streaked with crimson

Chapter I

BRINGING his car to a sudden stop, Harley Manners gazed in perplexity at the crossroads which faced him. The headlights of his car cut a long misty path of light through the darkness and came to rest upon a much battered signpost, a signpost which stood at the point where six divergent roads met.

It was not a very inviting spot in which he had stopped. Deep woods, damp and lonely, stretched away in the darkness on both sides of the car, woods which flanked the road upon which his headlights were searching. It was a lonesome place, without the slightest sound to break the silence.

The tall, well-dressed young man gave a quick look at the clock upon the dashboard to notice that it stood at ten. Digging into a pocket he found his pipe and in another pocket some loose tobacco. When the pipe was going to suit him, he stepped out of the machine to the road.

That he was practically lost he knew—and gave a half chuckle as he thought of what his classes at the University would say if they heard about it. But the University would not open until fall and by then he would have forgotten the incident. However, for the time being he was troubled.

Walking a few yards down the road, he paused below the leaning signpost. Even before he glanced upward he knew it could furnish little information. The post was aged by years of exposure, the wood rotted and half worn I away. Once a finger at the top had pointed out directions; now the letters had faded until they were illegible, faded, until only a vague figure 16 could be partly distinguished.

Puzzled, he turned to study the divergent roads. North, south, east and west they ran, with another crossing at an odd angle. Just what he ought to do and just where he might be, he did not know, nor was it possible to find out from the road map back in the machine. He was not much given to temperament, but he could not help feeling a little depressed. On every side the roads vanished into dark tunnels of gloom. The fog had been increasing for the last hour, a fog which at first clung close to the ground, but was now beginning to swirl around him in a thick gray blanket of mist. In a short time driving would prove a difficult task.

Early that morning he had left the College to drive down to the shore. It had been a long, hard year, and the invitation of his friend, George Carter, to spend a month at his summer place, could not be overlooked, the more so, when he had written that John Bartley would be with him at the same time. The young professor of Abnormal Psychology had long desired to meet the wellknown criminal investigator. Crime had always been a serious study with the professor. The opportunity to meet the best-known criminal investigator in the country was something he could not pass by.

He had left his college town early in the morning. At the best he had known it would prove a long ride, and late in the afternoon he had decided to take a short cut— to leave the main highway and strike directly across the state in a straight line for the shore. And this was the result—six diverging roads, swept by a thick blinding fog, which was becoming denser every moment.

For a few moments he stood, a lonely figure in the middle of the road, thinking. To keep on in the direction in which the car was headed seemed a rather foolish thing to do. That he was fairly close to the sea there appeared to be no doubt. The fog which pressed around him held a hint of salt in its dampness. To reach the sea, the crossroad which ran away on his left might be the best route to take. Walking back to the car he pulied open the door. With a questioning look in his eyes, the big dog which had been sleeping on the seat pressed a wet nose into his hand. A second later the car was in motion.

The road he had been on for several hours had, at one time, been paved. Long since the surface had been worn away, and no attempt had been made to fill in the holes; so the dirt road he turned upon, though narrow and rutted, was in better condition than the one upon which he had been driving. But it was a very narrow road and evidently not much used. On each side, trees crept down to a fringe of high, unkempt grass, trees, which under the strong headlights became silent, ghostly sentinels of dripping moisture, short, stunted trees, with small rambling bushes as companions.

Not only was the road narrow, but every few feet it changed its direction. Winding and twisting, it curved away before him, and he saw that his headlights were having difficulty in piercing the fog, which was now causing his windshield to mist over with a thin film of dampness.

It was necessary to drive slowly. The road curved so sharply that he could make no speed. Besides, the surface was slippery, with little gleaming pools of water, which told of the rain that must have fallen only a few hours before.

It was a lonesome road. Even by day he judged it would have proved a gloomy ride, but at night—with the fog twisting among the trees and stretching away like a gray blanket before him—it was far from pleasant. And the fog was increasing; of that there was no doubt.

He stopped the machine for a moment to relight his pipe. The big dog at his side stirred to attention and pressed his nose against the glass. As though not liking what he saw, he gave a little moan and settled back in an uneasy, restless fashion on the seat.

