It was the floor which held Carson’s gaze. The dull gray of the circular wall gave place here to a mosaic of varicolored stone, in which blues and greens and purples predominated — indeed, there were none of the warmer colors. There must have been thousands of bits of colored stone making up that pattern, for none was larger than a walnut. And the mosaic seemed to follow some definite pattern, unfamiliar to Carson; there were curves of purple and violet mingled with angled lines of green and blue, intertwining in fantastic arabesques. There were circles, triangles, a pentagram, and other, less familiar, figures. Most of the lines and figures radiated from a definite point: the center of the chamber, where there was a circular disk of dead black stone perhaps two feet in diameter.
It was very silent. The sounds of the cars that occasionally went past overhead in Derby Street could not be heard. In a shallow alcove in the wall Carson caught a glimpse of markings on the walls, and he moved slowly in that direction, the beam of his light traveling up and down the walls of the niche.
The marks, whatever they were, had been daubed upon the stone long ago, for what was left of the cryptic symbols was indecipherable. Carson saw several partly effaced hieroglyphics which reminded him of Arabic, but he could not be sure. On the floor of the alcove was a corroded metal disk about eight feet in diameter, and Carson received the distinct impression that it was movable. But there seemed no way to lift it.
He became conscious that he was standing in the exact center of the chamber, in the circle of black stone where the odd design centered. Again he noticed the utter silence. On an impulse he clicked off the ray of his flashlight. Instantly he was in dead blackness.
At that moment a curious idea entered his mind. He pictured himself at the bottom of a pit, and from above a flood was descending, pouring down the shaft to engulf him. So strong was this impression that he actually fancied he could hear a muffled thundering, the roar of the cataract. Then, oddly shaken, he clicked on the light, glanced around swiftly. The drumming, of course, was the pounding of his blood, made audible in the complete silence — a familiar phenomenon. But, if the place was so still—
The thought leaped into his mind, as though suddenly thrust into his consciousness. This would be an ideal place to work. He could have the place wired for electricity, have a table and chair brought down, use an electric fan if necessary — although the musty odor he had first noticed seemed to have disappeared completely. He moved to the tunnel mouth, and as he stepped from the room he felt an inexplicable relaxation of his muscles, although he had not realized that they had been contracted. He ascribed it to nervousness, and went upstairs to brew black coffee and write to his landlord in Boston about his discovery.
The visitor stared curiously about the hallway after Carson had opened the door, nodding to himself as though with satisfaction. He was a lean, tall figure of a man, with thick steel-gray eyebrows overhanging keen gray eyes. His face, although strongly marked and gaunt, was unwrinkled.
“About the Witch Room, I suppose?” Carson said ungraciously. His landlord had talked, and for the last week he had been unwillingly entertaining antiquaries and occultists anxious to glimpse the secret chamber in which Abbie Prinn had mumbled her spells. Carson’s annoyance had grown, and he had considered moving to a quieter place; but his inherent stubbornness had made him stay on, determined to finish his novel in spite of interruptions. Now, eyeing his guest coldly, he said, “I’m sorry, but it’s not on exhibition anymore.”
The other looked startled, but almost immediately a gleam of comprehension came into his eyes. He extracted a card and offered it to Carson.
“Michael Leigh… occultist, eh?” Carson repeated. He drew a deep breath. The occultists, he had found, were the worst, with their dark hints of nameless things and their profound interest in the mosaic pattern on the floor of the Witch Room. “I’m sorry, Mr. Leigh, but — I’m really quite busy. You’ll excuse me.”
Ungraciously he turned back to the door.
“Just a moment,” Leigh said swiftly.
Before Carson could protest he had caught the writer by the shoulders and was peering closely into his eyes. Startled, Carson drew back, but not before he had seen an extraordinary expression of mingled apprehension and satisfaction appear on Leigh’s gaunt face. It was as though the occultist had seen something unpleasant — but not unexpected.
“What’s the idea?” Carson asked harshly. “I’m not accustomed—”
“I’m very sorry,” Leigh said. His voice was deep, pleasant. “I must apologize. I thought — well, again I apologize. I’m rather excited, I’m afraid. You see, I’ve come from San Francisco to see this Witch Room of yours. Would you really mind letting me see it? I should be glad to pay any sum—”
Carson made a deprecatory gesture.
“No,” he said, feeling a perverse liking for this man growing within him — his well-modulated, pleasant voice, his powerful face, his magnetic personality. “No, I merely want a little peace — you have no idea how I’ve been bothered,” he went on, vaguely surprised to find himself speaking apologetically. “It’s a frightful nuisance. I almost wish I’d never found the room.”
Leigh leaned forward anxiously. “May I see it? It means a great deal to me — I’m vitally interested in these things. I promise not to take up more than ten minutes of your time.”
Carson hesitated, then assented. As he led his guest into the cellar he found himself telling the circumstances of his discovery of the Witch Room. Leigh listened intently, occasionally interrupting with questions.
“The rat — did you see what became of it?” he asked.
Carson looked bemused. “Why, no. I suppose it hid in its burrow. Why?”
“One never knows,” Leigh said cryptically as they came into the Witch Room.
Carson switched on the light. He had had an electrical extension installed, and there were a few chairs and a table, but otherwise, the chamber was unchanged. Carson watched the occultist’s face, and with surprise saw it become grim, almost angry.
Leigh strode to the center of the room, staring at the chair that stood on the black circle of stone.
“You work here?” he asked slowly.
“Yes. It’s quiet — I found I couldn’t work upstairs. Too noisy. But this is ideal — somehow I find it very easy to write here. My mind feels” — he hesitated — “free; that is, disassociated with other things. It’s quite an unusual feeling.”
Leigh nodded as though Carson’s words had confirmed some idea in his own mind. He turned toward the alcove and the metal disk in the floor. Carson followed him. The occultist moved close to the wall, tracing out the faded symbols with a long forefinger. He muttered something under his breath — words that sounded like gibberish to Carson.
“Nyogtha… k’yarnak…”
He swung about, his face grim and pale. “I’ve seen enough,” he said softly. “Shall we go?” Surprised, Carson nodded and led the way back into the cellar.
Upstairs Leigh hesitated, as though finding it difficult to broach his subject. At length he asked, “Mr. Carson — would you mind telling me if you have had any peculiar dreams lately.”
Carson stared at him, mirth dancing in his eyes. “Dreams?” he repeated. “Oh — I see. Well, Mr. Leigh, I may as well tell you that you can’t frighten me. Your compatriots — the other occultists I’ve entertained — have already tried it.”