“I hadn’t seen my uncle in five years, you know. He seemed terribly
changed. He was not an old man, by any means, yet when I saw him at the
funeral—” I paused, expectantly.
To my relief, she responded readily:
“He looked that way for the last few months, especially the last week. I
spoke to him about it, two days before—before it happened, sir—and told
him he’d do well to see the doctor again. But he cut me off short. My
sister took sick the same day, and I was called out of town. The next
time I saw him, he was—”
She paused, and then went on, sobbing:
“To think of him lyin’ there in that awful place, and callin’ and callin’
for me, as I know he must, and me not around to hear him!”
As she stopped again, suddenly, and threw a suspicious glance at me, I
hastened to insert a matter-of-fact question:
“Did he appear ill on that last day?”
“Not so much ill, as——”
“Yes?” I prompted.
She was silent a long time, while I waited, afraid that some word of mine
had brought back her former attitude of hostility. Then she seemed to
make up her mind.
“I oughtn’t to say another word. I’ve said too much, already. But you’ve
been liberal with me, sir, and I know somethin’ you’ve a right to be
told, which I’m thinkin’ no one else is agoin’ to tell you. Look at the
bottom of his study door a minute, sir.”
I followed her direction. What I saw led me to drop to my hands and
knees, the better to examine it.
“Why should he put a rubber strip on the bottom of his door?” I asked,
getting up.
She replied with another enigmatical suggestion:
“Look at these, if you will, sir. You’ll remember that he slept in this
study. That was his bed, over there in the alcove.”
“Bolts!” I exclaimed. And I reinforced sight with touch by shooting one
of them back and forth a few times. “Double bolts on the inside of his
bedroom door! An upstairs room, at that. What was the idea?”
Mrs. Malkin portentously shook her head and sighed, as one unburdening
her mind.
“Only this can I say, sir: He was afraid of something—_terribly_ afraid,
sir. Something that came in the night.”
“What was it?” I demanded.
“I don’t know, sir.”
“It was in the night that—it happened?” I asked.
She nodded; then, as if the prologue were over, as if she had prepared my
mind sufficiently, she produced something from under her apron. She must
have been holding it there all the time.
“It’s his diary, sir. It was lying here on the floor. I saved it for you,
before the police could get their hands on it.”
I opened the little book. One of the sheets near the back was crumpled,
and I glanced at it, idly. What I read there impelled me to slap the
covers shut again.
“Did you read this?” I demanded.
She met my gaze, frankly.
“I looked into it, sir, just as you did—only just _looked_ into it. Not
for worlds would I do even that again!”
“I noticed some reference here to a slab in the cellar. What slab is
that?”
“It covers an old, dried-up well, sir.”
“Will you show it to me?”
“You can find it for yourself, sir, if you wish. I’m not goin’ down
there,” she said, decidedly.
“Ah, well, I’ve seen enough for today,” I told her. “I’ll take the diary
back to my hotel and read it.”
* * * * *
I did not return to my hotel, however. In my one brief glance into the
little book, I had seen something which had bitten into my soul; only a
few words, but they had brought me very near to that queer, solitary man
who had been my uncle.
I dismissed Mrs. Malkin, and remained in the study. There was the fitting
place to read the diary he had left behind him.
His personality lingered like a vapor in that study. I settled into his
deep morris chair, and turned it to catch the light from the single,
narrow window—the light, doubtless, by which he had written much of his
work on entomology.
That same struggling illumination played shadowy tricks with hosts of
wall-crucified insects, which seemed engaged in a united effort to crawl
upward in sinuous lines. Some of their number, impaled to the ceiling
itself, peered quiveringly down on the aspiring multitude. The whole
house, with its crisp dead, rustling in any vagrant breeze, brought back
to my mind the hand that had pinned them, one by one, on wall and ceiling
and furniture. A kindly hand, I reflected, though eccentric; one not to
be turned aside from its single hobby.
