his mind – the draped figure with the book, the conventional lion beside it, placed on a perfectly plain background, and below it the thickly decorated border with its scrolls and shields.
He grew sleepy, and his thoughts began to stray. He thought of the chain, of Sharpe, of the holy–water stoups, of the shrine in the passage, of the many plaster statues about the house, and of one in particular that he had noticed in Mrs. Sharpe’s room – a Christ with outstretched arms and a crimson heart emitting rays showing on the breast…
Mr. Matthews sat up, wide awake. That thing in the border that they had taken for a crested shield – that smooth triangle with the rays springing from it – it was not a shield at all: it represented a heart! He had solved the puzzle.
He leapt out of bed, armed himself with an electric torch, and fairly ran down the corridor to the north room. The single beam of light from his torch made the surrounding darkness seem almost opaque. In a dim subconscious way Matthews associated the dense gloom with the clammy, earthy smell that now seemed intensified; but he paid no conscious attention to either.
He walked with a quick, resolute stride to the panel, and soon found the smooth triangle in the decoration of the border. Of course, it was a heart – the conventional representation! He put his finger on it and pressed. He felt the panel slowly move.
He could not wait for it to swing fully open; he thrust his hand into the widening chink between the wall and the wood. There was something there, down in the bottom of the hole in the wall. Eagerly he reached for it.
It was piled up, and felt slimy to his touch. Then he dropped his torch with a hoarse cry; for, as he touched it, it moved, and a long slimy arm slid up his wrist.
Frantically he tore at his hand. He got it free for a second, and, turning, rushed to the door. He heard, as he ran, a heavy flop, and then a whispering, scratching sound. He knew that the thing had dropped from its lair and was dragging its loathsome length in pursuit. As he reached the door a tentacle, both slimy and hairy, curved round one ankle: another pawed at his left arm: and with a sickening thrill of disgust he felt something cold and slimy touch the back of his neck.
He gave a shriek of loathing and terror as he fell his length in the passage.
It was three weeks before Mr. Matthews, now installed at the Vicarage, could bring himself to speak of the end of that night. Then he asked, quite abruptly.
“How do you account for my escape, Molyneux? It – it was at my throat. I-I felt it… ”
“One can’t really account for any of these things,” replied the Vicar, gravely. “Only – there is this. You had round your neck the image of Christ. I think the – thing – had touched it, for it – it was retreating when I heard you scream and came out. I–I saw it – dimly – and its trail… And I can’t tell you how much I wished that I had read you a passage out of the manuscript about the room – a passage I left out. It might have warned you.” “Will you tell me now?”
“It describes the finding of the body of Job Harcott. It reads like this – I almost know it by heart since… since you so nearly…” He gulped, and then went on in grave tones –
“‘We found him indeede in ye passage wh. leadeth to yt. accursed roome. He was Starke Naked and his Bodie fearsomelie swolne, longe Trayls of Slyme compassing him aboute as it were in a Nett.’”
CELUI-LÀ
“I DON’T for a moment expect you to take my advice,” said Dr. Foster, looking shrewdly at his patient, “but I’ll give it all the same. It’s this. Pack a bag with a few things and go off tomorrow to some tiny seaside or mountain place, preferably out of England, so that you won’t meet a soul you know. Live there absolutely quietly for three or four weeks, taking a reasonable amount of exercise, and then write and tell me that you’re all right
He grew sleepy, and his thoughts began to stray. He thought of the chain, of Sharpe, of the holy–water stoups, of the shrine in the passage, of the many plaster statues about the house, and of one in particular that he had noticed in Mrs. Sharpe’s room – a Christ with outstretched arms and a crimson heart emitting rays showing on the breast…
Mr. Matthews sat up, wide awake. That thing in the border that they had taken for a crested shield – that smooth triangle with the rays springing from it – it was not a shield at all: it represented a heart! He had solved the puzzle.
He leapt out of bed, armed himself with an electric torch, and fairly ran down the corridor to the north room. The single beam of light from his torch made the surrounding darkness seem almost opaque. In a dim subconscious way Matthews associated the dense gloom with the clammy, earthy smell that now seemed intensified; but he paid no conscious attention to either.
He walked with a quick, resolute stride to the panel, and soon found the smooth triangle in the decoration of the border. Of course, it was a heart – the conventional representation! He put his finger on it and pressed. He felt the panel slowly move.
He could not wait for it to swing fully open; he thrust his hand into the widening chink between the wall and the wood. There was something there, down in the bottom of the hole in the wall. Eagerly he reached for it.
It was piled up, and felt slimy to his touch. Then he dropped his torch with a hoarse cry; for, as he touched it, it moved, and a long slimy arm slid up his wrist.
Frantically he tore at his hand. He got it free for a second, and, turning, rushed to the door. He heard, as he ran, a heavy flop, and then a whispering, scratching sound. He knew that the thing had dropped from its lair and was dragging its loathsome length in pursuit. As he reached the door a tentacle, both slimy and hairy, curved round one ankle: another pawed at his left arm: and with a sickening thrill of disgust he felt something cold and slimy touch the back of his neck.
He gave a shriek of loathing and terror as he fell his length in the passage.
It was three weeks before Mr. Matthews, now installed at the Vicarage, could bring himself to speak of the end of that night. Then he asked, quite abruptly.
“How do you account for my escape, Molyneux? It – it was at my throat. I-I felt it… ”
“One can’t really account for any of these things,” replied the Vicar, gravely. “Only – there is this. You had round your neck the image of Christ. I think the – thing – had touched it, for it – it was retreating when I heard you scream and came out. I–I saw it – dimly – and its trail… And I can’t tell you how much I wished that I had read you a passage out of the manuscript about the room – a passage I left out. It might have warned you.” “Will you tell me now?”
“It describes the finding of the body of Job Harcott. It reads like this – I almost know it by heart since… since you so nearly…” He gulped, and then went on in grave tones –
“‘We found him indeede in ye passage wh. leadeth to yt. accursed roome. He was Starke Naked and his Bodie fearsomelie swolne, longe Trayls of Slyme compassing him aboute as it were in a Nett.’”
CELUI-LÀ
“I DON’T for a moment expect you to take my advice,” said Dr. Foster, looking shrewdly at his patient, “but I’ll give it all the same. It’s this. Pack a bag with a few things and go off tomorrow to some tiny seaside or mountain place, preferably out of England, so that you won’t meet a soul you know. Live there absolutely quietly for three or four weeks, taking a reasonable amount of exercise, and then write and tell me that you’re all right
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