In a few moments came the time when Manners had to creep along in low. The car was lost in the midst of a gray, damp world, a world without form or substance, which seemed to open as he moved along. The trees had long since vanished from his vision, hidden from sight by the thick curtain of mist. As for the road, he could only guess it was there. Strain his eyes as he would, he could not see more than a foot beyond his fenders, and the reflection of his headlights was caught up and thrown back in his eyes by the mist. All he could do was to creep along and trust to luck.

Manners was not an emotional man; his long years of study in psychology had shown him that emotions spring out of the fears and desires of men and women, but the drive was getting on his nerves and he wished it was over.

Just where he was he did not know and he spent no time in trying to think about it. There was no time for thought. All of his attention was needed to keep the car on the road, and he doubted if he would be able to do that very long, if the fog continued. He judged that the road must be passing through a swamp. Nothing else could explain the intensity of the mist—its sudden denseness. There came floating through the half-open window the odor of stagnant water, heavy with the close, thick scent of decay.

Barely creeping, the car lurched its way over the slippery road. At times it would start to skid, and he would hold his breath, expecting to be in the ditch. If it had not been for the fact that he was just able to make out about two feet in front of the bumpers he knew he would not be able to drive at all.

For thirty minutes the car went on its silent way; then he was forced to stop, not because the fog had grown any more dense, but because he had come to another crossroad, which ran away on his left, a twisting shaft of gray mist in the night. Climbing out of the machine, he walked over to the intersection of the roads. There was no signboard, not the slightest thing which could tell him the way he ought to take, but he decided he would keep on as he had been going. Sometime he ought to find the seacoast—that is, if he kept on.

Going back to the car, he dropped on the running board and gave a little chuckle. As he filled his pipe again, he thought of what his friends would say if they could see him; pictured the wild unholy glee of his classes if they knew of his predicament. Then he laughed. After all, it was an experience.

All his life Harley Manners had been seeking experience. Back in the college town there were many who wondered why the wealthy young intellectual should have taken up teaching as a profession, wondered more why he should have chosen abnormal psychology for a life work, could not understand why he did not do as so many of his class did—spend his money in play. Most people when they noticed Manners thought only of the wealth which had come to him at his father’s death. Few realized that the tall young man, who found life very pleasant indeed, had a reputation that was growing in scholarly circles, that already the leading men in his field were beginning to watch his work.

Experiences were nothing new to him, but as he sat on the running board of his car, he decided that the present one had its disadvantages. The gray mist swirled about him, with a dampness which penetrated his bones, and he knew he was lost.

He had always had an uncanny sense of direction. Put him down in a strange city, give him one landmark, and he had no trouble in knowing where to go. Even the twisting alleyways of the large cities of Europe had not bothered him. But he was bothered now.

In order to save a hundred miles, he had left the usual highway, and struck directly across the state. If his speedometer was right, he could not be very far from the sea at the present moment, and, for that matter, not very far from the summer place where his friend had his estate, but there was something that troubled him—that odd feeling of depression which had been with him for the last hour.

He tried to assure himself that the fog and the dampness and the silence, which seemed to enfold him, were responsible for this feeling; but, whatever was the cause, the fact remained; he was uneasy. To be nervous was something that did not happen to him often. However, he was nervous now, tensed and jumpy, as though expecting something to happen. By the uneasy whining of the dog by his side, he judged the Airedale must feel the same way.

Knocking the ashes from his pipe, he rose, but, before stepping into the car, cast a long slow glance around. There was nothing to be actually seen. The gray white blanket of mist was a curtain which his eyes could not pierce. Before the car, the headlights were circles of flame, yellow flame which flickered and danced as it tried in vain to pierce the fog. It was still; a silence broken only by the steady dropping of moisture from the near-by trees. An unhealthy sort of a silence, he thought, part of the depressing night, as if in some unknown manner he had been suddenly cut off from the rest of the world and left on this lonely road.

Despite himself he shuddered. All of his training told him that to feel as he did was absurd, but he could not help it. Something lay upon his heart, something which seemed to enfold him just as the fog pressed closely around the car, something sinister, with an evil warning of coming ill.

