Within That Room!

by John Russell Fearn

  Somehow, downstairs, it had not seemed much of a problem to either of them to get this door open and discover what lay beyond—but now, with the memory of Mrs. Falworth’s warnings and the great house quiet as a sepulchre, it seemed a different matter.

  “You realize what we are risking?” Dick questioned.

  “Perfectly!” Vera set her chin. “And my mind is still made up. Go on, hurry up, before I lose my nerve.”

  “Okay lady—here we go.”

  He seized the screwdriver and struggled valiantly with the rusty notches in the screw heads. It was a hard task, which made him red in the face and short of breath but at least every screw was removed.

  “So far, so good,” he murmured. “Now for the rest of it.”

  Then, picking up the chisel, he wedged it between the door and the frame. As he pushed hard, Vera helped him by dragging forth the wadding from round the door edges. Then suddenly, as Dick gave a shove, the lock snapped and the door swung slowly inward on squeaking, rusty hinges.

  Tense, motionless, they stood on the threshold and looked in. The room was completely empty. Dust lay thick and untrodden on the floor and hazed the musty atmosphere. A large stained-glass window, upon which was silhouetted the dark shadow of the “watchtower” parapet outside, formed the one means of illumination. There was an aged fireplace, the back of which had fallen out to reveal the darkness of the flue behind it.

  “Deadly, eh?” Vera asked at last, with a little sigh of relief. “It just goes to show you what a lot of village gossip can do. Why, if it were cleaned up, this would make a nice bedroom.”

  She went inside slowly, her hands on her hips, her feet making no noise in the thick dust on the carpet. It stirred up around her and into the air as she moved. Dick put down the chisel and followed her in.

  “The fireplace wants fixing,” she said, as they surveyed it from the centre of the room. “I suppose we could get somebody to attend to—”

  Suddenly Vera stopped and clutched at her throat. Dick had no need to ask why she had ceased speaking, for he had noticed it at the same moment—a curious sensation, a feeling of ghastly sinking, a terrific shifting and turning of the stomach.

  “I—I feel as though—I’m going to be sick....” Vera got the words out in jerks, in whispers, her face deathly pale.

  Dick nodded but said nothing. The lines in his face had set in a mask of strain. Both he and the girl stood still, not quite knowing what to do—but with every second, with every breath they took, they could feel inexplicable sensations creeping in upon them.

  A horrible feeling crept into Dick’s senses. The uncertain sunlight of the room seemed to change to a weird scrambling of shadows as intolerable pressures crushed behind his eyes.

  Vera staggered. Then suddenly her knees gave way and she fell flat on the floor, face downward. Her fingers clutched vainly in the dust as she struggled to rise. Staring at her, Dick saw nameless anguish in her eyes as she looked up at him beseechingly.

  With every second normalcy was deserting Dick. His brain was throbbing with horrible things that had no place in his normal make-up.

  With an effort that drenched him in perspiration, he became himself for an agonising moment—but the room seemed to be filled with a myriad loathsome shapes. He bent down, caught Vera beneath her arms and dragged her out into the corridor. He slammed the door, drove home one of the screws with hands that felt numb and brittle.

  Shaken, gasping for breath, tortured with a raging headache, he slumped down beside the half-conscious girl and fought to get himself under control. Gradually he began to succeed. Those unspeakable urgings began to wane as he breathed in the comparatively fresh air of the corridor. By his side Vera stirred, then at length she sat up with his supporting arm behind her shoulders.

  “What happened?” she muttered, pressing a hand to her eyes.

  “I—I just don’t know,” Dick confessed, shaken. “I managed to get a grip on myself for a moment or two, so I dragged you out here.”

  “You are both extremely lucky to still be in possession of your lives and senses!”

  Both of them looked up sharply. They had not heard Mrs. Falworth’s silent approach. She was standing near to them, her face inscrutable.

  Dick hesitated over a remark, but instead he got to his feet and helped Vera to hers. Shaken, dusty, dishevelled, they were still breathing heavily from the experiences.... From the corridor’s further distance old Falworth appeared, approaching with nervous anxiety.

