“I am sorry about the covers,” said Gideon, and it seemed to me that as soon as he entered the house he became increasingly nervous and ill at ease. “I meant to remove them all this morning and make it more habitable for you, but what with one thing and another I did not manage it.”
“Don’t worry,” I said, making a fuss over the dog and cat, who were both vying for my attention. “I shan’t be inhabiting all of the house, so I will just remove the sheets in those parts that I shall use.”
“Yes, yes,” said Gideon, running his hands through his hair in a nervous fashion. “Your bed is made up . . . the bedroom is the second door on the left as you reach the top of the stairs. Now, come with me and I’ll show you the kitchen and cellar.”
He led me across the hall to a door that was hidden under the main staircase. Opening this he made his way down broad stone steps that spiralled their way down into gloom. Presently we reached a passageway that led to a gigantic stone-flagged kitchen and, adjoining it, cavernous cellars and a capacious larder, cold as a glacier, with the carcasses of game, chicken and duck, and legs of lamb and saddles of beef hanging from hooks or lying on the marble shelves that run around the walls. In the kitchen was a great range, each fire carefully laid, and on the great table in the center had been arranged various commodities that Gideon thought I may need: rice, lentils as black as soot, potatoes, carrots and other vegetables in large baskets, pottery jars of butter and preserves, and a pile of freshly baked loaves. On the other side of the kitchen, opposite to the cellars and larder, lay the wine store, approached through a heavy door, bolted and padlocked. Obviously Gideon’s uncle had not trusted his staff when it came to alcoholic beverages. The cellar was small, but I saw at a glance that it contained some excellent vintages.
“Do not stint yourself, Peter,” said Gideon. “There are some really quite nice wines in there and they will be some small compensation for staying in the gloomy place alone.”
“You want me to spend my time in an inebriated state?” I laughed. “I would never get the books valued. But don’t worry, Gideon; I shall be quite alright. As I told you before, I like being on my own, and here I have food and wine enough for an army, plenty of fuel for the fire, a dog and a cat and birds to keep me company and a large and interesting library. What more could any man want?”
“The books, by the way, are mainly in the Long Gallery, on the south side of the house. I won’t show it to you—it’s easy enough to find—but I really must be on my way,” said Gideon, leading the way up into the hall once more. He delved into his pocket and produced a huge bunch of ancient keys. “The ‘keys of the Kingdom,’ ” he said with a faint smile. “I don’t think anything is locked, but if it is, please open it. I will tell François that he is to come back here and look after you as soon as his wife is out of danger, and I myself will return in about four weeks’ time. By then you should have finished your task.”
“Easily,” I said. “In fact, if I get it done before then I will send you a telegram.”
“Seriously, Peter,” he said, taking my hand, “I am really most deeply in your debt for what you are doing. I shall not forget it.”
“Rubbish, my friend,” I said. “It gives me great pleasure to be of service to you.”
I stood in the doorway of the house, the dog panting by my side, the cat arching itself round my legs and purring loudly, and watched Gideon get back into the dogcart, wrap the rug around himself and then flick the horses with the reins. As they broke into a trot and he steered them towards the entrance to the courtyard, he raised his whip in salute. He disappeared through the archway and very soon the sound of the hoof beats were muffled by the snow and soon faded altogether. Picking up the warm silky body of the cat and whistling to the dog who had chased the dogcart to the archway, barking exuberantly, I went back into the house and bolted the front door behind me.
I decided that the first thing to do was to explore the house and ascertain where the various books were that I had come to work with, and thus to make up my mind which rooms I needed to open up. On a table in the hall I had spotted a large six-branched silver candelabra loaded with candles and a box of matches lying beside it. I decided to use this in my exploration since it would relieve me of the tedium of having to open and close innumerable shutters. So, lighting the candles and accompanied by the eager, bustling dog whose nails rattled on the bare floors like castanets, I started off. The whole of the ground floor consisted of three very large rooms and one smaller one, which comprised the drawing room, the dining room, a study and then this smaller salon. Strangely enough, this room—which I called the blue salon as it was decorated in various shades of blue and gold—was the only one that was locked, and it took me some time to find the right key for it. This salon formed one end of the house and so it was a long, narrow shoebox shape, with large windows at each end. The door by which you entered was midway down one of the longer walls and hanging on the wall opposite was one of the biggest mirrors I have ever seen. It must have been fully nine feet high, stretching from floor level to almost the ceiling, and some thirty-five feet in length. The mirror itself was slightly tarnished, which gave it a pleasant bluish tinge, like the waters of a shallow lake, but it still reflected clearly and accurately. The whole was encompassed in a wide and very ornate gold frame, carved to depict various nymphs and satyrs, unicorns, griffons and other fabulous beasts. The frame in itself was a work of art. By seating oneself in one of the comfortable chairs that stood one on each side of the fireplace, one could see the whole room reflected in this remarkable mirror, and although the room was somewhat narrow, this gave one a great sense of space. Owing to the size, the convenience and—I must admit—the novelty of the room, I decided to make it my living room, and so in a very short space of time I had the dust covers off the furniture and a roaring blaze of chestnut roots in the hearth. Then I moved in the cage of finches and canaries and placed them at one end of the room together with Octavius, the parrot, who seemed pleased by the change, for he shuffled his feathers, cocked his head to one side and whistled a few bars of the “Marseillaise.” The dog and cat immediately stretched out in front of the blaze and fell into a contented sleep. Thus, deserted by my companions, I took my candelabra and continued my investigation of the house alone.
