Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 271 - House of Ghosts

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HOUSE OF GHOSTS
by Maxwell Grant
As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," September 1943.
Stanbridge Manor was haunted - but whether by real ghosts or by humans
was
the question, and The Shadow had the aid of Joe Dunninger, world's greatest
"ghost-breaker," in this battle against supernatural crime.
CHAPTER I
GHOST MANSION
CROUCHED like a monster awaiting human prey, Stanbridge Manor loomed
ominously in the gathering night. The tower above the two-story mansion gave
the
effect of a watching head, while the wings of the wide-sprawled building had
the
look of mammoth arms, ready to close upon wayfarers with a deadly embrace.
On the slope that fronted the manor stood a wide stone gateway, yawning a
welcome to hapless visitors. The Stygian gloom of that cavity defeated its
greeting, at least by night. As a rule, cars that came along the hill road
shied
from those gates like frightened things.
There was good reason to shun Stanbridge Manor. It was known as a house
of
ghosts.
The place was a proper haunt for spirits of the dead. Not only did the
giant trees behind the mansion form a weaving background of weird fantastic
figures; beneath those trees dwelt the dead themselves. They were the members
of
the Stanbridge family, generations of them, interred in the graves of their
own
private cemetery. In that graveyard, a presiding figure among the congress of
tombstones stood the whitened bulk of a mausoleum, which served as a temporary
shelter for each new addition to the Stanbridge list of dead.
Forbidding as the mansion was to strangers, the mausoleum was equally so
to
dwellers in the house. For there were members of the Stanbridge clan still
living in the mansion, amid an atmosphere of whispering ghosts that constantly
reminded them of their awaiting fate.
As the fortunes of the Stanbridge family had shrunk, so had the size of
the
grounds surrounding the manor. In recent years, the great iron fence that
formed
the boundary had been shortened and its remnants sold for junk. No longer did
the Stanbridge estate include the home of Wiggam, the old caretaker. It was
well
outside the fence, still standing only because Wiggam himself had bought it
with
his life's savings. Other houses had been built along the rising slope on
ground
that once was Stanbridge property, but they had stopped just short of Wiggam's
cottage.
Wiggam's place was the final landmark. After that came the gates through
which only Stanbridges passed, except for Wiggam and Dr. Torrance, who was
still
the Stanbridge family physician despite his more taxing duties as county
coroner.
TONIGHT, a car was climbing the old road. From the confident way it nosed
along, the car obviously belonged to Dr. Torrance. As it veered into the
gateway, its sudden stop was not due to any fright on the physician's part.
True, Torrance had sighted a figure on the driveway ahead, but he knew it
wasn't
any ghost.
It was only Wiggam, the faithful caretaker, paying his evening visit to
the
family that he still served, though he was no longer on the Stanbridge
payroll.
Though it wasn't far up to the house, Wiggam accepted Torrance's
invitation
to ride with him. They sat together in the car, two gray haired men whose
resemblance ended with that feature. Torrance was rugged, his eyes showing
sharply through their glasses, a man whose vitality belied his years. Wiggam
on
the contrary looked tired, his face consisting chiefly of droops. Not worry,
but
disappointment had aged the old retainer, a thing which Torrance knew.
"How are things at the manor, Wiggam?" Torrance put the query in a cheery
tone. "Has Roger brightened the family since he returned?"
"He should have, sir," replied Wiggam, seriously, "but I'm afraid the
ghosts have been too much for him."
"Those ghosts!" Torrance gave a snort as he swung around the final turn
in
the driveway. "They're all right for Gustave and Jennifer who have lived here
too long for their own good. But they shouldn't bother Roger."
"I'm afraid they do, sir -"
"I know. Roger said so himself. That's why I promised to drop in this
evening. I simply want to assure him that strange things do not happen around
Stanbridge Manor."
As Torrance spoke, a strange thing did occur. Under the shelter of the
porte-cochere, the doctor was turning off the headlights. From the blackness
past the wing of Stanbridge Manor, those lights blinked back, first one and
then
the other, like shining eyes from the night.
