 CHAPTER XI of THE EMPTY HOUSE AND OTHER GHOST STORIES. THE EMPTY HOUSE AND OTHER GHOST STORIES BY ALGENON BLACKWOOD. THE STRANGE ADVENTURES OF A PRIVATE SECRETERY IN NEW YORK PART II. The tall form disappeared and the door was shut. The conversation of the past few minutes had come somewhat as a revelation to the secretary. Garvey seemed in full possession of normal instincts. There was no doubt as to the sincerity of his manner and intentions. The suspicions of the first hour began to vanish, like mist before the sun. Side-bottoms portentous warnings and the mystery with which he surrounded the whole episode had been allowed to unduly influence his mind. The loneliness of the situation and the bleak nature of the surroundings had helped to complete the illusion. He began to be ashamed of his suspicions and a change commenced gradually to be wrought in his thoughts. Anyhow a dinner and a bed were preferable to six miles in the dark, no dinner and a cold train into the bargain. Garvey returned presently. We'll do the best we can for you, he said, dropping into the deep arm-chair on the other side of the fire. Marks is a good servant if you watch him all the time. You must always stand over a Jew, though, if you want things done properly. They're tricky and uncertain, unless they're working for their own interests. But Marks might be worse, I'll admit. He's been with me for nearly twenty years. Cook, valet, housemaid, and butler all in one. In the old days, you know, he was a clerk, in our office in Chicago. Garvey rattled on, and Shorthouse listened with occasional remarks thrown in. The former seemed pleased to have somebody to talk to, and the sound of his own voice was evident as they sweet music in his ears. After a few minutes he crossed over to the sideboard, and again took up the decanter of whiskey, holding it to the light. You will join me this time, he said pleasantly, pouring out two glasses. It will give us an appetite for dinner. And this time Shorthouse did not refuse. The liquor was mellow and soft, and the men took two glasses apiece. Excellent! remarked the Secretary. Glad you appreciate it, said the host, smacking his lips. It's very old whiskey, and I rarely touch it when I'm alone, but this, he added, is a special occasion, isn't it? Shorthouse was in the act of putting his glass down when something drew his eyes suddenly to the other's face. A strange note in the man's voice caught his attention, and communicated alarm to his nerves. A new light shone in Garvey's eyes, and there flitted momentarily across his strong figures the shadow of something that set the Secretary's nerves tingling. A mist spread before his eyes, and the unaccountable belief rose strong in him, that he was staring into the visage of an untamed animal. Closed to his heart there was something that was wild, fierce, savage. An involuntary shiver ran over him, and seemed to dispel the strange fancy. As suddenly as it had come, he met the other's eyes with a smile, the counterpart of which, in his heart, was vivid horror. It is a special occasion, he said, as naturally as possible, and allow me to add very special whiskey. Garvey appeared delighted. He was in the middle of a devious tale, describing how the whiskey came originally into his possession when the door opened behind them, and a grating voice announced that dinner was ready. They followed the casked form of marks across the dirty hall, lit only by the shaft of light that followed them from the library door, and entered a small room where a single lamp stood before a table laid for dinner. The walls were destitute of pictures, and the windows had Venetian blinds without curtains. There was no fire in the grate, and when the men sat down, facing each other, Shorthouse noticed that while his own cover was laid with its due proportion of glasses and cutlery, his companion had nothing before him but a soup plate, without fork-knife or spoon beside it. I don't know what there is to offer you, he said, but I'm sure Marx has done the best he can at such short notice. I only eat one course for dinner, but pray take your time and enjoy your food. Marx presently set a plate of soup before the guest, yet so loathsome was the immediate presence of this old Hebrew servitor that the spoonfuls disappeared somewhat slowly. Garvey sat and watched him. Shorthouse said the soup was delicious, and bravely swallowed another mouthful. In reality his thoughts were centred upon his companion, whose manners were giving evidence of a gradual and curious change. There was a decided difference in his demeanour, a difference that the secretary felt at first rather than saw. Garvey's quiet self-possession was giving place to a degree of suppressed excitement that seemed so far inexplicable. His movements became quick and nervous, his eyes shifting and strangely brilliant, and his voice, when he spoke, betrayed an occasional deep tremor. Something unwanted was stirring within him, and evidently demanding every moment more vigorous manifestation as the meal proceeded. Intuitively Shorthouse was afraid of this growing excitement, and while negotiating some uncommonly tough pork chops, he tried to lead the conversation on to the subject of chemistry, of which in his Oxford days he had been an enthusiastic student. His companion, however, would none of it. It seemed to have lost interest for him, and he would barely condescend to respond. When Marx presently returned with a plate of steaming eggs and bacon, the subject dropped of its own accord. "'An inadequate dinner-dish,' Garvey said, as soon as the man was gone. But better than nothing, I hope!' Shorthouse remarked that he was exceedingly fond of bacon and eggs, and looking up with the last word, saw that Garvey's face was twitching convulsively, and that he was almost wriggling in his chair. He quieted down, however, under the Secretary's gaze, and observed, though evidently with an effort, "'Very good of you to say so. Wish I could join you. Only I never eat such stuff. I take one course for dinner.'" Shorthouse began to feel some curiosity as to what the nature of this one course might be. But he made no further remark, and contented himself with noting mentally that his companion's excitement seemed to be rapidly growing beyond his control. There was something uncanny about it, and he began to wish he had chosen the alternative of the walk to the station. "'I'm glad to see you never speak when Marx is in the room,' said Garvey presently. "'I'm sure it's better not. Don't you think so?' He appeared to wait eagerly for the answer. "'Undoubtedly,' said the puzzled Secretary. "'Yes. The other went on quickly. He's an excellent man, but he has one drawback—a really horrid one. You may—' "'No, you could hardly have noticed it yet.' "'Not drink, I trust,' said Shorthouse, who would rather have discussed any other subject than the odious Jew. "'Worse than that—' "'A great deal,' Garvey replied, evidently expecting the other to draw him out. But Shorthouse was in no mood to hear anything horrible, and he declined to step into the trap. "'The best of servants have their faults,' he said coldly. "'I'll tell you what it is, if you like,' Garvey went on, still speaking very low, and leaning forward over the table, so that his face came close to the flame of the lamp. Only, we must speak quietly, in case he's listening. I'll tell you what it is. If you think you won't be frightened?' "'Nothing frightens me,' he laughed. Garvey must understand that at all events. "'Nothing can frighten me,' he repeated. "'I'm glad of that, for it frightens me a good deal sometimes.' Shorthouse feigned indifference, yet he was aware that his heart was beating a little quicker, and that there was a sensation of chilliness in his back. He