Chapter XI

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Episode Transcript

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Chapter eleven of Sinister House by LelandHall. This LibriVox recording is in the
public domain. Read by Ben Tucker, Chapter eleven. In the room,
Annette was the first to move.She turned off the gas which was escaping
from the burner. Then she cameand took my arm. Together we looked
down at Eric, still kneeling bentover the head of his wife. A

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figure of unutterable woe. Was Juliadead. She did not move, she
did not make a sound. Erictoo, was motionless and silent. We
waited a long time, my wifeand I. At last she went softly
up to Eric and touched his shoulder, And when even then he did not
notice us, she raised his headand, with calm tenderness, asked,

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is Julia living? Eric? Hemerely looked up at her dumbly. So
she lifted Julia from his arms andlet her down on the bed. She
lay as wide and as peaceful asmarble. But she was not cold.
SHELI. After we had watched herfor half an hour and were assured that
she slept tranquility and unmolested, Annettedirected my attention to Eric, who all

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that time had remained sitting cross leggedon the floor, his head dropped low
over his chest. I roused himfrom his profound absorption, made him understand
that he too must go to bedand sleep, and gave him a hand
to help him to his feet.He was dazed and already a little out
of his head again. I lethim stand and look down at Julia a

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while, but he said nothing,and though his gaze was fixed upon her
face, his look was vague.He followed me meekly enough into the next
room, and without a murmur,let me undress him and get him to
bed. But instead of falling intoa reposeful sleep, he became more and
more restless. His face flushed withfever, and his sunken eyes began to

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blaze with delirious excitement. Yet Ifelt strangely relieved. The instinct which had
informed me that the happiness of Ericand Julia was menaced by a secret peril,
now assured me no less certainly thatthat peril, the nature of which
had been revealed to me, wasexercised and banished. The time I spent
at Eric's bedside seemed to me,for all the darkness, the cold,

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and the unelectric night wind of autumn, like the relaxed afternoon hours which follow
a heavy thunder storm in midsummer.Between Julia and the sun, the jet
black clouds of Eric's past life hadmounted. I had been beside her in
the ever deepening shadow, had sharedwith her the dread of destructive wild forces,
not knowing when they would be entirelyloosened, or where or how they

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would strike. But we had withstoodthe worst, and now I felt as
I felt looking upon the rear ofsuch storms, softened by the mists of
recent rain in the air, majesticyet no longer threatening, a jumbled and
indistinct splendor. Of course, thiswas only a queer vision in my mind,

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which, while relieved of the worstanxiety, was tired and vaporish.
Nothing I have since learned of MorganSnart and his daughter could suggest a comparison
with any of the magnificent aspects ofnature, not even with the cruel beasts,
or with cold blooded and repugnant creaturesof what we call lower forms of
life. They were a cold andan unkind pair. They remained unwarmed even

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by the suffering they inflicted upon others, which none the less apparently thrilled some
secret nerve of voluptuousness within them.But there was a wild and for the
moment a ruined splendor about Eric.It was a strange waning of the night
I passed through by his bed.Not until just before dawn did his ravings

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become quite incoherent, And for morethan an hour I answered his odd questions
in hopes that he would quiet down. When he sat up in bed,
I pressed him back as gently asI could. I can see him well
now as I write, tall andthin, his old facts and nightgown.
I had sought for pajamas, butcould find none, hanging loose and open
from his shoulders. When before Igot him to lie down again, he

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would sit leaning forward over his knees. I remember clearly certain looks on his
face, especially the sober thoughtfulness inhis eyes. When for the first few
times he mentioned the telegram. Hespoke of this again and again, in
the midst of a gentle discourse onthe merits of Jonathan Edwards, or of
something sentimental about the return of alost lamb to the fold. He would

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say, I have always thought telegramsbrought bad news, but it was good
news. I must always be honest. Of course, God knew that I
was glad to hear that he toowas dead. God sent the automobile against
him. But I no longer believehe did that to please me. I
did not think I could be soglad again. She must have been dead

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a long time. She was stiffon the floor. I would not touch
her. No, but the telegram, with the glad tidings, I laid
it across her dead hand. Ohno, that would not have killed her.
I closed her fingers with my foot, but my shoe was on it.
I would not have touched her,and I am sure I did not

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step on her hand. Then,when I thought he was about to lose
this train of thought, he invariablywent on, You did not think that
telegram killed her, did you?I assure you I did not kill her
either. Her heart split with wickednesswhile I was out of doors. I
ran very fast away from the housebecause I hated her so and I walked

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very slowly back because I did notknow what to do. Her heart split
with wickedness while I was away,and she fell down dead on the floor.
That is why I put the telegramin her dead hand. It was
a perfect vengeance. He would havedied a second time, to know that
I got his money so little too. I have put this down more coherent