Throwing himself down upon wits seat, he started the engine and again began picking his way along. It was his conviction that the road could not go on forever. He must be rather close to the shore. If he found the ocean he ought not to have much difficulty in discovering the town. But the going became even worse than before. He could not see the road except for the scant two feet before his bumpers, but it had become very narrow and extremely rough, and from the way the car lurched and swayed from side to side he judged that the way was very little used. Then all at once what he had been afraid of—happened.

With a sickening skid, a sideway lurch, the car went off the side of the road and came to a stop. For over an hour he had been afraid this might happen, knew that if he did leave the road it might mean leaving the car in the ditch for the night. And now it had happened. With a groan he reached into the pocket of the car for a flashlight, then stepped down to the ground. He expected to discover that the rear wheels were in the ditch, but this did not prove to be the case. Instead, the road dropped away for perhaps a foot and that was all.

Though it took care, he had little difficulty in getting back on the road. He realized that the skid had come because he had allowed his mind to wander for a second, in a vain effort to analyze the vague feeling of unrest which had come upon him. From now on he must pay the closest attention to his driving.

Though the fog under the flame from his headlight still drifted like a gray silent ghost around his car, from what he saw as he gazed ahead, he had the impression that it was not quite so thick as it had been a few moments before. However, it was still much too dense to make driving a comfort.

The road suddenly began to curve again. For a few yards it would run straight, then sweep in a sudden curve, only to repeat the performance in the next few yards. Curve followed curve and the road became so narrow that the branches of the trees swept across the sides of the car. Then all at once he had a glimpse of a stone wall.

It was but a momentary glimpse, just observed for a second through the opaque mist. Then it was lost to sight. At the same moment he sensed that for some unknown reason the surface of the road had changed. No longer was it rutted and worn. Instead, it had become a smooth surface, over which his car glided without an effort.

Puzzled, Manners tried to pierce the mist with his glance. On each side of him, tall, gaunt figures of darkness, were large trees, and the trees bothered him. Only a moment before, whatever trees might have been along the side of the road had been so far away he could not see them; but he could see them now. The fog, which under his headlights was a diffused mass of soft flame, half hid them from sight, but he could distinguish enough to know that the car was passing between high towering trees, whose tops met far above his head.

He had glimpsed the wall for only a second—just the faintest sort of a vision as he slid by—and it had not looked like an ordinary stone wall. He might be wrong, but it was his impression that the wall had been carefully built, not of rocks just thrown together, but of stones chosen with care.

It bothered him. Long since he had cursed the moment when he had decided to take a short cut to the shore. He could picture the big living room of his friend, could see the walls lined with books, the easy chairs, thought of the drink he might be having at this very moment—things all in the future, because of his foolish idea of saving a hundred miles.

With a little shrug of his shoulders he reached with his free hand into his pocket for a cigarette, found one and lighted it. As his lighter leaped into flame, the dog be-

IO STREAKED WITH CRIMSON side him sat up to give an anzious glance ahead. Then suddenly the animal growled. It was a big dog, the largest Airedale in his city. A year before Manners had read of a breeder in Montana who had produced Airedales which weighed almost double what the ordinary dog did. When he read this he had bought a puppy in order to test out an experiment which had long been in his mind.

The experiments which Watson had made with animals had long interested him. From them had come a new psychology. The young professor had wished to discover how many words a dog could be taught to recognize. When the pup arrived, he took one look at him, called him Satin, and started to train him. Just what results his year of work with the animal had produced he was not quite certain. That the dog recognized over sixty words he knew. That the animal could think, he was not so sure. In a year the dog had put on sixty pounds. His size frightened most people, but there was no more gentle animal in existence, and it was this fact that caused Manners to give a little start when that deep growl rumbled forth at his side.

He was uneasy himself, and the feeling instead of decreasing had grown deeper. It was an odd feeling which he could not describe, which made him feel a little ashamed. He sensed that the dog felt as he did. For the last thirty minutes the animal had been uneasy— stirring restlessly upon the seat, rising at times to press his nose anxiously against the window.

