The Algernon Blackwood Collection

by Algernon Blackwood

  “Why are you all so mysterious about it?” she went on. “It’s only a tumble-down old place, and must be very draughty to live in, even for a gamekeeper.”

  Silence.

  “Come, children, don’t you hear me? I’m asking you a question.”

  A couple of startled birds flew out of the ivy with a great whirring of wings. This was followed by a faint sound of rumbling, that seemed to come from the interior of the house. Outside all was still, and the hot sunshine lay over everything. The sound was repeated. The children looked at each other with large, expectant eyes. Something in the house was moving—was coming nearer.

  “Have you all lost your tongues?” asked the governess impatiently.

  “But you see,” Nixie said at length, “somebody does live in it now.”

  “And who is he?”

  “I didn’t say it was a man.”

  “Whoever it is—tell me about the person,” persisted Miss Lake.

  “There’s really nothing to tell,” replied the child, without looking up.

  “Oh, but there must be something,” declared the logical young governess, “or you wouldn’t object so much to its being pulled down.”

  Nixie looked puzzled, but Jimbo came to the rescue at once.

  “But you wouldn’t understand if we did tell you,” he said, in a slow, respectful voice. His tone held a touch of that indescribable scorn heard sometimes in a child’s tone—the utter contempt for the stupid grown-up creature. Miss Lake noticed, and felt annoyed. She recognised that she was not getting on well with the children, and it piqued her. She remembered the Colonel’s words about “knocking the nonsense out” of James’ head, and she saw that her first opportunity, in fact her first real test, was at hand.

  “And why, pray, should I not understand?” she asked, with some sharpness. “Is the mystery so very great?”

  For some reason the duty of spokesman now devolved unmistakably upon Jimbo; and very seriously too, he accepted the task, standing with his feet firmly planted in the road and his hands in his trousers’ pockets.

  “You see, Miss Lake,” he began gravely, “we know such a lot of Things in there, that they might not like us to tell you about them. They don’t know you yet. If they did it might be different. But—but—you see, it isn’t.”

  This was rather crushing to the aspiring educator, and the Colonel’s instructions gained additional point in the light of the boy’s explanation.

  “Fiddlesticks!” she laughed, “there’s probably nothing at all in there, except rats and cobwebs. ‘Things,’ indeed!”

  “I knew you wouldn’t understand,” said Jimbo coolly, with no sign of being offended. “How could you?” He glanced at his sisters, gaining so much support from their enigmatical faces that he added, for their especial benefit, “How could she?”

  “The gard’ner said so too,” chimed in a younger sister, with a vague notion that their precious Empty House was being robbed of its glory.

  “Yes; but, James, dear, I do understand perfectly,” continued Miss Lake more gently, and wisely ignoring the reference to the authority of the kitchen-garden. “Only, you see, I cannot really encourage you in such nonsense——”

  “It isn’t nonsense,” interrupted Jimbo, with heat.

  “But, believe me, children, it is nonsense. How do you know that there’s anything inside? You’ve never been there!”

  “You can know perfectly well what’s inside a thing without having gone there,” replied Jimbo with scorn. “At least, we can.”

  Miss Lake changed her tack a little—fatally, as it appeared afterwards.

  “I know at any rate,” she said with decision, “that there’s nothing good in there. Whatever there may be is bad, thoroughly bad, and not fit for you to play with.”

  The other children moved away, but Jimbo stood his ground. They were all angry, disappointed, sore hurt and offended. But Jimbo suddenly began to feel something else besides anger and vexation. It was a new point of view to him that the Empty House might contain bad things as well as good, or perhaps, only bad things. His imagination seized upon the point at once and set to work vigorously to develop it. This was his way with all such things, and he could not prevent it.

  “Bad Things?” he repeated, looking up at the governess. “You mean Things that could hurt?”