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then he said it. But evenfrom his confused ramblings that night, I
guessed what his crime had been.As I tell you, he went through
this cycle of thought many times,and feverish as he was, he had
a way of fastening his eyes onmine each time he went through it,
always with the same sober thoughtfulness Ihave mentioned. I am glad to say

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I never caught in them the faintestglimmer of craftiness or calculation. As he
grew wilder, his repetitions of thestory were less and less detailed, but
he insisted with louder and firmer voice, that she died before he did,
and that he had punished them,just as if he took great pride in
letting the world know that he alonehad been able to execute a proper vengeance

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upon them. I shall never knowprecisely what was in his mind when,
by the mere act of laying thetelegram and the dead hold a hand,
he made it appear beyond question thatthe news of her father's sudden death had
killed her. That he did sodeliberately, I did not doubt with a
holy acute realization that his act wouldmake him heir to whatever Morgan Snart had

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willed to his daughter, but thathe acted from covetousness. I will never
believe some hardly more than instinctive demandfor retribution, a cold passion for revenge,
a single lust for triumph over them, something of all those, I
think sprang into one swift, clearand irrevocable act, the revolt from their

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persistent and consciously refined cruelties. Subsequently, he could not have escaped the knowledge
that he had committed an act thatmade him a criminal in the eyes of
the law. But the small inheritancehe had acquired, the old house in
Stanton and some broken down property inBuffalo remained for him the hard and vast
substance of his victory Overholda and MorganSnart, and he would never relinquish it.

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He brought Julia to see the housebehind the hemlocks. He had never
been in it before, because heimagined that to be happy there with her
would make that victory supreme. Well, they had risen up to score on
him again, and the second scoringwas more terrible than the first. I
assure you that I had no curiosityin regard to the details of what he

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had lived through with them, Howor where he ever met the wicked woman
who wore upon his early religious fervor, hypnotized him, and finally married him,
perhaps only to torture his fine sensibilities. I have never sought to learn
of what seethed up out of themutilated heart while I sat by his bed.
I have only fragmentary recollections. Muchwas too painful to bear repeating.

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None of us knows how sensitive theother fellow may be. Some things,
such as the wanton uprooting of thefew flowers he had planted secretly, and
the stripping of everything of beauty andcomfort from the house, wounded him deeply.
One might be tempted to think himas softy for that. Others The
crude disfigurement of his mother's photograph andthe cutting off by lies and malice of

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every soul dispose to be friendly tohim, would have made most men entirely
angry, but Eric until he finallyturned against him, suffered in heart,
first, surprised, later afraid andhorrified. When he did turn, it
was over an unmentionable piece of cruelty. To a bird. His revulsion of

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feeling was so fierce that he nevergot over it, more than I imagine
the surface of the earth rent bya volcanic eruption, ever becomes whole again
as it was before. It wasabout half past four when he began humming,
and from then on he was hardlysane for a minute. He sang
snatches of hymns, not quiet oldhousehold favorites, but wild revival hymns which

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make the blood curdle. And thoughit was the rising fever that was overthrowing
his reason, I think he maddenedhimself a good deal with his own singing,
as I have been told fanatical personsoften do. Between the crazy strains
of song, he would sometimes subsideto say such things as, when I
was a boy, I loved flowers, yet my mother was a Christian woman.

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Or I loved animals, and theyare God's creatures like the rest of
us. I liked the rest ofus all but that cursed pair that must
have been weaned in a hell ofice before they ever came upon this earth.
At the height of his frenzy,he sprang out of bed and shouted,
shaking his fist defiantly above his head. No, I was not created

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for suffering. With the help ofAnnette, who had been roused from her
slumber at Julia's bed by his cry, I got him back where he belonged.
He had exhausted his strength in awild reenactment of his great outburst upon
Holda. Just before he relapsed intocomplete unconsciousness, he had a moment's calm
in which he looked up at anet, mistaking her for Julia, and

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said, tenderly, she will notdare haunt me, dear. I frightened
her to death, and she willbe shut up fast in hell for her
wickedness. There was something so childlikeand pathetic in the way he said this
that the tears came into my eyes. It doesn't do any good at all

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to say boo at the past whenyou're afraid of it. I went over
to the window and parted the curtains. The night was just beginning to give
way. I couldn't see the riverin the deep shadow of its gorge,
but to the right I could makeout against the dim gray sky, the
bowing and slipping of the hemlock tops, and the cold and steady wind.

