The hands spelled:
“I A-M—”
Then they were withdrawn, with a jerk, into the group.
I could now see a new transformation taking place. The hands were drawn
together, dissolving into a white, irregular fluted column, surmounted by
a dark, hairy-looking mass. A bearded face seemed to be forming at the
top of the column, which was now widening out considerably, taking on the
semblance of a human form. In a moment a white-robed figure stood there,
the eyes turned upward and inward as if in fear and supplication, the
arms extended toward me.
The apparition began slowly to advance in my direction. It seemed to
glide along as if suspended in the air. There was no movement of walking,
just a slow, floating motion.
The phantom, when at the other end of the room, had seemed frightful
enough, but to see it coming toward me was unnerving—terrifying. The
nearer it approached, the more horrible it seemed, and the more firmly I
appeared rooted to the spot.
Soon it was towering above me. The eyes rolled downward and seemed to
look through mine into my very brain. The arms were extended to encircle
me, when the instinct of self-preservation came to my rescue.
I acted quickly, and apparently without volition. Overturning my chair
and rushing from the room, I ran out the front door and down the pathway.
I did not dare look back, but rushed blindly forth into the night.
Suddenly there was a brilliant glare of light. Something struck me with
considerable force, and I lost consciousness.
When I regained my senses I was lying in a bedroom, the room I had
occupied in my uncle’s house.
A beautiful girl was bending over me, bathing my fevered forehead from
time to time with cold water. Sunlight was streaming in at the window.
Outside, a robin was singing his morning song, his farewell to the
Northland, no doubt, as the stinging snow-laden winds of winter must soon
drive him southward.
I attempted to sit up, but sank back with a groan, as a sharp pain shot
through my right side.
My fair attendant laid a soft hand on my brow.
“You mustn’t do that again,” she said. “The telephone wires are down, so
father has driven to town for the doctor.”
Memories of the night returned. The apparition—my rush down the
pathway—the blinding light—the sudden shock—and then oblivion.
“Do you mind telling me,” I asked, “what it was that knocked me out, and
how you came so suddenly to my rescue?”
“It was our car that knocked you out,” she replied, “and it was no more
than right that I should do what I could to make you comfortable until
the doctor arrives.”
“Please tell me your name—won’t you?—and how it all happened.”
“My name is Ruth Randall. My father is Albert Randall, dean of the local
college. We had motored to Indianapolis, intending to spend the week-end
with friends, when we were notified of your uncle’s death. He and my
father were bosom friends, and together conducted many experiments in
psychical research. Naturally we hurried home at once, in order to attend
the funeral.
“We expected to make Peoria by midnight, but the storm came, and the
roads soon were almost impassable. It was only by putting on chains and
running at low speed most of the time that we were able to make any
progress. Just as we were passing this house, you rushed in front of the
car.
“Father says it is fortunate that we were compelled to run at low speed,
otherwise you would have been instantly killed. We brought you to the
door and aroused the housekeeper, who helped us get you to your room.
Father tried to phone for a doctor, but it was no use, as the lines were
torn down by the storm, so he drove to town for one. I think that is he
coming now. I hear a motor in the driveway.”
A few moments later two men entered—Professor Randall, tall, thin,
slightly stooped, and pale of face, and Doctor Rush, of medium height and
rather portly. The doctor wore glasses with very thick lenses, through
which he seemed almost to glare at me. He lost no time in taking my pulse
and temperature, pushing the pocket thermometer into my mouth with one
hand, and seizing my wrist with the other.
He removed the thermometer from my mouth, then, holding it up to the
light and squinting for a moment said “_Humph_,” and proceeded to paw me
over in search of broken bones. When he started manhandling my right
side I winced considerably. He presently located a couple of fractured
ribs.
After a painful half-hour, during which the injured ribs were set, he
left me with instructions to keep as still as possible, and let nature do
the rest.
The professor lingered for a moment, and I asked him to have Doctor Rush
examine my uncle’s body for signs of decomposition, as it was now more
than three days since his death.
Miss Randall, who had left the room during the examination, came in just
as her father was leaving, and said nice, sweet, sympathetic things, and
fluffed up my pillow for me and smoothed back my hair; and if the doctor
had taken my pulse at that moment he would have sworn my auricles and
ventricles were racing each other for the world’s championship.
“After all,” I thought, “having one’s ribs broken is not such an
unpleasant experience.”
Then her father entered—and my thoughts were turned into new channels.
“Doctor Rush has made a thorough examination,” he said, “and can find
absolutely no sign of decomposition on your uncle’s body. He frankly
admits that he is puzzled by this condition, and that it is a case
entirely outside his previous experience. He states that, from the
condition of the corpse, he would have been led to believe that death
took place only a few hours ago.”