waited in silence for what was to come. "'He has a horrible pre-delection for vacuums,' Garvey went on presently, in a still, lower voice, and thrusting his face farther forward under the lamp. "'Vacuums!' exclaimed the secretary, in spite of himself. "'What in the world do you mean?' "'What I say, of course. He's always tumbling into them, so that I can't find him or get at him. He hides there for hours at a time, and for the life of me I can't make out what he does there.' Shorthouse stared his companion straight in the eyes. What in the name of heaven was he talking about?' "'Do you suppose he goes there for a change of air, or to escape?' He went on, in a louder voice. Shorthouse could've laughed outright, but for the expression of the other's face. "'I should not think there was much air of any sort in a vacuum,' he said quietly. "'That's exactly what I feel,' continued Garvey, with ever-growing excitement. "'That's the horrid part of it. How the devil does he live there, you see?' "'Have you ever followed him there?' Interrupted the secretary. The other leaned back in his chair and drew a deep sigh. "'Never. It's impossible. You see I can't follow him. There's not room for two. A vacuum only holds one comfortably. Marks knows that. He's out of my reach altogether once he's fairly inside. He knows the best side of a bargain. He's a regular Jew.' "'That is a drawback to a servant, of course.' Shorthouse spoke slowly, with his eyes on his place. "'A drawback,' interrupted the other with an ugly chuckle. "'I call it a draw-in. That's what I call it.' "'A draw-in does seem a more accurate term,' assented Shorthouse. But,' he went on, "'I thought that nature abhorred a vacuum. She used to when I was at school, though perhaps it's so long ago.' He hesitated and looked up, something in Garvey's face, something he had felt before he looked up, stopped his tongue and froze the words in his throat. His lips refused to move, and became suddenly dry. Again the mist rose before his eyes, and the appalling shadow dropped its veil over the face before him. Garvey's features began to burn and glow. Then they seemed coarsen, and somehow slipped confusedly together. He stared for a second. It seemed only for a second. Into the visage of a ferocious and abominable animal, and then, as suddenly as it had come, the filthy shadow of the beast passed off. The mist melted out. And with a mighty effort over his nerves, he forced himself to finish his sentence. "'You see, it's so long since I've given attention to such things,' he stammered. His heart was beating rapidly, and a feeling of oppression was gathering over it. "'It's my peculiar and special study, on the other hand,' Garvey resumed. "'I've not spent all these years in my laboratory to no purpose, I can assure you. Nature, I know for a fact,' he added, with unnatural warmth. "'Does not abhor a vacuum. On the contrary, she's uncommonly fond of them. Much too fond, it seems, for the comfort of my little household. If there are fewer vacuums and more abhorrence, we should get on better—a damned sight better, in my opinion.' "'Your special knowledge, no doubt, enables you to speak with authority,' Shorthouse said, curiosity and alarm warring with other mixed feelings in his mind. "'But how can a man tumble into a vacuum?' "'You may well ask. That's just it. How can he? It's preposterous, and I can't make it out at all. Marx knows, but he won't tell me. Jews know more than we do. For my part I have reason to believe.' He stopped and listened. Hush! Here he comes. He added, rubbing his hands together as if in glee and fidgeting in his chair. Steps were heard coming down the passage, and as they approached the door Garvey seemed to give himself completely over to an excitement he could not control. His eyes were fixed on the door, and he began clutching the tablecloth with both hands. Again his face was greened by the loathsome shadow. It grew wild, wolfish, as through a mask that concealed and yet was thin enough to let through a suggestion of the beast crouching behind, there leaped into his countenance the strange look of the animal in the human, the expression of the werewolf, the monster, the change in all its loathesomeness came rapidly over his features, which began to lose their outline. The nose flattened, dropping with broad nostrils over thick lips. The face rounded, filled, and became squat. The eyes, which luckily for Shorthouse no longer sought his own, glowed with the light of untamed appetite and bestial greed. The hands left the cloth, and grasped the edges of the plate, and then clutched the cloth again. This is my course coming now, said Garvey in a deep, guttural voice. He was shivering, his upper lip was partly lifted, and showed the teeth, white, and gleaming. A moment later the door opened and marks hurried into the room and set a dish in front of his master. Garvey half rose to meet him, stretching out his hands, and grinning horribly, with his mouth he made a sound like the snarl of an animal. The dish before him was steaming, but the slight vapour rising from it, betrayed by its odour, that it was not born of a fire of coals. It was the natural heat of flesh, warmed by the fires of life only just expelled. The moment the dish rested on the table, Garvey pushed away his own plate, and drew the other up close under his mouth. Then he seized the food in both hands, and commenced to tear it with his teeth, grunting as he did so. Shorthouse closed his eyes, with a feeling of nausea. When he looked up again, the lips and jaw of the man opposite were stained with crimson. The whole man was transformed, a feasting tiger starved in ravenous, but without a tiger's grace. This was what he watched for several minutes, transfixed with horror and disgust. Marks had already taken his departure, knowing evidently what was not good for the eyes to look upon, and Shorthouse knew at last that he was sitting face to face with a madman. The ghastly meal was finished in an incredibly short time, and nothing was left but a tiny pool of red liquid rapidly hardening. Garvey leaned back heavily in his chair and sighed. His smeared face, withdrawn now from the glare of the lamp, began to resume its normal appearance. Presently he looked up at his ghast and said, in his natural voice, I hope you've had enough to eat. You wouldn't care for this, you know, with the downward glance. Shorthouse met his eyes with an inward loathing, and it was impossible not to show some of the repugnancy felt. In the other's face, however, he thought he saw a subdued, cowed expression, but he found nothing to say. Marks will be in presently. Garvey went on. He's either listening or in a vacuum. Does he choose any particular time for his visits? The Secretary managed to ask. He generally goes after dinner, just about this time, in fact. But he's not gone yet, he added, shrugging his shoulders, for I think I hear him coming. Shorthouse wondered whether vacuum was possibly synonymous with wine cellar, but gave no expression to his thoughts. With chills of horror still running up and down his back, he saw Marks come in with a basin and towel, while Garvey thrust up his face, just as an animal puts up its muzzle to be rubbed. Now we'll have coffee in the library if you're ready, he said, in the tone of a gentleman addressing his ghasts after a dinner-party. Shorthouse picked up the bag which had lain all this time between his feet, and walked through the door his host held open for him. Side by side they crossed the dark hall together, and to his disgust Garvey linked an arm in his, and with his face so close to the Secretary's ear that he felt the warm breath said in a thick voice. You're uncommonly careful with that bag, Mr. Shorthouse. It surely must contain something more