  “Yes, of course,” she said, noting the effect of her words and thinking how pleased the Colonel would be later, when he heard it. “Things that might run out and catch you some day when you’re passing here alone, and take you back a prisoner. Then you’d be a prisoner in the Empty House all your life. Think of that!”

  Miss Lake mistook the boy’s silence as proof that she was taking the right line. She enlarged upon this view of the matter, now she was so successfully launched, and described the Inmate of the House with such wealth of detail that she felt sure her listener would never have anything to do with the place again, and that she had “knocked out” this particular bit of “nonsense” for ever and a day.

  But to Jimbo it was a new and horrible idea that the Empty House, haunted hitherto only by rather jolly and wonderful Red Indians, contained a Monster who might take him prisoner, and the thought made him feel afraid. The mischief had, of course, been done, and the terror in his eyes was unmistakable, when the foolish governess saw her mistake. Retreat was impossible: the boy was shaking with fear; and not all Miss Lake’s genuine sympathy, or Nixie’s explanations and soothings, were able to relieve his mind of its new burden.

  Hitherto Jimbo’s imagination had loved to dwell upon the pleasant side of things invisible; but now he had been severely frightened, and his imagination took a new turn. Not only the Empty House, but all his inner world, to which it was in some sense the key, underwent a distressing change. His sense of horror had been vividly aroused.

  The governess would willingly have corrected her mistake, but was, of course, powerless to do so. Bitterly she regretted her tactlessness and folly. But she could do nothing, and to add to her distress, she saw that Jimbo shrank from her in a way that could not long escape the watchful eye of the mother. But, if the boy shed tears of fear that night in his bed, it must in justice be told that she, for her part, cried bitterly in her own room, not that she had endangered her “place,” but that she had done a cruel injury to a child, and that she was helpless to undo it. For she loved children, though she was quite unsuited to take care of them. Her just reward, however, came swiftly upon her.

  A few nights later, when Jimbo and Nixie were allowed to come down to dessert, the wind was heard to make a queer moaning sound in the ivy branches that hung over the dining-room windows. Jimbo heard it too. He held his breath for a minute; then he looked round the table in a frightened way, and the next minute gave a scream and burst into tears. He ran round and buried his face in his father’s arms.

  After the tears came the truth. It was a bad thing for Miss Ethel Lake, this little sighing of the wind and the ivy leaves, for the Djin of terror she had thoughtlessly evoked swept into the room and introduced himself to the parents without her leave.

  “What new nonsense is this now?” growled the soldier, leaving his walnuts and lifting the boy on to his knee. “He shouldn’t come down till he’s a little older, and knows how to behave.”

  “What’s the matter, darling child?” asked the mother, drying his eyes tenderly.

  “I heard the bad Things crying in the Empty House.”

  “The Empty House is a mile away from here!” snorted the Colonel.

  “Then it’s come nearer,” declared the frightened boy.

  “Who told you there were bad things in the Empty House?” asked the mother.

  “Yes, who told you, indeed, I should like to know!” demanded the Colonel.

  And then it all came out. The Colonel’s wife was very quiet, but very determined. Miss Lake went back to the clerical family whence she had come, and the children knew her no more.

  “I’m glad,” said Nixie, expressing t
he verdict of the nursery. “I thought she was awfully stupid.”

  “She wasn’t a real lake at all,” declared another, “she was only a sort of puddle.”

  Jimbo, however, said little, and the Colonel likewise held his peace.

  But the governess, whether she was a lake or only a puddle, left her mark behind her. The Empty House was no longer harmless. It had a new lease of life. It was tenanted by some one who could never have friendly relations with children. The weeds in the old garden took on fantastic shapes; figures hid behind the doors and crept about the passages; the rooks in the high elms became birds of ill-omen; the ivy bristled upon the walls, and the trivial explanations of the gardener were no longer satisfactory.

  Even in bright sunshine a Shadow lay crouching upon the broken roof. At any moment it might leap into life, and with immense striding legs chase the children down to the very Park gates.

