The House on the Borderland (20 page)

From ten to about two-thirty, I watch; but nothing occurs; and,
finally, I stumble off to bed, where I am soon asleep.

I awake suddenly. It is still dark. I turn over, once or twice, in my
endeavors to sleep again; but I cannot sleep. My head is aching,
slightly; and, by turns I am hot and cold. In a little, I give up the
attempt, and stretch out my hand, for the matches. I will light my
candle, and read, awhile; perhaps, I shall be able to sleep, after a
time. For a few moments, I grope; then my hand touches the box; but, as
I open it, I am startled, to see a phosphorescent speck of fire, shining
amid the darkness. I put out my other hand, and touch it. It is on my
wrist. With a feeling of vague alarm, I strike a light, hurriedly, and
look; but can see nothing, save a tiny scratch.

'Fancy!' I mutter, with a half sigh of relief. Then the match burns my
finger, and I drop it, quickly. As I fumble for another, the thing
shines out again. I know, now, that it is no fancy. This time, I light
the candle, and examine the place, more closely. There is a slight,
greenish discoloration 'round the scratch. I am puzzled and worried.
Then a thought comes to me. I remember the morning after the Thing
appeared. I remember that the dog licked my hand. It was this one, with
the scratch on it; though I have not been even conscious of the
abasement, until now. A horrible fear has come to me. It creeps into my
brain—the dog's wound, shines at night. With a dazed feeling, I sit
down on the side of the bed, and try to think; but cannot. My brain
seems numbed with the sheer horror of this new fear.

Time moves on, unheeded. Once, I rouse up, and try to persuade myself
that I am mistaken; but it is no use. In my heart, I have no doubt.

Hour after hour, I sit in the darkness and silence, and shiver,
hopelessly....

The day has come and gone, and it is night again.

This morning, early, I shot the dog, and buried it, away among the
bushes. My sister is startled and frightened; but I am desperate.
Besides, it is better so. The foul growth had almost hidden its left
side. And I—the place on my wrist has enlarged, perceptibly. Several
times, I have caught myself muttering prayers—little things learnt as a
child. God, Almighty God, help me! I shall go mad.

Six days, and I have eaten nothing. It is night. I am sitting in my
chair. Ah, God! I wonder have any ever felt the horror of life that I
have come to know? I am swathed in terror. I feel ever the burning of
this dread growth. It has covered all my right arm and side, and is
beginning to creep up my neck. Tomorrow, it will eat into my face. I
shall become a terrible mass of living corruption. There is no escape.
Yet, a thought has come to me, born of a sight of the gun-rack, on the
other side of the room. I have looked again—with the strangest of
feelings. The thought grows upon me. God, Thou knowest, Thou must know,
that death is better, aye, better a thousand times than This. This!
Jesus, forgive me, but I cannot live, cannot, cannot! I dare not! I am
beyond all help—there is nothing else left. It will, at least, spare
me that final horror....

I think I must have been dozing. I am very weak, and oh! so miserable,
so miserable and tired—tired. The rustle of the paper, tries my brain.
My hearing seems preternaturally sharp. I will sit awhile and think....

"Hush! I hear something, down—down in the cellars. It is a creaking
sound. My God, it is the opening of the great, oak trap. What can be
doing that? The scratching of my pen deafens me ... I must listen....
There are steps on the stairs; strange padding steps, that come up and
nearer.... Jesus, be merciful to me, an old man. There is something
fumbling at the door-handle. O God, help me now! Jesus—The door is
opening—slowly. Somethi—"

That is all
^[16]

I put down the Manuscript, and glanced across at Tonnison: he was
sitting, staring out into the dark. I waited a minute; then I spoke.

"Well?" I said.

He turned, slowly, and looked at me. His thoughts seemed to have gone
out of him into a great distance.

"Was he mad?" I asked, and indicated the MS., with a half nod.

Tonnison stared at me, unseeingly, a moment; then, his wits came back to
him, and, suddenly, he comprehended my question.

"No!" he said.

I opened my lips, to offer a contradictory opinion; for my sense of the
saneness of things, would not allow me to take the story literally; then
I shut them again, without saying anything. Somehow, the certainty in
Tonnison's voice affected my doubts. I felt, all at once, less assured;
though I was by no means convinced as yet.

After a few moments' silence, Tonnison rose, stiffly, and began to
undress. He seemed disinclined to talk; so I said nothing; but followed
his example. I was weary; though still full of the story I had
just read.

Somehow, as I rolled into my blankets, there crept into my mind a memory
of the old gardens, as we had seen them. I remembered the odd fear that
the place had conjured up in our hearts; and it grew upon me, with
conviction, that Tonnison was right.

It was very late when we rose—nearly midday; for the greater part of
the night had been spent in reading the MS.

Tonnison was grumpy, and I felt out of sorts. It was a somewhat dismal
day, and there was a touch of chilliness in the air. There was no
mention of going out fishing on either of our parts. We got dinner, and,
after that, just sat and smoked in silence.

Presently, Tonnison asked for the Manuscript: I handed it to him, and he
spent most of the afternoon in reading it through by himself.

It was while he was thus employed, that a thought came to me:—

"What do you say to having another look at—?" I nodded my head down
stream.

Tonnison looked up. "Nothing!" he said, abruptly; and, somehow, I was
less annoyed, than relieved, at his answer.

After that, I left him alone.

A little before teatime, he looked up at me, curiously.

"Sorry, old chap, if I was a bit short with you just now;" (just now,
indeed! he had not spoken for the last three hours) "but I would not go
there again," and he indicated with his head, "for anything that you
could offer me. Ugh!" and he put down that history of a man's terror and
hope and despair.