than the bundle of papers. Nothing but the papers, he answered, feeling the hand burning upon his arm and wishing he were miles away from the house and its abominable occupants. Quite sure, asked the other, with an odious and suggestive chuckle, is there any meat in it, fresh meat, raw meat? The Secretary felt somehow that at the least sign of fear the beast on his arm would leap upon him and tear him with his teeth. Nothing of this sort, he answered vigorously, it wouldn't hold enough to feed a cat. True, said Garvey with a vile sigh, while the other felt the hand upon his arm twitch up and down as if feeling the flesh. True, it's too small to be of any real use. As you say, it wouldn't hold enough to feed a cat. Shorthouse was unable to suppress a cry, the muscles of his fingers too relaxed in spite of himself, and he let the black bag drop with a bang to the floor. Garvey instantly withdrew his arm and turned with a quick movement, but the Secretary had reclaimed his control as suddenly as he had lost it, and he met the maniac's eyes with a steady and aggressive glare. There, you see, it's quite light, it makes no appreciable noise when I drop it. He picked it up and let it fall again, as if he had dropped it for the first time purposely. The ruse was successful. Yes, you're right, Garvey said, still standing in the doorway and staring at him. At any rate it wouldn't hold enough for two, he laughed, and as he closed the door a horrid laughter echoed in the empty hall. They sat down by a blazing fire, and Shorthouse was glad to feel its warmth, marks present they brought in coffee, a glass of the old whiskey, and a good cigar helped to restore equilibrium. For some minutes the men sat in silence, staring into the fire. Then, without looking up, Garvey said in a quiet voice, I suppose it was a shock to you to see me eat raw meat like that. I must apologize if it was unpleasant to you, but it's all I can eat, and it's the only meal I take in the twenty-four hours. Best nourishment in the world, no doubt, though I should think it might be a trifle strong for some stomachs. He tried to lead the conversation away from so unpleasant a subject, and went on to talk rapidly of the values of different foods, of vegetarianism and vegetarians, and of men who had gone for long periods without any food at all. Garvey listened apparently without interest, and had nothing to say. At the first pause he jumped in eagerly. When the hunger is really great on me, he said, still gazing into the fire, I simply cannot control myself. I must have raw meat the first I can get. Here he raised his shining eyes, and Shorthouse felt his hair beginning to rise. It comes upon me so suddenly too, I never can tell when to expect it. A year ago the passion rose in me like a whirlwind, and Marx was out, and I couldn't get meat. I had to get something, or I should have bitten myself. Just when it was getting unbearable, my dog ran out from beneath the sofa. It was a spaniel. Shorthouse responded with an effort. He hardly knew what he was saying, and his skin crawled as if a million ants were moving over it. There was a pause of several minutes. I've bitten Marx all over. Garvey went on presently, in his strange, quiet voice, and as if he were speaking of apples. But he's bitter. I doubt if the hunger could ever make me do it again. Probably that's what first drove him to take shelter in a vacuum. He chuckled hideously as he thought of this solution of his attendant's disappearances. Shorthouse seized the poker and poked the fire as if his life depended on it, but when the banging and clattering was over Garvey continued his remarks with the same calmness. The next sentence, however, was never finished. The Secretary had got upon his feet suddenly. I shall ask your permission to retire, he said, in a determined voice. I'm tired tonight. Will you be good enough to show me to my room? Garvey looked up at him with a curious, cringing expression, behind which there's shown the gleam of cunning passion. Certainly, he said, rising from his chair, you've had a tiring journey. I ought to have thought of that before. He took the candle from the table and lit it, and the fingers that held the match trembled. Weed needn't trouble Marx, he explained. That beats in his vacuum by this time. End of Chapter 11 Chapter 12 of The Empty House and Other Ghost Stories This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Kate Follis. The Empty House and Other Ghost Stories by Algernon Blackwood. The Strange Adventures of a Private Secretary in New York. Part 3 They crossed the hall and began to ascend the carpetless wooden stairs. They were in the well of the house and the air cut like ice. Garvey, the flickering candle in his hand, throwing his face into strong outline, led the way across the first landing, and opened a door near the mouth of a dark passage. A pleasant room greeted the visitor's eyes, and he rapidly took in its points while his host walked over and lit two candles that stood on a table at the foot of the bed. A fire burned brightly in the grate. There were two windows opening like doors in the wall opposite, and a high canopyed bed occupied most of the space on the right. Panelling ran all round the room, reaching nearly to the ceiling, and gave a warm and cozy appearance to the whole, while the portraits that stood in alternate panels suggested somehow the atmosphere of an old country house in England. Shorthouse was gravely surprised. I hope you'll find everything you need. Garvey was saying in the doorway, if not you have only to ring that bell by the fireplace. Marks won't hear it, of course, but it rings in my laboratory where I spend most of the night. Then, with a brief good night, he went out and shut the door after him. The instant he was gone, Mr. Sidebottom's private secretary did a peculiar thing. He planted himself in the middle of the room with his back to the door, and, drawing the pistol swiftly from his hip pocket, leveled it across his left arm at the window. Standing motionless in this possession for thirty seconds, he then suddenly swerved right round and faced in the other direction, pointing his pistol straight at the keyhole of the door. There followed immediately a sound of shuffling outside, and of steps retreating across the landing. On his knees at the keyhole was the secretary's reflection, just as I thought, but he didn't expect to look down the barrel of the pistol, and made him jump a little. As soon as the steps had gone downstairs and died away across the hall, Shorthouse went over and locked the door, stuffing a piece of crumpled paper into the second keyhole, which he saw immediately above the first. After that he made a thorough search of the room. It hardly repaid the trouble, for he found nothing unusual. Yet he was glad he had made it. It relieved him to find no one was in hiding under the bed or in the deep oak cupboard, and he hoped sincerely it was not the cupboard in which the unfortunate spaniel had come to its vile death. The French windows, he discovered, opened on to a little balcony. It looked on to the front, and there was a drop of less than twenty feet to the ground below. The bed was high and wide, soft as feathers and covered with snowy sheets, very inviting to a tired man, and beside the blazing fire were a couple of deep arm-chairs. Altogether it was very pleasant and comfortable, but, tired though he was, Shorthouse had no intention of going to bed. It was impossible to disregard the warning of his nerves. They had never failed him before, and when that sense of distressing horror lodged in his bones, he knew there was something in the wind, and that a red flag was flying over the immediate future. Some delicate instrument in his being, more subtle than the