  There was no need to enforce the decree that the Empty House was a forbidden land. The children of their own accord declared it out of bounds, and avoided it as carefully as if all the wild animals from the Zoo were roaming its gardens, hungry and unchained.

  CHAPTER III: THE SHOCK

  ..................

  ONE IMMEDIATE RESULT OF MISS Lake’s indiscretion was that the children preferred to play on the other side of the garden, the side farthest from the Empty House. A spiked railing here divided them from a field in which cows disported themselves, and as bulls also sometimes were admitted to the cows, the field was strictly out of bounds.

  In this spiked railing, not far from the great shrubberies where the Indians increased and multiplied, there was a swinging gate. The children swung on it whenever they could. They called it Express Trains, and the fact that it was forbidden only added to their pleasure. When opened at its widest it would swing them with a rush through the air, past the pillars with a click, out into the field, and then back again into the garden. It was bad for the hinges, and it was also bad for the garden, because it was frequently left open after these carnivals, and the cows got in and trod the flowers down. The children were not afraid of the cows, but they held the bull in great horror. And these trivial things have been mentioned here because of the part they played in Jimbo’s subsequent adventures.

  It was only ten days or so after Miss Lake’s sudden departure when Jimbo managed one evening to elude the vigilance of his lawful guardians, and wandered off unnoticed among the laburnums on the front lawn. From the laburnums he passed successfully to the first laurel shrubbery, and thence he executed a clever flank movement and entered the carriage drive in the rear. The rest was easy, and he soon found himself at the Lodge gate.

  For some moments he peered through the iron grating, and pondered on the seductiveness of the dusty road and of the ditch beyond. To his surprise he found, presently, that the gate was moving outwards; it was yielding to his weight. One thing leads easily to another sometimes, and the open gate led easily on to the seductive road. The result was that a minute later Jimbo was chasing butterflies along the green lane, and throwing stones into the water of the ditch.

  It was the evening of a hot summer’s day, and the butterflies were still out in force. Jimbo’s delight was intense. The joy of finding himself alone where he had no right to be put everything else out of his head, and for some time he wandered on, oblivious of all but the intoxicating sense of freedom and the difficulty of choosing between so many butterflies and such a magnificently dirty ditch.

  At first he yielded to the seductions of the ditch. He caught a big, sleepy beetle and put it on a violet leaf, and sent it sailing out to sea; and when it landed on the farther shore he found a still bigger leaf, and sent it forth on a voyage in another direction, with a cargo of daisy petals, and a hairy caterpillar for a bo’sun’s mate. But, just as the vessel was getting under way, a butterfly of amazing brilliance floated past insolently under his very nose. Leaving the beetle and the caterpillar to navigate the currents as best they could, he at once gave chase. Cap in hand, he flew after the butterfly down the lane, and a dozen times when his cap was just upon it, it sailed away sideways without the least effort and escaped him.

  Then, suddenly, the lane took a familiar turning; the ditch stopped abruptly; the hedge on his right fell away altogether; the butterfly danced out of sight into a field, and Jimbo found himself face to face with the one thing in the whole world that could, at that time, fill him with abject terror—the Empty House.

  He came to a full stop in the middle of the road and stared up at the windows. He realised for the first time that he was alone, and that it was possible for brilliant sunshine, even on a cloudless day, to become somehow lustreless and dull. The walls showed a deep red in the sunset light. The house was still as the grave. His feet were rooted to the ground, and it seemed as if he could not move a single muscle; and as he stood there, the blood ebbing quickly from his heart, the words of the governess a few days before rushed back into his mind, and turned his fear into a dreadful, all-possessing horror. In another minute the battered door would slowly open and the horrible Inmate come out to seize him. Already there was a sound of something moving within, and as he gazed, fascinated with terror, a shuddering movement ran over the ivy leaves hanging down from the roof. Then they parted in the middle, and something—he could not in his agony see what—flew out with a whirring sound into his face, and then vanished over his shoulder towards the fields.

