The Project Gutenberg eBook ofThe radio ghostThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: The radio ghostAuthor: Otis Adelbert KlineIllustrator: Frank R. PaulRelease date: December 20, 2024 [eBook #74953]Language: EnglishOriginal publication: New York: Experimenter Publishing Company, Inc, 1927Credits: Roger Frank and Sue Clark*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RADIO GHOST ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: The radio ghostAuthor: Otis Adelbert KlineIllustrator: Frank R. PaulRelease date: December 20, 2024 [eBook #74953]Language: EnglishOriginal publication: New York: Experimenter Publishing Company, Inc, 1927Credits: Roger Frank and Sue Clark
Title: The radio ghost
Author: Otis Adelbert KlineIllustrator: Frank R. Paul
Author: Otis Adelbert Kline
Illustrator: Frank R. Paul
Release date: December 20, 2024 [eBook #74953]
Language: English
Original publication: New York: Experimenter Publishing Company, Inc, 1927
Credits: Roger Frank and Sue Clark
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RADIO GHOST ***
By Otis Adelbert Kline
Author of “The Malignant Entity.”
This remarkable story, made so principally by the fact that radio enters into it, is one of the most ingenious we have ever read. The best part about the story, however, is that the radio principles throughout the story are quite accurate. There is nothing fantastic about it, and the thing can be duplicated by any good radio man today. Here, then, is a scientifiction story, thrilling, mysterious, and breathtaking, that we know you will enjoy.
This remarkable story, made so principally by the fact that radio enters into it, is one of the most ingenious we have ever read. The best part about the story, however, is that the radio principles throughout the story are quite accurate. There is nothing fantastic about it, and the thing can be duplicated by any good radio man today. Here, then, is a scientifiction story, thrilling, mysterious, and breathtaking, that we know you will enjoy.
“...As I bent over to examine the spot, I heard a cry of warning from the girl and a quick movement behind me. I turned, but could not move in time to avoid the heavy chair which was rushing toward me. It knocked me over and came back, apparently bent on my destruction.”
“...As I bent over to examine the spot, I heard a cry of warning from the girl and a quick movement behind me. I turned, but could not move in time to avoid the heavy chair which was rushing toward me. It knocked me over and came back, apparently bent on my destruction.”
Dr. Dorp looked up in annoyance when Mrs. Bream came into the room. As was my weekly custom, I had dropped into his study for a short Saturday afternoon’s visit, and the talk had turned to our mutual hobby, psychic phenomena. The learned doctor’s look of vexation had followed the unobtrusive entrance of his housekeeper during a somewhat heated discussion of that physically elusive but psychologically evident substance which has come to be known as ectoplasm.
“What is it, Mrs. Bream?” he asked, petulantly.
“Sorry to interrupt you, sir, but there’s a young lady to see you.”
“What is she selling?”
“I believe she wants to consult you professionally, sir.”
“Like the book agent who called Wednesday, I suppose. Wanted my opinion of the twelve volumes he was peddling. Well, show her in. We’ll soon see.”
I rose to leave the room, but the doctor raised his hand.
“Keep your seat, Evans,” he said. “I don’t expect this interview to be either important or protracted.”
I resumed my seat, but rose again immediately as a neatly dressed girl entered the room. She was small, golden-haired, and quite pretty. For a moment she glanced at both of us, standing beside our chairs—then evidently decided in favor of the doctor’s grizzled Van Dyke.
“I am Greta Van Loan, doctor,” she said, addressing him as if sure she had spoken to the right man.
“You recognize me, then?” he asked, drawing a chair forward for her.
She sat down lightly, and with exquisite grace.
“To be sure. I have seen your picture in the papers ever so many times, usually in connection with your investigations of spiritistic phenomena.”
The doctor did not appear to feel flattered. In fact, his look was rather one of boredom, as if he expected something unpleasant to grow out of this subtle blandishment. His voice, however, was quite pleasant as he replied.
“Indeed. Will you tell me how I may be of service to you?”
She looked at me, and I developed a most unnecessary feeling. I rose once more, this time firmly resolved to take my leave, but again the doctor detained me.
“Miss Van Loan,” he said, “allow me to present Mr. Evans, my friend and colleague. Like me, he is an investigator of the supernormal in psychic phenomena.”
