Striding forward, he thrust it almost into the twisted face of the
leaping monstrosity which had once been the ravishing Lady Susan
Glanville. The creature reeled back with an agonized scream which drowned out
the cries of the Earl. It cowered on the bench, abruptly silent and
motionless, only the pulsating of its wizened mouth and the fires of
hatred in its red eyes giving evidence that it still lived. William Cowath addressed it grimly. "Creature of hell! If ye leave that
bench 'ere we quit this room and seal it once again, I swear that I
shall hold this cross against ye!" The thing's red eyes watched the Factor with an expression of abysmal
hatred which no combination of mere letters could convey. They actually
appeared to glow with fire. And yet I read in them something else--fear. I suddenly became aware that silence had descended on that room of the
damned. It lasted only a few moments. The Earl had finally stopped
screaming, but now came something worse. He began to laugh. It was only a low chuckle, but it was somehow worse than all his
screams. It went on and on, softly, mindlessly. The Factor turned, beckoning me toward the partially demolished wall. Crossing the room, I climbed out. Behind me the Factor led the young
Earl, who shuffled like an old man, chuckling to himself. There was then what seemed an interminable interval, during which the
Factor carried back a sack of mortar and a keg of water which he had
previously left somewhere in the tunnel. Working by torchlight, he
prepared the cement and proceeded to seal up the chamber, using the
same stones which he had displaced. While the Factor labored, the young Earl sat motionless in the tunnel,
chuckling softly. There was silence from within. Once, only, I heard the thing's fetters
clank against the stone. At last the Factor finished and led us back through those nitre-stained
passageways and up the icy stairs. The Earl could scarcely ascend; with
difficulty the Factor supported him from step to step. Back in his tapestry-panelled chamber, Earl Frederick sat on his canopy
bed and stared at the floor, laughing quietly. Pompous medical tomes
to the contrary, I noticed that his black hair had actually turned
grey. After persuading him to drink a glass of liquid which I had no
doubt contained a heavy dose of sedation, the Factor managed to get him
stretched out on the bed. William Cowath then led me to a nearby bed chamber. My impulse was to
rush from that hellish pile without delay, but the storm still raged
and I was by no means sure I could find my way back to the village
without a guide. The Factor shook his head sadly. "I fear his Lordship is doomed to an
early death. He was never strong and tonight's events may have deranged
his mind--may have weakened him beyond hope of recovery." I expressed my sympathy and horror. The Factor's cold blue eyes held
my own. "It may be," he said, "that in the event of the young Earl's
death, you yourself might be considered...." He hesitated. "Might be
considered," he finally concluded, "as one somewhat in the line of
succession." I wanted to hear no more. I gave him a curt goodnight, bolted the door
after him and tried--quite unsuccessfully--to salvage a few minutes'
sleep. But sleep would not come. I had feverish visions of that red-eyed thing
in the sealed chamber escaping its fetters, breaking through the wall
and crawling up those icy, slime-covered stairs. Even before dawn I softly unbolted my door and like a marauding thief
crept shivering through the cold passageways and the great deserted
hall of the castle. Crossing the cobbled courtyards and the black moat,
I scrambled down the incline toward the village. Long before noon I was well on my way to London. Luck was with me; the
next day I was on a liner bound for the Atlantic run. I shall never return to England. I intend always to keep Chilton Castle
and its permanent occupant at least an ocean away. THE MIDNIGHT BUS


Old Mrs. Twining was telling a story about imported marmalade for the
third time that evening when Martha glanced at her watch. "O my goodness!" she exclaimed, "I really must be off! If I don't
hurry, I'll miss the last bus!" Assuring her elderly hostess that she had had a most enjoyable evening,
she wriggled into her coat, scurried into the vestibule and was soon
off the veranda steps and down the garden walk. Mrs. Twining was an old dear--but she _was_ tedious at times, Martha
thought as she swung open the gate and stepped onto the sidewalk. Goodness! Here it was almost midnight and Mrs. Twining was going on
about marmalade for the third time! Lucky she'd looked at her watch. She had rushed out in such a hurry, she was well down the walk before
she noticed the fog. Rising from the nearby river, it was thickening in
the empty streets. The lights looked dim and faraway; the whole suburb
seemed muffled and silent. Shivering a little, Martha reached the bus stop and sat down on the
cold bench. Glancing along the street, she saw that it was quite empty. The river fog was swirling in rapidly and now even the trunks of trees
were becoming blurred and half-shadowy. It was too bad, Martha thought, that people had to become old. Old and
lonely and hungry for talk. Leading such dreary, uneventful lives that
a little thing like imported marmalade assumed vast importance. She hadn't been out to see old Mrs. Twining for over a year and the
poor dear would have kept on talking till morning if Martha hadn't
broken away to catch the midnight bus back to town. Martha sighed, drawing her coat a little closer. She _did_ wish the
bus would hurry along. The bench began to feel like a carved slab of
ice and the fog was getting so thick she could scarcely see across the
street. It was just after twelve by her watch when she saw a faint light
flicker through the fog. It was a very feeble light and it approached
with maddening deliberation. It appeared to just creep along, as if the
driver of the vehicle were groping his way down a totally unfamiliar
route. When the bus stopped in front of the bench, she saw that one of its
headlights was quite dead. And the other did not look very bright. As she stepped up into the bus and dropped her coin, she intended
telling the driver about the single headlight. But she didn't. The
driver thrust a ticket at her without turning his head and for some
reason which she didn't at the moment grasp, her impulse to speak
vanished. She walked back to the middle of the bus and sat down. The bus rolled
forward again. Glancing out, she could see nothing but fog. It pressed
against the windows like a white wall; it even seemed to be seeping
into the bus. The seat felt as cold as the bench back at the curb stop. For some reason she kept looking at the driver. Perhaps because there
wasn't much else to look at. About all she could see of him was his
back.