The Thinking Machine Collected Stories Part 183

"All at once I was overcome by a guilty sense of intrusion. What right had I to enter a strange house at this time of night in this manner, even to get out of a storm? My personal safety seemed at stake, somehow. I turned and started back for the door by which I had entered, with the intention of remaining there till in someway I could attract the attention of the occupants of the house.

"But I didn't reach the door; for directly in front of me stood a man. He was tall, angular, aged, and a little bent. A straggling gray beard almost covered his face, and thick gray hair hung down limply from beneath the brim of an old slouch hat. He was beside me, almost within reach of my hand, almost treading upon my toes with his great boots, and yet I had not heard one sound, except when the door clicked as I entered. It all came to me at once, and I shivered involuntarily.

" 'I must apologize--' I began; but I got no further. He had not heard me, had not even seen me, if I might judge by the manner in which he walked slowly past me with his chin upon his breast, and his hands clasped behind his back. I stepped back to avoid a collision.

" 'I beg your pardon--' I began again; but he had disappeared into the sitting room, stalked away noiselessly without even a glance in my direction, leaving me dripping, chilly, and overcome by the indefinable sense of impending danger.

"I paused there in the hall and pondered the situation. Surely the old man had seen me. But I had spoken! Of course, it was possible that he had neither seen nor heard me; yet-yet--

" 'I'm going in there, and I am going to stay until the storm moderates!' I told myself. 'Perhaps it is just a peculiar old man's way.'

"I removed my automobile coat, hung it upon a peg, walked along the hallway with a firm tread, and stepped into the sitting room. It was deserted!

"There are moments in every man's life when the weight of a revolver in his hand is tremendously rea.s.suring. This was mine. I drew the weapon from my hip pocket, examined it, and thrust it into my coat within easy reach of my right hand. Then I stood by the table, drumming my fingers upon it idly, and debating with myself as to what I should do. I was looking toward the door by which I had entered. No one came in, and yet-- Suddenly the gray bearded old man was throwing a log on the fire. The flames shot up and the sparks flew; but there was not the crackle of fresh burning wood as there should have been-just this silent old man. My heart was in my throat, and I laughed sheepishly.

" 'You startled me,' I explained foolishly in apology.

"He did not look at me; but busied himself about the room for a moment, and laid his hat upon a couch. Then he went out by the door into the hallway.

" 'Well, upon my soul!' I e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed.

"I sat down and deliberately waited for the old man to return. The uncanniness of it all was growing upon me, the silence of his great boots as he walked, the fire which didn't crackle as it burned, the lack of any sign or movement to indicate that he had recognized my presence. Was the old man real? I came to my feet with an exclamation. Or was it-was it some weird continuation of that horrible thing in the forest?

"I put out a cold, clammy hand to the fire. That seemed real-at least a warmth came to me, and gradually my fingers lost their numbness, and looking upon my own hand I fell to remembering the hands of my strange host. They were knotted, toil worn, and the left forefinger was missing. That fact struck sharply upon my memory, and I remembered too a scar over one eye when he removed his hat. That all seemed real too, as did these things upon the mantel here in front of me: an empty spool, an alabaster cat, glaring red and white, a piece of crystal of peculiar shape upon the farthermost corner. And near it, so close that at first it seemed a part of it, was a queer little ivory G.o.d sitting upon his haunches, grinning hideously.

"I lifted the ivory image and examined it curiously. It was real enough. I had stepped back from the mantel a pace to let the firelight fall upon it, when suddenly I knew that the old man had returned. I didn't hear him, I hadn't seen him,-I merely knew he was there. I felt it. I slipped the little image into my pocket involuntarily as I turned; for all my interest was instantly transferred to a tray of food which the old man carried. I remembered I was hungry.

"He placed the things upon the table in the same ghostly silence. There was a jug of milk, some jelly, a little pat of b.u.t.ter, and several biscuits. I went forward and thanked him. He was absolutely impa.s.sive, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, and seeming to have no connection with the things around him. He didn't invite me to eat,-I a.s.sumed that privilege and gingerly poked a finger into a biscuit. It felt like a biscuit. I bit it; it tasted like a biscuit. In fact, I am convinced to this day that it was a biscuit. And against the reality of that biscuit was the silent old man and his ghostly tread.