Her acknowledgment of the introduction was accompanied by a charming smile that immediately put me at my ease.
“I have heard of your work in connection with that of Dr. Dorp,” she said. “How fortunate that I find you two together—especially as my reason for coming to see the doctor has a direct bearing on the very subject that seems to be of interest to both of you. Won’t you stay?”
I relapsed once more into my chair.
The doctor, I observed, had pricked up his ears like a hound on a hot trail. He leaned forward in his chair and pressed the tips of his fingers together—an attitude he always assumed when absorbed in a problem that was of intense interest to him.
“Miss Van Loan,” he began, “you are not by any chance a relative of my old friend and fellow worker, Gordon Van Loan?”
“I am his niece.”
“Indeed. I begin to understand your interest in spiritistic phenomena. Dense of me not to have thought of it before.”
“But, doctor, I am not interested in spiritistic phenomena.”
“Eh? Not interested? I’m afraid I don’t—”
“I have always feared and detested the very thought of meeting or communicating with the disembodied spirits.”
“Really, Miss Van Loan, you surprise me,” said the doctor. “Your uncle, up to the very time of his death, was an ardent supporter of the spiritistic hypothesis. I have had many a private debate with him on the subject.”
“I am aware of that. I, too, have argued the subject with him when it was forced on me. Until three days ago I was as firm an unbeliever as you. But now—I don’t know what to think. It seems that my uncle, even in death, has resolved to force his belief upon me.”
“You mean that he has appeared to you?”
“I’m not sure, but strange things—terrible, enervating things—have happened since I began to carry out the provisions of my uncle’s will.”
“He left his entire fortune to you, did he not?”
“Yes, but with a provision which I am afraid I won’t be able to carry out. He stipulated that I must live in his old home in Highland Park continuously for one year, and that if I should fail to do so everything would revert to my cousin, Ernest Hegel, or in the event of his failure to carry out the provision, to the Society for Psychical Research.”
“Your uncle was reputed to be quite wealthy.”
“He left something over half a million, most of which was in first mortgage real estate bonds, in addition to the home and estate, which is estimated to be worth at least a hundred thousand.”
“Quite a sizeable bequest, and, it seems to me, an ample recompense for the condition imposed with it.”
“So I thought too, until I spent a night in that awful house. It was then that I began to realize the full import of his explanation of the reasons for his unusual provision.”
“Just what was his explanation?”
“I can give you his exact words. In the last three days they have burned themselves into my very soul. He said: ‘—for when I return to prove the reality of life after death it is not unreasonable to ask the person who benefits so materially by this will to be on hand to greet me, and to receive and transmit my message of hope and good cheer to the misguided scoffers, who, by their very attitude, prevent their departed loved ones from communicating with them.’”
“Hem. And have you received the message, or something purporting to be the message?”
“Not exactly, but there have been indications of a strange and terrible presence in that house—an elusive, disembodied entity that, while not a creature of flesh and blood, exercises an uncanny power over material objects as well as living creatures.”
“I see. And the manifestations?”
“Ghostly raps, shuffling footsteps in rooms that are untenanted, overturned furniture and broken china, strange sickening odors suggestive of the dank mustiness of the tomb, lights darkened and suddenly lighted again with no evidence of switches or of fuses having been tampered with, the touch of cold hands in the dark, doors opening and closing in the dead of night, the icy breath—”
“The icy breath? What is that?”
“It is the most convincing evidence of my uncle’s presence in the house. Although the last three days and nights have been exceptionally warm, even for August, I have felt it, and the servants have felt it—a moving current of air with a dank, charnel odor, as cold as a wind from the ice-bound Arctic circle. As you are no doubt aware, my uncle was an ardent admirer of the famous Italian medium, Eusapia Palladino. One of the most baffling manifestations which she is said to have produced time and again in the presence of investigating scientists, was the icy breath—a cold breeze that appeared to come from her forehead when she was in a trance. Many scoffed, but none could explain this remarkable phenomenon. My uncle often referred to it in his lectures. He has written several papers regarding it for spiritistic publications.”
“And living creatures, you say, have been affected?”
