by Jerry eBooks
“I’ll go,” Jim offered quickly.
Howard shook his head, glanced at the rest of us. There was an old look in his eyes.
“On second thought,” he said, “I think we ought all to remain here. We’ll send Wong; he can drive my car.”
We all agreed with him, without voicing the reason. If someone should attempt to do what Win had done, if someone else should go mad with a weapon in his hand, we ought all to be there. Yet I didn’t like the way Howard had spoken. There was an ominous tone to his words, almost as if he were planning something. I looked at him again, but he had turned away.
I steered Marcia through the doorway that led to the veranda. I wanted to get her out of that damned house.
She stood there on the lawn, tense, without speaking, till we saw the car go down the driveway, with the Chinese at the wheel. Then she turned her white face to mine. I found myself looking at her intently—then cursed myself for doing it. What was I looking for in her eyes? There was nothing wrong with Marcia—there couldn’t be.
She gripped my arm tightly.
“Jerry!” she said, “What is it, in there? What is it—more than we have seen?”
Reassuring words came to my lips—but they were never uttered. I was facing the house, Marcia’s back was turned toward it. Something—I don’t know what—caused my glance to stray toward the darkened window of the library.
I started, choked back a cry.
There in the library window, faintly luminous in the darkness, was the face of Graham Waite! The white hair and close-clipped Van Dyke—the face contorted as I had seen it in death—and the mouth now twisted horribly in a smile. Smiling at us—
One instant, I could have sworn I saw it, as clearly as that. The next, it wasn’t there. I was trembling.
Just the same, impulsively, I took Marcia in my arms.
“Whatever it is in there,” I said wildly, “I’m not going to let you stay and face it any longer. You’ve got to come away with me—now.”
Before she could answer, a scream came to our ears. It was a woman’s scream, high-pitched and terrified, and it sounded from upstairs in the house.
On the instant, every light in the house went out.
CHAPTER III
Corridor of Darkness
WE gained the hallway as I brought a flashlight from my pocket. We raced up the stairs as the screams, hysterical now, sounded again and again.
I didn’t stop at what my light showed me; I cried out, though, as I ran faster, trying to make it in time.
There in the hallway, locked in mortal combat, snarling and fighting like beasts of prey, were Howard Waite and young Jim! They both had weapons in their hands—Jim a short iron poker, Howard a club which he must have brought back from the garage with him. These two, who had been as close as two brothers could be, were trying to kill each other!
Sidney Horton, a lighted flash in his hand, running toward them from the other end of the hall, was nearer them than I. But the only one near enough to come between them was Mrs. Waite. They were almost in front of the door to her room, and she stood looking on, alternately screaming and uttering a mad babble of words, utterly unable to move.
“Graham!” she cried. “I saw him just before—” While I was still a good twenty feet away, I saw Howard stagger back, snarling, plainly badly hurt.
“Damn you!” young Jim shouted. “Come at me, will you!” And he raised the poker for a killing blow.
Sidney sprang at Jim to seize the weapon.
He was just too late. The poker came down. I heard the sickening crunch of metal on bone. Howard sank to the floor and did not move.
Sidney got hold of Jim then, but it didn’t seem necessary. Even as his brother fell, the boy staggered back, horror replacing the madness in his eyes. The poker fell from his lax fingers.
“What have I done?” he gasped.
Mrs. Waite was on the floor beside Howard. Now she sprang up, turned a wild, agitated face toward Jim.
“You’ve killed him!” she cried.
Abruptly Jim was struggling in Sidney’s arms, as if seized by a fresh attack.
“I didn’t!” he shrieked. “He jumped me. He tried to kill me!” And then, “I don’t give a damn if I did kill him! I hated him—I’ve always hated him!”
His eyes glared wildly. I thought for a minute that he was going to break loose from Sidney and pick up the poker and come for the rest of us.