Noting the phenomenon, Wiggam clutched the physician's arm and whispered
hoarsely:
"Those glimmers, sir! Did you see them?"
"Nothing but reflections," scoffed Torrance. "My eyes are sharper than
yours, Wiggam. Come, come, man! You are more nervous than Roger was, when he
called at my office this afternoon!"
Dim was the glow from the deep windows of the mansion as Torrance and
Wiggam ascended the front steps. Giving a loud knock, Torrance opened the door
without ceremony and stepped into the house, with Wiggam close behind him.
They
came directly into a great hall that served as a living room. Leading from the
hall were arched doorways into other rooms and passages, while at the right, a
large staircase curved its way up to the second floor.
THREE people were seated at the large fireplace situated on the left. One
was Gustave Stanbridge, present owner of the decadent manor, a man whose once
florid face had lost all color and whose hair had thinned to slender streaks.
Opposite Gustave was his sister Jennifer, whose high-bridge nose and wide
eyes marked her as a Stanbridge. She was older than Gustave, who was not past
middle age, yet the woman looked younger than her brother. Not only did her
face
still show its color; her eyes were alive, whereas the man's were as dull as
those of a death mask.
Third in the group was Roger Stanbridge, the recent arrival in the
homestead. He was in his thirties, a handsome man, whose aristocratic features
were offset by his friendly smile. Along with the Stanbridge nose, Roger owned
a
large shock of hair and his face had the fullness that Gustave's lacked.
Perhaps
it was the sight of Gustave that worried Roger, on the basis that he might
some
day come to resemble his shrunken elder brother.
It was Roger who arose and extended his hand to Torrance. The greeting
was
warm, yet the doctor noted that the hand itself was icy.
"I'm glad you came, doctor," said Roger. "You see -"
"You see nothing!" interrupted Jennifer in a sharp, but low-pitched tone.
"In this house you only hear. The dead have not yet chosen to speak, though
they
give their messages to me!"
Ending with a stabbing laugh, Jennifer gestured to an instrument on the
low
table before her. The object was like a tiny table itself, a heart-shaped
contrivance mounted on three small wheels. From its center, a pencil pointed
downward to a sheet of paper that bore numerous scrawls. On one side were
blank
sheets, on the other a small stack of papers inscribed with scribbles.
"Yes, I've been hearing things," admitted Roger. "Footsteps upstairs and
in
the kitchen. Whispers through the doorways. Gustave noticed them, too, but
won't
admit he heard them. As for Jennifer, she claims she hears everything, but all
the while she's been busy with that ouija board of hers."
Jennifer inserted a scoffing laugh.
"Ouija board!" The woman's voice was contemptuous. "Such things are for
children. It is silly to push a pointer from one letter to another and have it
spell out messages. This is a planchette."
She pointed to the heart-shaped thing. With an obliging nod, Dr. Torrance
went over and placed his hands on one side of the roller device, while
Jennifer
pressed the other. The little stand began to twist between them, its pencil
making new scribbles.
"You see, Jennifer?" Torrance raised his hands with a depreciating
gesture.
"Only scrawls, nothing more. The planchette does not work with me."
"Because you are not psychic," snapped Jennifer. "Alone, I have received
messages all evening. Messages from Donald."
Setting her eyes in a hard glare, Jennifer turned them directly upon
Gustave, who shifted uneasily in his chair. Catching Torrance's glance,
Gustave
sprang to his feet and raised two scrawny hands, both clenched.
"As Heaven is my witness, doctor!" Gustave's voice rose to a scream. "I
had
nothing to do with Donald's death! I respected him as my older brother -"
"And you envied him," inserted Jennifer with her sharp cackle, "because
he
owned this mansion. Donald died because you wanted him to do so. He told me
that, again tonight."
Waving the written papers from beside the planchette, Jennifer thrust
them
close to Gustave's face. Savagely, the dull-faced man snatched the papers and
threw them in the fire. Instead of duplicating her brother's rage, Jennifer
turned with a pleased chuckle as though she had won another argument.
