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Title: The Thing In the Upper RoomAuthor: Arthur Morrison* A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook *eBook No.: 0606141h.htmlLanguage: EnglishDate first posted: August 2006Date most recently updated: August 2006This eBook was produced by: Richard ScottProject Gutenberg of Australia eBooks are created from printed editionswhich are in the public domain in Australia, unless a copyright noticeis included. We do NOT keep any eBooks in compliance with a particularpaper edition.Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check thecopyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing thisfile.This eBook is made available at no cost and with almost no restrictionswhatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the termsof the Project Gutenberg of Australia License which may be viewed online athttp://gutenberg.net.au/licence.htmlTo contact Project Gutenberg of Australia go to http://gutenberg.net.au
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A shadow hung ever over the door, which stood black in the depthof its arched recess, like an unfathomable eye under a frowning brow.The landing was wide and panelled, and a heavy rail, supported by acarved balustrade, stretched away in alternate slopes and levels downthe dark staircase, past other doors, and so to the courtyard and thestreet. The other doors were dark also; but it was with a difference.That top landing was lightest of all, because of the skylight; andperhaps it was largely by reason of contrast that its one doorwaygloomed so black and forbidding The doors below opened and shut,slammed, stood ajar. Men and women passed in and out, with talk andhuman sounds--sometimes even with laughter or a snatch of song; butthe door on the top landing remained shut and silent through weeksand months. For, in truth, the logement had an ill name, and had beenuntenanted for years. Long even before the last tenant had occupiedit, the room had been regarded with fear and aversion, and the end ofthat last tenant had in no way lightened the gloom that hung aboutthe place.
The house was so old that its weather-washed face may well havelooked down on the bloodshed of St. Bartholomew's, and the hauntedroom may even have earned its ill name on that same day of death. ButParis is a city of cruel history, and since the old mansion roseproud and new, the hôtel of some powerful noble, almost anyyear of the centuries might have seen the blot fall on that upperroom that had left it a place of loathing and shadows. The occasionwas long forgotten, but the fact remained; whether or not some horrorof the ancien régime or some enormity of the Terror wasenacted in that room was no longer to be discovered; but nobody wouldlive there, nor stay beyond that gloomy door one second longer thanhe could help. It might be supposed that the fate of the solitarytenant within living memory had something to do with the matter--and,indeed, his end was sinister enough; but long before his time theroom had stood shunned and empty. He, greatly daring, had taken nomore heed of the common terror of the room than to use it to hisadvantage in abating the rent; and he had shot himself a littlelater, while the police were beating at his door to arrest him on acharge of murder. As I have said, his fate may have added to thegeneral aversion from the place, though it had no in no wayoriginated it; and now ten years had passed, and more, since his fewarticles of furniture had been carried away and sold; and nothing hadbeen carried in to replace them.
When one is twenty-five, healthy, hungry and poor, one is lesslikely to be frightened from a cheap lodging by mere headshakingsthan might be expected in other circumstances. Attwater wastwenty-five, commonly healthy, often hungry, and always poor. He cameto live in Paris because, from his remembrance of his student days,he believed he could live cheaper there than in London; while it wasquite certain that he would not sell fewer pictures, since he hadnever yet sold one.
It was the concierge of a neighbouring house who showed Attwaterthe room. The house of the room itself maintained no suchfunctionary, though its main door stood open day and night. The mansaid little, but his surprise at Attwater's application was plain tosee. Monsieur was English? Yes. The logement was convenient, thoughhigh, and probably now a little dirty, since it had not been occupiedrecently. Plainly, the man felt it to be no business of his toenlighten an unsuspecting foreigner as to the reputation of theplace; and if he could let it there would be some small gratificationfrom the landlord, though, at such a rent, of course a very small oneindeed.