“If you can spare the time,” I said, “and if it is not asking too much, I
should like to have you spend the day with me. I have much to tell you,
and many strange things have happened on which I sorely need your advice
and assistance. Joe Severs can take the doctor home.”
The professor kindly consented to stay, and his daughter went downstairs
to locate Joe and his flivver.
“The things of which I am about to tell you,” I began, “may seem like
the visions of an opium eater, or the hallucinations of a deranged mind.
In fact, they have even made me doubt by own sanity. However, I must
tell someone, and as you are an old and valued friend of my uncle’s, I
feel that whether or not you accept my story as a verity you will be a
sympathetic listener, and can offer some explanation—if, indeed, it be
possible to explain such singular happenings.”
I then related in detail everything that had happened since my arrival
at the farm, up to the moment when I rushed headlong in front of his
automobile.
He listened attentively, but whether he believed my narrative or not I
could not tell. When I had finished, he asked many questions about the
various phenomena I had witnessed, and seemed particularly interested
when I told him about the disappearance of the bat. He asked me where the
book, which had been used to dispatch the creature, might be found, and
immediately went downstairs, bringing it up a moment later.
A dry, white smudge was still faintly discernible on the cover. This he
examined carefully with a pocket microscope, then said:
“I will have to put this substance under a compound microscope, and also
test it chemically in my laboratory. It may be the means of explaining
all of the phenomena you have witnessed. I will drive home this afternoon
and make a thorough examination of this sample.”
“I should be very glad indeed,” I replied, “to have even some slight
explanation of these mysteries.”
“You are undoubtedly aware,” he said, “that there are no vampires or
similar bats indigenous to this part of the world. The only true vampire
bat is found in South America, although there is a type of frugivorous
bat slightly resembling it, which inhabits the southeast coast of Asia
and the Maylayan Archipelago, and is sometimes erroneously called a
vampire or spectre bat. You have described in detail a creature greatly
resembling the true vampire bat, but it is probable that what you saw
was no bat at all. What it really was, I hesitate to say until I have
examined the substance on this book cover.”
“Well, whatever it was, I am positive it was no real vampire, as Glitch
says,” I replied.
“I don’t like this vampire story that is being circulated by Glitch,”
said the professor. “It may lead to trouble. It is most surprising to
find such crude superstition prevailing in these modern times.”
At this juncture there was a rap at my door. I called, “come in,” and Joe
Severs entered.
“Well, Joe, did you get the doctor home without shaking any of his teeth
loose?” I asked.
“Yes, sir, I got him home all right, but that ain’t what I come to tell
you about,” he replied. “There’s a heap of trouble brewin’ around these
parts an’ I thought I better let you know. Somebody’s sick in nearly
every family in the neighborhood, an’ they’re sayin’ Mr. Braddock is the
cause of it. They’re holdin’ an indignation meetin’ up to the school
house now.”
“This is indeed serious,” said the professor. “Do you know what they
propose to do about it?”
“Can’t say as to that, but they’re sure some riled up about it,” replied
Joe.
Mrs. Rhodes came in with my luncheon, and announced to the professor that
Miss Ruth awaited him in the dining-room below, whereupon he begged to
be excused. Joe went out murmuring something about having to feed the
horses, and I was left alone to enjoy a very tasty meal.
_CHAPTER IV._
A half hour later the housekeeper came in to remove the dishes, and Miss
Randall brought me a huge bouquet of autumn daisies.
“Father has driven to town to analyze a sample of something or other that
he has found,” she said, “and in the meantime I will do my best to make
the hours pass pleasantly for you. What do you want me to do? Shall I
read to you?”
“By all means,” I replied. “Read, or talk, or do anything you like. I
assure you I am not hard to amuse.”
“I think I shall read,” she decided. “What do you prefer? Fiction,
history, mythology, philosophy? Or perhaps,” she added, “you prefer
poetry.”
“I will leave the selection entirely to you,” I said. “Read what
interests you, and I will be interested.”
“Don’t be too sure of that,” she answered, and went down to my uncle’s
library.
She returned a few moments later with several volumes. From a book of
Scott’s poems, she chose “Rokeby” and soon we were conveyed, as if by
a Magic carpet, to medieval Yorkshire with its moated castles, dense
forests, sparkling streams, jutting crags and enchanted dells.
She had finished the poem, and we were chatting gaily, when Mrs. Rhodes
entered.
“A small boy brought this note for you, sir,” she said, handing me a
sealed envelope.