I touched these human remains which must have belonged to a giant. The uncommonly long fingers were attached by enormous tendons which still had pieces of skin to hang in them. The hand was terrible to see. It made one think of some savage vengeance. I said, this man must have been very strong. The Englishman answered, yes, but I was stronger than he. I put on this chain to hold him. I thought he was joking. I said, this chain is useless now. The hand won't run away. Sir John Rowell answered seriously. It always wants to give away. The chain is needed. I glanced at him quickly, questioning his face and I asked myself, is he an insane man or a practical joker? But his face remained inscrutable, calm and friendly. I turned to other subjects and admired his rifles. However, I noticed that he kept three loaded revolvers in the room as though constantly in fear of some attack. I paid him several calls. Then I did not go anymore. People had become used to his presence. Everyone had lost interest in him. A whole year rolled by. One morning toward the end of November, my servant awoke and announced that Sir John Rowell had been murdered during the night. Half an hour later, I entered the Englishman's house together with the police commissioner and the captain of the Zindarns. The servant bewildered and in despair was crying before the door. I suspected this man, but he was innocent. The guilty party could never be found. On entering Sir John's parlor, I noticed the body, stretched out on its back in the middle of the room. His vest was torn. The sleeve of his jacket had been pulled off. Everything pointed to a violent struggle. The Englishman had been strangled. His face was black, swollen and frightful and seemed to express a terrible fear. He held something between his teeth and his neck pierced by five or six holes which looked as though they had been made by some iron instrument was covered with blood. A physician joined us. He examined the finger marks on the neck for a long time and then made this strange announcement. It looks as though he's been strangled by a skeleton. A cold chill seemed to run down my back and I looked over to where I had formally seen the terrible hand. It was no longer there. The chain was hanging down, broken. I bent over the dead man and in his contracted mouth I found one of the fingers of this Spanish hand cut or rather sawed off by the teeth down to the second knuckle. Then the investigation began. Nothing could be discovered. No door, window or piece of the furniture had been forced. The two watchdogs had not been aroused from their sleep. Here in a few words is the testimony of the servant. For a month his master had seemed excited. He had received many letters which he would immediately burn. Often in a fit of passion which approached madness he had taken a switch and struck wildly at this dry hand riveted to the wall which had disappeared no one knows how at the very hour of the crime. He would go to bed very late and carefully lock himself in. He always kept weapons within reach. Often at night he would talk loudly as though he were quarreling with someone. That night somehow he had made no noise and it was only ongoing to open the windows that the servant had found Sir John murdered. He suspected no one. I communicated what I knew of the dead man to the judges and public officials. Throughout the whole island a minute investigation was carried on. Nothing could be found out. One night about three months after the crime I had a terrible nightmare. I seemed to see the horrible hand running over my curtains and walls like an immense scorpion or spider. Three times I awoke. Three times I went to sleep again. Three times I saw the hideous object galloping around my room and moving its fingers like legs. The following day the hand was brought to me found in the cemetery on a grave of Sir John Rowell who was buried there because we had been unable to find his family. The first finger was missing. Ladies, there is my story. I know nothing more. The women deeply stirred were pale and trembling. One of them exclaimed. But that is neither a climax nor an explanation. We will be unable to sleep unless you give us your opinion of what has occurred. The judge smiled severely. Oh, ladies, I shall certainly spoil your terrible dreams. I simply believe that the legitimate owner of the hand was not dead and that he came to get it with his remaining one. But I don't know how. It was a kind of vendetta. One of the women murmured. No, it can't be that. And the judge, still smiling, said, didn't I tell you that my explanation would not satisfy you? End of the Hand by Guy de Mopasson. The Haunted Mill by Jerome K. Jerome. This is a LibriVox recording or LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Marion Martin. The Haunted Mill by Jerome K. Jerome. Well, you all know my brother-in-law, Mr. Parkins, began Mr. Coombs, taking the long clay pipe from his mouth and putting it behind his ear. We did not know his brother-in-law, but we said we did, so as to save time. And you know, of course, that he once took a lease of an old mill in Surrey and went to live there. Now, you must know that, years ago, this very mill had been occupied by a wicked old miser who died there, leaving, so it was rumoured, all his money hidden somewhere about the place. Naturally enough, everyone who had since come to live at the mill had tried to find the treasure, but none had ever succeeded, and the local wise-acre said that nobody ever would, unless the ghost of the miserly miller should one day take a fancy