THE MYSTERIOUS VOICES OF THE NIGHT
"Wow! Wow-ow-ow-oo-whoo-oo-oo!"
It would be impossible to convey the weird sound in words.
Six boys and a whiner were asleep in their bunks in the log cabin when
that awesome sound first smote the air.
Outside the wind had nearly died down. Dick Prescott, the first to
waken, felt a cold chill creep down his spine.
"Wow-ow-ow-ow-ow! Whoo-oo-oo-oo-oo!"
"Wh-wh-what is it?" gasped Dan Dalzell, sitting up in his bunk.
"I don't know," Dick admitted.
Again came the fearsome sound, now louder than ever. Dave Darrin and Tom
Reade were now awake and startled.
"What on earth can it be?" demanded Tom.
"It must be Fred Ripley's ghost party," suggested Greg.
"Bosh! Fred Ripley would have to be a real ghost before he could get
over the deep snow in the woods," Dick retorted.
Once more came the sound, more piercing than ever. Dick leaped from his
bunk and began to dress. Dave and Greg followed suit.
"We'll do our best to find out what it is, fellows," Dick promised them.
Hen Dutcher was chattering and half sobbing.
"If I--I ever g-g-get out of this alive," he chattered, "I'll never
stick around y-y-y-you fellows again. I was a f-f-f-fool to let you
fellows coax me into staying here."
"Get out, then!" retorted Tom Reade half savagely, as he landed on the
floor and began to dress. All were soon up except Hen, who, when a more
dismal and bloodcurdling wail than ever came along, hid his head under
one of the overcoats that covered him.
"It's a wild cat--that's what it is," declared Greg Holmes.
"Only one objection to that idea," returned Dick Prescott. "No one has
ever heard of a wild cat in these parts in forty years."
"Then it's some one out perishing in the cold," suggested Dave.
"Whoever might be out in the cold wouldn't have much time to yell like
that about it," argued Dick. "A wayfarer, out in the cold and deep snow
to-night, would soon lie down and freeze to death."
But now something happened that made the blood of all the listeners run
cold.
"Dea-ath sta-a-alks through the for-r-r-rest!" came the wailing chant.
"That must be the Ripley gang," contended Dick.
"But how can it be? How could they get through the deep snow that won't
bear 'em?" Tom wanted to know.
"Then what can it be?"
"Mr. Fits," suggested Harry Hazelton.
"But Fits isn't in the shack, or wasn't," Dave argued. "We haven't seen
him around, outdoors or in the shack, since the night we ordered him to
go there. If Mr. Fits got away from this neighborhood it was simply
impossible for him to get back since then."
"A-a-a-all who he-ear my voi-oi-oice shall die-ie within the
hou-ou-our!" came the wail once more.
"O-o-o-h! Please don't!" screamed Hen Dutcher, burrowing in under the
massed overcoats. "Please spare me! I'll be a good fellow after this!"
"Keep quiet!" ordered Tom, striding over to the bunk and giving Hen
three or four vigorous prods. "If you don't we'll throw you outside!"
"But it's just aw-aw-aw-awful!" chattered the terrified Hen.
Truth to tell, none of the boys were feeling at his best, just then.
Dick's glance passed the face of the clock, showing the hour to be just
midnight.
Had it been possible to travel through the forest, the Grammar School
boys would have felt sure that it was Fred Ripley's crew. Then they
would have gone forth to see what was up. But feeling sure that they
were the only living beings in this part of the forest, it was
impossible to account for the awful sounds that came from without. What
made the wailing sound still more frightful was the fact that it all
seemed a part of the wind that was now rising gradually. And the clearly
uttered, sepulchral words made it all real enough. The wind never talks
in words.
Again came the wailing, though this time without words.
"I never believed there were such things as real ghosts," declared Harry
Hazelton.
"Then you're a fool. Everybody knows that there are ghosts--and they're
fine people that do noble work!" proclaimed chattering Hen from under
the weight of clothing. He was trying to win the favor of the ghosts.
"If there are any ghosts around here I wish one of 'em would pick you up
in a sheet, take you away and drop you in your own home in Gridley,"
declared Tom, becoming decidedly irritated by this babyish imitation of
a boy.
"Oh, please don't say that!" begged Hen piteously. "The ghost might hear
you."
"If he does, and takes Tom's advice," hinted Dave, "we'll soon see it
happen."
That was enough to send thirteen year old Hen burrowing more frantically
than before.
The cabin was warm and bright inside. Dick, while trying to puzzle out
the matter to his satisfaction, carried four more logs to the fire, one
after another, and placed them.
Not one of the Grammar School boys had any desire to go to bed at that
time, save Hen, who wouldn't dare to be anywhere else. In fact, the
Dutcher youngster may have wondered whether he could stand on his feet
if he slipped out and into his clothes.
One by one the boys found seats. Dan picked up the air rifle and sat
with it across his lap.
"Whoever it is that's doing this trick has surely got us going," laughed
Dick uneasily.
"He has," affirmed Dave. "I don't believe in ghosts, but, under the
circumstances, this thing that's annoying us is more than some creepy.
If we could explain it I don't believe we'd let it worry us any. But I
suppose human beings are always most afraid of what they cannot
understand."
The wailings came at less frequent intervals now, though they continued
to be sufficiently awesome. But when the clock showed two minutes before
the hour of one in the morning these words came in a blast:
"The hou-ou-our of de-eath is at hand. The Gr-r-rim Rea-eaper is at the
doo-oor!"
"Then please, please, please--GO AWAY!" screamed Hen, his teeth clacking
a bone solo.