But Attwater was better informed than the concierge supposed. Hehad heard the tale of the haunted room, vaguely and incoherently, itis true, from the little old engraver of watches on the floor below,by whom he had been directed to the concierge. The old man had beenvoluble and friendly, and reported that the room had a good light,facing north-east--indeed, a much better light than he, engraver ofwatches, enjoyed on the floor below. So much so that, consideringthis advantage and the much lower rent, he himself would have takenthe room long ago, except--well, except for other things. Monsieurwas a stranger, and perhaps had no fear to inhabit a haunted chamber;but that was its reputation, as everybody in the quarter knew; itwould be a misfortune, however, to a stranger to take the roomwithout suspicion, and to undergo unexpected experiences. Here,however, the old man checked himself, possibly reflecting that toomuch information to inquirers after the upper room might offend hislandlord. He hinted as much, in fact, hoping that his friendlywarning would not be allowed to travel farther. As to the precisenature of the disagreeable manifestations in the room, who could say?Perhaps there were really none at all. People said this and that.Certainly, the place had been untenanted for many years, and he wouldnot like to stay in it himself. But it might be the good fortune ofmonsieur to break the spell, and if monsieur was resolved to defy therevenant, he wished monsieur the highest success and happiness.
So much for the engraver of watches; and now the concierge of theneighbouring house led the way up the stately old panelled staircase,swinging his keys in his hand, and halted at last before the darkdoor in the frowning recess. He turned the key with some difficulty,pushed open the door, and stood back with an action of something notwholly deference, to allow Attwater to enter first.
A sort of small lobby had been partitioned off at some time,though except for this the logement was of one large room only. Therewas something unpleasant in the air of the place--not a smell, whenone came to analyse one's sensations, though at first it might seemso. Attwater walked across to the wide window and threw it open. Thechimneys and roofs of many houses of all ages straggled before him,and out of the welter rose the twin towers of St. Sulpice, scarredand grim.
Air the room as one might, it was unpleasant; a sickly, even acowed, feeling, invaded one through all the senses--or perhapsthrough none of them. The feeling was there, though it was not easyto say by what channel it penetrated. Attwater was resolved to admitnone but a common-sense explanation, and blamed the long closing ofdoor and window; and the concierge, standing uneasily near the door,agreed that that must be it. For a moment Attwater wavered, despitehimself. But the rent was very low, and, low as it was, he could notafford a sou more. The light was good, though it was not a top-light,and the place was big enough for his simple requirements. Attwaterreflected that he should despise himself ever after if he shrank fromthe opportunity; it would be one of those secret humiliations thatwill rise again and again in a man's memory, and make him blush insolitude. He told the concierge to leave door and window wide openfor the rest of the day, and he clinched the bargain.
It was with something of amused bravado that he reported to hisfew friends in Paris his acquisition of a haunted room; for, once outof the place, he readily convinced himself that his disgust anddislike while in the room were the result of imagination and nothingmore. Certainly, there was no rational reason to account for theunpleasantness; consequently, what could it be but a matter of fancy?He resolved to face the matter from the beginning, and clear his mindfrom any foolish prejudices that the hints of the old engraver mighthave inspired, by forcing himself through whatever adventures hemight encounter. In fact, as he walked the streets about hisbusiness, and arranged for the purchase and delivery of the fewsimple articles of furniture that would be necessary, his enterpriseassumed the guise of a pleasing adventure. He remembered that he hadmade an attempt, only a year or two ago, to spend a night in a housereputed haunted in England, but had failed to find the landlord. Herewas the adventure to hand, with promise of a tale to tell in futuretimes; and a welcome idea struck him that he might look out theancient history of the room, and work the whole thing into a magazinearticle, which would bring a little money.
So simple were his needs that by the afternoon of the dayfollowing his first examination of the room it was ready for use.
He took his bag from the cheap hotel in a little street ofMontparnasse, where he had been lodging, and carried it to his newhome. The key was now in his pocket, and for the first time heentered the place alone. The window remained wide open; but it wasstill there--that depressing, choking something that entered theconsciousness he knew not by what gate. Again he accused his fancy.He stamped and whistled, and set about unpacking a few canvases and acase of old oriental weapons that were part of his professionalproperties. But he could give no proper attention to the work, anddetected himself more than once yielding to a childish impulse tolook over his shoulder. He laughed at himself--with some effort--andsat determinedly to smoke a pipe, and grow used to his surroundings.But presently he found himself pushing his chair farther and fartherback, till it touched the wall. He would take the whole room intoview, he said to himself in excuse, and stare it out of countenance.So he sat and smoked, and as he sat his eye fell on a Malay daggerthat lay on the table between him and the window. It was a murderous,twisted thing, and its pommel was fashioned into the semblance of abird's head, with curved beak and an eye of some dull red stone. Hefound himself gazing on this red eye with an odd, mindlessfascination. The dagger in its wicked curves seemed now a creature ofsome outlandish fantasy--a snake with a beaked head, a thing ofnightmare, in some new way dominant, overruling the centre of hisperceptions. The rest of the room grew dim, but the red stone glowedwith a fuller light; nothing more was present to his consciousness.Then, with a sudden clang, the heavy bell of St. Sulpice aroused him,and he started up in some surprise.