The next morning, we rose early, and went for our accustomed swim: we
had partly shaken off the depression of the previous day; and so, took
our rods when we had finished breakfast, and spent the day at our
favorite sport.

After that day, we enjoyed our holiday to the utmost; though both of us
looked forward to the time when our driver should come; for we were
tremendously anxious to inquire of him, and through him among the people
of the tiny hamlet, whether any of them could give us information about
that strange garden, lying away by itself in the heart of an almost
unknown tract of country.

At last, the day came, on which we expected the driver to come across
for us. He arrived early, while we were still abed; and, the first thing
we knew, he was at the opening of the tent, inquiring whether we had had
good sport. We replied in the affirmative; and then, both together,
almost in the same breath, we asked the question that was uppermost in
our minds:—Did he know anything about an old garden, and a great pit,
and a lake, situated some miles away, down the river; also, had he ever
heard of a great house thereabouts?

No, he did not, and had not; yet, stay, he had heard a rumor, once upon
a time, of a great, old house standing alone out in the wilderness; but,
if he remembered rightly it was a place given over to the fairies; or,
if that had not been so, he was certain that there had been something
"quare" about it; and, anyway, he had heard nothing of it for a very
long while—not since he was quite a gossoon. No, he could not remember
anything particular about it; indeed, he did not know he remembered
anything "at all, at all" until we questioned him.

"Look here," said Tonnison, finding that this was about all that he
could tell us, "just take a walk 'round the village, while we dress, and
find out something, if you can."

With a nondescript salute, the man departed on his errand; while we made
haste to get into our clothes; after which, we began to prepare
breakfast.

We were just sitting down to it, when he returned.

"It's all in bed the lazy divvils is, sor," he said, with a repetition
of the salute, and an appreciative eye to the good things spread out on
our provision chest, which we utilized as a table.

"Oh, well, sit down," replied my friend, "and have something to eat with
us." Which the man did without delay.

After breakfast, Tonnison sent him off again on the same errand, while
we sat and smoked. He was away some three-quarters of an hour, and, when
he returned, it was evident that he had found out something. It appeared
that he had got into conversation with an ancient man of the village,
who, probably, knew more—though it was little enough—of the strange
house, than any other person living.

The substance of this knowledge was, that, in the "ancient man's"
youth—and goodness knows how long back that was—there had stood a
great house in the center of the gardens, where now was left only that
fragment of ruin. This house had been empty for a great while; years
before his—the ancient man's—birth. It was a place shunned by the
people of the village, as it had been shunned by their fathers before
them. There were many things said about it, and all were of evil. No one
ever went near it, either by day or night. In the village it was a
synonym of all that is unholy and dreadful.

And then, one day, a man, a stranger, had ridden through the village,
and turned off down the river, in the direction of the House, as it was
always termed by the villagers. Some hours afterward, he had ridden
back, taking the track by which he had come, toward Ardrahan. Then, for
three months or so, nothing was heard. At the end of that time, he
reappeared; but now, he was accompanied by an elderly woman, and a large
number of donkeys, laden with various articles. They had passed through
the village without stopping, and gone straight down the bank of the
river, in the direction of the House.

Since that time, no one, save the man whom they had chartered to bring
over monthly supplies of necessaries from Ardrahan, had ever seen either
of them: and him, none had ever induced to talk; evidently, he had been
well paid for his trouble.

The years had moved onward, uneventfully enough, in that little hamlet;
the man making his monthly journeys, regularly.

One day, he had appeared as usual on his customary errand. He had passed
through the village without exchanging more than a surly nod with the
inhabitants and gone on toward the House. Usually, it was evening before
he made the return journey. On this occasion, however, he had reappeared
in the village, a few hours later, in an extraordinary state of
excitement, and with the astounding information, that the House had
disappeared bodily, and that a stupendous pit now yawned in the place
where it had stood.

This news, it appears, so excited the curiosity of the villagers, that
they overcame their fears, and marched
en masse
to the place. There,
they found everything, just as described by the carrier.

This was all that we could learn. Of the author of the MS., who he was,
and whence he came, we shall never know.

His identity is, as he seems to have desired, buried forever.

That same day, we left the lonely village of Kraighten. We have never
been there since.

Sometimes, in my dreams, I see that enormous pit, surrounded, as it is,
on all sides by wild trees and bushes. And the noise of the water rises
upward, and blends—in my sleep—with other and lower noises; while,
over all, hangs the eternal shroud of spray.

Fierce hunger reigns within my breast,
I had not dreamt that this whole world,
Crushed in the hand of God, could yield
Such bitter essence of unrest,
Such pain as Sorrow now hath hurled
Out of its dreadful heart, unsealed!

Each sobbing breath is but a cry,
My heart-strokes knells of agony,
And my whole brain has but one thought
That nevermore through life shall I
(Save in the ache of memory)
Touch hands with thee, who now art naught!

Through the whole void of night I search,
So dumbly crying out to thee;
But thou are
not
; and night's vast throne
Becomes an all stupendous church
With star-bells knelling unto me
Who in all space am most alone!

An hungered, to the shore I creep,
Perchance some comfort waits on me
From the old Sea's eternal heart;
But lo! from all the solemn deep,
Far voices out of mystery
Seem questioning why we are apart!

"Where'er I go I am alone
Who once, through thee, had all the world.
My breast is one whole raging pain
For that which
was
, and now is flown
Into the Blank where life is hurled
Where all is not, nor is again!"