  “I trust you are convinced now of the evil presence within that room?” the housekeeper asked.

  “I’ll admit that there is something there,” Dick answered her, frowning. “But whether it is an evil presence or not, I don’t know—not yet. I haven’t finished with that room by a long shot!”

  “Why will you not learn sense?” Mrs. Falworth sounded amazingly agitated—for her. “If you persist in this—this baiting of the other world and its secrets, it will bring disaster down on all of us!”

  “Perhaps,” Dick said, cynically. “All I’ll admit at present is that it was tough while it lasted—just like a bombing raid. Only I used to go out on a bombing raid again and again, and I’m sort of looking at that room in the same way. Just want to recover my breath, that’s all—and to think things out.”

  “Both of you should leave,” old Falworth put in, rubbing his hands together. “Sell the place, Miss Grantham, and all the horror which goes with it—then we can all get away to something clean and free.”

  “I probably shall,” Vera muttered, holding her aching eyes. “For the moment I’m too dizzy to think straight. I’ll go and lie down for a while.”

  Dick gripped her arm as she turned uncertainly. He glanced back at Falworth.

  “Take the chisel back downstairs,” he said, “but leave the screwdriver. I’ll need it to unfasten that one screw. I haven’t finished the job yet— Come on, Vera.”

  Still supporting her he led her down the corridor to her room, opened the door for her. Carefully he led her to an armchair and she sat down, holding her head in her hands.

  “I—I suppose I shouldn’t be in here,” Dick said presently, with an effort at a smile.

  The girl gestured with one hand and kept her eyes closed.

  “As if it mattered,” she sighed. “Oh, my head! I feel half blind!”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ODORS AND RED ASH

  For a few minutes Vera hardly moved. Then she began to lower her hands, and a faint, tired smile crossed her face. Dick noticed with satisfaction that color was creeping back into her cheeks, that a brightness was returning to her eyes.

  “You got it worse than I did,” he said.

  She said, “I’ve got to sell—and quickly!”

  “You say an offer has been made for this place?” Dick asked. “Fifteen thousand pounds?”

  “So Mr. Thwaite told me.”

  “Any idea who made the offer?”

  “Not the slightest: I didn’t pursue the subject. I can’t see that it matters anyway as long as we can get the money—or rather, as long as I can get the money.”

  “Maybe not, but it’s a lot of money for a place with such a ghastly reputation.”

  Vera reflected. “The land value will be considerable, and maybe the prospective buyer doesn’t want to live in it. Perhaps wants to turn the place into an institution? It would make a good one.”

  Dick thought it out for a while, strolling across to the window and gazing out at the sunset. Then at length he turned and came back to the girl as she sprawled in the chair.

  “You may not think much of this idea after the experience we’ve just been through,” he said. “I think we should find out who is making the offer before we do anything further. I suggest that we ring up Thwaite tomorrow morning and find out.... From a callbox, of course.”

  “Well—all right—” Vera looked up at him and gave a shrug. “I don’t suppose a day can make much difference, anyhow, but I do know when I’ve had enough
, and this evening’s experience has convinced me that there is an awful aura of evil in that locked room. You can’t deny it.”

  “No; I agree that it was terrible while it lasted—but I still am not converted to ghosts. Anyway, maybe we’d better talk it over in the morning when we’ve had a night’s rest. We might as well turn in early. How do you feel?”

  “I’m fine now,” Vera said, getting up. “But I don’t feel like going to sleep. My nerves are too worked up. I think I’ll go down to the library and see if there are any soothing books to read.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Dick decided. “I could do with a book myself, and besides, I don’t feel any too happy at letting you out of my sight. Come on.”

  Feeling almost recovered, and if anything more determined than ever to solve the mystery after their first horrifying failure, they crept out into the corridor. It was empty. Presumably the Falworths had returned to the kitchen regions again. Then Vera straightened up suddenly.

  “Just why are we slinking about like a couple of fugitives?” she demanded. “I own the place! And somebody around here is going to know it before I’m finished!”