When quiet, peering Uncle Godfrey went, there passed out another of
those scientific enthusiasts, whose passion for exact truth in some one
direction has extended the bounds of human knowledge. Could not his
unquestioned merits have been balanced against his sin? Was it necessary
to even-handed justice that he die face-to-face with Horror, struggling
with the thing he most feared? I ponder the question still, though his
body—strangely bruised—has been long at rest.
The entries in the little book began with the fifteenth of June.
Everything before that date had been torn out. There, in the room where
it had been written, I read my Uncle Godfrey’s diary.
“It is done. I am trembling so that the words will hardly form
under my pen, but my mind is collected. My course was for the
best. Suppose I had married her? She would have been unwilling
to live in this house. At the outset, her wishes would have
come between me and my work, and that would have been only the
beginning.
“As a married man, I could not have concentrated properly,
I could not have surrounded myself with the atmosphere
indispensable to the writing of my book. My scientific message
would never have been delivered. As it is, though my heart is
sore, I shall stifle these memories in work.
“I wish I had been more gentle with her, especially when she
sank to her knees before me, tonight. She kissed my hand. I
should not have repulsed her so roughly. In particular, my
words could have been better chosen. I said to her, bitterly:
‘Get up, and don’t nuzzle my hand like a dog.’ She rose,
without a word, and left me. How was I to know that, within an
hour——
“I am largely to blame. Yet, had I taken any other course
afterward than the one I did, the authorities would have
misunderstood.”
Again, there followed a space from which the sheets had been torn; but
from the sixteenth of July, all the pages were intact. Something had come
over the writing, too. It was still precise and clear—my Uncle Godfrey’s
characteristic hand—but the letters were less firm. As the entries
approached the end, this difference became still more marked.
Here follows, then, the whole of his story; or as much of it as will
ever be known. I shall let his words speak for him, without further
interruption:
“My nerves are becoming more seriously affected. If certain
annoyances do not shortly cease, I shall be obliged to procure
medical advice. To be more specific, I find myself, at times,
obsessed by an almost uncontrollable desire to descend to the
cellar and lift the slab over the old well.
“I never have yielded to the impulse, but it has persisted
for minutes together with such intensity that I have had to
put work aside, and literally hold myself down in my chair.
This insane desire comes only in the dead of night, when its
disquieting effect is heightened by the various noises peculiar
to house.
“For instance, there often is a draft of air along the
hallways, which causes a rustling among the specimens impaled
on the walls. Lately, too, there have been other nocturnal
sounds, strongly suggestive of the busy clamor of rats and
mice. This calls for investigation. I have been at considerable
expense to make the house proof against rodents, which might
destroy some of my best specimens. If some structural defect
has opened a way for them, the situation must be corrected at
once.”
“July 17th. The foundations and cellar were examined today by a
workman. He states positively that there is no place of ingress
for rodents. He contented himself with looking at the slab over
the old well, without lifting it.”
“July 19th. While I was sitting in this chair, late last night,
writing, the impulse to descend to the cellar suddenly came
upon me with tremendous insistence. I yielded—which, perhaps,
was as well. For at least I satisfied myself that the disquiet
which possesses me has no external cause.
“The long journey through the hallways was difficult. Several
times, I was keenly aware of the same sounds (perhaps I should
say, the same IMPRESSIONS of sounds) that I had erroneously
laid to rats. I am convinced now that they are mere symptoms
of my nervous condition. Further indications of this came in
the fact that, as I opened the cellar door, the small noises
abruptly ceased. There was no final scamper of tiny footfalls
to suggest rats disturbed at their occupations.
“Indeed, I was conscious of a certain impression of expectant
silence—as if the thing behind the noises, whatever it was, had
paused to watch me enter its domain. Throughout my time in
the cellar, I seemed surrounded by this same atmosphere. Sheer
‘nerves,’ of course.
“In the main, I held myself well under control. As I was about
to leave the cellar, however, I unguardedly glanced back over
my shoulder at the stone slab covering the old well. At that, a
violent tremor came over me, and, losing all command, I rushed
back up the cellar stairs, thence to this study. My nerves are
playing me sorry tricks.”