SILENCE followed as Jennifer stalked across the frayed carpet and entered
an arched passage under the stairs. Her footsteps sounded on the bare floor
and
dwindled into the hollow depths of the house. Gustave gave a troubled groan.
"She's going to get her cape," said Gustave. "She'll be back to tell us
that she intends to visit Donald's grave. She goes there every night and
always
she looks for the figure in the tower. The figure that means death!"
"Easy, Gustave," soothed Roger. "Jennifer hasn't seen the figure yet.
She's
only heard things."
"And so have we!" blurted Gustave. "Yes, Roger, I'll admit it! I've heard
those footsteps, too. Listen -"
Pausing dramatically, Gustave pointed upward. From somewhere on the
second
floor came creaks that were distinctly footsteps. Quickly, Dr. Torrance
crossed
the hall and looked along the passage that Jennifer had followed. He rubbed
his
head, puzzled, for it wasn't the direction to the back stairs, the only way by
which Jennifer could have reached the second floor.
Footsteps ceased upstairs. They were followed by a more startling
manifestation. Down from the second floor came a clatter of flying objects;
rusted nails that bombarded the steps of the front stairway. Some scattered
through the open banister, striking Torrance's shoulder as he turned to
witness
peppering objects which were so numerous they must have formed a huge fistful.
Starting toward the staircase, Roger Stanbridge halted, his face drawn
like
Gustave's. It was apparent that Roger must have witnessed similar
manifestations
recently and was hesitant about going upstairs. So Torrance rounded the bottom
of the staircase and dashed to the second floor, with Wiggam following him.
They found the upper hallway deserted. Torrance gave a suspicious glance
along a passage that led above the distant kitchen; then, bluffly, the
physician
called down to Roger:
"Where is Hector?"
Torrance was referring to the one remaining servant in the Stanbridge
household. Roger gave a weary headshake.
"Hector has gone to bed," he said. "He always retires early, dog-tired
after a full day's work. No, doctor, it wasn't Hector who threw those things."
Still suspicious, Torrance surveyed the upper passage. To Wiggam, he
remarked that Hector couldn't possibly have fled back to his room in time to
avoid observation, a thing with which Wiggam quite agreed. Then, noting the
doorway of the back stairs, Torrance had another idea.
"Hector could have slipped down to the kitchen!" exclaimed the physician.
"Go down there and find him, Wiggam!"
Wiggam hesitated as though torn between dread of ghosts and fear of
offending Hector. With a return of nonchalance, Roger lighted a cigarette and
called up from below:
"I'll go around through the dining room and see if Hector is in the
kitchen -"
At that moment, a terrific clatter intervened. It came from the kitchen,
the crash of smashing chinaware hurled in heavy style. Waving to Wiggam, Dr.
Torrance rushed to the back stairs and started down, while Roger, his boldness
returned, made a dash around through the dining room. Seeing Wiggam go with
Torrance, Gustave followed Roger.
The four men arrived in the kitchen, to stare aghast at a mass of ruined
crockery that had tumbled from a table beside the sink, along with a
candlestick
that Hector used when washing dishes, which he hadn't done tonight.
Except for the smashed chinaware, the kitchen was empty!
"Listen!" Gustave's face was ashen, his voice frantic as he clutched
Roger's arm. "Do you hear it?"
From the outside distance came a prolonged shriek, as eerie as a
banshee's
wail. As the sound trailed, Jennifer's cackling laugh intervened from the
kitchen doorway.
"Only the evening train, Gustave," spoke Jennifer. "Stopping at Willow
Glen, as it did the night when Donald died!"
"The night after Donald died," corrected Gustave in a wavering tone. "It
was bringing the specialist from New York. He arrived too late to help poor
Donald."
Throwing back her dark gray cape, Jennifer crossed her arms. Her voice
tuned to the fading whistle, she declared:
"Donald will know which of us is right. I shall ask him to write his
answer
on the planchette!"
As Jennifer turned to go back to the great hall, Gustave followed,
pleading
vainly for his sister to believe him. Three people remained in the kitchen,
staring at one another above the wreckage of smashed dishes and broken
candles.