senses, more accurate than mere presentment, had seen the red flag and interpreted its meaning. Again it seemed to him, as he sat in an arm-chair over the fire, that his movements were being carefully watched from somewhere, and not knowing what weapons might be used against him, he felt that his real safety lay in a rigid control of his mind and feelings, and a stout refusal to admit that he was in the least alarmed. The house was very still, as the night wore on the wind dropped. Only occasional bursts of sleep against the windows reminded him that the elements were awake and uneasy. Once or twice the windows rattled, and the rain hissed in the fire, but the roar of the wind in the chimney grew less and less, and the lonely building was at last lapped in a great stillness. The coals clicked, settling themselves deeper in the grate, and the noise of the cinders dropping with a tiny report into the soft heap of accumulated ashes was the only sound that punctuated the silence. In proportion, as the power of sleep grew upon him, the dread of the situation lessened, but so imperceptibly, so gradually, and so insinuatingly, that he scarcely realized the change. He thought he was as wide awake to his danger as ever, the successful exclusion of horrible mental pictures of what he had seen he attributed to his rigorous control, instead of to their true cause, the creeping over him of the soft influences of sleep. The faces in the coals were so soothing, the armchair was so comfortable, so sweet the breath that gently pressed upon his eyelids, so subtle the growth of the sensation of safety. He settled down deeper into the chair, and at another moment would have been asleep. When the red flag began to shake violently to infrow, and he sat bolt upright as if he had been stabbed in the back, someone was coming up the stairs. The boards creaked beneath the stealthy weight. Short house sprang from the chair and crossed the room swiftly, taking up his position beside the door, but out of range of the key hole, the two candles flared unevenly on the table at the foot of the bed. The steps were slow and cautious. It seemed thirty seconds between each one, but the person who was taking them was very close to the door. Already he had topped the stairs and was shuffling almost silently across the bit of landing. The secretary slipped his hand into his pistol pocket and drew back further against the wall, and hardly had he completed the movement when the sounds abruptly ceased, and he knew that somebody was standing just outside the door and preparing for a careful observation through the key hole. He was in no sense a-coward. In action he was never afraid. It was the waiting and wondering and the uncertainty that might have loosened his nerves a little. But somehow a wave of intense horror swept over him for a second as a thought of the beastial maniac and his attendant Jew, and he would rather have faced a pack of wolves and have to do with either of these men. Something brushing gently against the door set his nerves tingling afresh and made him tighten his grasp on the pistol. The steel was cold and slippery in his moist fingers. What an awful noise it would make when he pulled the trigger. If the door were to open how close he would be to the figure that came in, yet he knew it was locked on the inside and could not possibly open. Again something brushed against the panel beside him, and a second later the piece of crumpled paper fell from the key hole to the floor while the piece of thin wire that had accomplished this result showed its point for a moment in the room, and was then swiftly withdrawn. Somebody was evidently peering now through the key hole and realising this fact, the spirit of attack entered into the heart of the beleaguered man. Raising aloft his right hand, he brought it suddenly down with a resounding crash upon the panel of the door next to the key hole, a crash that to the crouching eavesdropper must have seemed like a clap of thunder out of a clear sky. There was a gasp and a slight lurching against the door, and the midnight listener rose startled and alarmed for shorthouse plainly heard the tread of feet to cross the landing and down the stairs till they were lost in the silences of the hall. Only this time it seemed to him there were four feet instead of two. Quickly stuffing the paper back into the key hole, he was in the act of walking back to the fireplace, when over his shoulder he caught sight of a white face pressed in outline against the outside of the window. It was blurred in the streams of sleep, but the white of the moving eyes was unmistakable. He turned instantly to meet it, but the face was withdrawn like a flash, and darkness rushed in to fill the gap where it had appeared. Watched on both sides, he reflected. But it was not to be surprised into any sudden action, and quietly walking over to the fireplace, as if he had seen nothing unusual, he stirred the coals a moment, and then strolled leisurely over to the window, stealing his nerves which quivered a moment in spite of his will. He opened the window and stepped out onto the balcony. The wind which he thought had dropped rushed past him into the room and extinguished one of the candles, while a volley of fine cold rain burst all over his face. At first he could see nothing, and the darkness came close up to his eyes like a wall. He went a little further on to the balcony, and drew the window after him till it clashed. Then he stood and waited. Nothing touched him. No one seemed to be there. His eyes got accustomed to the blackness, and he was able to make out the iron railing, the dark shapes of the trees beyond, and the faint light coming from the other window. Through this he peered into the room, walking the length of the balcony to do so. Of course he was standing in a shaft of light, and whoever was crouching in the darkness below could plainly see him. Below, that there should be anyone above, did not occur to him until, just as he was preparing to go in again, he became aware that something was moving in the darkness over his head. He looked up, instinctively raising a protecting arm, and saw a long black line swinging against the dim wall of the house. The shutters of the window on the next floor, once it depended, were thrown open and moving backwards and forwards in the wind. The line was evidently a thicket cord, for as he looked it was pulled in, and the end disappeared in the darkness. Shorthouse, trying to whistle to himself, peered over the edge of the balcony as if calculating the distance he might have to drop, and then calmly walked into the room again, and closed the window behind him, leaving the latch so that the lightest touch would cause it to fly open. He relit the candle, and drew a straight back chair up to the table. Then he put coal on the fire, and stirred it up into a royal blaze. He would willingly have folded the shutters over those staring windows at his back, but that was out of the question. It would have been to cut off his way of escape. Sleep, for the time, was at a disadvantage. His brain was full of blood, and every nerve was tingling. He felt as if countless eyes were upon him, and scores of stained hands were stretching out from the corners and crannies of the house to seize him. Crouching figures, figures of hideous juice, stood everywhere about him where shelter was, creeping forward out of the shadows when he was not looking, and retreating swiftly and silently when he turned his head. Wherever he looked, other eyes met his own, and though they melted away under his steady, confident gaze, he knew they would wax and draw in upon him the instant his glances weakened and his will wavered. Though there were no sounds, he knew that in the well of the house there