Haunted houses -- Fiction; London (England) -- Fiction
It is strange that the fact of the door being unlocked had not
occurred to me before. I rushed to it instantly, and a sigh of intense
relief escaped me at finding the key in the lock. I turned it like
lightning, and we were so far safe. Then my wife flew to the window,
and, throwing it open, began to scream for help--that is to say, she
would have screamed if she had had the power, but her voice was almost
frozen in her throat, and the sounds that issued from her were of a
ravenlike hoarseness, and could have traveled but a few yards; too
short a distance in our lonely situation to be of any practical value.
Soon I added my shouts to her hoarse scream. They were sent forth to a
dead world; to our frantic appeals no answer was made.
Meanwhile, occupied as I was, I could still pay some attention to what
was passing on the stairs that led to the room. I had indulged in a
faint hope that our cries would alarm those without, and would induce
them to forego their murderous attack upon us, but the stealthy pat,
pat, pat of the footsteps continued, and were now in the middle of the
staircase; there could be but a few more stairs to ascend. Still
another hope remained--that when the footsteps reached the second
landing they would proceed onward to the top of the house. This last
hope, like those which had preceded it, was not fulfilled. Nearer,
nearer, nearer they approached, until they were close to the door;
then there was another pause; no further sounds were heard.
My impression now was that the villains who had a design against
us--for by this time I entertained no doubt of their diabolical
purpose, and that we were in the direst peril--were making
preparations to carry it into effect. Presently they would try the
handle of the door, and, discovering that it was locked, would burst
it open and spring upon us.
A long and awful silence ensued, during which the agonizing question
occupied my mind, what was being done outside the door? The torture of
the suspense was maddening; the silence was more harrowing than the
footsteps themselves had been. I was soon to receive an appalling
answer to the question.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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