"Real, or unreal, the food was refreshing and good, and I fell to with a will. The old man sat down in a rocker by the fire and folded his hands in his lap. I ventured a remark about the storm. He didn't answer. I really had not expected that he would. The modest supper brought a tingle to my blood again. My rioting nerves were calmed, the room cozy, the fire comfortable. I was beginning to enjoy this singular experience; but an occasional glance at the swaying rocker where the old man sat by the fire kept expectation on the qui vive. The rocker swayed dismally, but without the slightest sound.

"The warmth, the food, and my utter exhaustion conspired to make me a little drowsy, and I think once I must have closed my eyes. I opened them with a start. From somewhere above me, below me, or outside where the storm still growled, came that awful, heart tearing scream again, ending in a wail that brought me to my feet. The old man did not heed the quick movement by the slightest sign,-he was still comfortably rocking.

" 'What is it?' I demanded. 'What is it?'

"Revolver in hand, I rushed toward the door leading into the hallway. The old man was there ahead of me. He didn't touch me, and yet imperceptibly I was forced aside. He crossed the hall and went up the stairs. After a moment I heard a door open and shut.

"Except for the noise of the storm, the scream, and my own voice, it was the only sound I had heard since I entered the house.

"I went up those stairs; why I cannot say, except that something, a vague, undefined curiosity, seemed to impel me. And with this impulse came again, stronger than ever, that sense of personal danger to myself-the feeling that had possessed me ever since I entered the house.

"I groped my way through the darkness to the top of the stairs; then my hand ran along a wall till I came to an open door. I stood there a moment undecided whether to investigate further or to retrace my steps. I was on the point of going back down the stairs; but the flare of a candle almost in my face stopped me. The old man held the candle, shading it with his left hand, from which the forefinger was missing. The wavering light gave the withered old face a strangely drawn expression.

"He was within three feet of me, gazing straight into my face, and yet I felt, I knew, he didn't see me. It occurred to me even then that it was the first time I had seen his eyes. They were white and gla.s.sy. Blind? I do not know. For one moment he stood there staring, then pa.s.sing me entered the room beyond, where he put down the candle. I followed him into the room as a moth follows a flame. It was the light, I think, that lured me in. Here once for all I would make an end of the thing. The old man, still noiselessly, went out the door by which he had entered, off through the darkness-somewhere. The door swung to. Like a madman I sprang forward and shot the bolt. I don't know why.

"I felt caged. Whatever was to come, was to come here! It was an intuition more strongly upon me than the sense of danger. I sat down on a clean little bed and stared thoughtfully at the single door,-that only way out save one of two small windows which I imagined overlooked the yard. I examined my revolver carefully. Every chamber was loaded, and the cylinder whirled easily. Well and good. I waited. What for? I don't know.

"The candle burned with a straight, unwavering flame, while I crouched there on the bed for a long time. The grumble of thunder was growing faint and far away; but the rain swished against the windows in sheets. Here was a vigil, it seemed, and a long one; for sleep seemed hopelessly out of the question despite the insistent drowsiness of exhaustion. I wondered if the candle would last throughout the night. It was not yet half burned. I gazed at it with a certain returning sense of a.s.surance; and as I gazed it flickered, flared up suddenly, and went out.

"I don't know what happened then. It might have been ten minutes later, or it might have been half a dozen hours, when strangling, choking fumes of smoke aroused me. My lungs were bursting for air. I struggled up on the bed, and was instantly conscious of the crackling sound of burning wood-of fire. The house was on fire! I rushed toward the bolted door, to find the flames already eating through the thin panels, and little red tongues shot out at me. I was cut off from the stairs.

"From there to one of the little windows! The glow far out through the rain told me instantly that the structure was aflame. I glanced downward. Sinuous forks were below me, on each side of me, above me. There was nothing to do but jump. I had only a moment to decide. I drew in my breath and pulled myself upon the ledge.

"And then again I heard that scream. Far across the open field where the glow from the blaze dimmed off into the shadows, I saw faintly a misty white figure with outstretched arms fleeing toward the forest. A little behind the floating white figure, and nearer to me, well within the range of the firelight, the old man was following. Even at the distance I could see that his chin drooped upon his chest and his hands clasped behind his back. That was all I saw.