For a second he took his hand off the wheel to ruffle the brown hair of the dog. Under his hand the animal nestled closer to him, then turned again to the window.

STREAKED WITH CRIMSON II

Again came the deep low growl, sinister and threatening. Outside in the night was something he did not like.

A little shiver of nervous fear swept over the professor. He dismissed it with the explanation that it was the fact that he was lost—lost and weary—which had caused it. But deep down in his mind he wondered if the dog also knew that they were lost. He realized that the animal ought not to be tired; he had slept all afternoon.

There was no doubt that the fog was thinning out. Already the thick heavy cloud of mist had given place to long gray drifting streamers of moisture, which drifted and twisted past the front of the car to vanish like a ghost among the tree tops.

He could make out the trees now. On each side of the road they stretched in ordered rows, trees planted in the dim past, which now towered high above his machine. Just as he had his first clear sight of the trees, the car came out on a great wide lawn, across which he could make out the dim, shadowy outline of a house, a large stone house, looming through the trees, a huge black mass in the darkness. The headlights of his car just touched one corner, and the gray stones were wet from the mist.

His hand shot out for the shift and the car came to a sudden stop. For a moment Manners gazed at the shadowy building. There was disgust in his heart, mingled with a bit of anger. In the fog he had left the road and driven into someone’s estate. He was still lost, more uncertain of where he might be than ever. Then he made up his mind. It was absurd to wander around as he had been doing. There must be someone in the stone building which loomed in the darkness before him. The best thing he could do would be to go to the house and find out just where he was. If he knew, there should be no question of his reaching Carter’s in a little while.

He stepped down from the machine, pushing back the whining dog as he closed the door. For a moment he stood quietly gazing around. Across his face there fell the first drops of rain. A slight breeze swept trembling through the trees. The fog was over and a storm was coming in from the sea.

The huge yard lost itself in the darkness, a yard filled with trees, around whose trunks were deep shadows of blackness. The grass was almost waist high, and the pebbled path which the headlights reflected was strewn and littered with small twigs. All was silent, save for the faint murmur of the branches far above his head.

It was a silent, lonesome place, and, he began to think, deserted. He could not make out the house very clearly, for it was but a dim uncertain outline in the darkness, just a darker shadow against the blackness of the night; but, as he gazed at it, he thought he saw a light in one of the upper rooms. It was just the slightest flicker of a light, if a light at all. One moment he had been looking at the blackness; then for a second there had been a faint illumination which lasted but the merest space of a second; then suddenly it died away. But he was certain he had seen a light, and it meant that someone lived in the house—something he had begun to doubt.

The next second he heard a sound. It was far away, a low heavy rumble, a husky warning which came trembling through the air. It died away, only to be repeated. He knew what it was. Out on the sea, a fog horn was sending forth its cry of warning. He could not be so very far from the shore after all.

His eyes swept back to the house. Again the uneasy feeling which had been with him all evening swept over him. He tried to throw it aside by assuring himself that it was just the racial fear of the dark which everyone has, that old heritage of the past when men feared darkness because it held danger. But the feeling persisted.

With a shrug of his shoulders he decided to go to the house and ask for directions. As he started away from the car the dog began a low whining and he had to stop and speak to the animal. The wet stones of the pebbled path crunched under his feet as he walked over them, and the tall grass whipped about his legs. With his eyes ever on the house, he reached the large piazza which extended around the front.

He had left his flashlight in the pocket of the car, but he knew as he walked up the three steps of the piazza that they were rotted with age. It was dark there and he had to fumble with his hand to find the door and the bell, an old-fashioned bell which he pulled out with a jerk. He heard the jingle of its peal within the hall, a sound which echoed and re-echoed through the house. Then he waited, with his body stiffened in attention; he was expecting something to take place, but what he did not know. Again he pulled the bell and again the long peal died away in silence. Turning, he glanced back to the yard. All was darkness, save for the bright headlights of his car, darkness broken by dim shadowy trees, silent but for the drip of water from the leaves and the far distant rumble of the fog horn.

