THE THING THAT SCRATCHED
Something living it was, and pretty active, too--no mistake about that.
A dog? Possibly! But the next moment it stood erect on two feet like
a man, and, turning slowly, peered all about. Then as suddenly it
dropped down on all fours again and fell to the scraping. I could hear
the sound distinctly in that lonesome place, where the water in the
pond was too thick and heavy even to ripple, and where only the owl
cried regularly once in five minutes.
I could not have spoken if I had tried, and I did not try. My tongue
dried up like a piece of old bark, and I knew what the Bible meant when
it said that sometimes a fellow's tongue clave to the roof of his
mouth. Mine would, if the roof had not been as dry as a chip also.
You ask if I watched the Thing. You may take it for gospel that I
could not have turned my head or averted my eyes for all the wealth of
the Indies, though that, I understand, is a poor country enough.
Well, I saw the Thing scramble from grave to empty grave, scratch at
each furiously, obscuring the dim phosphorescent glimmer. Then,
standing erect, it flung up great clawlike hands with a ghoulish
gesture of disappointment, moaning lamentably to the stars!
I tell you I dripped. My body trembled so that it shook the tree. So
would yours have done, if you had been there--perhaps even a bigger
tree.
Then some noise from the opposite side of the Moat, or, perhaps, from
beyond the Pond, struck the ear of the Thing. I don't know how a
spectre disappears. I never saw but that one, and since then I have
lost all interest. But at any rate the Shape passed me at a long
wolf's lope, making no noise and going fast. Right under my nose it
slipped silently into the black deeps of the Pond. I think it sank
underneath, for the next moment I could see no more than a wet head, a
round, vague sphere that glistened faintly, turning this way and that,
and very ghastly. _The Thing was swimming, and making no noise_.
Then I came to myself with a sudden revulsion. If there were, indeed,
anything living on that Island of Deep Moat Grange--yet another of that
hideous crew left free and alive--the sooner the world knew about it
the better. I had always thought, and my father had said that the
official researches in the catacombs, called after the old Cistercian
Monks, had been much too summary.
The moisture came slowly back to my mouth. I was still scared, of
course, but I had got over the paralysis that comes with a first
surprise. If the Thing could swim, I could run, though not quite so
noiselessly, as there was an abundance of brushwood which I had to
traverse, while the wave undulated like oil off the creature's back, as
from an otter crossing a stream. You never saw anything swim so
lightly and yet so fast.
It crossed the Pond obliquely, evidently making for the entrance of the
Backwater. I could not follow directly. You see, I was constrained to
cross at the drawbridge. But, between ourselves, I burned the path
under my feet. I have many times run fast, but never so quickly as
then. Talk about second wind--second courage is worth ten of it any
day; quite as real, too, though less talked about.
It seemed a dreadful long way round about, and my heart was as much in
my mouth now lest I should lose _It_, as it had been before, lest _It_
should find me.
But I got there just ahead.
As I expected it had turned down the long, straight cut of the
Backwater, and was swimming straight toward me. Now, thought I, I will
surely see what the Thing is. But I could only make out--vague, round,
and shining, a head that turned this way and that in swimming.
Suddenly the speed was checked. The swimmer, whatever it might be,
turned sharply, searched a little, and appeared to hesitate. I took a
step and bent forward to listen. A rotten branch cracked sharply under
my careless foot. There was a sort of "wallop" like a seal or sea lion
turning off a spring-board into a pond. Then came the sharp click of
sliding iron. A square of darkness yawned in the canal bank.
Something entered, and the door shut with several jerks like machinery
in infrequent usage. The Thing had vanished. I was alone with the new
terror of the woods of Deep Moat Grange.
Nevertheless I had had a certain lesson some time before. I could not
again be altogether deceived. It _was_ something human, though in all
probability just so much the more dangerous and cruel for that. He, or
she, knew the secret of the iron door which Mr. Ablethorpe had made me
enter.
There was, therefore, at least one still left of the devil's brood in
their ancient haunts, and the sooner that the world was warned, the
better. Or, at least, I would tell my father, and he would get
together a few determined men, who would not be afraid to act according
to their consciences and the necessities of the case.
As for fear, it had clean gone from me. A kind of singing came into my
head instead, but not in my ears, which seemed to act with
extraordinary acuteness. After all it was splendid to know what no one
else on earth knew. Besides, I would show them all, especially Elsie,
what I could do, acting alone. They despised me, laughed at me, yet
here was I I had been away all day, without food, without a soul
thinking about me or caring for me. Nevertheless I, Joe Yarrow, whom
everybody thought an idler, a mere waster of precious time, would
spring this news upon the world!
And so I might, but for one thing.
To get away I had to pass the wall of the old orchard and the flagstone
on which Mr. Ablethorpe and I had seen Mad Jeremy stamping down with
such force. Now, if I had not been such a conceited young man (my
father's words), or so taken up with getting the better of Elsie (that
young person's own opinion), I would have known that any of the crew
who knew the secret of the iron door and the bricked passage would also
be sure to know that of the flagstone and the way out by the orchard.
But at any rate it did not occur to me at the time. I thought solely
about getting home, arming a band, and coming to watch for the
scratcher of the lily beds, the swimmer of the Backwater, the creature
which had opened and shut the iron door--no easy task, as we knew, Mr.
Ablethorpe and I.
So I skirted the water edge of the old orchard hastily. Some stones
had rolled down from the coping, and the walking was difficult. But
there was still a good deal of light, as soon as I had turned the
corner. For the west was bright with a late golden afterglow. Quite
useful it was.
I was just about the middle, just where the gates with their broken
blazons had stood, for it had been a swell place once. Also there was
a short cut across to the Bewick road. I passed between the damaged
stone posts, which, however, still stood upright. As I did so,
something sprang at me with the growl of a hungry tiger. I had hardly
time to glance up, and even then I could see no more than a vaguely
shining head, and an arm uplifted to strike, with something glittering
in it like a crescent moon.
There was no time for defence. There was no time for escape. The
Thing, beast, or man--more beast-like now than human--was upon me and
bore me down. But even while the danger was in the air, I heard a
sound which appeared to me not at all like a shot--more like a spit of
fire when a log sparks on the hearth. And in a moment I was prone on
my face, bruised and beaten down by the weight. I heard a jangle of
steel. I supposed that I was wounded--that this was the end. And with
the Thing heavy on the top of me, I fainted away.