So acute was this impression that he strode across the room and threw open the door of the dressing-room, peering curiously within. It contained an old-fashioned tin bathtub, the paint from which was chipped off here and there, giving it a dismal look of dilapidation. On a rusty metal towel-rack hung a rotting bath towel, and front a hook in the wall was suspended a mildewed dressing-gown that had once been lavender-colored.
With a look of infinite pity, Grim-stead closed the door softly behind him, his vivid imagination conjuring up the picture of a lovely woman with golden hair cascading to her waist, humming a gay little tune as she prepared for her bath.
He now set the stage for his lonely vigil.
Lighting one of his fat candles, he placed it upon the dusty dresser in such a position that its name illumined the bed.
Then he stuck another above the fireplace on the while marble mantelpiece.
Drawing up a small dressing-table, he placed his third candle upon that and then he dusted off a comfortable Morris chair with wide arms and placed it where he could command a view of the entire room. The dressing-table was at his left, within easy reaching distance, and on this he placed his sandwiches, his automatic and his volumes of Poe
Satisfied with these strategic arrangements, he lit his pipe, sank into the big chair and was soon immersed in "The Fall of the House of Usher," which he had decided was the proper yarn for the time, the place and the man.
It was so silent in the house that the scampering of mice in the wainscoting sounded as loud as the romping of Newfoundland dogs. Every now and then one of them would squeal as if it were being murdered, and whenever this happened Grimstead would pause in his reading and look up with a startled tenseness, expecting to see — he knew not what. The wind was "rising and it howled and moaned like a tortured spirit striving with futile hands to force an entrance through the rotting eaves of the ancient house. It was an eerie sound and Grimstead found himself forced to exert all his will-power in order to concentrate upon the harrowing tale that he was reading. He felt like a spectator awaiting the climax to a particularly dramatic scene in a melodrama.
There came a lull in the wind and the mice suddenly ceased to scamper as if at a signal from a master mouse. The old house appeared to be waiting in suspense — holding its breath. Grimstead had reached the point in his story where the sound of muffled blows from the vault was reverberating through the ill-fated house of Usher.
"Madman," he read, "I tell you—"
He looked up quickly. The dying down of the wind and the cessation of the scamperings in the wainscoting made the room feel as dead as stagnant water looks. But it was not the nerve-racking stillness that had galvanized Grimstead into alert attention. It was the unalterable conviction that someone or something was lurking near him. Reaching stealthily for the automatic, he glanced keenly around the room. Certainly he was the only living soul there! But—
The door of the dressing-room was slowly opening!
II
Grimstead stared incredulously at the widening aperture. He had thoroughly inspected the room less than half an hour before and no living creature could have been concealed there. Nor was there any other door to the room. The thing was impossible — yet it was happening before his eyes!
Wider, wider the door opened, and then, as Grimstead held his breath in suspense, something stepped into the room. He could not see it but he felt it, and an icy wind suddenly stirred the roots of his hair at the realization that he was no longer alone. He heard the ghostly sound of footsteps crossing the room and then the candle on the dresser suddenly wavered as if a passing breeze had slightly stirred it. As the paralyzed newspaperman gazed wide-eyed from his chair, there came from the dresser the unmistakable sound of hairpins tinkling down into a celluloid tray.
Thinking that an over-vivid imagination was playing him tricks, Grimstead, by a tremendous effort of will, sat erect in his chair and was about to spring to his feet, when an amazing thing stupefied him once more into inaction.
The ghostly footsteps crossed the carpet once more, like the soft brushing of unseen wings, and Grimstead saw the bed suddenly sag — as if a body were lying there — and then one of the pillows became indented — as if a head were resting there.
Something invisible was reclining upon the bed!
As this incredible fact percolated through Grimstead's understanding, blind panic assailed him. Only one thing, he confessed afterward, prevented him from becoming a gibbering idiot. That was his discovery that the door leading into the dressing-room, which was wide open after his visitant had entered, was now tightly closed. This tended to convince him that the entire episode was an hallucination due to overwrought nerves.
At any rate, he sprang to his feet, determined to probe the mystery to its depths, when a sound smote upon his ears that stiffened him in his tracks and made him snatch the automatic hurriedly from the table.
Someone was coming up the stairs!
He heard the sound of shuffling, reluctant footsteps, as if the person, thing or whatever it was, were disinclined to make the ascent. Slower and more hesitant became these ominous footsteps, and Grimstead, now utterly unnerved, gripped the automatic frantically and turned a white face in the direction of the bedroom door, not knowing what to expect. But he felt convinced that if this door opened as the other had done and no tangible thing entered he should scream like an hysterical woman.
The unwilling footsteps had now reached the landing outside the door and came to a halt there, as if the intruder were listening. This wait seemed interminable to the crouching newspaperman who stood immovably by the table, his automatic aimed straight at the door. Finally there was a shuffle of feet and then a hand turned the knob. Slowly the door opened.
"Hands up," cried Grimstead hoarsely, "or I'll shoot."
"What the devil?" growled a surprised voice, and Grimstead emitted a great sigh of relief. At least it was a human being!
A heavily built, bearded man about fifty years old, a stranger to Grimstead, walked slowly into the room, first glancing around fearfully before allowing his gaze to rest upon Grimstead.
"Now then," he said coldly, "who are you and what are you doing in this house?"
"Just what I was going to ask you," grinned Grimstead, his self-possession now fully restored.
"I am—" began the stranger — and then came the crowning horror of that memorable evening. The man's voice suddenly broke and his tanned face turned livid with fear. He was staring with a look of indescribable terror at the bed.
"What's that? Who's there?" he whispered in high-pitched, terror-laden accents.
"Why — what—" stammered Grimstead and then froze into the gaping figure of a man.
The indentations in the bed and pillow slowly straightened out like a flat automobile tire when the air rushes in.
Once more Grimstead heard those ghostly footsteps and then the bearded man shrieked like a demon in hell.
"Selma, for God's sake, don't!" he ' gasped. "I didn't mean to do it! I swear I didn't mean to do it!"
He staggered back, fumbling at his throat and gasping for breath.
"Take your hands away!" he panted. "My God, you are throttling me!"