There lay the dagger on the table, strange and murderous enough,but merely as he had always known it. He observed with more surprise,however, that his chair, which had been back against the wall, wasnow some six feet forward, close by the table; clearly, he must havedrawn it forward in his abstraction, towards the dagger on which hiseyes had been fixed...The great bell of St. Sulpice went clanging on,repeating its monotonous call to the Angelus.
He was cold, almost shivering. He flung the dagger into a drawer,and turned to go out. He saw by his watch that it was later than hehad supposed; his fit of abstraction must have lasted some time.Perhaps he had even been dozing.
He went slowly downstairs and out into the streets. As he went hegrew more and more ashamed of himself, for he had to confess that insome inexplicable way he feared that room. He had seen nothing, heardnothing of the kind that one might have expected, or had heard of inany room reputed haunted; he could not help thinking that it wouldhave been some sort of relief if he had. But there was anall-pervading, overpowering sense of another Presence--somethingabhorrent, not human, something almost physically nauseous. Withal itwas something more than presence; it was power, domination--so heseemed to remember it. And yet the remembrance grew weaker as hewalked in the gathering dusk; he thought of a story he had once readof a haunted house wherein it was shown that the house actually washaunted--by the spirit of fear, and nothing else. That, he persuadedhimself, was the case with his room; he felt angry at the growingconviction that he had allowed himself to be overborne by fancy--bythe spirit of fear.
He returned that night with the resolve to allow himself nofoolish indulgence. He had heard nothing and had seen nothing; whensomething palpable to the senses occurred, it would be time enough todeal with it. He took off his clothes and got into bed deliberately,leaving candle and matches at hand in case of need. He had expectedto find some difficulty in sleeping, or at least some delay, but hewas scarce well in bed ere he fell into a heavy sleep.
Dazzling sunlight through the window woke him in the morning, andhe sat up, staring sleepily about him. He must have slept like a log.But he had been dreaming; the dreams were horrible. His head achedbeyond anything he had experienced before, and he was far more tiredthan when he went to bed. He sank back on the pillow, but the merecontact made his head ring with pain. He got out of bed, and foundhimself staggering; it was all as though he had beendrunk--unspeakably drunk with bad liquor. His dreams--they had beenhorrid dreams; he could remember that they had been bad, but whatthey actually were was now gone from him entirely. He rubbed his eyesand stared amazedly down at the table: where the crooked dagger lay,with its bird's head and red stone eye. It lay just as it had lainwhen he sat gazing at it yesterday, and yet he would have sworn thathe had flung that same dagger into a drawer. Perhaps he had dreamedit; at any rate, he put the thing carefully into the drawer now, and,still with his ringing headache, dressed himself and went out.
As he reached the next landing the old engraver greeted him fromhis door with an inquiring good-day. "Monsieur has not slept well, Ifear?"
In some doubt, Attwater protested that he had slept quite soundly."And as yet I have neither seen nor heard anything of the ghost," headded.
"Nothing?" replied the old man, with a lift of the eyebrows,"nothing at all? It is fortunate. It seemed to me, here below, thatmonsieur was moving about very restlessly in the night; but no doubtI was mistaken. No doubt, also, I may felicitate monsieur on breakingthe evil tradition. We shall hear no more of it; monsieur has thegood fortune of a brave heart."
He smiled and bowed pleasantly, but it was with something of apuzzled look that his eyes followed Attwater descending thestaircase.
Attwater took his coffee and roll after an hour's walk, and fellasleep in his seat. Not for long, however, and presently he rose andleft the cafÇ. He felt better, though still unaccountablyfatigued. He caught sight of his face in a mirror beside a shopwindow, and saw an improvement since he had looked in his own glass.That indeed had brought him a shock. Worn and drawn beyond what mighthave been expected of so bad a night, there was even something more.What was it? How should it remind him of that old legend--was itJapanese?--which he had tried to recollect when he had wonderedconfusedly at the haggard apparition that confronted him? Some taleof a demon-possessed person who in any mirror, saw never his ownface, but the face of the demon.