Perhaps he waited five minutes before the unopened door. That he had seen a light in the upper story he felt sure. True, it had lasted but the merest space of a second, then, suddenly, vanished. However, there was no doubt in his mind that he had seen a light, and, if so, someone must be in the house. As he thought this again his hand reached for the bell, but no one answered. It came over him that no one was going to answer. Keeping” close to the side of the house he moved down the piazza to the first window; it was covered with thick, heavy boards, and so was the second window.

The house must be deserted, but as he thought of the light he had seen he wondered. ‘The windows were boarded; there had been no response to the bell; the house was empty, apparently, yet he had seen that light, a light which must have shown through an upper window. Someone had been in the place less than ten minutes ago —for that matter, must be there now.

Walking back to the door, he stood thinking. After all perhaps the best thing to do was to go back to where he had glimpsed the stone wall and follow the road he had been on. By accident his hand fell upon the door. As it rested upon the worn woodwork, the door swayed a little from the pressure of his hand, then started to swing open.

Startled, he whirled around, then carefully his hand reached for the knob and he gave a little push which caused the heavy door to swing slowly back. Not only was it unlocked, but it had been open a little. Though it was a heavy shadow in the darkness as he looked, he could even see it sway a little from the slight breeze. Bending forward he tried to peer within the hall, but his eyes could distinguish nothing. Only a dark, deep pit of blackness stretched before him, a tunnel of gloom which his eyes could not pierce. For a moment he stood trying to look within, then turned and hurried from the piazza.

Though a psychologist, Manners also was a creature of instinct. Reason told him what to do: i.e., climb back into his car, turn it around and leave the yard. But his curiosity had been aroused. The house was presumed to be deserted; one might assume that from the unkempt yard, the boarded up windows, but the door was open and he had seen a light from a window. At least he was going to have a look at the hall.

The dog tried to climb past him as he opened the door of the car and fumbled for the flashlight. He had a half idea of letting the animal loose, but gave it up. With a word to the Airedale to keep still, he hastened across the path, the flashlight clutched in his hand.

Reaching the door he stepped softly into the house, going a few feet, then pausing. The darkness was intense and there was a close musty odor in the air. Just why he did not turn on his light at first he did not know. Instead he crept forward a few feet, until he stumbled against a chair. Then all at once he thought he heard a noise. It was not much of a sound. Yet, above the whisper of the breeze in the trees outside, he thought he heard a noise, a sound which he could not place very definitely, and yet which he believed must have come from overhead. But if he had heard anything it was not repeated, and at last he pressed the button of his flashlight.

With a suddenness which dazzled him, the hall sprang into light. It was the usual long wide hallway of an old-fashioned house; a few chairs lined one side, a small hatrack stood near the door. At the end a wide winding stairway curved up to the second floor.

One thing he noticed. As his light passed over the stand, rested upon the chairs, it revealed the thick heavy dust of many years. Even the paper upon the wall, faded with age as it was, showed cobwebs and streaks of dirt. The house was unoccupied and had been for years.

Again his eyes swept down the hall. On his left were two closed doors, but on his right a door was open. As his eyes rested upon the open doorway, again that feeling of uneasiness came creeping over him. ‘There was something about the house, with its musty scent of age and thick dust which covered everything, that he did not like.

Irresolute, he half turned to go. After all the house contained nothing which could aid him in what he was seeking—information as to where he was. But though he did start to leave, yet after two steps he turned around again. The open door on the right of the hallway intrigued him. What was in the room, why this door should be open and the other two closed was after all none of his affair, but with a sudden resolution he walked down the hall and turned through the open door, stood just within the room as he began to throw the flame of his flashlight around.

It was a large room, once evidently used as a living room, but the furniture had all been taken away and the floor was without covering. Great beams ran across the ceiling; an immense fireplace stood cold and empty across the way. Once the room had been filled with voices, now it was silent, lonely and empty.

But there was one thing in the room, a silence which seemed heavy and filled with evil, a feeling of something perverse, which caused a shiver of dread and fear to sweep over Manners’ frame. He tried to dismiss it as due to the fact that he was alone in the deserted house. And then suddenly he saw he was not alone.