  “Atta girl!” Dick whispered, catching her arm. “Down we go.”

  They descended the staircase slowly and with dignity, but they saw no signs of the Falworths.

  “Do you suppose,” Vera murmured, when they had reached the hall, “that they think we have gone to bed and so have seized the chance to go down in the basement?”

  “Maybe, but I hardly think they would risk it with the daylight still lingering. From what you have told me their activities sound like dead-of-night antics.”

  Nevertheless they glanced towards the basement door inset in the staircase. It was tightly closed. Then Mrs. Falworth emerged from the passage leading to the servant’s quarters. She seemed to give the faintest of starts as she saw the two at the foot of the stairs.

  “I was under the impression that you had retired,” she murmured. “I was about to lock up for the night. Will it be in order for me to do so?”

  “Quite,” Vera assented briefly.

  The woman inclined her head and was about to sweep towards the front door when Vera stopped her.

  “Just a moment, Mrs. Falworth. I’ve decided on another tour of the house. My fiancé has not seen over it yet.”

  “You wish to make the tour now, miss?”

  “Why not? It isn’t late. We’ll start with the basement.”

  Mrs. Falworth drew herself up. She came right to the edge of words and then checked herself. Instead she motioned towards the basement door in the side of the staircase.

  “I will procure a torch, miss,” she said, and stalked away toward her own quarters. Vera watched her go and then clutched Dick’s arm.

  “I’m going to make her open that mystery cellar,” Vera whispered. “That’s where you will come into the picture. Insist on seeing inside it. Say it might do for darkroom photography, or something. You know.”

  “All right; but watch your step. I think the dragon’s dangerous!”

  They waited a moment or two, then the housekeeper came back with the torch. It was spluttering. She unlocked the basement door and led the way down into the depths. In complete silence she held the torch over her head and Dick began to prowl round interestedly.

  “There’s a funny smell down here,” he said at length, sniffing. “Sort of stuffy—close, as though the place wants ventilating.”

  “But it seems warmer than yesterday evening when I came down,” Vera remarked. “Wonder why?”

  “I can only suggest, miss, that you were fatigued and chilled last night after your traveling,” the housekeeper said. “I assure you that the temperature is very little different.”

  “She’s lying,” Vera whispered, as she prowled with Dick.

  “Is this the same smell you noticed in the night?” he questioned.

  “No, it’s sweet violets by comparison.”

  Dick raised his voice again. “What is this queer, deadly odor, Mrs. Falworth? Any idea?”

  “Perhaps the fungoid growth in the corners,” the woman answered. “I have noticed it myself at times. Observe!”

  She went over to an angle in the wall and pointed to a greenish mass flourishing in the perpetual gloom.

  “Mmmm, maybe,” Dick agreed; then he did not speak again until he came to the shattered fireplace. He stood looking down at the miscellany of bricks with the brownish red ash amongst them. It seemed to Vera that there was more ash than on her previous visit, but perhaps it was only fancy. At any rate she made no comment.

  “Been burning something here, Mrs. Falworth?” Dick asked. “It looks like linoleum ash....”

  “Not as far as I know, sir,” she answered calmly. “Of course, I cannot answer for my husband. As the odd-job man he does quite a few things down here. He may have burned up some rubbish.”

  Dick looked again at the ash, frowning; then he peered at the shattered fireplace and the black hole of the flue at the back. Finally he turned to Vera.

  “Wants repairing,” he said.

  Moving aside, he looked at the locked door of the neighboring cellar.

  “Anything in here?” he questioned.

  “Only a lot of old stuff, sir.”

  “We can have that moved out. The place may be just what I want for my photographic work. Open it, please.”

  The housekeeper seemed to think quickly, then realizing that the order had to be obeyed—for Vera, as mistress of the house, was nodding—she singled out a key from the small ring of them she carried and thrust it in the lock. The door opened into a dark chamber.

  “If you don’t mind going first, Mrs. Falworth,” Dick invited. “You have the torch.”