The next floor was comprised mainly of bed and bathrooms, but I found that one whole wing of the house (which formed the hollow square in which the courtyard lay) was one enormous room, the Long Gallery, as Gideon had called it. Down one side of this long, wide room—which would have done credit to any great country house in England—there were very tall windows, and opposite each window was a tall mirror, similar to the one downstairs but long and narrow. Between these mirrors stood the bookcases of polished oak, and piled on the shelves haphazardly were a myriad of books, some on their sides, some upside down in total confusion. Even a cursory glance was enough to tell me that the library was so muddled it would take me some considerable time to sort the books into subjects before I could even start to catalogue and value them. Leaving the Long Gallery shrouded in dust sheets and with the shutters still closed, I went one floor higher. Here there were only attics, and in one of them I came upon the gilt frame of a mirror and I shivered, for I presumed that this was the attic in which Gideon’s uncle had been found dead. The mirror frame was identical to the one in the blue salon but on a much smaller scale, of course. Here again were the satyrs, the unicorns, the griffons and hippographs, but in addition there was a small area at the top of the frame, carved like a medallion, in which were inscribed in French the words: “I am your servant. Feed and liberate me. I am you.” It did not seem to make sense. I closed the attic door and, chiding myself for being a coward, I locked it securely and in consequence felt much better.
When I made my way downstairs to the blue salon, I was greeted with rapture by both dog and cat, as if I had been away on a journey of many days, and I realized that they were hungry. Simultaneously I realized that I was hungry too,
for the excitement of arriving at the house and exploring it had quite made me forget to prepare myself any luncheon and it was now past six o’clock in the evening. So, accompanied by the eager animals, I made my way down to the kitchen to cook some food for us all. For the dog, I stewed some scraps of mutton, and a little chicken for the cat, both combined with some boiled rice and potatoes; they were delighted with this menu. For myself, I grilled a large steak with an assortment of vegetables and chose from the cellar an excellent bottle of red wine. When this was ready I carried it up to the blue salon and, pulling my chair up to the fire, made myself comfortable and fell on the food hungrily. Presently the dog and the cat, replete with food, joined me and spread out in front of the fire. I got up and closed the door once they were settled, for there was quite a cold draught from the big hall which, with its marble floor, was now as cold as an ice chest. Finishing my food, I lay back contentedly in my chair, sipping my wine and watching the blue flames run to and fro over the chestnut roots in the fire. I was very relaxed and happy and the wine, rich and heavy, was having a soporific effect on me. I slept for perhaps an hour. Then, suddenly, I was fully awake with every nerve tingling, as if someone had shouted my name. I listened, but the only sounds were the soft breathing of the sleeping dog and the contented purr of the cat curled up on the chair opposite me. It was so silent that I could hear the faint bubble and crackle of the chestnut roots in the fire. Feeling sure I must have imagined a sound, and yet feeling unaccountably uneasy for no discernible reason, I threw another log on the fire and settled back in the chair to doze.
It was then I glanced across at the mirror opposite me and noticed that in the reflection the door to the salon which I had carefully closed was now ajar. Surprised, I twisted round in my chair and looked at the real door, only to find it was securely closed as I had left it. I looked again into the mirror and made sure my eyes—aided by the wine—were not playing tricks, but sure enough, in the reflection the door appeared to be slightly ajar. I was sitting there looking at it and wondering what trick of light and reflection could produce the effect of an open door when the door responsible for the reflection was securely closed, when I noticed something that made me sit up, astonished and uneasy. The door in the reflection was being pushed open still further. I looked at the real door again and saw that it was still firmly shut. Yet its reflection in the mirror was opening, very slowly, millimeter by millimeter. I sat watching it, the hair on the nape of my neck stirring, and suddenly round the edge of the door, on the carpet, there appeared something that at first glance I thought was some sort of caterpillar. It was long, wrinkled and yellowish-white in color, and at one end it had a long blackened horn. It humped itself up and scrabbled at the surface of the carpet with its horn in a way that I had seen no caterpillar behave. Then, slowly, it retreated behind the door. I found that I was sweating. I glanced once more at the real door to assure myself that it was closed because, for some reason or other, I did not fancy having that caterpillar or whatever it was crawling about the room with me. The door was still shut. I took a draught of wine to steady my nerves and was annoyed to see that my hand was shaking. I, who had never believed in ghosts, or hauntings, or magic spells or any of that claptrap, was imagining things in a mirror and convincing myself to such an extent they were real that I was actually afraid. It was ridiculous, I told myself as I drank the wine. There was some perfectly rational explanation for the whole thing. I sat forward in my chair and gazed at the reflection in the mirror with great intentness. For a long time nothing happened, and then the door in the mirror swung open a fraction and the caterpillar appeared again, but this time it was joined by another and then, after a pause, yet another and suddenly my blood ran cold for I realized what it was. They were not caterpillars but attenuated yellow fingers with long black nails twisted like gigantic misshapen rose thorns. The moment I realized this the whole hand came into view, feeling its way feebly along the carpet. The hand was a mere skeleton covered with the pale yellow, parchmentlike skin through which the knuckles and joints showed like walnuts. It felt around on the carpet in a blind, groping sort of way, the hand moving from a bony wrist, like the tentacles of some strange sea anemone from the deep, one that has become pallid through living in perpetual dark. Then slowly it withdrew behind the door. I shuddered for I wondered what sort of body was attached to that horrible hand. I waited for perhaps quarter of an hour, dreading what might suddenly appear from behind the mirror door, but nothing happened.