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I don't know why. I recalledthe picture of my wife's walking up and
down with her son in her arms, shouting boo at the horrid dream.
How they had dogged poor Eric,how terribly they had scored against him once
more. But I had faith thatagainst him and Julia united, they should
never hereafter prevail, Annette said Ihad better go for the doctor, so

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I stole out of the chamber.But when I found myself in the dark
upper hallway, the memory of howearlier in the night we had struggled up
the stairs against the nameless and theninvisible evil swept over me like a chill.
For a moment, I lost mynerve. I slunk back into Eric's
room for another word with a net. I didn't like to leave her and

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go down those stairs alone. Itook a good long look at Eric's flushed
face. Even in his ravings,there had been something human, something warm.
What's the matter, my wife askedme. I don't know, I
answered foolishly. I feel queer inthat hallway. It's cold and ruined.
I saw her turn pale. Theywill not come back again, she whispered,

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It gives me the creeps. ButI wasn't going to ask her to
come downstairs with me. I returnedto the hall alone and started down.
The drafts were icy cold. Inoticed, with a sick feeling at my
heart that the banister rails had beenbroken, and the rose damask that had
hung down from the upper wall hadbeen pulled from its fastenings and was all

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awry and torn. Half way down, I felt as if I could go
no farther over the way those fiendshad made off on. There was a
sort of dim, gray luminousness inthe lower hallway, the dawn stealing in
through the front door, in whichthe glass panels had been smashed. The
curtains that used to cover them hadbeen ripped from their rods and dangled in
tatters to the floor from the edgesof the broken panes. I think I

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was about to break into tears,but my strained eyes caught sight of something
that stiffened me with horror. Proneon the floor at the foot of the
stairs, amid all the debris layg Aisles, I whispered his name.
He did not answer. He laystill on the floor, vague in the
gloomy and imperfect light of the earlydawn, screwing up the last poor shred
of my nerve. I went downto him. He was breathing. I

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was devoutly thankful for that, yetanother human life saved out of this night
of wickedness. Gently as I could, I turned him on his back,
and then I fetched water from thekitchen and sprinkled it on his face.
I got a piece of glass stuckin my foot, too, for I
had not put on my shoes sinceI had gone up just before one o'clock
to Julia's room. Maybe it waspartly the pain of that which made me

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feel like snickering, for that ishow I did feel, even before I
assured myself that Giles had been dazedby a heavy blow on the forehead and
was not dying. When he openedhis eyes and looked up at me,
kneeling like a musculman behind him inthe gloom, I wanted more than anything
in the world to jibber. Aftera minute or two, he recognized me,
and then between his groans, hesaid, something came down as stairs.

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It hit me what the devil wasit? And that was just too
much for me. I sat backon my stockinged heels, hid my face
in my hands, and laughed likea fool. Well, here's an end
to the strange story. You wouldnot be interested in the convalescence of Eric
and his wife. They were notyour friends as they were mine. You
never saw the You never went intotheir queer house. What's more, you

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never will go into it, becauseit was burned down the following Christmas.
Neither Annette nor I ever entered itagain. After the doctor came and took
charge of Eric, bound up Giles'shead, pronounced Julia, recovering from her
cold, drew the glass from myfoot and told my wife she looked tired
and better go home for a littlesleep. Julia was up the very next
day and had Eric taken to NewYork. Later. While they were away,

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they hired men to move out theirfurniture and close up the house.
It was presently for sale. Noone knows how the fire that destroyed it
started. By that time, theold place had been entirely deserted for more
than six weeks. But oh,my own house, our good looking little
cement house. Nothing ever looked betterto my eyes than that did the morning

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we returned to it, and itwas still locked up tight too. Felicia
had obeyed Annette to the letter.She would never have opened a door or
a window until hunger drove her out. I must confess that when we scurried
up the ground an aolithic walk,the little house did look like a county
jail. You remember, That's howGiles thought most of the houses and foresby

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looked. But poor Giles didn't geta glimpse of it. That morning.
His head was aching very painfully.He swore he had been struck by lightning.
I remember I had to help himup to the front door, and
I was limping at that. Wemust all have looked ridiculous. Little Bobby
tumbled out on us like a puppy, and old Felicia mopped her eyes with
the corner of her apron, mutteringChristian thinks and glorifications. I don't suppose

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she knew just the nature of theperil which had threatened us, and which,
glory be to God, we hadescaped. But she had felt it.
That is the infallible barometer. Now, when I feel the creeps,
I know there's something doing, whetherI see it or not, which God
forbid I should ever see again.Dear old Giles, he had the strength

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of a bull. It took morethan the blow of a ghost to lay
him low in a blood soaked field. Sometimes I wonder if he didn't really
save us, if it wasn't hethat shocked out of Eric the words that
did the trick. When he leftus, he asked me to drive to
the station by way of the oldhouse. We went right up to the
front door. In the ford.Boards were nailed over the smashed glass panes

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in the door. Every window wasshuttered in perfect silence. We cast an
eye over it all, each absorbedin his own thoughts. When we were
back on the flat highway again,he said, turning away from me,
She is a fine woman, Pierre. I hope they will be happy.
Now there's lightning and lightning, andstill another lightning after all. As for