“Yes, Sandy, my Airedale terrier, has not been himself since he entered the house. He has bristled and growled repeatedly, for no apparent reason. Although he has always been a most friendly and playful pet, he now slinks about the house like some vicious creature of the jungle, or mopes in corners, avoiding all human companionship and barely tasting food and water. This morning he snapped at my hand when I attempted to pat his head—something he has never done before. The servants, too, have seen, heard, and felt the things that have affected me, but being spiritualists, they glory in them rather than fear them. Man and wife they have worked for my uncle for the past ten years, the man acting as gardener, chauffeur and butler, the woman as cook and housekeeper.”
“And your cousin, Ernest Hegel. Is he, too, stopping with you at present?”
“No. Cousin Ernest sailed for Germany last Saturday. He is American representative for a Berlin dye and chemical manufacturer, and was sent for by his concern.”
“Then he is a German citizen?”
“His father was German, but he was born in America, hence he is an American citizen. His mother, like my father and Uncle Gordon, was American, of Holland Dutch descent. Part of his education was received at Heidelberg, and he took a postgraduate course in chemistry and bacteriology in Vienna. When the war broke out, his sympathy for the land of his father was what turned my uncle against him.”
“And consequently made you the preferred heir?”
“I think that has something to do with it, although I disagreed as thoroughly with Uncle Gordon in his pet hobby, spiritism, as Ernest did on questions of our international relations.”
“Do any of the manifestations you speak of occur in the daytime?”
“None, except the queer behavior of my dog.”
“Hem. You have stated a very interesting case, Miss Van Loan. I, for one, will be very glad to investigate the phenomena which have been troubling you.”
“And I will be glad to go, too, if you want me,” I said.
The young lady seemed pleased.
“I hope that I may have the help of both of you—and soon,” she said earnestly.
The doctor turned to me.
“How about going this evening?” he asked.
“Suits me.”
“Good. We can drive out easily in an hour. You may expect us about dusk, Miss Loan.”
“You know the address?”
“I have visited your uncle several times, and he has also been my guest here.”
“To be sure. I have heard Uncle Gordon speak of you. Goodby, until dusk—and thank you, much...”
Our drive, that evening, through the red-gold light of the waning afternoon, was both pleasant and uneventful. After a sultry day in the loop, it was refreshing to ride through the cool, tree-shaded north shore suburbs. Dr. Dorp, as was his wont when on the trail of a new mystery, was in the best of spirits—laughing and chatting gaily.
We arrived in Highland Park just at dusk, and presently turned into a narrow driveway which circled through a heavily wooded estate. At first no house was visible, but presently, as we wound through the darkest and gloomiest copse we had yet encountered, it came unexpectedly into view—an ancient brick homestead of the Dutch Colonial type, with gables that drooped despondently, and chimneys surmounted by double tiles that stood out against the background of gray sky like headless torsos with arms upraised to heaven.
As we drew up before the entrance, the noise of the doctor’s motor ceased, and from just beyond the background of trees, there came a throbbing, pulsating murmur which had not previously been audible to us, announcing the proximity of Lake Michigan.
Scarcely had we set foot on the porch, when the door opened silently and a gray haired, white jacketed man with burning gray eyes that looked out from hollow recesses in a pale, wrinkled, and cadaverous countenance, stood aside, hand on latch, for us to enter. So loathsome in appearance was this deathlike creature that I had a feeling of repugnance even at the thought of permitting him to take my hat in his bony, claw-like hands.
After disposing of our hats, he conducted us to a commodious living room, tastily furnished, where we were greeted by our charming hostess. Then he silently withdrew, closing the door after him.
Although she maintained a brave, calm demeanor, I noticed that the hand of Miss Van Loan was trembling as I took it in mine. The doctor, also, must have noticed this, for he quickly transferred his long, slim fingers to her pulse.
“Has anything happened?” he asked consulting his watch.
“Nothing yet, but I have been oppressed by a horrible feeling which I cannot explain. I have worried, too, for fear something might prevent your coming.”
“You are a very brave young woman,” he said, pocketing his watch and releasing her wrist, “but you have been under exceptionally severe nervous strain. Just now you are beginning to feel the reaction. Your heart, however, is good, and I believe another night of it can do you no permanent injury. Were this not the case, I should advise you to immediately leave this house, despite the tremendous financial stake involved.”
“But, doctor, do you think the—the presence, can be driven out in one night?”
“That is my hope. I have a theory—”
His speech was suddenly interrupted by a noisy rattling of the doorknob—the very door which the servant had silently closed a few minutes before.
