The Haunted House
When Helen came down the crooked staircase from the bedroom into the
kitchen, she did not perceive at once that she was alone. Though not so
dark as the rest of the house—for there were no shutters at the kitchen
windows—this room was far from bright. Two small windows afforded the
only means of admitting the light, and each of these had several boards
nailed across the outside.
“Aunt Elsie, where are you?” she called, trying to keep her voice calm.
There was no answer.
“Aunt Elsie!” she cried, in a louder tone, as she rushed over to the
door. To her horror she found it locked.
Darting to the nearest window, she peered outside. But as there was no
view of the front from the kitchen, she did not see her.
In a panic she started to scream.
“Mrs. Fishberry! Aunt Elsie! Where are you?”
Wildly she looked about the dimly-lighted room, as if in some corner she
expected to see the ghost of the tower, working its evil upon them,
because they had dared to return to this old house.
But she saw nothing, and overcome with terror, she sank to the floor in
a bitter abandon of weeping.
The room grew darker; the silence became ominous. Any moment she
expected that weird apparition with its skinny hands to enter through
the closed windows, and torture her. Now and again she heard queer moans
and creaks, but whether they were caused by the wind in the trees
outside, or mice in the ancient boards, she did not know.
She must have fallen asleep, crouched in that position on the floor, for
when she regained consciousness it was entirely dark in the kitchen.
Hardly realizing where she was, she stumbled to her feet and went right
to the drawer in the cupboard where the candles were kept. She lighted
one, and shivered anew at the weird, gloomy shadows it cast upon the
walls. If the house seemed forbidding before, it was actually ghostly
now. Strange shapes seemed to rise out of the darkness, to leer at her
in her loneliness. She groped her way to the stove and sat down upon the
hard kitchen chair beside it to think.
It was the thought of Linda Carlton that kept her from losing her
reason. Linda, who had flown over the Atlantic Ocean alone in the
darkness, Linda who had assured Helen that her fears were groundless.
She must live through this experience, she told herself, live to be a
credit to the girl who had saved her life! Live to stand up for Linda
Carlton when she should be accused by false witnesses! With a grim
determination to control herself at any cost, she walked back to the
cupboard for a saucer and a spoon, and forced herself to eat the oatmeal
which had all the while been cooking on the oil stove.
The food revived her, and the water tasted good. Somehow she felt
better.
Remembering that her bedroom was lighter than the kitchen, because she
could open the shutters, Helen took a candle and ascended the stairs.
But here a new terror took possession of her. She recalled the fact that
she could see the ghost in the tower from the window!
Trembling at the very thought, she placed her candle on the
old-fashioned wash stand and sat down on the big wooden bed to try to
get command of herself. What would Linda Carlton do in a case like this,
she steadfastly asked herself?
“Forget it, of course,” she replied aloud in a natural tone, and the
sound of her own voice, without even a tremble, gave her courage.
“I won’t even open that shutter,” she decided, “and then I shan’t have
to see it!”
With this resolve, she set herself to the task of opening the other
window and of making her preparations for bed. How familiar it all was!
She remembered even the contents of the bureau drawers: an old doll
which she had kept since her childhood, some other toys, and a few
clothes. Very few indeed, for she must have been exceedingly poor.
As she wandered about the old-fashioned room, so different from the
bedrooms of Linda’s friends, her eyes lighted upon the book case. Filled
with strange volumes of adventure, which must have belonged to her
grandfather. And then, on a bedside table, she came upon her own little
Bible.
As she opened this worn black book, a picture fell out. An old-fashioned
picture of an old woman—a kindly person, with a sweet smile. Helen’s
heart beat fast; she seized the picture with trembling fingers. Memories
flooded back to her in wild confusion, but at the center of them all was
this dear woman—her old nurse—Mrs. Smalley!
“Oh, darling Nana!” she cried, ecstatically kissing the photograph, and
calling the woman by the old familiar name. “Nana, you have brought back
my memory to me!”
But a start of dismay followed closely upon her joy. Where was Nana now?