"The next instant I had jumped.

"I found myself in my automobile skimming along a smooth, hard road that led through a forest. It was not familiar, and I don't know in what direction I was headed, nor did it matter then so long as I got away from those things behind. My ankle was broken, my clothing torn and burned in spots, and my head was throbbing with pain.

"Then I found myself in what seemed to be a street in a small city. A faint, rosy line was just tinging the eastern sky. Houses to right and left of me were closed forbiddingly; but just ahead was the solitary figure of a man, walking slowly along, swinging a stick. I ran the automobile alongside him, shouting some senseless question, then fell forward fainting. My last recollection was of shutting off power.

"When I recovered consciousness it was to find myself upon a cot in a strange room, perhaps a hospital. A physician was bandaging my ankle. A thousand questions leaped to my lips; and some of them burst forth in a torrent.

" 'Don't talk!' commanded the physician brusquely.

" 'But where am I?' I insisted.

" 'Millen,' he responded tersely. 'Don't talk!'

"It struck me curiously that I should be here,-that I should have reached the point for which I was bound even after all that had happened to me. It seemed centuries since I had left Pelham somewhere behind. Perhaps it was all a dream. But those screams! That silent old man! This broken ankle! I dropped into agonizing slumber after awhile,-the sleep of sheer exhaustion,-but asleep I lived again those awful moments which had almost driven me mad.

"On the following day I was calmer. The physician asked me some questions, and I answered them to the best of my ability. He did not smile at my fright; only shook his head and gave me something which made me sleep again. And so for a week I lay there, helpless, half asleep, and half awake. But one day I awoke to clear consciousness, comparatively free of the torture of the broken ankle, and myself again. Then the physician and I discussed the matter at length.

"He listened respectfully as I repeated it all, and at the end shook his head.

" 'There is no intersecting road between the small store of which you speak and the outskirts of Millen,' he said positively.

" 'But, man, I was there!' I protested. 'I turned into the other road, and ran along till I saw the house in the open field. I tell you--'

"But he let me go no further. I knew why. He thought it was some mental vagary; for after awhile he gave me a pill and went away. So I resolved to solve the matter for myself. I would go back along that road by day, and find that silent old man, and, if not the house itself, the charred spot where it had stood. I would know that intersection; I would know even the path which led from the mysterious road off into the wood. When I found these I knew the maze would fade into some simple, plain explanation-perhaps even an absurd one.

"So I bided my time. In the course of another week I was able to leave my cot and hobble about with the aid of crutches. It was then that I took the physician in my car, and we went back along the highway toward Pelham. It was all unfamiliar ground to me; there was no road, and suddenly there ahead of me was the little store where I had bought the gasolene that night. I would question the old man I had seen there; but there was no old man. The little store was unoccupied; it seemed to have been unoccupied for weeks.

"I turned back and traversed the road toward Millen again. I recognized nothing; I couldn't find a trace of a bypath from the highway in any direction. And once more I went over the ground at night. Nothing! After that the physician, a singularly patient man, accompanied me as I hobbled through the forest on each side of the road seeking that house, or its ashes. I never saw anything to lead me, to even suggest, a single incident of that awful night.

" 'I know the country, every inch of it,' the physician told me. 'There isn't any such place as you mention.'

"And-well, that's all. I know his opinion was that my story was some sort of delusion-a dream. But how he accounts for the broken ankle I don't know. Then the condition of my clothing! I had been compelled to discard everything I wore for garments sent down from the city. And so in time I came to believe the experience a dream. I was growing content with this story, even knowing it to be wrong, because it brought mental rest, and was beginning to be myself again.

"Then one day I had occasion to search the coat I had worn that night for some papers which had been misplaced. In the course of the search I thrust my hand into an outside pocket, and drew out-a little ivory G.o.d, sitting on his haunches, grinning hideously!

"Now I am like this-and the little G.o.d sits up laughing at me. He knows!"

When he had finished reading, The Thinking Machine dropped back into the chair, with squint eyes turned steadily upward, and long slender fingers pressed tip to tip. Hutchinson Hatch, reporter, sat staring in silence at the drawn, inscrutable face of the scientist.

"And the writer of this?" demanded The Thinking Machine at last.