“It is coming!” said the girl breathlessly, a note of terror in her voice.
The three of us watched the door silently—intently. It opened, revealing the dimly lighted hallway, in which no living creature was visible. For a moment it remained open as if someone were standing there with a hand on the knob. Then it closed with a bang.
I felt a prickly sensation in my scalp, then started from my tracks at the sound of a throaty rumble behind me.
“That is Sandy, my Airedale,” explained the girl, “hiding in the corner behind the davenport. He always growls when it comes.”
“I believe he scared me worse than _it_,” I said with a nervous laugh, sinking back on the davenport, relieved by the realization that the noise, at least, had been earthly.
“It is now in the room,” said the girl. “Don’t you feel a strange presence?”
“Not yet,” said the doctor gravely.
We waited breathlessly for the next manifestation. For several minutes the only sounds I could hear were those which drifted through the two open windows, one on each side of the fireplace—the clatter of frogs, the piping of nocturnal insects, the incessant muffled roar of the surf on the beach, and the occasional call of a night bird. Then a heavy poker, which had been leaning against the fireplace, clattered to the tiles, slid across them, and progressed with a queer jerky motion across the rug to the center of the room. It remained there for a moment, then twirled around and came straight toward me, still with the same jerky motion. When it seemed about to strike my feet I drew them up, half-expecting the thing to leap at me.
Despite this singular and, to me, inexplicable phenomenon, Dr. Dorp maintained, unruffled, his look of complete absorption. The girl, however, was manifestly alarmed.
“Be careful, Mr. Evans,” she said tensely. “I’m afraid it may hurt you.”
Somehow I did not want to appear cowardly in the eyes of this girl. The heavy poker which had performed such amazing antics now lay quiescent, and apparently quite harmless, at my feet.
Simulating a calmness which I was far from feeling, I bent over and picked the thing up. I was examining it minutely, half-expecting to find some mechanical attachment which would prove the whole thing a hoax, when it was suddenly and forcibly jerked from my grasp. It thumped to the floor, then spun half around and traveled jerkily back to the fireplace.
“What made you drop it?” asked the doctor. “Wasn’t hot, was it?”
When I told him that it had been jerked from my hands, he seemed surprised.
“Are you sure you didn’t just drop it from—ah—nervousness?”
“Positive.”
“Hem. Strange.”
We sat for several minutes without incident. Then I noticed that the lights were growing dim. I concentrated my gaze on the filaments of the reading lamp beside me. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, they were losing their incandescence.
Presently the room was in darkness, save for the dim twilight which came through the two windows. I could barely discern the figures of my two companions, blending with the shadowy outlines of the chairs in which they sat. A strange, musty odor assailed my nostrils. I felt a cold touch on the back of my hand, and automatically jerked it away. Then a breeze, icy cold, chilled me to the marrow. The dog growled ominously.
A light thud, as if some object had fallen, attracted my attention to the center of the room. Scarcely crediting the evidence of my senses, I saw a pale, luminous figure rising from the floor. The thing was irregular in outline, and swayed this way and that as if wafted by eddying air currents. Taller and taller it grew, until, when it had reached a height of nearly six feet, it bore some resemblance to a human figure shrouded in a white, filmy material.
Although my flesh crept and chills chased each other up and down my spine, I remembered that I was here to investigate this thing, and rising, forced myself to walk stealthily toward the center of the room. As I approached the grim wraith it grew taller, towering menacingly above me, and a queer, sickening odor became momentarily stronger—an odor which might have been produced by a combination of the fumes of brimstone with the offensive effluvium of putrefying flesh.
By the time I was within two feet of the thing I was nearly strangled by its horrible stench, but I had made up my mind to test its solidity at last, and stretched out my hand to touch it. The hand encountered no resistance. Moving it horizontally, I passed my hand clear through it from side to side. By this time my eyes were watering so badly from the effect of the acrid fumes that I was scarcely able to see. Then the lights flashed on, completely blinding me for a moment with their brilliance. A moment later I was able to see clearly.
A cry from Dr. Dorp aroused me.
“Quick, Evans,” he said, ”the girl has fainted. We must get her into the open air.”
He was endeavoring to lift her himself, but found her weight too much for him. Being his junior by some thirty-five years and of a rather more substantial build, I found her slight form no burden whatever.
“Open the doors, doctor,” I said. “I’ll do the rest.”