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Annette, she will not voluntarily recallthose dreadful nights to her mind. In
the three years that have passed,we have talked of them only once.
I know she fears the effect ofthem upon me. That's all. She
acknowledged, however, that there wassomething unusual in the house the night Julia
was so sick and Eric went outof his head. Now, if I
try to talk of it again,she looks at me as if I were
out of my mind that worries her, for I'm the bread winner. So

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I go on commuting and keep mymouth shut about the upper or nether spheres.
To tell the truth, I shallbe glad when the memory has faded.
Take it all and all. Therewas nothing in it but terrible suffering
for Julia and Eric. You shouldsee foresby in the winter time. There's
a foot of snow on the groundnow in the middle of January, and
the nights are very cold, butit's healthy for the children, and hard

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as it is sometimes to get toand from the station and the ford.
We wouldn't move into the city foranything. Think of giving up the spotless
fields and roads of snow for thecity's soot, or the silence of the
nights for the racket and town,or the whole expanse of clear black sky
with its brilliant independent stars for thestreet lights and a rift between the roof

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tops. We have a blazing fireon the hearth every night, and we
sit before it until it's time togo to bed, my wife and I,
sometimes reading, sometimes talking, sometimesdreaming, but never haunted. A
day or two ago we had aletter from Julia who with Eric, has
gone to France. They are goingto devote themselves in what is theirs,

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to the alleviation of the great sufferingthat has come upon the world. I
mustn't forget to tell you that Julia'ssmall fortune has recently been increased. As
for what Eric inherited from Morgan Snart, I will never, please Heaven write
that name again. They have madethat over to some relief organization. They
too have gone in the Red Cross. Last night I sat here before the

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fire with my pencil and my manuscript. Annette was reading one of the two
new magazines to which we have subscribed, either The House Decorated or The Home
Beautiful. Isn't that a funny traceof it all? I couldn't write anything,
as you know, there's nothing moreto write. My unguided pencil just
went on scrawling over the paper.The Singing House. A piece of burning

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wood snapped and sent a big sparkout on the rug. I got up
to kick it back to the hearthstone, and then I went over to the
door and went out on the porch. It was cold and still. There
was no moon, and the starswere like diamonds, just as the mighty
things will always go on being tohumans when the air is clear. I
looked to the north, and inmy mind I saw the black spread of

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charred embers on the snow where theold house had stood. I could not
hear a sound, and with myeyes could see nothing but the expanse of
white snow, and a long waydown the road to the right, a
light in the window of our nearestneighbor's house. So I came back again
to the fire, but not totry to write, just to think,

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Giles gone. Well, it willcome to me too, and before long.
But what a life to look backon, What a memory always this
house and this life of mine,and this wife and my children. That's
the point I've had it. WhereasEric, they have gone, and we
shall not see them again, atleast not for a long time. Only

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a mass of charred embers marks theplace where their house of horror stood.
Here is my wife training her mindto see in houses a beauty she thought
she missed in theirs. Here amI regarding still as a nightmare. What
entered into my flesh as a mostterrible reality? And has I know colored
my outlook upon life for the restof my mortal days. What does it

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all amount to if it isn't justa story to tell first and last,
like all stories, not to beexplained, like all stories first and last.
True, there, said Annette tome, handing me over a Cromo
from the home. Beautiful is ahanging on that wall, like the one
Julia had in her house. Iwonder how a curtain or something would look
on the wall upstairs, but Iguess not. It would only catch the

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dust in things, Yes, Irepeated, quite like a melancholy tragedy,
and of the hollow old school,dust and things, things and dust.
What's the matter with you, Pierre? You're talking nonsense. You've been getting
up and sitting down and going tothe door as if you expected somebody to
come. I looked at her andgrinned. Nobody would come so late as

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this, My love, you've beenworking too long on that book. You're
tired out, and you'd better goto bed, Annette, I said,
laying my hand over hers. Thereisn't any dustin things in this house.
That's why we're so happy. Let'sbe sure there never is any. She
gave me a funny look with hershrewd blue eyes. You mind your business,

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Pierre, and I'll mind mine.Now, run along to bed.
It's late, so I locked thedoors and windows just as I always locked
them, went upstairs after my wife, put out the lights downstairs from the
switch on the upper floor, andmade ready for bed. But before I
turned in, I had to lookout the window a little while. There

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wasn't a thing to see except starsand snow. Annette warned me that I
should catch my death of cold.Well. After I'd put out the little
light on the table by my bed, I strained my ears to hear something,
and I heard the whistle of thelast train from New York. There
was not a sound in our darkhouse. Surely, I whispered to my
wife, finding her hand and givingher a good night squeeze. No one

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will come so late as this,of course, not. What are you
thinking of? Nothing? Go tosleep. Then I did so, and
met nothing on the way. Endof chapter eleven, end of Sinister House
by Leland Hall