Creeps by Night: Chills and Thrills

The front door opened into a dark and airless lobby, at the end of which he could see a door paneled with colored glass. In there, his sister whispered, the Chemist conducted his experiments; their combined sitting- and dining-room was on the first floor. Ascending the stairs they reached the first landing which led to two short flights of five stairs each — the house was as clumsily planned as it was badly built — one leading to a bedroom in the front of the house and the other to another landing out of which the sitting-room opened. Where the stairs met this second landing a Japanese bead curtain hung across the way. The Traveler noticed how the long strings of beads clicked together as they closed behind him, and wondered why women loved to hang such ugly, useless things about the place. The sitting-room was at once cold and stuffy, the smoldering fire serving rather to raise a draught than to warm the room. They sat on either side of the hearth in constrained silence.

Well? he said, at last. I’m glad you came, she said; it’s the child I’m troubled about. The child? he said; I thought perhaps it was money. No, you needn’t have thought that, she protested; my husband earns enough to keep us, though it’s true we’re not rich; he’s all right about money. No, it’s the child; I’m terribly anxious about him; it gets worse and worse; it’s horrible, it’s horrible.

She spoke the last words more to herself than to him, and it was clear that now she had persuaded him to come down to help her she was unwilling to talk about her trouble. Her womanish unreason tried his temper, but he was sorry for her at the same time. He tried, clumsily enough, to soothe and coax her. At the first kind word she began crying silently; he left her time to recover a little and then began to question her. Was it, he asked, the child’s health? Yes, it was his health; he had been ailing for a long time now; but it was more than that, she said, something worse than that. Do you mean it’s his mind? the Traveler asked. Yes, I suppose so, she replied with hesitation; I don’t know, I don’t know.

It seemed that at this moment the child entered, moving with an unnatural staidness which argued an appalling lack of vitality. It was impossible to guess his age from his gray, expressionless face; his head was large, far too large for his flimsy body and mean limbs. Good evening, Uncle, said the child. Do you know me, then? asked the Traveler, eyeing him curiously. Why, yes, replied the child; you’re my mother’s brother. But how do you know that? asked his mother uneasily; I never told you he was coming. The child shook his head indifferently and walked soberly out of the room, not troubling to close the door. The bead curtain could be heard clicking outside as he passed through. The Traveler rose and closed the door after him.

Well, he said, sitting down, what’s wrong with the child then? is he always like that? Yes, always the same, she said. And what does he do all day? asked the Traveler, does he play? No. Does he read, or what? No, she said, he doesn’t often read; he just sits there quite quiet, thinking to himself; he doesn’t speak much. Well, said the Traveler, he certainly doesn’t look very healthy; do you think this place doesn’t suit him? No, replied his sister, it’s a poor place, but the air is good; and she went on to explain that they had settled here simply on account of the child, the doctor recommending the East Coast, and the Chemist being offered the business, cheap, a day or two later. But the child did not seem to have benefited by the change; indeed it rather seemed that he was gradually getting worse, though it would be hard to define what was wrong with him. The Traveler asked whether the child was in the hands of a good doctor. No, his sister said, her husband would have nothing to do with doctors. Why? he asked; does he think that the child is well? No, she said, but he insists on treating the child himself; that’s what frightens me.

The Traveler, sitting with his back to the door, became aware that he was being watched. He turned sharply. The door, which he remembered having closed after the child, was open, and an enormous red-headed man was standing framed in the doorway, his hand on the knob. He took two silent steps into the room, still staring at the Traveler, who noticed that he walked in his socks. You gave me a turn, he said; do you always go about like that? The Chemist nodded, chuckled softly, and walked out again. The Traveler closed the door after him. I don’t like people to creep about the place like that, he said, shaking himself. He opened the door again, suddenly, hut there was no one on the landing. Let’s light the gas, he said, and draw the curtains; it’s a wretched evening.