I had lifted the girl from the chair, and was turning toward the door, the doctor meanwhile advancing to open it. Before he could do so, however, the latch rattled, and the door swung open by itself. Quick as a flash, the doctor sprang out into the hall, peering this way and that.
“Nobody here,” he said. “Come on.”
I followed him down the hallway, this time close at his heels, with the girl still lying limply in my arms. He extended his hand, about to open the door which led to the front porch, when the knob turned, and this second door was opened as if by some invisible presence. Once more the doctor sprang forward, only to find the porch untenanted.
I laid the still unconscious girl in the porch swing, at the behest of the doctor, who informed me that she would regain consciousness more quickly in a reclining position.
“Now fan her with this magazine, Evans,” he instructed, handing me a copy of “_Science and Invention_” which he had taken from the porch table. He felt her pulse for a moment. “She’ll be all right in a few minutes. I’m going back to that room and have a look around. Keep fanning until she is fully revived.”
Interested as I was in the phenomena which were taking place, I was glad of this brief respite and a chance to inhale some fresh air. The girl, unconscious, was free from the sway of fear for the time being, and I knew from the reassuring manner of the doctor that she was in no danger. While I continued to ply the improvised fan I could hear the doctor, or someone, moving about the house.
Presently the girl’s eyelids fluttered, and she began talking—her words disconnected and broken like those of one in a dream.
“Saw it—saw—spirit—Uncle Gordon. Must be—be his—ghost. Saw—put arm—through it.”
Lightly I placed my hand on the smooth, cool forehead. Then she opened her eyes and looked earnestly into mine.
“What—what was I saying?” she asked, apparently quite bewildered.
“You fainted,” I replied. “Don’t worry. Everything is all right.”
“But where is Dr. Dorp?”
“Just went in the house to look around. He’ll be out in a few minutes, no doubt.”
We waited a full twenty minutes, but still the doctor did not appear. Miss Van Loan had taken one of the wicker porch chairs, assuring me that she had fully recovered. I was sitting in another. All sounds in the house had ceased, and I began to feel some apprehension for the doctor’s safety.
“Do you mind staying alone for a few minutes?” I asked. “I should like to go and see if my friend is all right.”
“I’ll go with you,” she replied, rising.
“Are you sure you are strong enough?”
“Of course. Oh, I do hope nothing happened to him. I should never forgive myself.”
We met the pale houseman in the hall.
“Where is the doctor, Riggs?” she asked.
“I don’t know, ma’am. I heard someone goin’ up the stairs a while ago. Might have been him.”
“You haven’t seen him?”
“No ma’am. I come in just now to ask if you would be a-needin’ of me any more this evenin’. I feel sort of tired like, after—”
“I know, Riggs. You haven’t had much rest for the last three nights. You may go.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
We ascended the stairs, the steps of which creaked weirdly under our weight. I could readily understand why Riggs had been able to hear them from the service quarters.
At the top was a long hallway with a door at one end, a window at the other, and two doors on either side.
Miss Van Loan opened the first door at our right, and we entered a bedroom daintily furnished in cane and ivory, with light blue hangings and spreads.
“This is my room,” she informed me. “We have four bedrooms, each with a private bath and clothes closet.”
I looked into the bath and clothes closet, but both were untenanted. Then we passed to the next room. This was furnished in burled walnut, with light green the prevailing color. No sign of the doctor here. The next room, which was just across the hall, was furnished in massive oak, with a taupe and maroon color scheme. Somehow it seemed thoroughly a man’s room.
“This belonged to Uncle Gordon,” said the girl. “It was in that bed that he died.”
I looked at the bed and somehow the gray and maroon of the bolster and spread reminded me of blood trickling over a sacrificial slab of granite. With this thought came an inexplicable feeling of horror which I could not shake off.
“It is back!” said the girl, suddenly, a note of terror in her voice.
She must have had the same feeling as I, at the same time, although nothing startling had happened—at least nothing that either of us could perceive with the aid of our five senses. The bathroom was empty, and I had started for the door of the closet, when the lights suddenly went out. Once more I was conscious of the peculiar, dusty odor I had detected in the room below. The girl shrieked. Then as if in answer to her cry, I heard a hollow groan and five distinct raps, apparently coming from the direction of the bed.