was movement going on, and preparation, and this knowledge inasmuch as it came to him irresistibly, and through other and more subtle channels than those of the senses, kept the sense of horror fresh in his blood, and made him alert and awake. But no matter how great the dread in the heart, the power of sleep will eventually overcome it. Exhausted nature is irresistible, and as the minutes wore on and midnight passed, he realized that nature was vigorously asserting herself, and sleep was creeping upon him from the extremities. To lessen the danger he took out his pencil, and began to draw the articles of furniture in the room. He worked into elaborate detail, the cupboard, the mantelpiece, and the bed, and from these he passed on to the portraits. Being possessed of genuine skill, he found the occupation sufficiently absorbing, it kept the blood in his brain, and that kept him awake. The pictures, moreover, now that he considered them for the first time, were exceedingly well painted. Owing to the dim light, he centered his attention upon the portraits beside the fireplace. On the right was a woman, with a sweet gentle face, and a figure of great refinement. On the left was a full-size figure of a big, handsome man, with a full beard, and wearing a hunting costume of ancient date. From time to time he turned to the windows behind him, but the vision of the face was not repeated. More than once, too, he went to the door and listened, but the silence was so profound in the house, that he gradually came to believe the plan of attack had been abandoned. Once he went out on to the balcony, but the sleet stung his face, and he only had time to see that the shutters above were closed, when he was obliged to seek the shelter of the room again. In this way the hours passed, the fire died down, and the room grew chilly. Shorthouse had made several sketches of the two heads, and was beginning to feel overpoweringly weary. His feet and his hands were cold, and his yons were prodigious. It seemed ages and ages since the steps had come to listen at his door, and if the face had watched him from the window. A feeling of safety had somehow come to him. In reality, he was exhausted. His one desire was to drop upon the soft white bed, and yield himself up to sleep, without any further struggle. He rose from his chair with a series of yons that refused to be stifled, and looked at his watch. It was close upon three in the morning. He made up his mind that he would lie down with his clothes on, and get some sleep. It was safe enough. The door was locked on the inside, and the window was fastened. Putting the bag on the table near his pillow, he blew out the candles, and dropped with a sense of careless and delicious exhaustion upon the soft mattress. In five minutes he was sound asleep. There had scarcely been time for the dreams to come, when he found himself lying sideways across the bed, with wide, open eyes, staring into darkness. Someone had touched him, and he had writhed away in his sleep as from something unholy. The movement had awakened him. The room was simply black. No light came from the windows, and the fire had gone out as completely as if water had been poured upon it. He gazed into a sheet of impenetrable darkness that came close up to his face like a wall. His first thought was for the papers in his coat, and his hand flew to the pocket. They were safe, and the relief caused by this discovery left his mind instantly free for other reflections, and the realization that it once came to him with a touch of dismay was that during his sleep some definite change had been affected in the room. He felt this with that intuitive certainty which amounts to positive knowledge. The room was utterly still, but the corroboration that was speedily brought to him seemed at once to fill the darkness with a whispering secret life that chilled his blood and made the sheet feel like ice against his cheek. Hark! This was it. There reached his ears in which the blood was already buzzing with warming clamour, a dull murmur of something that rose indistinctly from the well of the house and became audible to him without passing through walls or doors. There seemed no solid surface between him lying on the bed, and the landing between the landing and the stairs and between the stairs and the hall beyond. He knew that the door of the room was standing open. Therefore it had been open from the inside, yet the window was fastened also on the inside. Hardly was this realized when the conspiring silence of the hour was broken by another and a more definite sound. A step was coming along the passage. A certain bruise on the hip told Shorthouse that the pistol in his pocket was ready for use, and he drew it out quickly and cocked it. Then he just had time to slip over the edge of the bed and crouch down on the floor when the step halted on the threshold of the room. The bed was thus between him and the open door. The window was at his back. He waited in the darkness. What struck him as peculiar about the steps was that there seemed no particular desire to move stealthily. There was no extreme caution. They moved along in rather a slip-shod way and sounded like soft slippers or feet in stockings. There was something clumsy, irresponsible, almost reckless about the movement. For a second the steps paused upon the threshold, but only for a second. Almost immediately they came on into the room, and as they passed from the wood to the carpet, Shorthouse noticed that they became wholly noiseless. He waited in suspense, not knowing whether the unseen walker was on the other side of the room or was close upon him. Presently he stood up and stretched out his left arm in front of him, groping, searching, feeling in a circle, and behind it he held the pistol cocked and pointed in his right hand. As he rose a bone cracked in his knee, his clothes rustled as if they were newspapers, and his breath seemed loud enough to be heard all over the room, but not a sound came to betray the position of the invisible intruder. Then, just when the tension was becoming unbearable, a noise relieved the gripping silence. It was wood, knocking against wood, and it came from the farther end of the room. The steps had moved over to the fireplace. A sliding sound almost immediately followed it, and then silence closed again over everything like a pall. For another five minutes Shorthouse waited, and then the suspense became too much. He could not stand that open door. The candles were close beside him, and he struck a match and lit them, expecting in the sudden glare to receive at least a terrific blow. But nothing happened, and he saw at once that the room was entirely empty. Walking over with the pistol cocked, he peered out into the darkness of the landing, and then closed the door and turned the key. Then he searched the room, bed, cupboard, table, curtains, everything that could have concealed a man, but found no trace of the intruder. The owner of the footsteps had disappeared like a ghost, into the shadows of the night, but for one fact he might have imagined that he had been dreaming. The bag had vanished. There was no more sleep for Shorthouse that night. His watch pointed to four a.m., and there were still three hours before daylight. He sat down at the table, and he continued his sketches. With fixed determination he went on with his drawing, and began a new outline of the man's head. There was something in the expression that continually evaded him. He had no success with it, and this time it seemed to him that it was the eyes that brought about his discomforture. He held up his pencil before his face to measure the distance between the nose and the eyes, and to his amazement he saw that a change had come over the features. The eyes