Sidney held him though, and while Marcia strove futilely to calm her mother, I examined Howard. The dead face was that of a madman.
They were both mad—as Winfield had been. Only, unlike the more sensitive Winfield, who had killed himself, they had set out to kill others.
The rest of them, I was thinking, when their turn came, would they creep upon us through the darkened halls with some ugly weapon in their hands?
I caught myself staring intently at Marcia—
The three of us finally got Jim and his mother to their rooms, Howard’s body into his.
There were only Sidney and I left, now, to watch over Marcia. Sidney’s story of the angry dead kept ringing through my mind.
WE forced a sleeping potion through Mrs.
Waite’s lips, then Sidney and I tied her to the bed. We hated to do it, but she had to be kept in her room. After she had dozed off, we went out, locking the door of the room.
After we got Jim to sleep, we tied him down, too, and locked his room. We left a candle burning in both rooms, for we hadn’t been able to find what was wrong with the lights.
After that, the three of us went downstairs to the living room, and found enough lamps to make it fairly bright. Sidney walked the floor nervously, and Marcia sat, stiff and tense. Sidney kept looking at his watch, and at last I realized what was on his mind. Wong had not returned.
Finally he turned to me.
“It’s been an hour and a half,” he said, “since that damned Chinese went for the doctor. It couldn’t have taken him more than half an hour.”
“He probably got scared and kept on going,” I suggested.
“I shouldn’t wonder. Jerry, we’ve got to get a doctor. We really should get the police; but in any case, we need a physician to examine Aunt Anne and Jim—before it’s too late. One of us has to go.”
I looked at Marcia; if I went, I knew she’d insist on staying here with her mother. Still, it was up to me to go. I told Sidney I would.
He was on the point of agreeing with me, it appeared—then suddenly he shook his head. He drew me out into the hall, away from Marcia.
“Jerry,” he said, “now that I think of it, I believe I’ll go. Remember, I’m half Waite. Whatever it is that’s loose in this house, I think you’re immune. You can stay here, try to help Marcia. Don’t think I’m yellow, Jerry, but—look at my eyes, will you? Do you see anything odd about them?”
“I don’t think it’s hit you, Sidney,” I said.
He laughed shortly.
“The look in your face belies your words, Jerry,” he said. “I thought I was immune, too—but for the past half hour I’ve been feeling—just a little strange. The truth is, I don’t dare stay here—with Marcia.”
“You’re right,” I told him.
“Then I’ll be going,” he said. “And I’m not just bringing a doctor—I’m bringing the police, too.”
When he had gone, I told Marcia that she had better go to her room and take a sleeping potion as the others had.
“I know,” she said bitterly. “You want to lock me in. No. I’ll stay up and watch over Jim and mother.”
I protested that she couldn’t help Jim and her mother now by staying up. I promised her that I’d be in the room next to hers, and that I would be awake and dressed.
She broke down then. She rushed into my arms and wept for a long time.
I carried her in my arms, finally, up the stairs and into her room. And after a little while, she slept. I blew out the candle I had lit, and crept softly into the adjoining room.
I didn’t undress; I didn’t even lie down. For a while I walked the floor, trying to think through to some answer to the mad thoughts whirling in my brain. But I stopped short as a fearful new thought struck me. Supposing I wasn’t immune to this fearful madness?
I was sure by now that it wasn’t caused by any hereditary taint upon the Waites; it was something that had to do with this house and the first death in it. And it had gotten Franklin; why wouldn’t it take me when the right time came? And if it did, was there any reason for thinking it would make me any less a mad killer than it had the Waites?
I sat down in a chair, shuddering, held my face in my hands while sweat beaded my brow.
I finally calmed myself. I seemed to be getting drowsy.
I must have dozed off. Then sound dinned in my ears. It came from the next room. It was Marcia!
“Father!” she cried shrilly, and then: “Jerry!”
