Horror tales; New York (N.Y.) -- Fiction; Short stories
He spoke to me without invitation, noting my mood and glances as I
studied certain knockered doorways above iron-railed steps, the pallid
glow of traceried transoms feebly lighting my face. His own face was
in shadow, and he wore a wide-brimmed hat which somehow blended
perfectly with the out-of-date cloak he affected; but I was subtly
disquieted even before he addressed me. His form was very slight, thin
almost to cadaverousness; and his voice proved phenomenally soft and
hollow, though not particularly deep. He had, he said, noticed me
several times at my wanderings; and inferred that I resembled him in
loving the vestiges of former years. Would I not like the guidance of
one long practised in these explorations, and possessed of local
information profoundly deeper than any which an obvious newcomer could
possibly have gained?
As he spoke, I caught a glimpse of his face in the yellow beam from a
solitary attic window. It was a noble, even a handsome, elderly
countenance; and bore the marks of a lineage and refinement unusual
for the age and place. Yet some quality about it disturbed me almost
as much as its features pleased me--perhaps it was too white, or too
expressionless, or too much out of keeping with the locality, to make
me feel easy or comfortable. Nevertheless I followed him; for in those
dreary days my quest for antique beauty and mystery was all that I had
to keep my soul alive, and I reckoned it a rare favor of Fate to fall
in with one whose kindred seekings seemed to have penetrated so much
farther than mine.
Something in the night constrained the cloaked man to silence, and for
a long hour he led me forward without needless words; making only the
briefest of comments concerning ancient names and dates and changes,
and directing my progress very largely by gestures as we squeezed
through interstices, tiptoed through corridors, clambered over brick
walls, and once crawled on hands and knees through a low, arched
passage of stone whose immense length and tortuous twistings effaced
at last every hint of geographical location I had managed to preserve.
The things we saw were very old and marvelous, or at least they seemed
so in the few straggling rays of light by which I viewed them, and I
shall never forget the tottering Ionic columns and fluted pilasters
and urn-headed iron fenceposts and flaring-linteled windows and
decorative fanlights that appeared to grow quainter and stranger the
deeper we advanced into this inexhaustible maze of unknown antiquity.
* * * * *
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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