The door of the closet which I had not searched was not more than a foot from the head of the bed. I could still see it, though indistinctly, by the dim, gray light which came in through the window. Although I am not superstitious, a nameless dread assailed me at the thought of approaching nearer to that bed in which the former owner of the house had breathed his last. I hesitated, berating myself for a coward and weakling—then forced myself toward the door.
As I did so, I heard more raps, not quite so pronounced as formerly, then another moan, and sounds like those of a person gasping for breath. On reaching the door, I turned the knob, but found it locked. Then my fingers touched a key just below it. I turned this with difficulty. It seemed that either the lock was stuck, or something was resisting my efforts. Releasing the key, I once more attempted to open the door. Before I could turn the knob, however, the door again locked itself. From somewhere nearby, I heard a sound which plainly resembled the death rattle!
Once more I succeeded in unlocking the door, although the key was bent in the process. Then, holding the key with my left hand, I turned the knob with my right, and applied my shoulder to the door. Someone, or some thing, was pushing against it on the other side. At first I only succeeded in moving it a fraction of an inch. Gathering my strength for a supreme effort, I forced it wide open. As I did so, a rush of icy cold air enveloped me from head to foot. Hot and perspiring from my exertions as I was, it chilled me to the marrow. My teeth chattered, and I shivered as if I had suddenly been immersed in ice-water.
Within the closet, all was black, as no light reached it from the window. Holding one foot against the door, which was still resisting my efforts, I lighted a match. It went out almost as soon as I struck it, but I had seen enough. Beneath a mound of clothing, evidently snatched from the hooks on the wall, lay a human figure.
Stooping, I succeeded in grasping a foot and ankle. Then I dragged the body with its accompanying mound of clothing, from the closet. By this time my fingers were so numbed with cold that I could scarcely use them. I took my foot from the door, and it closed with a vicious bang.
Miss Van Loan had apparently recovered, in some measure, from her fit of terror, for she came up beside me.
“What is it? What did you find in the closet?” she whispered, peering at the shapeless thing which lay there in the dim, gray light.
Without taking time to reply, I hastily removed the pile of miscellaneous clothing from the body. Then my hand touched a cold forehead—a hairy face.
“Open the door, quickly!” I ordered. “My God, I’m afraid we have come too late.”
She promptly did as she was bidden, while I gathered the cold, still form of Dr. Dorp in my arms. Then I staggered out of the room, across the hall, down the creaking stairway, and out upon the porch, the girl following. As I laid the doctor in the swing where I had deposited the mistress of the house less than an hour before, the lights flashed on once more.
“Rouse the servants,” I said. “Telephone for a doctor. Then bring hot water, towels, blankets, hot-water bottles—and some brandy.”
While she was gone, I alternately slapped, kneaded and rubbed the cold flesh of my friend. She returned in a few minutes that seemed like hours, with two hot water bottles and an armful of towels. Behind her toddled a stout, round-faced woman in a red kimono, with a steaming kettle of water in one hand and a bottle and glass in the other.
We applied the various articles with better will than skill, and a moment later Riggs appeared in bathrobe and slippers carrying four thick woolen blankets. Another ten minutes elapsed before we succeeded in even warming the flesh of our patient.
“We haven’t any brandy, so I brought a bottle of Uncle Gordon’s whiskey,” said the girl. “Do you think we had better give him some?”
“Not yet,” I replied. “It might strangle him if he has enough life left in him to strangle.”
The rumble of a motor sounded in the driveway, and two bright headlights flashed on the porch. A coupe pulled up with shrieking brakes and a young man, carrying a small satchel, got out and dashed up the steps.
“This way, Dr. Graves,” called the girl, beckoning him to the swing where my friend lay.
“Why, it’s Dr. Dorp!” said the young physician, taking the pulse of my friend. “What happened to him?”
“Asphyxiation,” I replied, “and exposure to extreme cold.”
Dr. Graves took a stethoscope from his case and used it for a few moments.
“The doctor has sustained quite a severe shock,” he said, “but he is doing nicely now. There is nothing I can give him or do for him at this stage which will help matters. Fresh air and warmth are our best allies now.”
My friend regained consciousness five minutes later. He immediately recognized Dr. Graves, who had attended a number of his lectures before members of the medical fraternity, and had entered into discussions with him.
