My awaking was equally instantaneous, and I sat bolt upright in bed
under the impression that some bright light had been flashed in my face,
though it was now absolutely pitch dark. I knew exactly where I was, in
the room which I had dreaded in dreams, but no horror that I ever felt
when asleep approached the fear that now invaded and froze my brain. Immediately after a peal of thunder crackled just above the house, but
the probability that it was only a flash of lightning which awoke me
gave no reassurance to my galloping heart. Something I knew was in the
room with me, and instinctively I put out my right hand, which was
nearest the wall, to keep it away. And my hand touched the edge of a
picture-frame hanging close to me. I sprang out of bed, upsetting the small table that stood by it, and I
heard my watch, candle, and matches clatter on to the floor. But for the
moment there was no need of light, for a blinding flash leaped out of
the clouds, and showed me that by my bed again hung the picture of Mrs
Stone. And instantly the room went into blackness again. But in that
flash I saw another thing also, namely a figure that leaned over the end
of my bed, watching me. It was dressed in some close-clinging white
garment, spotted and stained with mould, and the face was that of the
portrait. Overhead the thunder cracked and roared, and when it ceased and the
deathly stillness succeeded, I heard the rustle of movement coming
nearer me, and, more horrible yet, perceived an odour of corruption and
decay. And then a hand was laid on the side of my neck, and close beside
my ear I heard quick-taken, eager breathing. Yet I knew that this thing,
though it could be perceived by touch, by smell, by eye and by ear, was
still not of this earth, but something that had passed out of the body
and had power to make itself manifest. Then a voice, already familiar to
me, spoke. “I knew you would come to the room in the tower,” it said. “I have been
long waiting for you. At last you have come. To-night I shall feast;
before long we will feast together.”

And the quick breathing came closer to me; I could feel it on my neck. At that the terror, which I think had paralyzed me for the moment, gave
way to the wild instinct of self-preservation. I hit wildly with both
arms, kicking out at the same moment, and heard a little animal-squeal,
and something soft dropped with a thud beside me. I took a couple of
steps forward, nearly tripping up over whatever it was that lay there,
and by the merest good-luck found the handle of the door. In another
second I ran out on the landing, and had banged the door behind me. Almost at the same moment I heard a door open somewhere below, and John
Clinton, candle in hand, came running upstairs. “What is it?” he said. “I sleep just below you, and heard a noise as
if--Good heavens, there’s blood on your shoulder.”

I stood there, so he told me afterwards, swaying from side to side,
white as a sheet, with the mark on my shoulder as if a hand covered with
blood had been laid there. “It’s in there,” I said, pointing. “She, you know. The portrait is in
there, too, hanging up on the place we took it from.”

At that he laughed. “My dear fellow, this is mere nightmare,” he said. He pushed by me, and opened the door, I standing there simply inert with
terror, unable to stop him, unable to move. “Phew! What an awful smell,” he said. Then there was silence; he had passed out of my sight behind the open
door. Next moment he came out again, as white as myself, and instantly
shut it. “Yes, the portrait’s there,” he said, “and on the floor is a thing--a
thing spotted with earth, like what they bury people in. Come away,
quick, come away.”

How I got downstairs I hardly know. An awful shuddering and nausea of
the spirit rather than of the flesh had seized me, and more than once he
had to place my feet upon the steps, while every now and then he cast
glances of terror and apprehension up the stairs. But in time we came
to his dressing-room on the floor below, and there I told him what I
have here described. *       *       *       *       *

The sequel can be made short; indeed, some of my readers have perhaps
already guessed what it was, if they remember that inexplicable affair
of the churchyard at West Fawley, some eight years ago, where an attempt
was made three times to bury the body of a certain woman who had
committed suicide. On each occasion the coffin was found in the course
of a few days again protruding from the ground. After the third attempt,
in order that the thing should not be talked about, the body was buried
elsewhere in unconsecrated ground. Where it was buried was just outside
the iron gate of the garden belonging to the house where this woman had
lived. She had committed suicide in a room at the top of the tower in
that house. Her name was Julia Stone. Subsequently the body was again secretly dug up, and the coffin was
found to be full of blood. THE DUST-CLOUD


The big French windows were open on to the lawn, and, dinner being over,
two or three of the party who were staying for the week at the end of
August with the Combe-Martins had strolled out on to the terrace to look
at the sea, over which the moon, large and low, was just rising and
tracing a path of pale gold from horizon to shore, while others, less
lunar of inclination, had gone in search of bridge or billiards. Coffee
had come round immediately after dessert, and the end of dinner,
according to the delectable custom of the house, was as informal as the
end of breakfast. Every one, that is to say, remained or went away,
smoked, drank port or abstained, according to his personal tastes. Thus,
on this particular evening it so happened that Harry Combe-Martin and I
were very soon left alone in the dining-room, because we were talking
unmitigated motor “shop,” and the rest of the party (small wonder) were
bored with it, and had left us. The shop was home-shop, so to speak, for
it was almost entirely concerned with the manifold perfections of the
new six-cylinder Napier which my host in a moment of extravagance, which
he did not in the least regret, had just purchased; in which, too, he
proposed to take me over to lunch at a friend’s house near Hunstanton on
the following day. He observed with legitimate pride that an early start
would not be necessary as the distance was only eighty miles and there
were no police traps. “Queer things these big motors are,” he said, relapsing into
generalities as we rose to go. “Often I can scarcely believe that my new
car is merely a machine. It seems to me to possess an independent life
of its own. It is really much more like a thoroughbred with a
wonderfully fine mouth.”

“And the moods of a thoroughbred?” I asked. “No; it’s got an excellent temper, I’m glad to say. It doesn’t mind
being checked, or even stopped, when it’s going its best. Some of these
big cars can’t stand that.