  Holding it high above her head, she went in. Dick followed curiously, holding on to Vera’s arm. Inwardly she was tense with excitement as to what they might behold—then disappointment settled upon her instead.

  There was nothing much to be seen. Against the far wall stood a very tall old bookcase with a cracked glass front. There were rolls of old linoleum, ancient chairs from which the stuffing has burst, bits of matting, bottoms from fireplaces, a rusty old coke stove—in a word, junk.

  Dick raised an eyebrow at Vera and she shrugged helplessly. Where she had seen—or thought she had seen—machinery, the night before, there was now nothing but a plain flagged floor.

  “Do you think it would prove suitable for a darkroom, sir?” Mrs. Falworth asked Dick impassively.

  “Yes—I think so. Thanks for showing it to me.”

  The woman returned with them into the main cellar, locking the door behind her. Then, holding the smoky torch, she led the way up the stone steps.

  “You will wish to see the servants’ quarters and the other rooms, sir?”

  “I don’t think I’ll need to bother,” Dick answered. “I know what the bedrooms are like, and the servants’ quarters don’t interest me. I’ll be seeing the library anyway since I’m going in to choose a book.”

  “Very good, sir.” They had come to the head of the basement steps. Mrs. Falworth turned and locked the door leading below. Her expression clearly asked if she were still needed.

  Vera said, “Thank you, Mrs. Falworth.”

  The woman turned and went without a word. Dick gazed after her black-clad figure and then rubbed the back of his head.

  “Didn’t squeeze much juice out of that, did we?” he muttered.

  “I don’t understand it,” Vera declared, baffled. “I know I saw some kind of machinery and also heard a swishing noise like water being disturbed with a stick or something.”

  “Maybe you let your imagination run away with you last night. There’s nothing there now, anyway.”

  “But I tell you—”

  “No use, darling. Can’t deny the evidence of our own eyes. Let’s get along to the library.”

  Frowning worriedly, Vera walked with Dick to the library. He felt for his lighter.

  “This oil lamp bus
iness gets on your nerves! I keep groping round for switches.”

  With his lighter in flame he hunted for the lamp chandelier, found it and vaulted on to the big desk in the center of the room. In another moment a yellow glimmer was augmenting the dying daylight through the ivy-edged windows.

  “Hmmm,” he remarked. “A lot of books here.”

  “Plenty of insects, too,” Vera said, nodding to the eight specimen cases with glass tops standing on tables. “My uncle was an entomologist and botanist, you know. Pretty famous in his way, I believe.”

  Dick deserted the books to look at the specimens.

  “I’m not very much up on lepidoptera myself,” he confessed, “but there are some pretty valuable things here, obviously. The South American leaf insect, the African locust, the orthoptera of Central Asia, the South African glow-worm, the Ceylon scorpion, the South European gossamer-spider.... Say, the old boy got around a bit, didn’t he?”

  Vera nodded as she also studied the cards under the specimens; then she said dryly:

  “I think you’re wrong with your ‘lepidoptera.’ Unless my memory of natural history fails me, that refers to butterflies and moths.”

  “Well, never mind—insects anyway—and plants, too!” Dick added, moving to an adjoining set of showcases.

  “Uncle, as I told you, was a botanist of high repute. I believe he dabbled in all sorts of flora and fauna. I seem to remember that his treatise on the heads of the western Asiatic ibexes was enough to knock your eye out. Here we have the flora.”

  They studied the various odd-looking specimens. There were dried leaves, curiously shaped ferns, bits of bark, preserved brilliant-hued flowers, blades of grass that looked as though they needed a shave, and some big chunks of brownish stuff not unlike coltsfoot rock.

  “Brazilian hair-leaf fern,” Dick murmured, eyeing the cards. “Javanese oracle flower, Scandinavian xipod bark, West African pedis diaboli root.... Your uncle must have covered half the earth, Vera!”

  “He pretty nearly did,” she agreed. “He used to vanish for months at a time. He took his insect and leaf hunting as seriously as a big game hunter does his tigers or elephants. Anyway, he was always hopping about.”