Within That Room!. John Russell Fearn

definition of that term means a violent phantom—a smasher of furniture, and so forth.”

      “Oh, then this one does not smash up the happy home, then?”

      “Not altogether, no,” Mrs. Falworth stood quite still and hands clasped in front of her. “The phantom—the manifestation—is seen once a year, but the spirit of evil is here all the time.”

      “Well,” Vera said, “I don’t notice it—not particularly, anyway.”

      “Not here, perhaps. It has its core in one of the upper rooms, but the influence it spreads can be detected anywhere. You will sense it—in time.”

      “You and your husband have been here some years, and yet you haven’t gone crazy? Or have you?” Vera added under her breath.

      “For me, miss, the psychic world holds no terrors. I understand it fully. I know how to defy the power of evil and darkness—but I cannot say the same for my husband. He is worldly, so essentially mortal, and he is frightened.”

      “Then why on earth does he stay here? He’s got a mind of his own, hasn’t he?”

      “I have persuaded him. I feel—and I have brought him round to my way of thinking—that it is our duty to remain as servants to you, as we were servants to your uncle for ten years.”

      “And what if I decided to sell the place?”

      For a moment a gleam came into Mrs. Falworth’s dark eyes.

      “In that event we could leave, miss, with no sense of worry on our minds. If you would sell, it would relieve all three of us. I believe in all seriousness that this place is not fit for anybody to live in, especially an attractive young woman like you.”

      “Why, does the ghost like blonde females?” Vera asked dryly.

      “I did not mean it in that sense—rather, I meant that you have too many charms to waste them in a place like this. It is too gloomy and cheerless for a modern young lady.”

      Vera said: “I don’t expect to be here all the time. I am seeking a post in London as a commercial artist.”

      “Forgive me mentioning it, miss, but do you think such a post would provide sufficient remuneration to keep this residence going?”

      “Oh, it might. I presume the upkeep isn’t terrific, and as I saw from the conveyance Mr. Thwaite had me sign this land is freehold, so there is no ground rent. No electricity to pay for, and paraffin isn’t dear. There is only food to consider and the salaries of you and your husband. Yes, I might be able to keep it going for a while, anyway. In fact, I might even grow to like it. I’ll be quite frank, I don’t believe in this ghost rubbish.”

      “I have spoken the truth, miss,” Mrs. Falworth answered coldly.

      “All right—you have your views and I have mine.” Vera got to her feet decisively. “Now, how about a tour round the place? I want to see what I have inherited. And, by the way, what is your salary, and your husband’s?”

      “That matter hardly need concern you, madam. Your uncle, by his will, left both of us amply provided for—”

      “Of course! The annuity.”

      “Since we must live somewhere, we are prepared to stay here and give service in return for shelter.”

      “Oh?” Vera raised her brows in surprise. “Well, that’s very sporting of both of you. Make it all the easier for me to run the show.”

      But inwardly she felt that there was something queer, somewhere, though at that moment she could not decide for the life of her what it was.... She spoke little thereafter as Mrs. Falworth, with a spluttering torch in hand, took her on a tour of inspection.

      CHAPTER FIVE

      THE LOCKED CELLAR

      They went through the oil-lighted regions. Then they explored the rambling conservatories and broken-down stables which, after a bit of restoration, might hold a car. From here they descended into a dingy abyss of basements. The cold down here was a shock to Vera and she stood looking round on stony emptiness. There were gray walls with rings in them; a ceiling of granite with rusty hooks imbedded in the stone.

      “What are the rings for?” Vera questioned.

      “I believe, miss, that this was once a torture chamber. The prisoners were fastened to those rings in the wall, their arms outspread, and then they were ‘persuaded’ with the help of the old forge there.”

      The woman nodded to a corner where stood an ancient fireplace—similar to the type used by a blacksmith. The back had collapsed inward amidst a mass of bricks and oddly colored red-brown ash. At the back of it was a black square denoting the flue. Projecting from the side was the curved handle that had once worked the bellows.

      “You will observe the branding irons,” the housekeeper said, indicating an array of differently shaped bars in a rack above the fireplace. “Irons for every type of persuasion. For burning of the skin, for obliteration of the eyes, for—”

      “All right, all right,” Vera interrupted. “You needn’t bother. What are the hooks for?”

      She looked above her and the ghost of a sadistic smile crossed Mrs. Falworth’s face.

      “For hanging purposes purely, Miss. I have little doubt that victims were suspended up there in all manner of positions in the old days. Medieval, of course, but I am sure it must have been most effective.”

      “Must have been,” Vera agreed. She looked around quickly for something to change the subject—and found it. “Is that another cellar there?” she asked. “That door?”

      “That is an ancient wine cellar, miss—empty of wine, I regret to say. We use it now for the storage of disused articles.”

      Vera’s blue eyes moved again around the chasing shadows. The gloom, the silence, the spitting of the waxed torch: they were horrible things. Medieval, slinking unbidden into her soul. “Let’s get back upstairs!” she said abruptly.

      So they left the basement by the stone steps that led out at the side of the main staircase in the hall. From here the tour continued, covering Uncle Cyrus’ library—remarkable for its many showcases containing dried plants and insects—the huge drawing-room; then up the stairs to each of the twelve bedrooms. Of them all, fully furnished, only two were in use—Vera’s own, and the Falworths’, two rooms removed from her. But there was yet one other room at the far end of the corridor, the edges of the door taped, and heavy screws driven through the door into the frame.

      “What’s in here?” Vera asked curiously, stopping beside it.

      “That, miss, is the room,” the housekeeper answered, holding the torch high over their heads.

      “Where the ghost walks, you mean?”

      “Within that room is a core of evil manifestation—and I would warn you never to enter it if you value your life and reason.”

      Vera’s firm little chin began to set. She turned and looked at the housekeeper coldly.

      “Look here, Mrs. Falworth, do you suggest that I own this house and yet have one room in it forever locked—always wondering what is inside it? I’m not that kind of a girl. It has got to be opened tomorrow. I intend to put an end to this phantom nonsense once and for all.”

      The housekeeper stood erect, forbidding. “I do not wish to seem disrespectful, miss, but I must refuse to obey that order. I will not under any circumstances open that door!”

      “Then your husband must.”

      “I am sorry, but I shall not permit him to.”

      A glint came in Vera’s eyes. She said: “Maybe you have forgotten that it is I who give the orders here? You won’t permit him, indeed! If I say this door is to be opened, it will be opened!”

      Mrs.