“July 30th. For more than a week, all has been well. The tone
of my nerves seems distinctly better. Mrs. Malkin, who has
remarked several times lately upon my paleness, expressed the
conviction this afternoon that I am nearly my old self again.
This is encouraging. I was beginning to fear that the severe
strain of the past few months had left an indelible mark upon
me. With continued health, I shall be able to finish my book by
spring.”
“July 31st. Mrs. Malkin remained rather late tonight in
connection with some item of housework, and it was quite dark
when I returned to my study from bolting the street door after
her. The blackness of the upper hall, which the former owner
of the house inexplicably failed to wire for electricity, was
profound. As I came to the top of the second flight of stairs,
something clutched at my foot, and, for an instant, almost
pulled me back. I freed myself and ran to the study.”
“August 3rd. Again the awful insistence. I sit here, with this
diary upon my knee, and it seems that fingers of iron are
tearing at me. I WILL NOT go! My nerves may be utterly unstrung
again (I fear they are), but I am still their master.”
“August 4th. I did not yield, last night. After a bitter
struggle, which must have lasted nearly an hour, the desire to
go to the cellar suddenly departed. I must not give in at any
time.”
“August 5th. Tonight, the rat noises (I shall call them that
for want of a more appropriate term) are very noticeable. I
went to the length of unbolting my door and stepping into the
hallway to listen. After a few minutes, I seemed to be aware of
something large and gray watching me from the darkness at the
end of the passage. This is a bizarre statement, of course, but
it exactly describes my impression. I withdrew hastily into the
study, and bolted the door.
“Now that my nervous condition is so palpably affecting the
optic nerve, I must not much longer delay seeing a specialist.
But—how much shall I tell him?”
“August 8th. Several times, tonight, while sitting here at my
work, I have seemed to hear soft footsteps in the passage.
‘Nerves’ again, of course, or else some new trick of the wind
among the specimens on the walls.”
“August 9th. By my watch it is four o’clock in the morning. My
mind is made up to record the experience I have passed through.
Calmness may come that way.
“Feeling rather fatigued last night, from the strain of a
weary day of research, I retired early. My sleep was more
refreshing than usual, as it is likely to be when one is
genuinely tired. I awakened, however (it must have been about
an hour ago), with a start of tremendous violence.
“There was moonlight in the room. My nerves were ‘on edge’,
but, for a moment, I saw nothing unusual. Then, glancing toward
the door, I perceived what appeared to be thin, white fingers,
thrust under it—exactly as if some one outside the door were
trying to attract my attention in that manner. I rose and
turned on the light, but the fingers were gone.
“Needless to say, I did not open the door. I write the
occurrence down, just as it took place, or as it seemed; but I
can not trust myself to comment upon it.”
“August 10th. Have fastened heavy rubber strips on the bottom
of my bedroom door.”
“August 15th. All quiet, for several nights. I am hoping that
the rubber strips, being something definite and tangible, have
had a salutary effect upon my nerves. Perhaps I shall not need
to see a doctor.”
“August 17th. Once more, I have been aroused from sleep. The
interruptions seem to come always at the same hour—about three
o’clock in the morning. I had been dreaming of the well in the
cellar—the same dream, over and over—everything black except
the slab, and a figure with bowed head and averted face sitting
there. Also, I had vague dreams about a dog. Can it be that my
last words to her have impressed that on my mind? I must pull
myself together. In particular, I must not, under any pressure,
yield, and visit the cellar after nightfall.”
“August 18th. Am feeling much more hopeful. Mrs. Malkin
remarked on it, while serving dinner. This improvement is due
largely to a consultation I have had with Dr. Sartwell, the
distinguished specialist in nervous diseases. I went into full
details with him, excepting certain reservations. He scouted
the idea that my experiences could be other than purely mental.