were no longer open. The lids had closed. For a second he stood in a sort of stupefied astonishment. A porch would have toppled him over. Then he sprang to his feet and held a candle close up to the picture. The eyelids quivered. The eyelashes trembled. Then right before his gaze, the eyes opened and looked straight into his own. Two holes were cut in the panel, and this pair of eyes, human eyes, just fitted them. As by a curious effect of magic, the strong fear that had governed him ever since his entry into the house disappeared in a second. Anger rushed into his heart, and his chilled blood rose suddenly to the boiling point. Putting the candle down, he took two steps back into the room, and then flung himself forward with all his strength against the painted panel. Instantly, and before the crash came, the eyes were withdrawn, and two black spaces showed where they had been. The old huntsman was eyeless, but the panel cracked, and split inwards like a sheet of thin cardboard, and short house, pistol in hand, thrust in arm through the jagged aperture, and seizing a human leg, dragged out into the room the Jew. Words rushed in such a torrent to his lips that they choked him. The old Hebrew, white as chock, stood shaking before him, the bright pistol barrel opposite his eyes, when a volume of cold air rushed into the room, and with it a sound of hurried steps. Short house felt his arm knocked up before he had time to turn, and the same second Garvey, who had somehow managed to burst open the window, came between him and the trembling marks. His lips were parted, and his eyes rolled strangely in his distorted face. Don't shoot him! Shoot in the air! He shrieked. He seized the Jew by the shoulders. You damned hound! he roared, hissing in his face. So I've got you at last! That's where your vacuum is, is it? I know your vile hiding place at last. He shook him like a dog. I've been after him all night. He cried, turning to short house. Oh, night I tell you, and I've got him at last! Garvey lifted his upper lip as he spoke, and showed his teeth. They shone like the fangs of a wolf. The Jew evidently saw them, too, for he gave a horrid yell and struggled furiously. Before the eyes of the secretariat missed seemed to rise. The hideous shadow again leaped into Garvey's face. He foresaw a dreadful battle, and covering the two men with his pistol, he retreated slowly to the door. Whether they were both mad or both criminal, he did not pause to inquire. The only thought present in his mind was that the sooner he made his escape the better. Garvey was still shaking the Jew when he reached the door and turned the key. But as he passed out on to the landing, both men stopped there struggling and turned to face him. Garvey's face, bestial, loathsome, livid with anger. The Jews, white and gray with fear and horror, both turned towards him and joined in a wild, horrible yell that woke the echoes of the night. The next second they were after him at full speed. Shorthouse slammed the door in their faces, and was at the foot of the stairs, crouching in the shadow, before they were out upon the landing. They tore, shrieking down the stairs and passed him into the hall. And wholly unnoticed, Shorthouse whipped up the stairs again, crossed the bedroom, and dropped from the balcony into the soft snow. As he ran down the drive he heard behind him in the house, the yells of the maniacs. And when he reached home several hours later, Mr. Sidebottom not only raised his salary, but also told him to buy a new hat and overcoat, and send in the bill to him. End of chapter 12. Chapter 13 of The Empty House and Other Ghost Stories. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Elsie Selwyn. The Empty House and Other Ghost Stories by Algernon Blackwood. Chapter 13. Skeleton Lake and Episode in Camp The utter loneliness of our most camp on Skeleton Lake had impressed us from the beginning, and the Quebec backwoods five days by trail and canoe from civilization, and perhaps the singular name contributed a little to the sensation of eeriness that made itself felt in the camp's circle when once the sun was down, and the late October mists began rising from the lake and winding their way in among the tree trunks. For in these regions, all names of lakes and hills and islands have their origin in some actual event, taking either the name of a chief participant, such as Smith's Ridge, or claiming a place in the map by perpetuating some special feature of the journey or the scenery, such as Long Island, Deep Rapids, or Rainy Lake. All names thus have their meaning and are usually pretty recently acquired, while the majority are self-explanatory and suggest human and pioneer relations. Skeleton Lake, therefore, was a name full of suggestion, and though none of us knew the origin or the story of its birth, we all were conscious of a certain legubrious atmosphere that haunted its shores and islands, and but for the evidences of recent moose tracks in its neighborhood, we should probably have pitched our tents elsewhere. For several hundred miles in any direction, we knew of only one other party of whites. They had journeyed up on the train with us, getting in at North Bay, and hailing from Boston Way. A common Golan object had served by way of introduction, but the acquaintance had made little progress. This noisy aggressive Yankee did not suit our fancy much as a possible neighbor, and it was only a slight intimacy between his chief guide, Jake, the Swede, and one of our men that kept the thing going at all. They went into camp on Beaver Creek fifty miles or more to the west of us. But that was six weeks ago and seemed as many months, four days and nights passed slowly in these solitudes, and the scale of time changes wonderfully. Our men always seemed to know by instinct pretty well why them other fellows was moving, but in the interval no one had come across their trails or once so much as heard their rifle shots. Our little camp consisted of the professor, his wife, a splendid shot and keen woodswoman, and myself. We had a guide apiece and hunted daily in pairs from before sunrise till dark. It was our last evening in the woods and the professor was lying in my little wedged tent discussing the dangers of hunting alone and couples in this way. The flap of the tent hung back and led in fragrant odors of cooking over an open wood fire. Everywhere there was bustle and preparation, and one canoe already lay packed with moose horns, her nose pointing southwards. If an accident happened to one of them, he was saying, the survivor's story when he returned to camp would be entirely unsupported evidence, wouldn't it? Because you see, and he went on laying down the law after the manner of professors until I became so bored that my attention began to wander to pictures and memories of the scenes we were just about to leave. Garden Lake with its hundred islands, the rapids out of round pond, the countless vistas of forest, crimson and gold in the autumn sunshine, and the starlit nights we had spent watching in cold cramped positions for the wary moose on lonely lakes among the hills. The hum of the professor's voice in time grew more soothing. A nod or a grunt was all the reply he looked for. Fortunately, he loathed interruptions. I think I could almost have gone to sleep under his very nose. Perhaps I did sleep for a brief interval. Then it all came about so quickly, and the tragedy of it was so unexpected and painful, throwing our peaceful camp into momentary confusion, that now it all seems to have happened with the uncanny swiftness of a dream. First there was the abrupt ceasing of the droning voice, and then the running of quick little steps over the pine needles, and the confusion of men's voices. In the next instant the