Work he felt to be impossible, and he spent the day on gardenseats, at café tables, and for a while in the Luxembourg. Andin the evening he met an English friend, who took him by theshoulders and looked into his eyes, shook him, and declared that hehad been overworking, and needed, above all things, a good dinner,which he should have instantly. "You'll dine with me," he said, "atLa Perouse, and we'll get a cab to take us there. I'm hungry."
As they stood and looked for a passing cab a man ran shouting withnewspapers. "We'll have a cab," Attwater's friend repeated, "andwe'll take the new murder with us for conversation's sake. Hi!Journal!"
He bought a paper, and followed Attwater into the cab. "I've astrong idea I knew the poor old boy by sight," he said. "I believehe'd seen better days."
"Who?"
"The old man who was murdered in the Rue Broca last night. Thedescription fits exactly. He used to hang about the cafés andrun messages. It isn't easy to read in this cab; but there's probablynothing fresh in this edition. They haven't caught the murderer,anyhow."
Attwater took the paper, and struggled to read it in the changinglight. A poor old man had been found dead on the footpath of the RueBroca, torn with a score of stabs. He had been identified--an old mannot known to have a friend in the world; also, because he was so oldand so poor, probably not an enemy. There was no robbery; the fewsous the old man possessed remained in his pocket. He must have beenattacked on his way home in the early hours of the morning, possiblyby a homicidal maniac, and stabbed again and again with inconceivablefury. No arrest had been made.
Attwater pushed the paper way: "Pah!" he said; "I don't like it.I'm a bit off colour, and I was dreaming horribly all last night;though why this should remind me of it I can't guess. But it's nocure for the blues, this!"
"No," replied his friend heartily; "we'll get that upstairs, forhere we are, on the quay. A bottle of the best Burgundy on the listand the best dinner they can do--that's your physic. Come!"
It was a good prescription, indeed. Attwater's friend was cheerfuland assiduous, and nothing could have bettered the dinner. Attwaterfound himself reflecting that indulgence in the blues was a poorpastime, with no better excuse than a bad night's rest. And lastnight's dinner in comparison with this! Well, it was enough to havespoiled his sleep, that one-franc-fifty dinner.
Attwater left La Perouse as gay as his friend. They had sat late,and now there was nothing to do but cross the water and walk a littlein the boulevards. This they did, and finished the evening at acafé table with half a dozen acquaintances.
Attwater walked home with a light step, feeling less drowsy thanat any time during the day. He was well enough. He felt he shouldsoon get used to the room. He had been a little too much alonelately, and that had got on his nerves. It was simply stupid.
Again he slept quickly and heavily and dreamed. But he had anawakening of another sort. No bright sun blazed in at the open windowto lift his heavy lids, and no morning bell from St. Sulpice openedhis ears to the cheerful noise of the city. He awoke gasping andstaring in the dark, rolling face-downward on the floor, catching hisbreath in agonized sobs; while through the window from the streetscame a clamour of hoarse cries: cries of pursuit and the noise ofrunning men: a shouting and clatter wherein here and there a voicewas clear among the rest--"A l'assassin! Arrêtez!"
He dragged himself to his feet in the dark, gasping still. Whatwas this--all this? Again a dream? His legs trembled under him, andhe sweated with fear. He made for the window, panting and feeble; andthen, as he supported himself by the sill, he realized wonderinglythat he was fully dressed--that he wore even his hat. The runningcrowd straggled through the outer street and away, the shouts growingfainter. What had wakened him? Why had he dressed? He remembered hismatches, and turned to grope for them; but something was already inhis hand--something wet, sticky. He dropped it on the table, and evenas he struck the light, before he saw it, he knew. The matchsputtered and flared, and there on the table lay the crooked dagger,smeared and dripping and horrible.
Blood was on his hands--the match stuck in his fingers. Caught atthe heart by the first grip of an awful surmise, he looked up and sawin the mirror before him, in the last flare of the match, the face ofthe Thing in the Room.
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