Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine Annual, No. 3, 1973

“Advisable not to go in just yet,” Norton said with the deference due a paying customer. “We usually take a nice stroll through the garden. Do a little tour first, all around the outside of the place. A grand tour, you might say. Care to, folks?”

After an instant’s hesitation, Randall took his wife’s arm.

Five abreast, the group moved toward the left and the west end of the house. For a moment or two no one spoke, and the sole sound was their footsteps crunching across the terrace. As they walked on, only Mr. Sebastian looked at the house. He kept darting brief speculative glances at the windows, almost as if he expected to see something behind them.

Professor Wilkes cleared his throat. “May I ask why we wait until later to go in?”

“Just until dark, sir.”

“But why?”

“Nothing ever happens until then.” Norton hesitated. “The spirits, if that’s what they really are, just don’t show themselves any sooner.”

A sardonic expression flickered across Mr. Sebastian’s face. “And darkness also provides the appropriate atmosphere.”

“I think you’ve got something there,” Randall muttered.

“Stop being cynical, dear,” his wife said, giggling.

They were on the lawn now, with soil beneath their feet instead of flagstones.

It was a lawn in name only. The grass was wild and patchy, weeds twisted and curled underfoot, and there was not a single flower to be seen anywhere. Obviously the place had received no care for years. At the far end of the rear lawn stood a group of black, brooding trees, indistinguishable as to their kind in the fading light. It was utterly desolate wherever they looked: a gray and morbid square of ground that had had most of its healthy life seep away through long neglect, leaving only repulsive growth and the dregs of decap in its place.

It was easy to believe, walking there, that under the crust of the scrubby earth and hidden behind bark and rock lurked ugly molds and insects and God knew what venomous creatures of the night.

By the time they circled the house and returned to the front terrace, the darkness was almost complete and their mood had altered. They understood now why Norton had taken them around; no one could plunge into these surroundings and retain much gaiety.

“Is it time?” the professor asked in a subdued voice.

Norton detached himself from the group a few paces, then turned to face them. He was a small, compact man of fifty or so with blue eyes that managed to look both bored and quizzical.

“All right. We’re going in,” he said mechanically. “Remember, my employers, Ghostly Tours, do not make any guarantees you’ll see spirits or unusual happenings in this house. Also—”

“Have you ever seen ghosts here?” Mr. Sebastian asked him.

“I’ve seen — ghostlike sights.”

“Yeah?” said Randall. “How many times?”

Norton frowned. “Often. But I’m not representin’ what I saw as ghosts. Not makin’ no claims at all. If you folks see anything, you’ll have to judge for yourselves.”

He began walking toward the front door. They followed. Pulling a key from his pocket, he inserted it into the door and opened it. “No sudden movements, please. Try not to talk loud. And do not attempt under no circumstances to touch or grab whatever you might see.”

Norton’s English, like his pronunciation, was subject to sudden lapses.

They entered the silent darkness. Quickly Norton snapped on a small hooded flashlight, and the five of them eased their way through the bare entrance hall. At the east end of the corridor, double doors, slightly ajar, flanked an opening into more darkness.

Norton paused, then pushed the doors open wider. They went in.

It had been a study or library once, perhaps even a room that had known cheer. Now it was just a void, an unadorned emptiness that smelled of dust. There were no furnishings, no paintings, no carpets, no drapes. Faint, grayish oblongs to the right indicated where the narrow windows were, and the flashlight’s feeble gleam next played over what appeared to be a long-dead fireplace.

In this dismal room they were going to have to wait — the prospect was much more unpleasant than they would have thought possible only a half hour ago — and by an unuttered agreement they all gravitated toward the fireplace, prudently turning around to keep watch on the double doors.

“Hope you won’t mind being on your feet a bit,” Norton said quietly.

“I couldn’t sit anyway,” Mrs. Randall murmured.

Mr. Sebastian, his eyes narrowed in the gloom, seemed intensely interested in the room itself and examined as much of it as was possible in the dim light. The flooring, the ceiling, the blank walls—

“How many rooms are there in this place?” he asked suddenly.

“Eighteen, I believe, sir.”

“And how long has it been unoccupied?”

Norton didn’t answer at once. He aimed his flashlight at the floor across the room, just inside the doorway. It made a pale oval of light in the gloom.

“Some years. I’ve forgotten the exact number. Why do you ask?”

Mr. Sebastian made no reply.