The Hauntings: 20 Chilling Tales of Macabre & Mystery. M. R. James

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      Had not the landlord at this moment knocked at the door, it is probable that quite a long poem might have been laid before the reader. To judge from his look of surprise when he found himself in the room, Herr Kristensen was struck, as Anderson had been, by something unusual in its aspect. But he made no remark. Anderson’s photographs interested him mightily, and formed the text of many autobiographical discourses. Nor is it quite clear how the conversation could have been diverted into the desired channel of Number 13, had not the lawyer at this moment begun to sing, and to sing in a manner which could leave no doubt in anyone’s mind that he was either exceedingly drunk or raving mad. It was a high, thin voice that they heard, and it seemed dry, as if from long disuse. Of words or tune there was no question. It went sailing up to a surprising height, and was carried down with a despairing moan as of a winter wind in a hollow chimney, or an organ whose wind fails suddenly. It was a really horrible sound, and Anderson felt that if he had been alone he must have fled for refuge and society to some neighbour bagman’s room.

      The landlord sat open-mouthed.

      ‘I don’t understand it,’ he said at last, wiping his forehead. ‘It is dreadful. I have heard it once before, but I made sure it was a cat.’

      ‘Is he mad?’ said Anderson.

      ‘He must be; and what a sad thing! Such a good customer, too, and so successful in his business, by what I hear, and a young family to bring up.’

      Just then came an impatient knock at the door, and the knocker entered, without waiting to be asked. It was the lawyer, in déshabille and very rough-haired; and very angry he looked.

      ‘I beg pardon, sir,’ he said, ‘but I should be much obliged if you would kindly desist —’

      Here he stopped, for it was evident that neither of the persons before him was responsible for the disturbance; and after a moment’s lull it swelled forth again more wildly than before.

      ‘But what in the name of Heaven does it mean?’ broke out the lawyer. ‘Where is it? Who is it? Am I going out of my mind?’

      ‘Surely, Herr Jensen, it comes from your room next door? Isn’t there a cat or something stuck in the chimney?’

      This was the best that occurred to Anderson to say and he realized its futility as he spoke; but anything was better than to stand and listen to that horrible voice, and look at the broad, white face of the landlord, all perspiring and quivering as he clutched the arms of his chair.

      ‘Impossible,’ said the lawyer, ‘impossible. There is no chimney. I came here because I was convinced the noise was going on here. It was certainly in the next room to mine.’

      ‘Was there no door between yours and mine?’ said Anderson eagerly.

      ‘No, sir,’ said Herr Jensen, rather sharply. ‘At least, not this morning.’

      ‘Ah!’ said Anderson. ‘Nor tonight?’

      ‘I am not sure,’ said the lawyer with some hesitation.

      Suddenly the crying or singing voice in the next room died away, and the singer was heard seemingly to laugh to himself in a crooning manner. The three men actually shivered at the sound. Then there was a silence.

      ‘Come,’ said the lawyer, ‘what have you to say, Herr Kristensen? What does this mean?’

      ‘Good Heaven!’ said Kristensen. ‘How should I tell! I know no more than you, gentlemen. I pray I may never hear such a noise again.’

      ‘So do I,’ said Herr Jensen, and he added something under his breath. Anderson thought it sounded like the last words of the Psalter, ‘omnis spiritus laudet Dominum,’ but he could not be sure.

      ‘But we must do something,’ said Anderson —‘the three of us. Shall we go and investigate in the next room?’

      ‘But that is Herr Jensen’s room,’ wailed the landlord. ‘It is no use; he has come from there himself.’

      ‘I am not so sure,’ said Jensen. ‘I think this gentleman is right: we must go and see.’

      The only weapons of defence that could be mustered on the spot were a stick and umbrella. The expedition went out into the passage, not without quakings. There was a deadly quiet outside, but a light shone from under the next door. Anderson and Jensen approached it. The latter turned the handle, and gave a sudden vigorous push. No use. The door stood fast.

      ‘Herr Kristensen,’ said Jensen, ‘will you go and fetch the strongest servant you have in the place? We must see this through.’

      The landlord nodded, and hurried off, glad to be away from the scene of action. Jensen and Anderson remained outside looking at the door.

      ‘It is Number 13, you see,’ said the latter.

      ‘Yes; there is your door, and there is mine,’ said Jensen.

      ‘My room has three windows in the daytime,’ said Anderson with difficulty, suppressing a nervous laugh.

      ‘By George, so has mine!’ said the lawyer, turning and looking at Anderson. His back was now to the door. In that moment the door opened, and an arm came out and clawed at his shoulder. It was clad in ragged, yellowish linen, and the bare skin, where it could be seen, had long grey hair upon it.

      Anderson was just in time to pull Jensen out of its reach with a cry of disgust and fright, when the door shut again, and a low laugh was heard.

      Jensen had seen nothing, but when Anderson hurriedly told him what a risk he had run, he fell into a great state of agitation, and suggested that they should retire from the enterprise and lock themselves up in one or other of their rooms.

      However, while he was developing this plan, the landlord and two able-bodied men arrived on the scene, all looking rather serious and alarmed. Jensen met them with a torrent of description and explanation, which did not at all tend to encourage them for the fray.

      The men dropped the crowbars they had brought, and said flatly that they were not going to risk their throats in that devil’s den. The landlord was miserably nervous and undecided, conscious that if the danger were not faced his hotel was ruined, and very loth to face it himself. Luckily Anderson hit upon a way of rallying the demoralized force.

      ‘Is this,’ he said, ‘the Danish courage I have heard so much of? It isn’t a German in there, and if it was, we are five to one.’

      The two servants and Jensen were stung into action by this, and made a dash at the door.

      ‘Stop!’ said Anderson. ‘Don’t lose your heads. You stay out here with the light, landlord, and one of you two men break in the door, and don’t go in when it gives way.’

      The men nodded, and the younger stepped forward, raised his crowbar, and dealt a tremendous blow on the upper panel. The result was not in the least what any of them anticipated. There was no cracking or rending of wood — only a dull sound, as if the solid wall had been struck. The man dropped his tool with a shout, and began rubbing his elbow. His cry drew their eyes upon him for a moment; then Anderson looked at the door again. It was gone; the plaster wall of the passage stared him in the face, with a considerable gash in it where the crowbar СКАЧАТЬ