Dr. Torrance, man of fact, and Wiggam, the loyal family retainer, could
understand, each by his own light, why Roger Stanbridge was willing to declare
that the ghosts of the manor were real!
CHAPTER II
TRAIL IN THE NIGHT
THE trail of a whistle.
Like the occupants of Stanbridge Manor, The Shadow heard that same long
blare, as he sat in a parked car stopped by a crossroads where a sign pointed
to
the town of Coledale.
So far The Shadow had never heard of Stanbridge Manor, once the pride of
Coledale. He was interested chiefly in checking the direction from which the
whistle came, for by his calculations it indicated that the train must have
stopped at some way station before reaching Coledale. So The Shadow added a
timetable to the items that were lying on the seat beside him.
In a car illuminated only by a dashlight, The Shadow was invisible, as
well
he might be, considering that he was attired in his favorite regalia,
consisting
of a black cloak and a slouch hat. As for the objects on the seat beside him,
they fully explained why The Shadow was in this vicinity.
The first exhibits were clippings and photographs. One batch concerned a
sly-looking gentleman named Harvey Crispin, wanted for embezzlement of thirty
thousand dollars from the funds of an insurance company. Next in order was
Wallace Freer, a smug-faced individual who had turned the same trick on the
wholesale diamond house for which he worked, the chief difference being that
Freer had bettered Crispin's grab by about twenty thousand dollars.
On a road map beside The Shadow was a red line marking Crispin's trail.
It
stopped at a town not many miles from Coledale. A blue line traced the travels
of Freer and it likewise ended in a nearby town. The inference was that both
embezzlers were somewhere in this general neighborhood.
Ordinarily The Shadow would have left such cases to the law. There was an
important reason why he considered them of unusual consequence. That reason
was
Carl Dorthan.
As an embezzler, Dorthan outmatched Crispin and Freer combined. In one
blow, Dorthan had acquired a hundred thousand dollars from the bank where he
worked; at least he had accumulated that sum by steadily favoring himself in
the
books. A few days ago, Dorthan had left the bank. Found there was a dead
watchman; lost were the funds that Dorthan had appropriated.
The blame was on a teller named Goodwin, though the fault lay in
Dorthan's
books. The last man seen to leave the bank was Goodwin. In fact, he was the
only
man who seemingly could have slain the watchman; though he stoutly denied it.
The only way to prove Goodwin's innocence was to find Dorthan.
Some people considered the quest impossible. They believed that Dorthan
had
been murdered like the watchman, his books falsified to place the blame upon
him. But The Shadow did not hold that theory.
Looking up at The Shadow was a photograph of Carl Dorthan. It showed him
as
a sleek, handsome individual, whose eyes, even in the picture, had a natural
shift. Their fixed stare was an acquired sort, like the slight but confident
smile on Dorthan's lips. In short, Carl Dorthan was a man who tried to look
too
honest and even posed for photographs to back the false claim. The Shadow had
long since learned to detect those symptoms the moment he observed them.
THE timetable listed a station called Willow Glen, a few miles short of
Coledale. It was marked as a flag stop, but so were many of the other stations
on this line. The Shadow decided to detour by the Glen on the chance that
Dorthan had left the train at that station. If the embezzler had gone on to
Coledale, he would be likely to stop at the local hotel, where his trail could
be picked up later. So Willow Glen was temporarily of more importance.
By the road map, The Shadow picked the only route that led to Willow
Glen.
It was a drive of a few miles over a dirt road. Reaching the turn that led to
the station, The Shadow turned off the headlights and coasted the car down the
final slope. There was brilliant moonlight, temporarily clear of passing
clouds
and the glow showed The Shadow a perfect path.
Yet the car itself was obscured as it glided between the banks of trees
that skirted the moonlit road and the sudden arrival of a cloud favored the
finish of The Shadow's coast. As if timed to the exact second, the scene went
dark, just as the cloaked driver veered the car in beside a structure that
would
have been mistaken for anything but a railroad station, except for the track
that ran beside it.
