“Quite sure, only one thing—”

“What’s that?”

“You must never leave me alone for an instant.”

“As long as you understand that any sound or appearance must be

investigated at once, for to hesitate means to admit fear. That is

fatal.”

“Agreed,” she said, a little shakily, after a moment’s hesitation.

“I’ll try—”

Arm in arm, Shorthouse holding the dripping candle and the stick,

while his aunt carried the cloak over her shoulders, figures of utter

comedy to all but themselves, they began a systematic search.

Stealthily, walking on tip-toe and shading the candle lest it

should betray their presence.through the shutterless windows, they went

first into the big dining-room. There was not a stick of furniture to

be seen. Bare walls, ugly mantel-pieces and empty grates stared at

them.

Everything, they felt, resented their intrusion, watching them, as

it were, with veiled eyes; whispers followed them; shadows flitted

noiselessly to right and left; something seemed ever at their back,

watching, waiting an opportunity to do them injury. There was the

inevitable sense that operations which went on when the room was empty

had been temporarily suspended till they were well out of the way

again. The whole dark interior of the old building seemed to become a

malignant Presence that rose up, warning them to desist and mind their

own business; every moment the strain on the nerves increased.

Out of the gloomy dining-room they passed through large folding

doors into a sort of library or smoking-room, wrapt equally in

silence, darkness, and dust; and from this they regained the hall near

the top of the back stairs.

Here a pitch black tunnel opened before them into the lower

regions, and—it must be confessed—they hesitated. But only for a

minute. With the worst of the night still to come it was essential to

turn from nothing. Aunt Julia stumbled at the top step of the dark

descent, ill lit by the flickering candle, and even Shorthouse felt at

least half the decision go out of his legs.

“Come on!” he said peremptorily, and his voice ran on and lost

itself in the dark, empty spaces below.

“I’m coming,” she faltered, catching his arm with unnecessary

violence.

They went a little unsteadily down the stone steps, a cold, damp

air meeting them in the face, close and malodorous. The kitchen, into

which the stairs led along a narrow passage, was large, with a lofty

ceiling. Several doors opened out of it—some into cupboards with empty

jars still standing on the shelves, and others into horrible little

ghostly back offices, each colder and less inviting than the last.

Black beetles scurried over the floor, and once, when they knocked

against a deal table standing in a corner, something about the size of

a cat jumped down with a rush and fled, scampering across the stone

floor into the darkness. Everywhere there was a sense of recent

occupation, an impression of sadness and gloom.

Leaving the main kitchen, they next went towards the scullery. The

door was standing ajar, and as they pushed it open to its full extent

Aunt Julia uttered a piercing scream, which she instantly tried to

stifle by placing her hand over her mouth. For a second Shorthouse

stood stock-still, catching his breath. He felt as if his spine had

suddenly become hollow and someone had filled it with particles of

ice.

Facing them, directly in their way between the doorposts, stood the

figure of a woman. She had dishevelled hair and wildly staring eyes,

and her face was terrified and white as death.

She stood there motionless for the space of a single second. Then

the candle flickered and she was gone—gone utterly— and the door

framed nothing but empty darkness.

“Only the beastly jumping candle-light,” he said quickly, in a

voice that sounded like someone else’s and was only half under

control.