We were among the
trees now, and I glanced around, nervously; but saw nothing, save the
quiet branches and trunks and the tangled bushes. Onward we went, and no
sound broke the silence, except the occasional snapping of a twig under
our feet, as we moved forward. Yet, in spite of the quietness, I had a
horrible feeling that we were not alone; and I kept so close to Tonnison
that twice I kicked his heels clumsily, though he said nothing. A
minute, and then another, and we reached the confines of the wood coming
out at last upon the bare rockiness of the countryside. Only then was I
able to shake off the haunting dread that had followed me among
the trees. Once, as we moved away, there seemed to come again a distant sound of
wailing, and I said to myself that it was the wind--yet the evening was
breathless. Presently, Tonnison began to talk. "Look you," he said with decision, "I would not spend the night in
_that_ place for all the wealth that the world holds. There is something
unholy--diabolical--about it. It came to me all in a moment, just after
you spoke. It seemed to me that the woods were full of vile
things--you know!" "Yes," I answered, and looked back toward the place; but it was hidden
from us by a rise in the ground. "There's the book," I said, and I put my hand into the satchel. "You've got it safely?" he questioned, with a sudden access of anxiety. "Yes," I replied. "Perhaps," he continued, "we shall learn something from it when we get
back to the tent. We had better hurry, too; we're a long way off still,
and I don't fancy, now, being caught out here in the dark." It was two hours later when we reached the tent; and, without delay, we
set to work to prepare a meal; for we had eaten nothing since our lunch
at midday. Supper over, we cleared the things out of the way, and lit our pipes. Then Tonnison asked me to get the manuscript out of my satchel. This I
did, and then, as we could not both read from it at the same time, he
suggested that I should read the thing out loud. "And mind," he
cautioned, knowing my propensities, "don't go skipping half the book." Yet, had he but known what it contained, he would have realized how
needless such advice was, for once at least. And there seated in the
opening of our little tent, I began the strange tale of _The House on
the Borderland_ (for such was the title of the MS.); this is told in the
following pages. _II_

THE PLAIN OF SILENCE

I am an old man. I live here in this ancient house, surrounded by huge,
unkempt gardens. The peasantry, who inhabit the wilderness beyond, say that I am mad. That is because I will have nothing to do with them. I live here alone
with my old sister, who is also my housekeeper. We keep no servants--I
hate them. I have one friend, a dog; yes, I would sooner have old Pepper
than the rest of Creation together. He, at least, understands me--and
has sense enough to leave me alone when I am in my dark moods. I have decided to start a kind of diary; it may enable me to record
some of the thoughts and feelings that I cannot express to anyone; but,
beyond this, I am anxious to make some record of the strange things that
I have heard and seen, during many years of loneliness, in this weird
old building. For a couple of centuries, this house has had a reputation, a bad one,
and, until I bought it, for more than eighty years no one had lived
here; consequently, I got the old place at a ridiculously low figure. I am not superstitious; but I have ceased to deny that things happen
in this old house--things that I cannot explain; and, therefore, I must
needs ease my mind, by writing down an account of them, to the best of
my ability; though, should this, my diary, ever be read when I am gone,
the readers will but shake their heads, and be the more convinced that
I was mad. This house, how ancient it is! though its age strikes one less,
perhaps, than the quaintness of its structure, which is curious and
fantastic to the last degree. Little curved towers and pinnacles, with
outlines suggestive of leaping flames, predominate; while the body of
the building is in the form of a circle. I have heard that there is an old story, told amongst the country
people, to the effect that the devil built the place. However, that is
as may be. True or not, I neither know nor care, save as it may have
helped to cheapen it, ere I came. I must have been here some ten years before I saw sufficient to warrant
any belief in the stories, current in the neighborhood, about this
house. It is true that I had, on at least a dozen occasions, seen,
vaguely, things that puzzled me, and, perhaps, had felt more than I had
seen. Then, as the years passed, bringing age upon me, I became often
aware of something unseen, yet unmistakably present, in the empty rooms
and corridors. Still, it was as I have said many years before I saw any
real manifestations of the so-called supernatural. It was not Halloween. If I were telling a story for amusement's sake, I
should probably place it on that night of nights; but this is a true
record of my own experiences, and I would not put pen to paper to amuse
anyone. No. It was after midnight on the morning of the twenty-first day
of January. I was sitting reading, as is often my custom, in my study. Pepper lay, sleeping, near my chair. Without warning, the flames of the two candles went low, and then
shone with a ghastly green effulgence. I looked up, quickly, and as I
did so I saw the lights sink into a dull, ruddy tint; so that the room
glowed with a strange, heavy, crimson twilight that gave the shadows
behind the chairs and tables a double depth of blackness; and wherever
the light struck, it was as though luminous blood had been splashed
over the room. Down on the floor, I heard a faint, frightened whimper, and something
pressed itself in between my two feet. It was Pepper, cowering under my
dressing gown. Pepper, usually as brave as a lion! It was this movement of the dog's, I think, that gave me the first
twinge of _real_ fear. I had been considerably startled when the lights
burnt first green and then red; but had been momentarily under the
impression that the change was due to some influx of noxious gas into
the room. Now, however, I saw that it was not so; for the candles burned
with a steady flame, and showed no signs of going out, as would have
been the case had the change been due to fumes in the atmosphere. I did not move. I felt distinctly frightened; but could think of
nothing better to do than wait. For perhaps a minute, I kept my glance
about the room, nervously. Then I noticed that the lights had commenced
to sink, very slowly; until presently they showed minute specks of red
fire, like the gleamings of rubies in the darkness. Still, I sat
watching; while a sort of dreamy indifference seemed to steal over me;
banishing altogether the fear that had begun to grip me. Away in the far end of the huge old-fashioned room, I became conscious
of a faint glow.