Soon a flashlight began to glimmer around the boxlike station. The place
was nothing but a tiny waiting room, lacking even a stove for cold weather.
The
platform beside the single track was only a path of cinders mixed with gravel.
Why there was even a station at Willow Glen remained unexplained until The
Shadow crossed the track and turned his flashlight on a sign that was nailed
against a tree.
The sign pointed to Willow Glen and stated that picnics were permitted.
This wasn't the season for picnics, hence it was odd that the train had
stopped.
It couldn't have picked up a picnic party, so it was likely that the train had
let off a passenger instead. Such a person couldn't have come along the road
or
The Shadow would have seen him. That left only the path to the Glen, so The
Shadow followed it.
Along the path there was no moonlight, even when the clouds went by,
because the route went through a deep ravine, rimmed with many trees. Whenever
The Shadow's tiny flashlight blinked, it confined itself to the hard dry path
above the bank of the tiny stream that tumbled through the ravine.
Instead of looking for footprints, which weren't likely to show, The
Shadow
kept watching well ahead, hoping to spot a light less guarded than his own.
Though he saw no glimmers, he kept along his quest, on the chance that a man
ahead had gained sufficient start to be beyond sight in the turns of the
ravine.
Swift, silent were The Shadow's strides along the obscure path. Only once
did he pause; that was when a faint clatter sounded briefly from farther up
the
path. Continuing his way, The Shadow came upon a rustic bridge where the path
crossed the cascading brook. Though his own tread was silent, The Shadow
recognized that previous footfalls could have caused the boards in the old
bridge to rattle.
Evidence at last that someone was following the path ahead. Why a man
like
Carl Dorthan should have chosen such a place as Willow Glen for this secret
visit, seemed plausible only on the basis that the embezzler intended to bury
his money here. Yet that theory had flaws, considering how many more
convenient
spots Dorthan might have chosen. Rather it would seem that Dorthan was
thinking
of his own security as much as that of the funds he had embezzled.
When moonlight suddenly showed a wide opening in the ravine, The Shadow
did
not take it for granted that Dorthan had continued on to the space which
formed
the Glen. Still obscured in the darkness of the narrows, The Shadow looked for
other landmarks and saw one.
Just short of the Glen was a rocky crag that towered above the defile, a
monument left bare by winds and rains that had washed away the surrounding
soil.
Up to the crag were other steps of stone, each a dozen feet high, more like a
succession of petrified waterfalls than a giant's staircase.
The knob at the top formed a protuberance above the highest step and the
hollow beneath that inaccessible crag could have some merit as a hiding place
if
there was any way to reach it. The Shadow was looking toward the high cliff
when
he heard trickling sounds that ended with an abbreviated clatter, not from the
face of rock, but from the slope beside it.
The man ahead had not continued to the Glen. He had turned off by a side
path, going up beside the cliff. Close to the ground, The Shadow's flashlight
probed for the path in question and revealed the dry bed of a stony
watercourse,
coming from the direction of the sounds.
This was the path the fugitive had taken. He was following a steep but
tiny
gully that in rainy weather served to drain the heights above the Glen. Loose
stones, farther up the improvised path, had given under the climber's feet to
produce the sounds The Shadow heard.
SWIFTLY, The Shadow took the same route, keeping the flashlight in his
cloak folds as he picked the path. He was gaining as he made the climb, for he
could afford to do so. The man ahead would assume that any stones clattering
down below were some that he himself had loosened. Hence The Shadow was
shortening the distance between himself and the man who must be Dorthan.
Near the brow of the ravine, the path veered toward the crag. Pausing,
The
Shadow noted an iron post set in the ground and gripped it while he watched
ahead. The post proved to be the end of a long, high picket fence that reared
above the brow and continued along the higher ground.
It was the new dividing line of the grounds around Stanbridge Manor. It
happened that the old family cemetery extended back toward the ravine, though
there was a space between the graveyard and the brink. Tree boughs formed a
high
network beyond the top of the ravine, but the mansion was not visible from the
sloping fence end.