to one of the tenants and disclose to him the secret of the hiding place. My brother-in-law did not attach much importance to the story, regarding it as an old woman's tale, and, unlike his predecessors, made no attempt whatever to discover the hidden gold. Unless business was very different than from what it is now, said my brother-in-law, I don't see how a miller could very well have saved anything, however much a miser he might have been. At all events, not enough to make it worth the trouble of looking for it. Still, he could not altogether get rid of the idea of that treasure. One night he went to bed. There was nothing very extraordinary about that, I admit. He often did go to bed overnight. What was remarkable, however, was that exactly as the clock of the village church chimed the last stroke of twelve, my brother-in-law woke up with a start and felt himself quite unable to go to sleep again. Joe, his Christian name was Joe, sat up in bed and looked around. At the foot of the bed something stood very still, wrapped in shadow. It moved into the moonlight, and then my brother-in-law saw that it was a figure of a wizened little old man, in knee-breaches and a pigtail. In an instant the story of the hidden treasure and the old miser flashed across his mind. He's come to show me where it's hid, thought my brother-in-law, and he resolved that he would not spend all this money on himself, but would devote a small percentage of it towards doing good to others. The apparition moved towards the door. My brother-in-law put on his trousers and followed it. The ghost went downstairs into the kitchen, glided over and stood in front of the hearth, sighed and disappeared. Next morning Joe had a couple of brick layers in, and made them haul out the stove and pull down the chimney, while he stood behind with a potato sack, in which to put the gold. They knocked down half the wall, and never found so much as a four-penny bit. My brother-in-law did not know what to think. The next night the old man appeared again, and again led the way into the kitchen. This time however, instead of going to the fireplace, it stood more in the middle of the room, and sighed there. Oh, I see what he means now, said my brother-in-law to himself. It's under the floor. Why did the old idiot go and stand up against the stove, so as to make me think it was up at the chimney? They spent the next day in taking up the kitchen floor, but the only thing they found was a three-pronged fork, and the handle of that was broken. On the third night the ghost reappeared, quite unabashed, and for a third time made for the kitchen. Arrived there, it looked up at the ceiling, and vanished. Pfft! He'd don't seem to have learned much sense where he's been to, matter Joe, as he trotted back to bed. I should have thought he might have done that first. Still there seemed no doubt now where the treasure lay, and the first thing after breakfast they started pulling down the ceiling. They got every inch of the ceiling down, and they took up the boards of the room above. They discovered about as much treasure as you would expect to find in an empty quart pot. On the fourth night, when the ghost appeared as usual, my brother-in-law was so wild that he threw his boots at it, and the boots passed through the body, and broke a looking glass. On the fifth night, when Joe awoke, as he always did now at twelve, the ghost was standing in a dejected attitude, looking very miserable. There was an appealing look in its large sad eyes that quite touched my brother-in-law. After all, he thought, perhaps the silly chaps doing his best, maybe he has forgotten where he really did put it, and is trying to remember. I'll give him another chance. The ghost appeared grateful and delighted at seeing Joe prepared to follow him, and led the way into the attic, pointed to the ceiling, and vanished. Well, he's hit at this time, I do hope, said my brother-in-law, and next day they set to work to take the roof off the place. It took them three days to get the roof thoroughly off, and all they found was a bird's nest, after securing which they covered up the house with tarpaulins to keep it dry. You might have thought that would have cured the poor fellow of looking for treasure, but it didn't. He said there must be something in it all, or the ghost would never keep coming as it did, and that having gone so far, he would go on to the end and solve the mystery, cost what it might. Night after night, he would get out of his bed, and follow that spectral old fraud about the house. Each night the old man would indicate a different place, and on each following day, my brother-in-law would proceed to break up the mill at the point indicated, and look for the treasure. At the end of three weeks, there was not a room in the mill fit to live in. Every wall had been pulled down, every floor had been taken up, every ceiling had had a hole knocked in it, and then, as suddenly as they had begun, the ghosts visit ceased, and my brother-in-law was left in peace to rebuild the place at his leisure. What induced the old image to play such a silly trick upon a family man and a rate-payer? Ah, that's just what I cannot tell you. Some said that the ghost of the wicked old man had done it to punish my brother-in-law, for not believing in him at first, while others held that the apparition was probably that of some deceased local plumber on Glacia, who would naturally take an interest in seeing a house knocked about and spoiled. But nobody knew anything for certain. End of The Haunted Mill by Jerome K. Jerome