professor's wife was at the tent door, hatless, her face white, her hunting bloomers bagging at the wrong places, her rifle in her hand, and her words running into one another anyhow. Quick, Harry, it's rushed in. I was asleep and it woke me. Something's happened. You must deal with it. In a second we were outside the tent with our rifles. My God! I heard the professor exclaim, as if he had first made the discovery. It IS rushed in. I saw the guides helping, dragging a man out of a canoe. A brief space of deep silence followed, in which I heard only the waves from the canoe washing up on the sand, and then immediately after came the voice of a man talking with amazing rapidity and with odd gaps between his words. It was rushed in telling his story. In the tones of his voice now whispering, now almost shouting, mixed with sobs and solemn oaths and frequent appeals to the deity, somehow or other struck the false note at the very start, and before any of us gassed or knew anything at all, something moved secretly between his words, a shadow veiling the stars, destroying the peace of our little camp, untouched us all personally with an undefinable sense of horror and distrust. I can see that group to this day, with all the detail of a good photograph, standing halfway between the firelight and the darkness, a slight mist rising from the lake, the frosty stars, and our men in silence that was all sympathy, dragging rush in across the rocks towards the campfire, their moccasins crunched on the sand and slipped several times on the stones beneath the weight of the limp, exhausted body, and I can still see every inch of the paired cedar branch he had used for a paddle on that lonely and dreadful journey. But what struck me most, as it struck us all, was the limp exhaustion of his body compared to the strength of his utterance and the tearing rush of his words. A vigorous driving power was there at work, forcing out the tail, red-hot and throbbing, full of discrepancies and the strangest contradictions. In the nature of this driving power I first began to appreciate when they had lifted him into the circle of firelight, and I saw his face gray under the tan, terror in the eyes, tears too, hair and beard awry, and listened to the wild stream of words pouring forth without ceasing. I think we all understood then, but it was only after many years that anyone dared to confess what he thought. There was Matt Morris, my guide, Silver Fizz, whose real name was unknown, and who bore the title of his favorite drink, and huge hank milligan, all ears in kind intention, and there was Ruston pouring out his ready-made tail with ever-shifting eyes, turning from face to face, seeking confirmation of details none had witnessed but himself, and one other. Silver Fizz was the first to recover from the shock of the thing, and to realize, with a natural sense of chivalry, common to most genuine backwoodsmen, that the man was at a terrible disadvantage. At any rate, he was the first to start putting the matter to rights. Never mind telling it just now, he said in a gruff voice, but with real gentleness. Get a bite to eat first, and then let her go afterwards. Better have a horn and whiskey, too. It ain't all packed yet, I guess. Couldn't eat or drink a thing, cried the other. Good Lord, don't you see, man, I want to talk to someone first. I want to get it out of me to someone who can answer. Answer! I've had nothing but trees to talk with for three days, and I can't carry it any longer. Those cursed, silent trees! I've told them a thousand times. Not just to see here, it was this way. When we started help from camp, he looked fearfully about him, and we realized it was useless to stop him. The story was bound to come, and come it did. Now, the story itself was nothing out of the way. Such tales are told by the dozen round any campfire, where men who have knocked about in the woods are in the circle. It was the way he told it that made our flesh creep. He was near the truth all along, but he was skimming it, and the skimming took off the cream that might have saved his soul. Of course, he smothered it in words, odd words, too, melodramatic, poetic, out-of-the-way words that lie just on the edge of frenzy. Of course, too, he kept asking us each and turn, scanning our faces with those restless, frightened eyes of his. What would you have done? What else could I do? And was that my fault? But that was nothing, for he was no milk-and-water fellow who dealt in hints and suggestions. He told his story boldly, forcing his conclusions upon us, as if we had been so many wax cylinders of a phonograph that would repeat accurately what had been told us, and these questions I have mentioned he used to emphasize in a special point that he seemed to think required such emphasis. The fact was, however, the picture of what had actually happened was so vivid still in his own mind that it reached ours by a process of telepathy which he could not control or prevent. All through his true false words this picture stood forth in fearful detail against the shadows behind him. He could not veil much less obliterate it. We knew, and I always thought he knew that we knew. The story itself, as I have said, was sufficiently ordinary. Jake and himself in a nine-foot canoe, head upset in the middle of a lake, and had held hands across the upturned craft for several hours, eventually cutting holes in her ribs to stick their arms through and grasp hands, lest the numbness of the cold water should overcome them. They were miles from shore, and the wind was drifting them down upon a little island. But when they got within a few hundred yards of the island, they realized to their horror that they would, after all, drift past it. It was then the coral began. Jake was for leaving the canoe and swimming, rushed and believed in waiting till they actually had passed the island and were sheltered from the wind. Then they could make the island easily by swimming, canoe and all. But Jake refused to give in, and after a short struggle, Rushton admitted there was a struggle, got free from the canoe, and disappeared, without a single cry. Rushton held on and proved the correctness of his theory, and finally made the island canoe and all, after being in the water over five hours. He described to us how he crawled up onto the shore and fainted at once, with his feet lying half in the water, how lost and terrified he felt upon regaining consciousness in the dark, how the canoe had drifted away and his extraordinary luck and finding it caught again at the end of the island by a projecting cedar branch. He told us that the little axe, another bit of real luck, had caught in the thwart where the canoe turned over, and how the little bottle in his pocket holding the emergency matches was whole and dry. He made a blazing fire and searched the island from end to end, calling upon Jack and the darkness but getting no answer, till finally so many half-drawn men seemed to come crawling out of the water onto the rocks and vanished among the shadows when he came up with them, though he lost his nerve completely and returned to lie down by the fire till the daylight came. He then cut a bow to replace the lost paddles, and after one more useless search for his lost companion he got into the canoe, varying every moment he would upset again, and crossed over to the mainland. He knew roughly the position of our camping place, and after paddling day and night and making many weary portages, without food or covering, he reached us two days later. This, more or less, was the story, and we, knowing whereof he spoke, knew that every word was literally true, and at the same time went to the building up of a hideous and prodigious lie. Once the recital was over he collapsed, and so