What The Shadow did see was a figure pausing briefly against the gray,
ghostly bulk of the crag. The man was looking for a path away from the ravine
and in his hand he was clutching a sizable satchel. He was a muffled man, his
hat drawn well down above his eyes; as The Shadow watched, the man
straightened
from a stoopish posture and hurried in the direction of the hidden manor.
It was undoubtedly Carl Dorthan. His manner, not his face, had given him
away. In changing posture, he was becoming himself again, after a trip during
which he had done his utmost to conceal his real identity. Add to that the
satchel that Dorthan carried and the situation was summed.
A whispered laugh stirred the darkness. Its sibilance persisted as The
Shadow, invisible in darkness, glided forward to take up the last stage of the
trail. He himself was like a ghost, this being called The Shadow.
Strange that The Shadow should be venturing toward a place where persons
were already keyed for visitors who purported to be from another world!
CHAPTER III
STABS IN THE DARK
THREE huddled men were talking in undertones near the edge of the
Stanbridge cemetery. They were watching the windows of the mansion, where they
could see figures moving against the flicker of the fire in the great hall.
Though human, those figures moved like ghosts, which worried two of the three
watchers.
The man who didn't worry was Zeph Blaine.
"Are you going to quit?" queried Zeph, in a low twang. "All right, it's
up
to the two of you, only Doc Torrance won't like it when I tell him. He'll say
he
was mistook when he thought Herb Kiefer and Luke Morton wasn't fellows to be
afeard."
There were mutters from Herb and Luke. One of the pair blinked a
flashlight
and Zeph made a grab at it.
"Douse that light!" snarled Zeph. "See what you've done? There's the old
lady at the window, pointing right our way!"
Sight of Jennifer pointing from the window rather reassured Herb and
Luke.
Her action was one of human curiosity, nothing more. Apparently it was
Jennifer
who thought she had seen a ghost, evidenced by the blink from the cemetery and
the idea brought low laughs from Herb and Luke.
Still watching the window, Zeph saw Roger gesture to Jennifer. Roger was
holding a cigarette lighter that he had just flicked. He was explaining to his
sister that she had probably seen its flame reflected in the window. At last
Jennifer turned away as though satisfied. The watchers saw her draw the gray
cape across her shoulders.
"Afeared of ghosts, huh?" gibed Zeph. "That makes the two of you scared
of
yourselves. Why don't you run?"
Herb and Luke weren't running and declared so. Their morale fully
restored,
they were willing to go through with the deal for which Dr. Torrance had paid
them five dollars each. That job was to remain outside the house and watch all
that occurred outdoors while Torrance was visiting in the manor.
Hard-headed though he was, old Dr. Torrance had heard too many rumors of
strange things happening around Stanbridge Manor. Even before this visit when
he
had personally heard ghosts fling nails and smash dishes, the physician had
convinced himself that something more than ordinary was amiss. Roger's reports
of singular manifestations had corroborated certain statements by Wiggam. As
for
Jennifer, she'd talked about ghosts for years, while Gustave's recent silence
on
the subject had impressed Torrance very forcibly.
So Torrance had sworn in three deputies to aid the ghost hunt, unbeknown
to
anyone at the manor. The local boys were making good, now that they had found
their nerve. Zeph wasn't hearing any further talk of flight, not even when a
distant door suddenly clattered open and a block of light revealed old
Jennifer
coming from the rear of the mansion, enshrouded in her cape.
"The old lady is crazy," assured Zeph. "Doc says he's certain on it. Of
course maybe they're all crazy, but that only makes her worser."
There were whispered queries from Herb and Luke, asking for further
statistics on the sanity of the Stanbridge family.
"They've got what doc calls a complex," explained Zeph. "None of 'em
wants
to be buried until they're sure they're dead. That's why they stick 'em in
that
thing over in the middle of the graveyard."
Zeph gestured toward the mausoleum, then looked for Jennifer. It was
Zeph's
turn to clamber to his legs, ready to run, for the lady in gray had
disappeared
a short way from the mansion. At that moment the others saw her against the
white side of the mausoleum, as she picked her way among the tombstones.
