“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. “Come on, aunt. There’s nothing there.”

He dragged her forward. With a clattering of feet and a great

appearance of boldness they went on, but over his body the skin moved

as if crawling ants covered it, and he knew by the weight on his arm

that he was supplying the force of locomotion for two. The scullery was

cold, bare, and empty; more like a large prison cell than anything

else. They went round it, tried the door into the yard, and the

windows, but found them all fastened securely. His aunt moved beside

him like a person in a dream. Her eyes were tightly shut, and she

seemed merely to follow the pressure of his arm. Her courage filled

him with amazement. At the same time he noticed that a certain odd

change had come over her face, which somehow evaded his power of

analysis.

“There’s nothing here, aunty,” he repeated aloud quickly. “Let’s go

upstairs and see the rest of the house. Then we’ll choose a room to

wait up in.”

She followed him obediently, keeping close to his side, and they

locked the kitchen door behind them. It was a relief to get tip again.

In the hall there was more light than before, for the moon had

travelled a little further down the stairs. Cautiously they began to go

up into the dark vault of the upper house, the boards creaking under

their weight.

On the first floor they found the large double drawing-rooms, a

search of which revealed nothing.