A CHAMBER OF HORROR
I backed against the wall, crouching low, revolver in hand, scarcely
venturing to breathe, listening intently for the slightest sound to
break the intense silence. My heart beat like a trip-hammer, and there
were beads of cold perspiration on my face. The change had occurred so
swiftly as to leave me quaking like a coward at the unknown terrors of
the dark. Yet almost within the instant I gripped my nerves,
comprehending all that had occurred, and confident of my own safety.
There must be another opening into this underground den--one leading to
the outer air--judging from that sudden and powerful suction. The very
atmosphere I breathed had a freshness to it, inconceivable in such a
place otherwise. With the first return of intelligence my mind gripped
certain facts, and began to reason out the situation. That sudden
sweep of air could only have originated in the opening of some other
barrier--a door no doubt leading directly to the outside. I had seen
no occupant of the room; without question it was deserted at my
entrance. Yet someone had been there, and not long before, as was
evidenced by the burning candle. Nor, by that same token, did this
same mysterious party expect to be absent for any length of time.
Apparently I had intruded at the very moment of his departure.
Wherever that second passage might be, the former occupant of this
underground den had evidently entered it previous to my opening the
inner door. Still unaware of my presence he had unfastened some other
barrier, and the resultant draught had extinguished the candle, and
blown shut the door at my back. This seemed so clearly the truth that
I laughed grimly behind clinched teeth. The solution was easy; I had
but to discover the extinguished candle, relight it, search out the
second passage, and waylay the fellow when he returned unsuspicious of
danger.
Confident as to the correctness of my theory, and eager for action to
relieve the tension on my nerves in that black silence, I began feeling
a way along the wall toward the right, in the direction where I
remembered the iron light bracket to be situated. The rough stone
surface was unbroken, and I encountered no obstacles under foot, my
groping search being finally rewarded by touch of the iron brace. I
could clearly trace the form of the bracket, and determine how it was
fastened into place, yet to my astonishment there was no remnant of
candle remaining in the empty socket. Grease, still warm to the touch,
proved conclusively that I had attained the right spot in my search,
yet the candle itself had disappeared. Beyond doubt the draught of air
had been sufficiently strong to dislodge it from the shallow socket,
and it had fallen to the floor. I felt about on hands and knees, but
without result, and finally, in sheer desperation, struck my last
match. The tiny flare was sufficient to reveal the entire floor space
as well as the wall, but there was no remnant of candle visible. I
held the sliver of wood, until the flame scorched my fingers, staring
about in bewilderment. Then the intense darkness shut me in.
I crouched back to the wall, revolver in hand, and it seemed as though
the blood in my veins had turned to ice. What legerdemain was this!
The candle was there, and not half burned, when I entered. I saw it
with my own eyes. How then--in the name of God--could it have vanished
so completely? There was no germ of superstition in my nature, and,
had there originally been, it could never have out lived the practical
experiences of the past few years. There was but one way to account
for this occurrence--some human, aware of my presence, had removed the
candle, had stolen through the pitch darkness silently, and as swiftly
disappeared. I was locked in, trapped, and not alone!
I confess for an instant I was panic-stricken, shrinking back from the
horror of the black unknown which enveloped me. I could see and hear
nothing, yet I seemed to feel a ghastly presence skulking behind that
impenetrable veil. My first inclination was to creep back to the door,
and escape into the outer passage. Yet pride restrained me, pride
quickly supplemented by a return of courage. It was a man surely, a
thing of flesh and blood, I was called upon to meet. He was no better
armed than myself, and he possessed no advantage in that darkness,
except his knowledge of surroundings. I straightened up, and advanced
slowly, testing the wall with my hand, every muscle stiffened for
action, listening for the slightest sound. I encountered nothing,
heard nothing, until my groping fingers touched the rough plank of a
sleeping berth. I explored this cautiously, lifting the edge of a
coarse blanket, and reaching up to make sure the one above was also
unoccupied. Satisfied that both were empty I worked my way blindly
along to the second tier. As I reached into the lower of the two bunks
my finger came in contact with some substance that left the impression
of a human body beneath the blanket. I jerked away, startled,
expecting my light touch would arouse the occupant. There was no
movement, however, nor could I distinguish any sound of breathing.