  Jimbo did not pause a single second to find out what it was, or to reflect that any ordinary thrush would have made just the same sound. The shock it gave to his heart immediately loosened the muscles of his little legs, and he ran for his very life. But before he actually began to run he gave one piercing scream for help, and the person he screamed to was the very person who was unwittingly the cause of his distress. It was as though he knew instinctively that the person who had created for him the terror of the Empty House, with its horrible Inmate, was also the person who could properly banish it, and undo the mischief before it was too late. He shrieked for help to the governess, Miss Ethel Lake.

  Of course, there was no answer but the noise of the air whistling in his ears as his feet flew over the road in a cloud of dust; there was no friendly butcher’s cart, no baker’s boy, or farmer with his dog and gun; the road was deserted. There was not even the beetle or the caterpillar; he was beyond reach of help.

  Jimbo ran for his life, but unfortunately he ran in the wrong direction. Instead of going the way he had come, where the Lodge gates were ready to receive him not a quarter of a mile away, he fled in the opposite direction.

  It so happened that the lane flanked the field where the cows lived; but cows were nothing compared to a Creature from the Empty House, and even bulls seemed friendly. The boy was over the five-barred gate in a twinkling and half-way across the field before he heard a heavy, thunderous sound behind him. Either the Thing had followed him into the field, or it was the bull. As he raced, he managed to throw a glance over his shoulder and saw a huge, dark mass bearing down upon him at terrific speed. It must be the bull, he reflected—the bull grown to the size of an elephant. And it appeared to him to have two immense black wings that flapped at its sides and helped it forward, making a whirring noise like the arms of a great windmill.

  This sight added to his speed, but he could not last very much longer. Already his body ached all over, and the frantic effort to get breath nearly choked him.

  There, before him, not so very far away now, was the swinging gate. If only he could get there in time to scramble over into the garden, he would be safe. It seemed almost impossible, and behind him, meanwhile, the sound of the following creature came closer and closer; the ground seemed to tremble; he could almost feel the breath on his neck.

  The swinging gate was only twenty yards off; now ten; now only five. Now he had reached it—at last. He stretched out his hands to seize the top bar, and in another moment he would have been safe in the garden and within easy reach of the house. But, befo
re he actually touched the iron rail, a sharp, stinging pain shot across his back;—he drew one final breath as he felt himself being lifted, lifted up into the air. The horns had caught him just behind the shoulders!

  There seemed to be no pain after the first shock. He rose high into the air, while the bushes and spiked railing he knew so well sank out of sight beneath him, dwindling curiously in size. At first he thought his head must bump against the sky, but suddenly he stopped rising, and the green earth rushed up as if it would strike him in the face. This meant he was sinking again. The gate and railing flew by underneath him, and the next second he fell with a crash upon the soft grass of the lawn—upon the other side. He had been tossed over the gate into the garden, and the bull could no longer reach him.

  Before he became wholly unconscious, a composite picture, vivid in its detail, engraved itself deeply, with exceeding swiftness, line by line, upon the waxen tablets of his mind. In this picture the thrush that had flown out of the ivy, the Empty House itself, and its horrible, pursuing Inmate were all somehow curiously mingled together with the black wings of the bull, and with his own sensation of rushing—flying headlong—through space, as he rose and fell in a curve from the creature’s horns.

  And behind it he was conscious that the real author of it all was somewhere in the shadowy background, looking on as though to watch the result of her unfortunate mistake. Miss Lake, surely, was not very far away. He associated her with the horror of the Empty House as inevitably as taste and smell join together in the memory of a certain food; and the very last thought in his mind, as he sank away into the blackness of unconsciousness, was a sort of bitter surprise that the governess had not turned up to save him before it was actually too late.

  Moreover, a certain sense of disappointment mingled with the terror of the shock; for he was dimly aware that Miss Lake had not acted as worthily as she might have done, and had not played the game as well as might have been expected of her. And, somehow, it didn’t all seem quite fair.