Tranter Attacks the Crooked House

In the evening, Tranter set off to the Crooked House.

It was dark when he reached it, and the roads were empty. Through the open lodge gates he slipped into the garden unseen. The place seemed deserted. The front of the house showed not a glimmer of light. The whole ugly shape of it stood out gauntly against the sky of the summer night. In the shadow of the trees, he stood watching it, alert to detect a sign of life. But no such sign appeared. The Crooked House was as dark and silent as a tomb.

He crept nearer, keeping under cover of the trees, and skirted the lawns to the back of the house. There, also, darkness reigned. No sound disturbed the stillness. Facing him were the dark shapes of the trees surrounding the wing of the house which extended from the opposite corner. The foliage was so dense that no part of the wing itself was visible. He moved quickly across the back of the house, and reached the trees. As he passed under them, it seemed that he was feeling his way among monstrous sentinels of a dark mystery.

A thick hedge loomed up in front of him. It appeared to surround the entire wing. He walked round, trying to find a place thin enough to allow him to push his way through—but the hedge was evidently there for the express purpose of defeating such an intention. It was impossible to penetrate it, to creep under it, or to climb over it. At the extremity of the wing, about which the trees were thickest, he saw a faint light, escaping round the edge of a blind.

He stopped beneath it. It was a meager, unpleasant light, too dim to be of any greater use in the room than to afford the barest relief from complete darkness. The window was half overgrown with ivy, and he could see that it was filthily dirty. The light continually flickered, and once or twice it seemed to have died out altogether. An eerie sensation began to possess him. He felt very strongly the evil influence of the house. Curiosity to discover what sinister secret it really harbored increased and nerved him.

Again he tried to force a way through the hedge, but everywhere it was an impassable barrier. Slowly and noiselessly he worked his way round the wing, only to find it completely enclosed on all sides. He returned, and stood looking up at the window. Either the light was brighter, or the gap at the edge of the blind had widened. He thought he saw a faint shadow pass and re-pass.

It was not until, in moving to one side, he struck his head against a massive bough of one of the great trees that the possibility of utilizing them as a means of access to the forbidden enclosure occurred to him. He examined the bough. It extended well over the hedge, and would form a perfectly secure bridge. By creeping a few feet along it, he would be able to drop down on the other side of the hedge. Finding the main trunk, he tested his weight on a smaller bough, and swung himself up into the tree. A few minutes later he stood within the barrier. The window was some twelve or fifteen feet above him. But the walls were thickly clad with ivy, and ivy is an excellent ladder. Carefully he began to climb.

He reached the window, found himself a secure footing, and peered round the edge of the blind. But the light was so poor, and the panes were so dirty, on both sides, that had there been anything to see he could have been very little the wiser. As it was, the small area of the room into which he could dimly peer seemed to be carpetless and unfurnished. There was no movement, no sound. The light itself apparently came from the further end of the room, from the level of a table. He clung on, undecided how to proceed. It appeared that the only thing to do was to wait and listen for some indication of the purpose of the dismal illumination.

He looked at his watch. It was ten-thirty. After a wait of what seemed at least half an hour, he looked again. Ten minutes only had passed. No discernible movement had taken place in the room. Yet he felt perfectly, and very unpleasantly, certain that it was occupied—that something was proceeding within it which, had the blind not intervened, would have revealed the secret of the house. Of what it might be he could form no idea—but, for the first time in his life, he was experiencing, in his mental tenseness and the sinister silence of the surroundings, that sensation which attests a proximity to evil. He was daunted. Fear was a condition to which he was a stranger, but a vivid nervousness was beginning to seize upon him. A sense of personal danger, an element which, so far, he had scarcely considered, was attacking him, and gaining ground. The perspiration was standing out on his face. He found that his hands were cold and wet. The pulses of his body were throbbing; he felt his strength growing less. Muttering a curse, he braced himself with a strong effort. He was accustomed to consider his nerves impregnable. Many times in his life he had known himself to be in far greater danger than he could attribute to the present situation, and such weakness had never assailed him. On four occasions he had been aware that his life was hanging by a thread, and had gloried in his own coolness. And now ... without a doubt the Crooked House was evil.

Still he waited. Another twenty minutes slowly passed.

He started. His hands closed tightly on the trunk of the ivy to which he was clinging. The door of the room had been closed with a slam. He could hear heavy footsteps on the uncarpeted floor. A shadow blotted out the light.

A moment later, a voice—a man's voice, horribly strained and unnatural—rose in a shout of fury.

"Damn you!" it screamed. "Look at your work! Look at it again! Open your rotten eyes and look! Look! Look!"

Tranter was so startled that he almost lost his footing on the ivy. There was no mistaking the voice—it was the scream of madness. He listened for an answer, but there was no sound in response. Then the same voice laughed—a laugh of awful bitterness.

"Are you satisfied? The thing is creeping on. I am getting nearer to you hour by hour. I am more like you to-night. One more grain went yesterday—another to-day. Another will go to-morrow...." Again the voice rose to a shriek of rage and hatred. "Oh, God! There is no hope! No hope! Only on—and on—to that!"

The words trailed off into a sob of agony. Still Tranter could hear no reply.

Silence followed. The shadow again blotted out the light; then sprang aside, and the voice burst out into a fresh paroxysm of madness, yelling a stream of curses at the object of its fury. The madman's frenzy was utterly revolting to listen to, but Tranter searched it closely for some clue to the identity of the person, or thing, to whom it was addressed. The voice rose again to a shriek; then subsided as before into a feeble wail of misery.

"Oh God!" it moaned—"is there no way ... no way? No road but that road? No end but that end? Oh God, have mercy ... have mercy...."

It was a cry of unspeakable anguish—the prayer of a soul in torment. It seemed to Tranter that the speaker had thrown himself down, and was beating the floor with his hands.

There was silence again. Then, for the first time, Tranter became aware of another presence in the room. Though he could neither see nor hear anything, he was conscious of a new, indefinable movement. For a moment horror almost overcame him. He trembled. His nerves failed. The support of the ivy seemed to be giving way under him. He clutched at the framework of the window itself.

The shadow of a figure leapt up from the floor and bounded to the window. The blind was wrenched aside, the window thrown open, and before Tranter had time to recover himself or attempt to escape, the livid, distorted face of George Copplestone was almost touching his own.

A hand closed on his throat in a murderous grip, another seized his wrist. In spite of his frantic struggles, he was dragged with superhuman strength through the window into the room.