“When he recommended a change of scene (which I had been
expecting), I told him positively that it was out of the
question. He said then that, with the aid of a tonic and an
occasional sleeping draft, I am likely to progress well enough
at home. This is distinctly encouraging. I erred in not going
to him at the start. Without doubt, most, if not all, of my
hallucinations could have been averted.
“I have been suffering a needless penalty from my nerves for
an action I took solely in the interests of science. I have no
disposition to tolerate it further. From today, I shall report
regularly to Dr. Sartwell.”
“August 19th. Used the sleeping draft last night, with
gratifying results. The doctor says I must repeat the dose for
several nights, until my nerves are well under control again.”
“August 21st. All well. It seems that I have found the way
out—a very simple and prosaic way. I might have avoided much
needless annoyance by seeking expert advice at the beginning.
Before retiring, last night, I unbolted my study door and took
a turn up and down the passage. I felt no trepidation. The
place was as it used to be, before these fancies assailed me.
A visit to the cellar after nightfall will be the test for
my complete recovery, but I am not yet quite ready for that.
Patience!”
“August 22nd. I have just read yesterday’s entry, thinking to
steady myself. It is cheerful—almost gay; and there are other
entries like it in preceding pages. I am a mouse, in the grip
of a cat. Let me have freedom for ever so short a time, and I
begin to rejoice at my escape. Then the paw descends again.
“It is four in the morning—the usual hour. I retired rather
late, last night, after administering the draft. Instead of the
dreamless sleep, which heretofore has followed the use of the
drug, the slumber into which I fell was punctuated by recurrent
visions of the slab, with the bowed figure upon it. Also, I had
one poignant dream in which the dog was involved.
“At length, I awakened, and reached mechanically for the light
switch beside my bed. When my hand encountered nothing, I
suddenly realized the truth. I was standing in my study, with
my other hand upon the doorknob. It required only a moment, of
course, to find the light and switch it on. I saw then that the
bolt had been drawn back.
“The door was quite unlocked. My awakening must have
interrupted me in the very act of opening it. I could hear
something moving restlessly in the passage outside the door.”
“August 23rd. I must beware of sleeping at night. Without
confiding the fact to Dr. Sartwell, I have begun to take the
drug in the daytime. At first, Mrs. Malkin’s views on the
subject were pronounced, but my explanation of ‘doctor’s
orders’ has silenced her. I am awake for breakfast and supper,
and sleep in the hours between. She is leaving me, each
evening, a cold lunch to be eaten at midnight.”
“August 26th. Several times, I have caught myself nodding in my
chair. The last time, I am sure that, on arousing, I perceived
the rubber strip under the door bend inward, as if something
were pushing it from the other side. I must not, under any
circumstances, permit myself to fall asleep.”
“September 2nd. Mrs. Malkin is to be away, because of her
sister’s illness. I can not help dreading her absence. Though
she is here only in the daytime, even that companionship is
very welcome.”
“September 3rd. Let me put this into writing. The mere labor of
composition has a soothing influence upon me. God knows, I need
such an influence now, as never before!
“In spite of all my watchfulness, I feel asleep, tonight—across
my bed. I must have been utterly exhausted. The dream I had was
the one about the dog. I was patting the creature’s head, over
and over.
“I awoke, at least, to find myself in darkness, and in a
standing position. There was a suggestion of chill and
earthiness in the air. While I was drowsily trying to get my
bearings, I became aware that something was nuzzling my hand,
as a dog might do.
“Still saturated with my dream, I was not greatly astonished. I
extended my hand, to pat the dog’s head. That brought me to my
senses. I was standing in the cellar.
“THE THING BEFORE ME WAS NOT A DOG!
“I can not tell how I fled back up the cellar stairs. I know,
however, that, as I turned, the slab was visible, in spite of
the darkness, with something sitting upon it. All the way up
the stairs, hands snatched at my feet.”