After a while I became restive. I was still attempting to convince myself that the whole thing was an hallucination brought on by the wine and the heat of the fire, but without success. For there was the door of the blue salon carefully closed against the draught and the door in the mirror still ajar with apparently something lurking behind it. I wanted to walk over to the mirror and examine it, but I did not have the courage, I regret to say. Instead, I thought of a plan which, I felt, would show me whether I was imagining things or not. I woke Agrippa the dog and, crumpling up a sheet of the newspaper I had been reading into a ball, I threw it down the room so that it landed just by the closed door. In the mirror it lay just near the door that was ajar. Agrippa, more to please me than anything else for he was very sleepy, bounded after it. Gripping the arms of my chair, I watched his reflection in the mirror as he ran towards the door. He reached the ball of newspaper and paused to pick it up. And then something so hideous happened that I could scarcely believe my eyes. The mirror door was pushed open still further and the hand and a long white bony arm shot out. It grabbed the dog in the mirror by the scruff of its neck and pulled it speedily, kicking and struggling, behind the door. Agrippa had now come back to me, having retrieved the newspaper, but I took no notice of him, for my gaze was fixed on the reflection in the mirror. After a few minutes the hand suddenly reappeared. Was it my imagination or did it now seem stronger? At any event, it curved itself round the woodwork of the door and drew it completely shut, leaving on the white paint a series of bloody fingerprints that made me feel sick. The real Agrippa was nosing my leg, the newspaper in his mouth, seeking my approval, while behind the mirror door, God knows what fate had overtaken his reflection.
To say that I was shaken means nothing. I could scarcely believe the evidence of my senses. I sat staring at the mirror for a long time, but nothing further happened. Eventually, and with my skin prickling with fear, I got up and examined both the mirror and the door into the salon, but both bore a perfectly ordinary appearance. I wanted very much to open the door to the salon and see if the reflection in the mirror opened as well, but to tell the truth, I was too frightened of disturbing whatever it was that lurked behind the mirror door. I glanced up at the top of the mirror and saw for the first time that it bore the same inscription as the one I had found in the attic: I am your servant. Feed and liberate me. I am you. Did this mean the creature behind the door, I wondered? Feed and liberate me—was that what I had done by letting the dog go near the door? Was the creature now feasting upon the dog it had caught in the mirror? I shuddered at the thought. I determined that the only thing to do was to get a good night’s rest, for I was tired and overwrought. In the morning, I assured myself, I would hit upon a ready explanation for all this mumbo-jumbo. So, picking up the cat and calling for the dog (for, if the truth be known, I needed the company of the animals), I left the blue salon. As I was closing the door I was frozen into immobility and the hair on my head prickled as I heard a cracked, harsh voice bid me “Bon nuit” in wheedling tones. It was a moment or two before I realized it was Octavius the parrot and went limp with relief.
Clair the cat drowsed peacefully in my arms, but Agrippa needed some encouragement to accompany me upstairs, for it was obvious that he had never been allowed above the ground floor before. At length, with reluctance that soon turned to excitement at the novelty, he followed me upstairs. The fire in the bedroom had died down, but the atmosphere was still warm. I made my toilet and, without further ado, climbed into bed wit
h Agrippa lying on one side of me and Clair on the other. I received much comfort from the feel of their warm bodies but, in addition, I am not ashamed to say I left the candles burning and the door to the room securely locked.
The following morning when I awoke I was immediately conscious of the silence. Throwing open the shutters, I gazed out at a world muffled in snow. It must have been snowing steadily all night, and great drifts had piled up on the rock faces, on the bare trees, along the river bank and piled in a great cushion some seven feet deep along the crest of the bridge that joined the house to the mainland. Every windowsill and every projection of the eaves were a fearsome armory of icicles, and the sills themselves were varnished with a thin layer of ice. The sky was dark grey and lowering so that I could see we were in for yet more snow. Even if I had wanted to leave the house, the roads were already impassable, and with another snowfall, I would be completely cut off from the outside world. I must say that, thinking back on my experiences of the previous night, this fact made me feel somewhat uneasy. But I chided myself and by the time I had finished dressing, I had managed to convince myself that my experience in the blue salon was due entirely to a surfeit of good wine and an overexcited imagination.
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