I BURST in the door and rushed into the hall, calling back to Marcia. I sensed some movement in the hall. I ran into Marcia’s room, flashing on my light as I did so.
She was standing beside the bed, pale as death, her eyes wide with terror.
“Marcia!” I said. “What was it?”
She came toward me.
“Jerry—it was father! I saw him! I woke up and he was standing over the bed. But he wasn’t like he used to be. He—he looked hideous.”
I tried to calm her.
“It couldn’t have been,” I said. “You had a nightmare, Marcia.”
She gripped my arm tightly; then she spoke low and tensely.
“Jerry,” she said, “look into my eyes. I’m not mad. I saw father.”
There was no madness in her eyes, only terror. In spite of myself I began to believe that what I had seen in the library window had been no illusion.
There was no use of keeping anything from Marcia now. I told her all I had seen.
“I think we’d better go downstairs—look in the coffin,” I added.
We went downstairs swiftly, keeping the flashlight trained ahead of us. We had left the lamps in the living room burning, but they didn’t light up the library. It was all I could do to muster courage to step into that darkened room of death.
I finally did it. We stepped up to the coffin. The body of Graham Waite was still there.
I started, though, and looked closer. Weren’t the arms just a little moved from their former position?
While I was wondering about that, though, I suddenly went cold all over. From behind us toward the doorway, a soft step had sounded!
We whirled about. Coming toward us, very quietly, was Jim Waite—Jim, whom we had left bound and locked in his room! In his upraised hand, he held a meat cleaver, razor-sharp.
He rushed toward us when he realized he had been seen. But as he leaped, he cried out, high and shrilly, words that at that time seemed strange even for a madman:
“Damn these stinking flowers!”
Marcia had leaped to the far side of the room. As I looked wildly around for a weapon to defend myself, I glimpsed her face. The sight all but froze me—
Ithad gotten her, too.
With a choked sob, I flung the lighted flashlight full into Jim Waite’s face.
CHAPTER IV
Death Waits Next Door
PARTLY because he was mad, I suppose, the light in Jim’s face did the trick. He struck out at me with the cleaver, once, just as the flashlight hit him. He missed—and on the instant he whirled about. With a low cry, he rushed from the room.
We followed after him swiftly, side by side. I didn’t dare turn to look at Marcia.
The front door opened and shut before we got there. When we came out onto the veranda, we could neither see nor hear Jim. It was quite dark, though, and the trees and scrubs were black clusters of even darker shadow.
“It’s really no use, Jerry,” Marcia said. “We’ll never find him—not in the night.”
The quietness of her tones, the sanity of them, startled me—sent a flood of hope coursing through me. For the first time since we had left the library, I dared to look her in the face again. All the hate and the madness I had glimpsed was gone!
“No,” I said, “we’d never find him now. We’ll go back into the house, make sure that your mother hasn’t awakened.”
But before we went upstairs, we walked out to the garage, making our way very cautiously. There I reached in the pocket of my car and took out the gun I always carried there.
We went up then and looked in Mrs. Waite’s room. She didn’t seem to have stirred. We crept quietly out, and locked the door again.
Then we went across the hall to Jim’s room. He hadn’t wriggled loose and the ropes had not been cut. He had been untied, the door unlocked, from the outside.
“It’s no use, Jerry,” she said a little wildly. “I did see father! He set Jim loose. No one else could have done it.”
“Whoever let Jim loose,” I said, “was a human being. A ghost couldn’t do it, even if there were such a thing. No. It was Jim. He came into your room, made up like your father. You’ve got to believe that, Marcia. You’ve got to keep on believing it, no matter what happens.”
I took the automatic from my pocket, and handed it to her.
“There’s one danger that you know is human. That’s Jim, Marcia. You must take this gun, and if Jim comes back into the house, you’ve got to defend yourself. Don’t try just to cripple him.”
She took the gun, with a shudder.