were Fizz after a general expression of sympathy from the rest of us, came again to the rescue. But now, mister, you just got to eat and drink whether you've a mind to or no. And Matt Morris, cooked that night, soon had the fried trout and bacon in the wheat cakes and hot coffee passing round a rather silent and oppressed circle. So we ate round the fire ravenously as we had eaten every night for the past six weeks, but with this difference, that there was one among us who was more than ravenous, and he gorged. In spite of all our devices, he somehow kept himself the center of observation. When his tin mug was empty, Morris instantly passed the teapail. When he began to mop up the bacon grease with the dough on his fork, Hank reached out for the frying pan, and the can of steaming boiled potatoes was always by his side. And there was another difference as well. He was sick, terribly sick before the meal was over, and this sudden nausea after food was more eloquent than words of what the man had passed through on his dreadful, foodless, ghost-haunted journey of forty miles to our camp. In the darkness he thought he would go crazy, he said. There were voices in the trees, and figures were always lifting themselves out of the water, or from behind boulders, to look at him and make awful signs. Jake constantly peered at him through the underbrush, and everywhere the shadows were moving, with eyes, footsteps, and following shapes. We tried hard to talk of other things, but it was no use, for he was bursting with the rehearsal of his story, and refused to allow himself the chances we were so willing and anxious to grant him. After a good night's rest he might have had more self-control and better judgment, and would probably have acted differently, but as it was we found it impossible to help him. Once the pipes were lit and the dishes cleared away, it was useless to pretend any longer. The sparks from the burning logs zigzagged upwards into a sky brilliant with stars. It was all wonderfully still and peaceful, and the forest odors floated to us on the sharp autumn air. The cedar fire smelt sweet, and we could just hear the gentle wash of tiny waves along the shore. All was calm, beautiful, and remote from the world of men and passion. It was indeed a night to touch the soul, and yet I think none of us heated these things. A bull moose might also have thrust his great head over our shoulders and have escaped unnoticed. The death of Jake the Swede with its sinister setting was the real presence that held the center of the stage and compelled attention. You won't perhaps care to come along, mister, said Morris by way of a beginning, but I guess I'll go with one of the boys here and have a hunt for it. Sure, said Hank. Jake and I had done some big-ish trips together in the old days, and I'll do that much for him. It's deep water they tell me round the mylons, added silver fizz, but we'll find it sure pop if it's there. They all spoke with the body as it. There was a minute or two of heavy silence, and then Rustin again burst out with his story in almost the identical words he had used before, who was almost as if he had learned it by heart. He wholly failed to appreciate the effort to the others to let him off. Silver fizz rushed in, hoping to stop him, Morris and Hank closely following his lead. I once knew another traveling partner of his, he began quickly, used to live down Moose Jaw Rapidsway. Is that so? said Hank. Kind of a useful sorrowfowl, chimed in Morris. All the idea the man had was to stop the tongue wagging before the discrepancies became so glaring that we should be forced to take notice of them and ask questions, but just as well try to stop an angry bull moose on the run, or prevent Beaver Creek freezing in midwinter by throwing in pebbles near the shore. Out it came, and though the discrepancy this time was insignificant, that somehow brought us all in the second, face to face with the inevitable and dreaded climax. And so I trantle over that little bit of an island, hoping he might somehow have gotten in without my knowing it, and always thinking I heard that awful last cry of his, and the darkness, and then the night dropped down impenetrably like a damn thick blanket out of the sky and all eyes flew away from his face. Hank poked up the logs with his boot, and Morris seized an ember in his bare fingers to light his pipe, although it was already emitting clouds of smoke, but the professor cut the ball flying. I thought you said he sank without a cry. He remarked quietly, looking straight up into the frightened face opposite, and then riddling mercilessly the confused explanation that followed. The cumulative effect of all these forces, hitherto so rigorously repressed, now made itself felt and the circle spontaneously broke apart, everybody moving at once by a common instinct. The professor's wife left the party abruptly with excuses about an early start next morning. She first shook hands with Russian, rumbling something about his comfort in the night. The question of his comfort, however, devolved by force of circumstances upon myself, and he shared my tent. Just before wrapping up in my double blankets, for the night was bitterly cold, he turned and began to explain that he had a habit of talking in his sleep, and hoped I would wake him if he disturbed me by doing so. Well, he did talk in his sleep, and had disturbed me very much indeed. The anger and violence of his words remained with me to this day, and it was clear in a minute that he was living over again some portion of the scene upon the lake. I listened horror-struck for a moment or two, and then understood that I was face-to-face with one of two alternatives. I must continue an unwilling eavesdropper, or I must awaken him. The formal was impossible for me, yet I strengthened the ladder with the greatest repugnance, and in my dilemma I saw the only way out of the difficulty, and at once accepted it. Cold though it was, I crawled stealthily out of my warm sleeping bag and left the tent, intending to keep the old fire-light under the stars, and spend the remaining hours till daylight in the open. As soon as I was out, I noticed at once another figure moving silently along the shore. It was Hank Milligan, and it was plain enough what he was doing. He was examining the holes that had been cut in the upper ribs of the canoe. He looked half ashamed when it came up with him, and mumbled something about not being able to sleep for the cold. But there standing together beside the overturned canoe, we both saw that the holes were far too small for a man's hand and arm, and could not possibly have been cut by two men hanging out for their lives in deep water. Those holes had been made afterwards. Hank said nothing to me, and I said nothing to Hank, and presently he moved off to collect logs for the fire, which needed replenishing, for it was a piercingly cold night, and there were many degrees of frost. Three days later Hank and Silver Fuzz followed with stumbling footsteps the old Indian trail that leads from Beaver Creek to the southwards. A hammock was slung between them, and it weighed heavily, yet neither of the men complained, and indeed speech between them was almost nothing. Their thoughts, however, were exceedingly busy, and the terrible secret of the woods which formed their burden weighed far more heavily than the uncouth shifting mask that lay in the swinging hammock and tugged so severely at their shoulders. They had found it, and four feet of water, not more than a couple yards from the lee shore of the island, and in the back of the head was a long, terrible wound which no man could possibly have inflicted upon himself. End of Chapter 3. End of The Empty House and Other Ghost Stories by Algernon Blackwood