“All right,” I agreed. “I’ll not go. Anyway, not for some time.”
* * * * *
October 12.—What is it that hangs over this house like a cloud? For I
can no longer deny that there _is_ something—something indescribably
oppressive. It seems to pervade the whole neighborhood.
Are all the houses on this block vacant? If not, why do I never see
children playing in the street? Why are passers-by so rare? And why, when
from the front window I do catch a glimpse of one, is he hastening away
as fast as possible?
I am feeling blue again. I know that I need a change, and this morning I
told Arthur definitely that I was going.
To my surprise he made no objection. In fact, he murmured a word of
assent and smiled. He smiled as he smiled in the library that morning
when he pointed at the _Aster Tripolium_. And I don’t like that smile.
Anyway, it is settled. I shall go next week, Thursday, the 19th.
* * * * *
October 13.—I had a strange dream last night. Or was it a dream? It was
so vivid.... All day long I have been seeing it over and over again.
In my dream I thought that I was lying there in my bed. The moon was
shining brightly into the room, so that each piece of furniture stood
out distinctly. The bureau is so placed that when I am lying on my back,
with my head high on the pillow, I can see full into the mirror.
I thought I was lying in this manner and staring into the mirror. In this
way I saw the bolted door in the far corner of the room. I tried to keep
my mind off it, to think of something else, but it drew my eyes like a
magnet.
It seemed to me that someone was in the room, a vague figure that I could
not recognize. It approached the door and caught at the bolts. It dragged
at them and struggled, but in vain—they would not give way.
Then it turned and showed me its agonized face. It was Arthur! I
recognized his reddish-brown dressing-gown.
I sat up in bed and cried to him, but he was gone. I ran to his room, and
there he was, stretched out in the moonlight asleep. It must have been a
dream.
* * * * *
October 15.—We are having Indian Summer weather now—almost oppressively
warm. I have been wandering about all day, unable to settle down to
anything. This morning I felt so lonesome that when I took the breakfast
dishes down, I tried to strike up a conversation with Mrs. Harlan.
Hitherto I have found her as solemn and uncommunicative as the Sphinx,
but as she took the tray from my hands, her wrinkles broke into the
semblance of a smile. Positively at that moment it seemed to me that she
resembled Arthur. Was it her smile, or the expression of her eyes? Has
she, also, something to tell me?
“Don’t you get lonesome here?” I asked her sympathetically.
She shook her head.
“No, sir, I’m used to it now. I couldn’t stand it anywheres else.”
“And do you expect to go on living here the rest of your life?”
“That may not be very long, sir,” she said, and smiled again.
Her words were simple enough, but the way she looked at me when she
uttered them seemed to give them a double meaning. She hobbled away, and
I went upstairs and wrote Mrs. O’Brien to expect me early on the morning
of the 19th.
* * * * *
October 18, 10 a. m.—Am catching the twelve o’clock train tonight. Thank
God, I had the resolution to get away! I believe another week of this
life would drive me mad. And perhaps Arthur is right—perhaps I shall
never come back.
I ask myself if I have become such a weakling as that, to desert him when
he needs me most. I don’t know. I don’t recognize myself any longer....
But of course I will be back. There is the translation, for one thing,
which is coming along famously. I could never forgive myself for dropping
it at the most vital point.
As for Arthur, when I return, I intend to give in to him no longer. I
will make myself master here and cure him against his will. Fresh air,
change of scene, a good doctor, these are the things he needs.
But what is his malady? Is it the influence of this house that has fallen
on him like a blight? One might imagine so, since it is having the same
effect on me.
Yes, I have reached that point where I no longer sleep. At night I lie
awake and try to keep my eyes off the mirror across the room. But in
the end I always find myself staring into it—watching the door with the
heavy bolts. I long to rise from the bed and draw back the bolts, but I’m
afraid.
How slowly the day goes by! The night will never come!
* * * * *
Nine p. m.—Have packed my suitcase and put the room in order. Arthur must
be asleep.... I’m afraid the parting from him will be painful. I shall
leave here at eleven o’clock in order to give myself plenty of time....
It is beginning to rain....
* * * * *
October 19.—At last! It has come! I am mad! I knew it! I felt it creeping
on me all the time! Have I not lived in this house a month? Have I not
seen—. To have seen what I have seen, to have lived for a month as I have
lived, one _must_ be mad....
It was ten o’clock. I was waiting impatiently for the last hour to pass.
I had seated myself in a rocking-chair by the bed, my suitcase beside
me, my back to the mirror. The rain no longer fell. I must have dozed off.
But all at once I was wide awake, my heart beating furiously. Something
had touched me. I leapt to my feet, and, turning sharply, my eyes fell
upon the mirror. In it I saw the door just as I had seen it the other
night, and the figure fumbling with the bolt. I wheeled around, but there
was nothing there.
I told myself that I was dreaming again, that Arthur was asleep in his
bed. But I trembled as I opened the door of his room and peered in. The
room was empty, the bed not even crumpled. Lighting a match, I groped my
way through the bath-room into the library.
The moon had come from under a cloud and was pouring in a silvery flood
through the windows, but Arthur was not there. I stumbled back into my
room.
The moon was there, too.... And the door, the door in the corner was half
open. The bolt had been drawn. In the darkness I could just make out a
flight of steps that wound upward.
I could no longer hesitate. Striking another match, I climbed the black
stairway.
When I reached the top I found myself in total darkness, for the blinds
were tightly closed. Realizing that the room was probably a duplicate of
the one below, I felt along the wall until I came to the gas jet. For a
moment the flame flickered, then burned bright and clear.
O God! what was it I saw? A table, thick with dust, and something wrapped
in a reddish-brown dressing-gown, that sat with its elbows propped upon
it.
How long had it been sitting there that it had grown more dry than the
dust upon the table! For how many thousands of days and nights had the
flesh rotted from that grinning skull!
In its bony fingers it still clutched a pencil. In front of it lay a
sheet of scratch paper, yellow with age. With trembling fingers I brushed
away the dust. It was dated _October 19, 1912_. It read:
“_Dear Tom: Old man, can you run down to see me for a few days?
I’m afraid I’m in a bad way—_”