Convinced I had been mistaken, I reached in once more to assure myself
of the truth, and my hand touched cold, clammy flesh. The shock of
discovery sent me reeling backward so suddenly that I slipped and fell.
It was a man--a dead man! In imagination I could see the wide-open,
sightless eyes, staring toward me through the dark. Trembling with the
unreasonable terror of unstrung nerves, I yet managed to regain my
feet. It was not the dead body, so much as the black gloom, which
robbed me of manhood. I could not see where to go, how to escape. At
whatever cost I must procure light. The very desperation yielded me
reckless courage. Shaking as with palsy, yet with teeth clinched, I
reached forward, groping my way back to the side of the bunk. I
touched the edge of the blanket, and thrust it away, feeling the body.
The man was fully dressed, lying upon his back, and I experienced no
difficulty in attaining the pockets of his coat. In the third I found
what I sought--a box of matches.
Never before, or since, have I experienced such relief, as when my
fingers closed over this precious find. I struck one, and as the
phosphorus head burst into flame, stared about the vacant room, and
then down into the dead face within the bunk. The man had been killed
by the stroke of a hatchet, and was almost unrecognizable. Not until
the blazing match had burned to my finger tips was I sure of his
identity--then, to my added horror, I recognized Coombs. I struck a
second match, assuring myself beyond doubt, and drew the blanket up
over the disfigured face. As the brief light flickered and died, I
grasped the full significance of the man's death, the probable reason
for his being stricken down. Whoever had been hidden behind that
picture, crouching in the passage, had overheard his confession to me.
This was vengeance wreaked upon a traitor, the executed death sentence
of desperate men. And it had just been carried out--within the hour!
The murderers might be even now lurking within the shadows watching my
every motion.
Again a slender match flared into tiny flame, casting about a dim
radius of light, partially reassuring me that I was alone. Before it
flickered out into darkness my eyes made two discoveries--the opening
of a dark passage to the left of the bunks, and a ghastly hand
protruding from the upper berth. I was scarcely sure this last was not
a vision of my half-mad brain, but a fourth match revealed it
all--above the murdered Coombs, hidden beneath blankets, was the body
of the strange man shot in the upper room. My God! the place was a
charnel house! a spot accursed! I crept back from that ghastly scene
of death as though invisible hands gripped my throat. I fairly choked
with the unutterable horror which overcame me. And yet I knew I must
act, must go on to the end. Even as I crouched there, trembling and
unmanned, seeing visions in the darkness, hearing imaginary sounds, my
thought leaped back to the girl upstairs. It was the one remembrance
which kept me sane. It was not the dead, but the living, I had to
fear, and it was not in my nature to shrink back from any man. I could
feel the courage returning, the leap of hot blood through my veins as I
straightened up.
I risked one more match to make certain of the opening through the
wall, dimly glimpsed beyond the berths. My eyes were not deceived;
here was a second wood-supported passage, unblocked so far as I could
perceive, but black as pitch. I held the flaming splinter aloft,
anxiously scanning the few feet thus revealed, but as it sputtered out,
the red ash dropping to the floor, I felt renewed confidence that I was
alone, unobserved. Whoever those assassins might be, they had
departed, leaving only the helpless dead behind. No doubt they would
come again to remove the bodies, to seek refuge in this hidden hole.
But for the moment I was there undiscovered, and must utilize each
precious instant for discoveries and escape. Wild recklessness, a
desire to break away from those grewsome surroundings, overcame all
caution. Swiftly as I dared in the dense blackness I crept forward,
feeling the smooth wall with eager fingers, my right hand still
nervously gripping the revolver butt. Then I came to the door, similar
to the other, although no groping about would reveal the catch, or
enable me to force it open.
Again I struck a match, guarding the infant flame with both hands
against a slight draught which threatened its extinction. There was no
sound, no warning of imminent danger. All my coolness had returned,
and my every thought centered on quickly discovering the lock of the
door. Yet, even in that instant, I caught glimpse of a shadow on the
wall, and made one swift, automatic effort to leap aside, dropping the
fatal match. The movement was too late! Something descended crashing
upon my head, and I pitched forward into unconsciousness.