while the countenances of those farther back only now and then received a casual gleam as a curl of flame darted out into the room. The light threw a shimmering luster of a ruddy hue on the dark wainscoting. The stories had a new zest, told in such an atmosphere and in the drowsy or sepulchral tones with which people talk in the firelight.
It was just the night for such tales—the very witching time of night. The wind blew and howled around the corners of the house; everything within breathed of sorcery and enchantment.
A rather oppressive pause followed a blood-curdling tale, and, to break it, I asked my grandmother to tell some of the weird stories connected with a certain Dame Walcott, who used to sit before that very fireplace a long time ago. My grandmother gladly assented. She told these tales exceedingly well for in her younger days they were often repeated in the neigheborhood round the winter evening's fire.
The main part of our house is colonial and was built by Dame Walcott's father. A portrait of the old woman, which had been in the house when my great-grand-parents took possession of it, had long since been banished to the lumber-room where it still remained.
Dame Walcott was reported to have had the supernatural power of making others perform acts in imitation of her own, and had been one of the first accused of witchcraft in the colonies. Although she was neither tried nor condemned as a witch, that Puritan of Puritans, Endicott himself, had denounced her, and she found the sentiment against her so strong that she was supposed to have preferred death to life.
They had found her body in the lumber-room. Just what had caused her death had always remained a mystery, for those were not the days when an unusual death was widely reported or active inquiry made into it. Murder could not have been committed, for the door and windows were securely fastened on the inside. There was no indication of poisoning, and the only bruises on the body were some dark spots like finger marks on her throat.
It was very late when my grandmother had finished her stories and the guests began at once to make preparations for departure. When the outside door was opened a furious blast of wind rushed in and drove whirling sleet far down the hall. To go any distance in such a storm would be almost impossible, so we urged our friends to remain until morning.
Although our house is large, our guests were many, and our sleeping accommodations were taxed to the utmost. My room had also to be given up, so I gathered some bedding together, intending to pass what remained of the night on a discarded cot in the lumber-room. I was surprised when my mother strenuously objected. She seemed worried and spoke with an agitation not quite unmixed with anger. I laughingly assured her there was nothing to fear, kissed her and bade her "Good-night."
THERE is no electric light in the lumber-room, so I lighted a small oil lamp which we keep for emergencies. When I had set this lamp on a chest in my lonely quarters, I saw before me the dingy old portrait of Dame Walcott gazing down from the canvas with an expression which seemed to mock at me as the fitful light illumined it. The little green eyes seemed to see everything I did and to watch every movement I made.
The physiognomy of the old dame had struck me more than once, just as it would anyone who liked to study human faces best for what they tell of life's experiences. Her eyes had a vague yet answering gaze, and there was a peculiar smile which age made appear like an ugly film hovering about her lips.
The picture fascinated me. The longer I studied it, the more the face seemed to take on an animated expression, as if her soul, long stifled in a cold and narrow prison, was unfolding and developing gradually into full consciousness.
I should have considerable difficulty in expressing the thoughts which passed through my mind during the scrutiny of this portrait, as I sought for a conscious ness of unity between the past and the present. Had the old dame really been a witch? Had she really lured people to death? How had she done it? Had she possessed the power of hypnotism?
I stepped back from the portrait. The lamp on the chest managed with diabolical art to cast its shadows so that at a short distance nothing could be seen but what now appeared to me a sinister face. This combined with the storm of the night, the rattle of the loose-fitting windows, and the shadows everywhere, were well prepared to fill me with a strange and creepy sensation.
Never before had I felt so lonely nor so cheerless. A sense of isolation oppressed and weighed me down. I knew that a breath of fresh air would help me throw off my depression and my morbid thoughts. I opened a window. A magnificent storm was raging.
I heard not a sound nor a sigh beside the wind which whistled shrilly through the trees with impatient haste, as though longing to escape from their gaunt and most untempting embraces. There was in it all a poetic element that stirred the very depths of my being and filled me with a sense of music and harmony, driving out for the moment, all thought of fear. I took several invigorating breaths, intending then to close the window and retire, as quickly as possible. Yet—in spite of all this inspiration and determination, my dread returned and I felt that something strange and sinister surrounded me.
A strong presentiment came over me without any visible or audible cause. Obeying an impulse, I swung round and looked, and I knew even as I turned, why I did so—there was some intruder present.
The room was large and the pieces of furniture stored there caused much of it to be in black shadow. It would have been a good place for children to play "Hide and Seek." Any one hiding in the room at night would most certainly have escaped detection, and while I was unable to see anything out of the ordinary, I knew and felt that there was a living presence in the room. It was this sense of danger that had made me turn from the window.
I listened intently, rigidly still. I could hear nothing but the raging storm and the pulsing of my blood, yet I clearly felt someone's presence.
I waited, terror-stricken. After a moment, which seemed to contain a dayful of hours so terrible was its length, I heard a faint sound. The light in most of the room was dim and uncertain, and shadows threw their obscurity between, yet I felt sure I saw something opposite me, a darker spot in the darkness.
My straining eyes soon saw the darker shadow take on shape, a figure appearing dim and unsubstantial as if it were molded of darkness and gray light. At that moment a breath of wind came through the open window, causing the light to flicker, throwing dancing shadows all around the room. A shaft of light touched the dark mass, giving it the outline of a human form.
A HUNDRED questions seemed to pass through my mind at once. Was I being made the victim of a cruel joke? Could it be a burglar—a creature of actual flesh and blood? Could it be some unearthly visitor, some specter forced back by mystic art from another world?