“And another thing,” I said. “I want you to change rooms with me this time. There’s a door between that we’d better leave unlocked. The door to the hall, you must lock from the inside.”
“I sha’n’t sleep,” she said.
“Perhaps not. But it’s safer in there than anywhere else.”
All my thoughts were a jumble. Once I even thought of insisting on making a break for the car with Marcia, leaving this accursed house behind; but the odd thing was that immediately I tossed all plans of getting away aside. For the moment I wasn’t afraid; I actually wanted to stay and see the thing through.
WE went into the room where I had stayed before, and Marcia locked the door leading into the hall. Promising that I’d keep watch, I got her to lie down on the bed and covered her up. Then I lighted a candle and went on into the other room, closing the door behind me but not locking it.
Once in there, I locked the door which led to the hall. I sat down beside the bed, leaving the candle burning. There was no sound in all the house.
Stuffy in the room, I thought. My head ached a bit. I got up and opened the window a little wider. That didn’t help much, and I loosened the bandages around my nose, took a deep breath. I felt better then; but when I went back and sat down, my head began aching again.
There was a huge vase of flowers beside the bed near where I sat. It reminded me of the library, and the coffin. I’d a good notion to fling it out of the window. Then I remembered—Winfield had wanted to do the same thing. I shuddered.
I looked at my watch, and started. It had been over an hour since Sidney left! My thoughts blurred. I seemed to hear Marcia stirring in the next room. It made me wonder.
Come to think of it, it hadn’t been such a good plan at that—giving Marcia the gun and leaving the door between us unlocked. Already the madness had started to strike her, more than once.
I almost wanted to lock the door between us. She could sneak in and finish me with one shot. Then she’d go in and kill her mother, and then probably herself.
I’d better keep an eye on that door, just in case it should start moving.
Maybe I ought to arm myself. A knife was lying on the bookcase. I went over and picked it up. I started. Why, it looked like the knife Winfield had killed himself with! How could it have gotten in here? It wasn’t bloody anymore; somebody must have wiped it off and brought it in here.
Had Marcia done that? Had she figured on using it? On me, perhaps?
Shakily, with the knife still in my hand, I w
ent over and sat down by the bed. I began watching the door closely, expecting it to move any moment.
It was stuffy. Not so much airlessness, as that there was a strange odor. The antiseptic on my bandages had begun to wear off, and now that I had loosened them I caught the odor.
It was a noxious, thick sort of smell. Did those flowers smell that way? No, they couldn’t; they were dahlias; I knew how dahlias smelled. This was thicker, more exotic.
I bent over, breathed in the odor of the flowers deeply. It did seem as if the smell came from them—yet I still knew it couldn’t.
I seemed to be thinking weird thoughts. I thought about the guillotine, how it must work; I thought about Winfield lying in a pool of blood. I had a kind of dream of dark-skinned men, a great horde of them, fighting each other with knives. I seemed to be one of them. I felt a great joy as I thrust a heavy knife into a man’s vitals.
“Damn him—I finished him then,” I said.
I had spoken aloud. It brought me out of the dream. I looked down. The knife was still clutched in my hand.
Why, damn it, I thought, she had the knife in here so she could come in and kill me with it! Changing rooms has spoiled Marcia’s plan, but now she has the gun. Why, the she-devil!
I blew out the candle; then I crept over to the door, listened. The moving had stopped. She had probably come to the other side of the door, and was waiting to strike.
There’s only one way to beat her, I thought. I’ve got to strike first. I’ll move the door open, slowly, inch by inch.
I wish I could forget the things I thought and did then; but I can’t. I’ll remember them until I die.
I FINALLY opened the door. I had expected a shot to greet me, and I had the knife gripped tightly in my hand, ready—but no shot came. She had blown out the lamp and was waiting for me.
I kept close to the floor and crept forward, trying to accustom my eyes to the darkness. By the time I was halfway across the room, I could see fairly well. There was no one lurking in the shadows.