While the two were talking, the housekeeper went in for some hot water, lemon and sugar for a toddy. She had only been absent for a few minutes when we were all alarmed by the sound of barking and snarling within the house, punctuated by piercing screams.
Dr. Graves was the first to reach the door, where he paused. I attempted to force my way past him, but he stayed me with his arm.
“Get back, woman!” he shouted to someone within. “Get back and close the door. The creature is mad.”
At the far end of the hall, I saw the stout wife of the house man apparently rooted to the floor by horror. Just in front of her, the Airedale, growling and snarling savagely, was rapidly demolishing the upholstering of a beautiful antique settee. The hairy jaws of the creature were flecked with white foam, and the eyes were bloodshot and unnaturally luminescent from extreme dilation of the pupils.
Seeing the peril in which the poor woman was placed, I caught up one of the porch chairs and rushed past the doctor. The dog took no notice of me until I swung at it with the chair. Then it dodged with surprising dexterity and leaped for my throat, just as two of the chair legs were shattered against the floor. I managed to elude it by quickly crouching behind the chair back, so that it passed clear over my head.
It was up again in an instant, however, and I had all I could do to protect myself from its leaps by fencing with the remains of the chair. Almost before I was aware of it, the beast had backed me into the living room. Then, to my horror, the door closed, and the lights winked out.
I shall never forget the battle I fought in that dark room. That which had been a shaggy creature of flesh and bone in the light, had become a pair of burning orbs, set in a shadowy form, that leaped, snapped, and snarled in a manner which was twice as terrifying as its former attacks had been when each move was completely visible. Now I was guided only by the movements of the luminous eyes, whereas I had previously been able to forecast each hostile move or leap by the crouch or muscular tension which preceded it.
Using the chair as a shield, I eventually managed to circle back to the door. With one hand I attempted to turn the knob, while I manipulated the chair with the other. The door was locked. I immediately felt below for the key, recalling that it had been there earlier in the evening. It was gone!
My canine adversary made a determined leap that forced me to one side. Then some one pounded on the door, and I heard the voice of Dr. Graves.
“Unlock the door, Mr. Evans. I have a gun and electric torch.”
“There is no key on this side,” I replied. Then I caught a glimpse of a light flashing through the keyhole and wondered what had become of the key.
“It must have fallen to the floor on that side,” said the young doctor. “I cannot find it in the hall.”
I again succeeded in maneuvering to a position in front of the door. Then I tramped about in front of it until my shoe struck a hard object. Stooping, I picked it up, and rejoiced to find that the doctor had been right. Again using one hand to manipulate the chair, I inserted the key in the lock and managed to turn it, though with considerable difficulty.
“Turn the knob,” I shouted, “and push.”
The knob turned, and the door opened behind me. A beam of light shot past me, for a moment illuminating the hairy face and dripping fangs of the brute. Then a shot rang out, the light faded from the luminous eyes, and the beast sank slowly to the floor, blood gushing from its mouth and nostrils.
“Good shot, doctor,” I said, turning and releasing my hold on the battered chair. To my surprise I saw Miss Van Loan holding the flashlight in one hand and a smoking pistol in the other, while great tears trickled down her cheeks.
“You!” I cried.
“I was holding these while the doctor went for a ladder,” she said. “He was going to try to help you by climbing up to the window. Then I heard you call. Poor Sandy.”
“Too bad you had to kill your pet,” I replied, closing the door and relieving her of gun and torch.
“W—wasn’t it horrible?” she sobbed. “B-but I had to do it. He might have k-killed you.”
I was about to thank her for having saved my life when the young doctor suddenly came up from the basement, dragging a stepladder. Seeing us standing there in the hall, he laid it down and joined us.
“You have been rescued, I see,” he said.
“Most bravely,” I replied.
“Did the beast bite or scratch you?”
“No.”
“Are you sure? Sometimes a wound goes unnoticed in the heat of combat. Perhaps I had better look you over. I am reasonably sure the dog had hydrophobia.”
He forthwith examined me with the aid of the flashlight. I had not known it before, but my left coat sleeve was torn, and my arm was bleeding where the sharp fangs had raked it.
“Infected,” he said, “and of course I have no serum with me. Come out on the porch.”
On the porch, he made a ligature with a towel and a pair of long scissors. Then he took a bottle and some cotton from his case and drenched the wounds with silver nitrate.