Old Jennifer was the perfect replica of a wandering ghost, but sight of
her
eased Zeph's qualms, since he had already classed her as something human.
Rather
than have his companions turn the laugh on him, Zeph began to order them
about.
"She's hunting for Donald's grave," explained Zeph, keeping his undertone
below the quaver point. "Doc wants to know why. So sneak around, you fellows,
and see where she goes and what she does."
By way of example, Zeph skirted toward the rear of the cemetery and then
cut in toward Jennifer's path. Herb took the more conservative course of
moving
in the direction of the house before venturing among the tombstones. Not to be
outdone, Luke decided to circuit the cemetery on the house side and come back
from the other direction, hoping that by then his services wouldn't be needed.
THEY were like the points of an irregular triangle, these three, with
Jennifer wandering somewhere in the center. Of the three, Zeph was proving
himself the boldest, considering that he had chosen the deep end of the
cemetery. The fact that he was cutting back among the graves made Zeph appear
all the braver; actually it was because he wasn't anxious to wander too far
afield.
Straining his eyes to find Jennifer, Zeph failed to see another figure
that
was creeping forward, its course coming at an angle toward his own. Nor did
the
other man see Zeph; he was too busy looking for some landmark as he worked his
way among the silent tombstones, which were all large, but very much alike.
The stranger in the cemetery was Carl Dorthan, still some distance ahead
of
The Shadow. Dorthan was having more trouble than Zeph, though both were on
unfamiliar ground. Dorthan's difficulty was occasioned by the bag he carried.
Above, the grinding trees made ghoulish sounds and their branches were so
thick they cut off most of the moonlight that was struggling through a heavy
cloud. This was certainly death's setting, these grounds that Jennifer roamed
each evening. Of all who stalked these forgotten preserves, the old lady was
most oblivious to things that passed about her.
That fact was proven when Zeph Blaine stopped short and listened for a
sound close by. It was the scrunch of grass that formed a mound up to a broad
pedestal supporting an ancient tombstone. Locating the sound, Zeph looked and
thought he saw a figure that suddenly crouched apelike in the gloom.
It was Carl Dorthan resuming his earlier pose. He had heard the dry grass
rattle as Zeph moved forward. Dorthan made a shift for shelter and Zeph did
the
same. In that tense moment, both forgot all thoughts of ghosts.
They were primitive creatures, each stalking the unknown, yet imbued with
an urge for shelter. A fresh trickle of moonlight added just enough visibility
for each to make out the other's crouched form; then, as they shifted,
something
solid intervened. It was Dorthan who first recognized the object as a
tombstone.
Shoving himself forward, Dorthan reached the tombstone and deposited the
bag beside it. Climbing the base, he gripped the shaft with both hands and
lifted his head and shoulders above it. At that moment, Zeph made out the
bulky
object clearly, not as a gravestone, but as the head and shoulders of a man.
With a bellow, Zeph charged, thrusting his own hands for the man's neck.
Half poised above the stone, Dorthan hadn't time to drop away. He swung
frantically to beat off Zeph's clutch and managed to drive down the grabbing
hands. Zeph's big fists clamped on what he thought were shoulders, but proved
instead to be the curved corners of the tombstone.
Zeph tilted backward, the tombstone coming with him. As Dorthan swung a
hard fist, Zeph took a hard grip on the wrist above it. Briefly, the
strugglers
were locked across the canted stone, Dorthan's lips voicing a snarl as Zeph's
delivered a triumphant shout. Then, as Zeph swung a big fist, Dorthan slugged
with something hard.
摘要：

HOUSEOFGHOSTSbyMaxwellGrantAsoriginallypublishedin"TheShadowMagazine,"September1943.StanbridgeManorwashaunted-butwhetherbyrealghostsorbyhumanswasthequestion,andTheShadowhadtheaidofJoeDunninger,world'sgreatest"ghost-breaker,"inthisbattleagainstsupernaturalcrime.CHAPTERIGHOSTMANSIONCROUCHEDlikeamonste...

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