“Why, she’s out looking for me, of course!” she answered herself. “And
she is so poor that she probably had to walk all the way to the city,
and never even saw a newspaper until she got there! Oh, my poor dear
Nana! She can’t walk fast! Those wretched feet of hers! And her
deafness, and her failing eyesight!”
The thought of the beloved nurse’s plight took Helen’s worries away from
herself entirely. She forgot how lonely, how fearful, how forsaken she
was. If only she could get out of this house, and hunt the dear soul! Do
something for Nana, who would gladly lay down her life for her child!
But escape was impossible now; she must wait until to-morrow when Mrs.
Fishberry had promised that her uncle would return.
“My uncle?” thought Helen, trying vainly to remember such a man. Surely
he had not lived here, for she could recall her life perfectly with Mrs.
Smalley. They had lived alone after the death of her old grandfather,
whom she could still vaguely recall. They had slept together in this
bed, and cooked on that little oil stove, and tended a garden on the
side of the house. Oh, there had been precious little money—she
remembered how her nurse had sometimes sold books and pieces of
furniture, and how she had often sent her to the post office to see
whether there was a letter. Probably it was there she was walking on the
day of that accident. But what letter could she have expected? From
whom? From her uncle, of course! Who once in a while sent Mrs. Smalley a
five-dollar bill.
But Helen could not remember what he was like. Perhaps he had visited
them when she was a very small child, but she did not know what he
looked like. And from what Mrs. Smalley had said, he was not a good man,
or a kind one.
But who was Mrs. Fishberry? Try as she might, she could not recall ever
having seen her before. And why did her uncle want her now, after
neglecting her all these years? Oh, if she had only known all this when
she was with Linda Carlton, she need not have gone away with that woman!
And now she would be free to hunt for Mrs. Smalley! Linda would have
been glad to help, would have flown all over the country, if need be, in
her autogiro, to find her.
Helen sighed, but she did not despair. With the return of her memory a
great weight was lifted from her heart. That ghost would not come into
her room, she assured herself, with the shutters tightly closed, and the
morning would bring freedom. Freedom to find Mrs. Smalley, to share with
her that wonderful prize of five hundred dollars which Linda had so
generously insisted that she take.
So she read her Bible for a while, as her nurse had trained her to do
every evening before she went to bed, and at last, tired out by her
exciting day in the skies, she fell fast asleep.
When she awoke, without even once experiencing any bad dream, she was in
high spirits. How good it was to see the sunshine pouring in through the
one open window and to hear the birds singing in the trees. Surely
to-day her uncle would come for her.
She dressed and cooked herself some oatmeal and made tea for her
breakfast. A search in the cupboard rewarded her with the discovery of
some dried beans and a few home-made cookies. Made for her, of course,
by dear Mrs. Smalley—in the hope that her child would return! How
unhappy the good woman must have been when day after day brought only
disappointment!
All day long Helen watched at her bed-room window for some signs of
arrival; all day long she listened for the sound of a motor car. But
hour after hour passed quietly, until the sun began to sink in the sky,
and she at last gave up hope of being rescued.
With the horror of approaching night a new fear took possession of her.
Suppose they never came at all! Suppose Mrs. Fishberry meant to abandon
her entirely in this gruesome house, until she starved to death, or lost
her mind? How long could she hope to keep alive on those dried beans?
And the limited supply of water! How dreadful it must be to die of
thirst—far more horrible she believed, than of hunger.
But she must not give up so easily. There were knives in that kitchen
cupboard; if she worked patiently enough she could cut the woodwork. By
cutting the wood and breaking the glass she need not be a prisoner long.
But she would not begin that night, she hastily decided. Such an act of
destruction might enrage that ghost in the tower, if it were the spirit
of her grandfather, as she had always believed it to be. No, she would
wait for daylight. How sorry she was that she had wasted this whole day!
It was more difficult for her to go to sleep that night than upon the
previous one, for she was not tired. But she resolutely read her Bible
and kept her thoughts upon Linda and Nana until her eyelids began to
droop.
Then, with a contented sigh, she fell back on her pillow asleep.