“Better come to the hospital with me at once for a serum treatment,” he advised. “It may save your life.”
“But I can’t leave my friends——” I began.
“Nonsense,” interrupted Dr. Dorp, who was sitting up, although still muffled in a blanket. “Miss Van Loan and I will be all right here on the porch until you get back.”
“Of course,” said the girl. “You have put your life in sufficient jeopardy as it is, Mr. Evans.”
Thus admonished, I got into the coupe with the young doctor, and we set out for the hospital.
“Queer thing the way that door shut and locked itself,” he said, when we emerged on the smooth paving of Sheridan Road. “The key must have been half turned in the lock when the wind blew it shut. The jar locked it and shook out the key.”
Although I did not feel that his explanation of the phenomenon was a true one, I decided not to debate the matter with him, as it was evident that Miss Van Loan did not want it known among her acquaintances that there were strange goings-on in her home.
“It was odd,” I agreed.
“Too bad that the lights had to go out just when they did, too,” he went on. “A most unfortunate coincidence.”
“It was,” I said, with mental reservations.
An hour later at the hospital, my wound was dressed and a considerable quantity of serum injected into my bloodstream. Then I called a cab which got me back to my friends shortly after midnight.
I found Dr. Dorp dozing in one of the porch chairs with a blanket around him, and Miss Van Loan, completely exhausted, asleep in the swing.
“Better try to get some rest in one of these chairs,” said the doctor. “There is nothing further we can do until morning.”
I was not loath to follow his suggestion, and soon drifted into a fitful, dream-haunted slumber from which I did not thoroughly awaken until the slanting rays of the morning sun struck me full in the face.
For a moment I sat there, blinking in the bright light, trying to remember where I was. Then the sound of a low cough from the doorway caused me to turn. I beheld the cadaverous face and angular form of Riggs.
“Good morning, sir,” he said.
“Good morning, Riggs.”
“Will you have your bath hot or cold, sir?”
“The colder the better.”
“Thank you, sir.”
A few moments later I was shaving with a razor which Riggs informed me had belonged to his late master, while a sizable column of cold water roared into the tub. While I bathed and dressed, the houseman repaired the rent in my sleeve. A half-hour afterward, feeling greatly rested and refreshed, I went down to breakfast. Miss Van Loan met me in the dining room where places had been laid for two.
“Dr. Dorp left early this morning for the city,” she informed me. “He asked me to have you wait here until his return this afternoon.”
“He could not have set me a more pleasant task,” I replied, receiving my cup of coffee from the hand of my charming hostess. “Did he mention what urgent business took him to the city?”
“Something about some investigations he wished to make, and some paraphernalia he would need for tonight,” she said. “He was in a great hurry. Wouldn’t even stop for a bite of breakfast.”
“That is his way,” I replied, “when engrossed in a particularly interesting investigation. He will probably neither eat nor drink until the mystery has been solved.”
“And will that be soon?”
“I believe it will.”
“Just what is your opinion, Mr. Evans, of the things you saw last night?”
“I’m afraid,” I replied, “that my opinion at this time is not of much value. Frankly, I have been mystified. I have theories, of course, but they are, after all, only theories.”
“Do you believe it was the ghost of Uncle Gordon that we saw in the living room last night?”
“I don’t believe in ghosts.”
“Then what was it? What could have caused it? What could have caused doors to lock and unlock, to open and close without the touch of human hands? What could have caused the intense cold—the poker to creep across the floor as if it were alive? What drove my dog mad with fear?”
“The dog,” I replied, “showed symptoms of hydrophobia.”
“That is what Dr. Dorp thought, although he was not sure. He took the carcass with him, wrapped in a sheet for examination.”
“Then his opinion confirms that of Dr. Graves.”
“I don’t see how poor Sandy could have gotten it,” she said. “He hasn’t been near any other animal, and I understand he would have to be scratched or bitten by one to become infected.”
“The examination will show whether or not he had hydrophobia, and I hope he hadn’t,” I replied, “for a very personal reason. Just how he contracted it, of course, may never be known.”
“For your sake, I too hope that he didn’t have it. You are in grave danger, are you not, from that bite?”
“Not so bad as all that. A comparatively short time ago it was the equivalent of a death warrant to be bitten by a rabid animal. Modern science, however, has made death from hydrophobia a rarity when treatment is administered in time.”