Creeps by Night: Chills and Thrills

“September 2nd. Mrs. Malkin is to be away, because of her sister’s illness. I can not help dreading her absence. Though she is here only in the daytime, even that companionship is very welcome.

“September 3rd. Let me put this into writing. The mere labor of composition has a soothing influence upon me. God knows, I need such an influence now, as never before!

“In spite of all my watchfulness, I fell asleep, tonight — across my bed. I must have been utterly exhausted. The dream I had was the one about the dog. I was patting the creature’s head, over and over.

“I awoke, at last, to find myself in darkness, and in a standing position. There was a suggestion of chill and earthiness in the air. While I was drowsily trying to get my bearings, I became aware that something was nuzzling my hand, as a dog might do.

“Still saturated with my dream, I was not greatly astonished. I extended my hand, to pat the dog’s head. That brought me to my senses. I was standing in the cellar.

“The thing before me was not a dog!

“I can not tell how I fled back up the cellar stairs. I know, however, that, as I turned, the slab was visible, in spite of the darkness, with something sitting upon it. All the way up the stairs, hands snatched at my feet.”

This entry seemed to finish the diary, for blank pages followed it; but I remembered the crumpled sheet, near the back of the book. It was partly torn out, as if a hand had clutched it, convulsively. The writing on it, too, was markedly in contrast to the precise, albeit nervous penmanship of even the last entry I had perused. I was forced to hold the scrawl up to the light to decipher it. This is what I read:

“My hand keeps on writing, in spite of myself. What is this? I do not wish to write, but it compels me. Yes, yes, I will tell the truth, I will tell the truth.”

A heavy blot followed, partly covering the writing. With difficulty, I made it out:

“The guilt is mine — mine only. I loved her too well, yet I was unwilling to marry, though she entreated me on her knees — though she kissed my hand. I told her my scientific work came first. She did it, herself. I was not expecting that — I swear I was not expecting it. But I was afraid the authorities would misunderstand. So I took what seemed the best course. She had no friends here who would inquire.

“It is waiting outside my door. I feel it. It compels me, through my thoughts. My hand keeps on writing. I must not fall asleep. I must think only of what I am writing. I must—”

Then came the words I had seen when Mrs. Malkin had handed me the book. They were written very large. In places, the pen had dug through the paper. Though they were scrawled, I read them at a glance:

“Not the slab in the cellar! Not that! Oh, my God, anything but that! Anything—”

By what strange compulsion was the hand forced to write down what was in the brain; even to the ultimate thoughts; even to those final words?

The gray light from outside, slanting down through two dull little windows, sank into the sodden hole near the inner wall. The coroner and I stood in the cellar, but not too near the hole.

A small, demonstrative, dark man — the chief of detectives — stood a little apart from us, his eyes intent, his natural animation suppressed. We were watching the stooped shoulders of a police constable, who was angling in the well.

“See anything, Walters?” inquired the detective, raspingly.

The policeman shook his head.

The little man turned his questioning to me.

“You’re quite sure?” he demanded.

“Ask the coroner. He saw the diary,” I told him.

“I’m afraid there can be no doubt,” the coroner confirmed, in his heavy, tired voice.

He was an old man, with lack-luster eyes. It had seemed best to me, on the whole, that he should read my uncle’s diary. His position entitled him to all the available facts. What we were seeking in the well might especially concern him.

He looked at me opaquely now, while the policeman bent double again. Then he spoke — like one who reluctantly and at last does his duty. He nodded toward the slab of gray stone, which lay in the shadow to the left of the well.

“It doesn’t seem very heavy, does it?” he suggested, in an undertone.

I shook my head. “Still, it’s stone,” I demurred. “A man would have to be rather strong to lift it.”

“To lift it — yes.” He glanced about the cellar. “Ah, I forgot,” he said, abruptly. “It is in my office, as part of the evidence.” He went on, half to himself. “A man — even though not very strong — could take a stick — for instance, the stick that is now in my office — and prop up the slab, if he wished to look into the well,” he whispered.

The policeman interrupted, straightening again with a groan, and laying his, electric torch beside the well.

“It’s breaking my back,” he complained. “There’s dirt down there. It seems loose, but I can’t get through it. Somebody’ll have to go down.”

The detective cut in, “I’m lighter than you, Walters.”

“I’m not afraid, sir.”