This entry seemed to finish the diary, for blank pages followed it; but I
remembered the crumpled sheet, near the back of the book. It was partly
torn out, as if a hand had clutched it, convulsively. The writing on it,
too, was markedly in contrast to the precise, albeit nervous penmanship
of even the last entry I had perused. I was forced to hold the scrawl up
to the light to decipher it. This is what I read:
“My hand keeps on writing, in spite of myself. What is this? I
do not wish to write, but it compels me. Yes, yes, I will tell
the truth, I will tell the truth.”
A heavy blot followed, partly covering the writing. With difficulty, I
made it out:
“The guilt is mine—mine, only. I loved her too well, yet I was
unwilling to marry, though she entreated me on her knees—though
she kissed my hand. I told her my scientific work came first.
She did it, herself. I was not expecting that—I swear I was
not expecting it. But I was afraid the authorities would
misunderstand. So I took what seemed the best course. She had
no friends here who would inquire.
“It is waiting outside me door. I FEEL it. It compels me,
through my thoughts. My hand keeps on writing. I must not fall
asleep. I must think only of what I am writing. I must——”
Then came the words I had seen when Mrs. Malkin had handed me the book.
They were written very large. In places, the pen had dug through the
paper. Though they were scrawled, I read them at a glance:
“Not the slab in the cellar! Not that! Oh, my God, anything but
that! Anything——”
By what strange compulsion was the hand forced to write down what was in
the brain; even to the ultimate thoughts; even to those final words?
* * * * *
The gray light from outside, slanting down through two dull little
windows, sank into the sodden hole near the inner wall. The coroner and I
stood in the cellar, but not too near the hole.
A small, demonstrative, dark man—the chief of detectives—stood a little
apart from us, his eyes intent, his natural animation suppressed. We were
watching the stooped shoulders of a police constable, who was angling in
the well.
“See anything, Walters?” inquired the detective, raspingly.
The policeman shook his head.
The little man turned his questioning to me.
“You’re quite sure?” he demanded.
“Ask the coroner. He saw the diary,” I told him.
“I’m afraid there can be no doubt,” the coroner confirmed, in his heavy,
tired voice.
He was an old man, with lack-lustre eyes. It had seemed best to me, on
the whole, that he should read my uncle’s diary. His position entitled
him to all the available facts. What we were seeking in the well might
especially concern him.
He looked at me opaquely now, while the policeman bent double again. Then
he spoke—like one who reluctantly and at last does his duty. He nodded
toward the slab of gray stone, which lay in the shadow to the left of the
well.
“It doesn’t seem very heavy, does it?” he suggested, in an undertone.
I shook my head. “Still, it’s stone,” I demurred. “A man would have to be
rather strong to lift it.”
“To lift it—yes.” He glanced about the cellar. “Ah, I forgot,” he said,
abruptly. “It is in my office, as part of the evidence.” He went on, half
to himself: “A man—even though not very strong—could take a stick—for
instance, the stick that is now in my office—and prop up the slab. If he
wished to look into the well,” he whispered.
The policeman interrupted, straightening again with a groan, and laying
his electric torch beside the well.
“It’s breaking my back,” he complained. “There’s dirt down there. It
seems loose, but I can’t get through it. Somebody’ll have to go down.”
The detective cut in:
“I’m lighter than you, Walters.”
“I’m not afraid, sir.”
“I didn’t say you were,” the little man snapped. “There’s nothing down
there, anyway—though we’ll have to prove that, I suppose.” He glanced
truculently at me, but went on talking to the constable: “Rig the rope
around me, and don’t bungle the knot. I’ve no intention of falling into
the place.”
“There _is_ something there,” whispered the coroner, slowly, to me. His
eyes left the little detective and the policeman, carefully tying and
testing knots, and turned again to the square slab of stone.
“Suppose—while a man was looking into that hole—with the stone propped
up—he should accidentally knock the prop away?” He was still whispering.
“A stone so light that he could prop it up wouldn’t be heavy enough to
kill him,” I objected.
“No.” He laid a hand on my shoulder. “Not to _kill_ him—to _paralyze_
him—if it struck the spine in a certain way. To render him helpless,
but not unconscious. The _post mortem_ would disclose that, through the
bruises on the body.”
