Philip Van Doren Stern (ed) (66 page)

His
voice
died
away
into
undistinguishable
phrases
mumbled
below his
breath.
We
hurried
on.
I
grunted,
stared,
and
mopped
my
face. There
was
only
one
horror
in
me—that
he
would
explain
more
clearly what
was
in
him.
I
went
ahead
of
him,
going
faster
and
faster.

We
reached
the
street,
he
found
the
number,
we
stopped
outside an
empty
house
that
showed
distinct
evidence
of
long
neglect, smothered
in
boards
and
signs
of
house-agents.
Mantravers
went
up the
eight
steps,
I
following
him.
He
put
the
key
in
the
door,
opened it,
then
handed
me
the
key.

He
gave
me
a
searching
look,
a
sort
of
frozen
smile
on
his
lips,
his pallor
very
marked.
"You
needn't
come
in
with
me,"
he
whispered, "and
you
needn't
lock
the
door.
Keep
the
key.
I'm
going
in
alone.
I
think
I
know
what
I'm
in
for,"
he
added,
"but
remember,
if
I'm
right in
my
conjecture,
no
one
need
look
for
me.
I
shall,
at
any
rate,
be here."

He
looked
me
straight
in
the
eyes,
and
his
skin
was
white
as
linen. He
was
not
frightened.
He
struck
me
as
a
man
in
a
dream,
but
an awful,
icy
dream
that
shattered
ordinary
experience.
The
door
banged behind
him.
I
stuck
my
ear
close
and
listened
intently.
I
heard
his footsteps
clearly
as
they
went
across
the
carpetless
hall,
then
up
the wooden
stairs,
then
along
a
landing,
fainter
and
fainter,
after
which came
silence.
I
found
myself
in
a
shudder,
standing
on
the
outer
steps, trembling
all
over,
excited
beyond
words,
my
heart
positively
thumping,
my
forehead
wet
with
perspiration.
I
waited
some
fifteen
minutes. There
was
not
a
sound
from
inside
the
house.
The
traffic
went
past noisily.
It
was
already
after
sunset,
the
dusk
falling.
I
decided
to
go in.
I
put
in
the
key,
pushed
the
door
open
and
walked
cautiously inside.
I
closed
the
door
behind
me.

Daylight
still
hung
about
in
palish
patches,
but
there
were
shadows too.
The
hall
gaped
as
though
about
to
utter,
but
no
sound
came. Peering
into
two
large
empty
unfurnished
rooms,
I
went
slowly
upstairs,
the
stairs
he
had
trodden
just
before
me,
along
the
deserted landing,
passing
from
failing
light
across
little
gulfs
of
shadow.
Everything
gaped,
gaped
with
emptiness,
dust
lay
all
over,
decay,
neglect, cobwebs,
silence,
vacancy,
motionless
air
and
musty
odours—otherwise nothing.
All
windows
everywhere
were
closed
and
fastened.
I
felt
my skin
crawl
with
goose-flesh,
and
the
hair
moved
on
my
scalp.
I
persisted.
I
searched
every
single
room,
even
the
attics
and
the
kitchen and
scullery
below.
I
called
aloud.
I
waited,
listening.
I
stared
and watched.
Taking
quick
steps,
I
then
paused,
every
sense
alert,
intent. I
called
again,
but
no
answer
came.
No
hint
of
a
human
presence
was discoverable.
I
searched,
as
the
saying
is,
from
roof
to
cellar.
That
I found
the
courage
to
do
so
seems
to
me
now
the
proof
of
my
intensely alive
curiosity,
even
of
something
in
me
that
believed,
and
hoped,
and perhaps
expected—to
find
a
clue.
.
.
.