A desperate effort was in me to say the strong, sensible thing which
should destroy the oppressive horror that grew so stiflingly about us
both, but again the mirror drew the attempted smile into the merest
grin, betraying the distortion that was everywhere in the place. "You mean," I stammered beneath my breath, "that her faith has gone, but
that the terror has remained?" I asked it, dully groping. I moved out of
the line of the reflection in the glass. She bowed her head as though beneath a weight; her skin was the pallor
of grey ashes. "You mean," I said louder, "that she has lost her--mind?" "She is terror incarnate," was the whispered answer. "Mabel has lost her
soul. Her soul is--there!" She pointed horribly below. "She is seeking
it ...?" The word "soul" stung me into something of my normal self again. "But her terror, poor thing, is not--cannot be--transferable to us!" I
exclaimed more vehemently. "It certainly is not convertible into
feelings, sights and--even sounds!" She interrupted me quickly, almost impatiently, speaking with that
conviction by which she conquered me so easily that night. "It is her terror that revived 'the Others.' It has brought her into
touch with them. They are loose and driving after her. Her efforts at
resistance have given them also hope--that escape, after all, is
possible. Day and night they strive. "Escape! Others!" The anger fast rising in me dropped of its own accord
at the moment of birth. It shrank into a shuddering beyond my control. In that moment, I think, I would have believed in the possibility of
anything and everything she might tell me. To argue or contradict seemed
equally futile. "His strong belief, as also the beliefs of others who have preceded
him," she replied, so sure of herself that I actually turned to look
over my shoulder, "have left their shadow like a thick deposit over the
house and grounds. To them, poor souls imprisoned by thought, it was
hopeless as granite walls--until her resistance, her effort to dissipate
it--let in light. Now, in their thousands, they are flocking to this
little light, seeking escape. Her own escape, don't you see, may release
them all!" It took my breath away. Had his predecessors, former occupants of this
house, also preached damnation of all the world but their own exclusive
sect? Was this the explanation of her obscure talk of "layers," each
striving against the other for domination? And if men are spirits, and
these spirits survive, could strong Thought thus determine their
condition even afterwards? So many questions flooded into me that I selected no one of them, but
stared in uncomfortable silence, bewildered, out of my depth, and
acutely, painfully distressed. There was so odd a mixture of possible
truth and incredible, unacceptable explanation in it all; so much
confirmed, yet so much left darker than before. What she said did,
indeed, offer a quasi-interpretation of my own series of abominable
sensations--strife, agony, pity, hate, escape--but so far-fetched that
only the deep conviction in her voice and attitude made it tolerable for
a second even. I found myself in a curious state of mind. I could
neither think clearly nor say a word to refute her amazing statements,
whispered there beside me in the shivering hours of the early morning
with only a wall between ourselves and--Mabel. Close behind her words I
remember this singular thing, however--that an atmosphere as of the
Inquisition seemed to rise and stir about the room, beating awful wings
of black above my head. Abruptly, then, a moment's common sense returned to me. I faced her. "And the Noise?" I said aloud, more firmly, "the roar of the closing
doors? We have all heard that! Is that subjective too?" Frances looked sideways about her in a queer fashion that made my flesh
creep again. I spoke brusquely, almost angrily. I repeated the question,
and waited with anxiety for her reply. "What noise?" she asked, with the frank expression of an innocent child. "What closing doors?" But her face turned from grey to white, and I saw that drops of
perspiration glistened on her forehead. She caught at the back of a
chair to steady herself, then glanced about her again with that sidelong
look that made my blood run cold. I understood suddenly then. She did
not take in what I said. I knew now. She was listening--for something
else. And the discovery revived in me a far stronger emotion than any mere
desire for immediate explanation. Not only did I not insist upon an
answer, but I was actually terrified lest she would answer. More, I felt
in me a terror lest I should be moved to describe my own experiences
below-stairs, thus increasing their reality and so the reality of all. She might even explain them too! Still listening intently, she raised her head and looked me in the eyes. Her lips opened to speak. The words came to me from a great distance, it
seemed, and her voice had a sound like a stone that drops into a deep
well, its fate though hidden, known. "We are in it with her, too, Bill. We are in it with her. Our
interpretations vary--because we are--in parts of it only. Mabel is in
it--all." The desire for violence came over me. If only she would say a definite
thing in plain King's English! If only I could find it in me to give
utterance to what shouted so loud within me! If only--the same old cry--
something would happen! For all this elliptic talk that dazed my mind
left obscurity everywhere. Her atrocious meaning, nonetheless, flashed
through me, though vanishing before it wholly divulged itself. It brought a certain reaction with it. I found my tongue. Whether I
actually believed what I said is more than I can swear to; that it
seemed to me wise at the moment is all I remember. My mind was in a
state of obscure perception less than that of normal consciousness. "Yes, Frances, I believe that what you say is the truth, and that we are
in it with her"--I meant to say I with loud, hostile emphasis, but
instead I whispered it lest she should hear the trembling of my voice--
"and for that reason, my dear sister, we leave tomorrow, you and I--
today, rather, since it is long past midnight--we leave this house of
the damned. We go back to London." Frances looked up, her face distraught almost beyond recognition. But it
was not my words that caused the tumult in her heart. It was a sound--
the sound she had been listening for--so faint I barely caught it
myself, and had she not pointed I could never have known the direction
whence it came. Small and terrible it rose again in the stillness of the
night, the sound of gnashing teeth. And behind it came another--the
tread of stealthy footsteps. Both were just outside the door. The room swung round me for a second. My first instinct to prevent my
sister going out--she had dashed past me frantically to the door--gave
place to another when I saw the expression in her eyes. I followed her
lead instead; it was surer than my own.