The policeman and the detective had adjusted the knots to their
satisfaction. They were bickering now as to the details of the descent.
“Would that cause death?” I whispered.
“You must remember that the housekeeper was absent for two days. In two
days, even that pressure——” He stared at me hard, to make sure that I
understood——“with the head down——”
Again the policeman interrupted:
“I’ll stand at the well, if you gentlemen will grab the rope behind me.
It won’t be much of a pull. I’ll take the brunt of it.”
We let the little man down, with the electric torch strapped to his
waist, and some sort of implement—a trowel or a small spade—in his hand.
It seemed a long time before his voice, curiously hollow, directed us to
stop. The hole must have been deep.
We braced ourselves. I was second, the coroner, last. The policeman
relieved his strain somewhat by snagging the rope against the edge of the
well, but I marveled, nevertheless, at the ease with which he held the
weight. Very little of it came to me.
A noise like muffled scratching reached us from below. Occasionally, the
rope shook and shifted slightly at the edge of the hole. At last, the
detective’s hollow voice spoke.
“What does he say?” the coroner demanded.
The policeman turned his square, dogged face toward us.
“I think he’s found something,” he explained.
The rope jerked and shifted again. Some sort of struggle seemed to be
going on below. The weight suddenly increased, and as suddenly lessened,
as if something had been grasped, then had managed to elude the grasp and
slip away. I could catch the detective’s rapid breathing now; also the
sound of inarticulate speech in his hollow voice.
The next words I caught came more clearly. They were a command to pull
up. At the same moment, the weight on the rope grew heavier, and remained
so.
The policeman’s big shoulders began straining, rhythmically.
“All together,” he directed. “Take it easy. Pull when I do.”
Slowly, the rope passed through our hands. With each fresh grip that
we took, a small section of it dropped to the floor behind us. I began
to feel the strain. I could tell from the coroner’s labored breathing
that he felt it more, being an old man. The policeman, however, seemed
untiring.
The rope tightened, suddenly, and there was an ejaculation from
below—just below. Still holding fast, the policeman contrived to stoop
over and look. He translated the ejaculation for us.
“Let down a little. He’s stuck with it against the side.”
We slackened the rope, until the detective’s voice gave us the word
again.
The rhythmic tugging continued. Something dark appeared, quite abruptly,
at the top of the hole. My nerves leapt in spite of me, but it was merely
the top of the detective’s head—his dark hair. Something white came
next—his pale face, with staring eyes. Then his shoulders, bowed forward,
the better to support what was in his arms. Then——
I looked away; but, as he laid his burden down at the side of the well,
the detective whispered to us:
“He had her covered up with dirt—covered up....”
He began to laugh—a little, high cackle, like a child’s—until the coroner
took him by the shoulders and deliberately shook him. Then the policeman
led him out of the cellar.
* * * * *
It was not then, but afterward, that I put my question to the coroner.
“Tell me,” I demanded. “People pass there at all hours. Why didn’t my
uncle call for help?”
“I have thought of that,” he replied. “I believe he did call. I think,
probably, he screamed. But his head was down, and he couldn’t raise it.
His screams must have been swallowed up in the well.”
“You are sure he didn’t murder her?” He had given me that assurance
before, but I wished it again.
“Almost sure,” he declared. “Though it was on his account, undoubtedly,
that she killed herself. Few of us are punished as accurately for our
sins as he was.”
* * * * *
One should be thankful, even for crumbs of comfort. I am thankful.
But there are times when my uncle’s face rises before me. After all, we
were the same blood; our sympathies had much in common; under any given
circumstances, our thoughts and feelings must have been largely the
same. I seem to see him in that final death march along the unlighted
passageway—obeying an imperative summons—going on, step by step—down the
stairway to the first floor, down the cellar stairs—at last, lifting the
slab.
I try not to think of the final expiation. Yet _was_ it final? I wonder.
Did the last Door of all, when it opened, find him willing to pass
through? Or was Something waiting beyond that Door?