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The closing hand by Farnsworth right,
solitary and forbidding. The house stared specter

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like through scraggy trees that seemed to
shrink from its touch. The green moss

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of decay lay on its dank roots, and the windows, set in decavities,

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peered blindly at the world, as
if through eyeless sockets. So forbidding

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was its aspect that boys, on
approaching its cheerless gables, stopped their whistling

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and passed on the opposite side of
the street. Across the fields, a

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few huddled cottages gazed through the falling
rain, as if wondering what family would

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be so bold as to take up
its abode within the gloomy walls of the

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old mansion, whose carpetless floors,
for two years had not felt the tread

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of human feet. In an attic
room of the house, two sisters lay

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in bed, but not asleep.
The younger sister cringed under the dread,

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inspired by the bleak place. The
elder laughed at her childish fears. But

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the younger felt the spell of the
old building and was afraid. I suppose

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there is really nothing to frighten me
in this dreary old house, she admitted,

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without conviction in her voice. But
the very feel of the place is

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horrible. Mother shouldn't have left us
alone in this gruesome place. Stupid.

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Her sisters golded with all the silverware
downstairs. Somebody has to be here for

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fear of the burglars. Oh,
don't talk about burglars, pleaded the younger

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girl. I'm afraid I keep imagining
I hear ghost footsteps, her sister laughed.

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Go to sleep, goosey, she
said. Haunted houses are nothing but

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superstition. They exist only in imagination. Why has nobody lived here for two

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years? Then they tell me that
for five years, every family moved out

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after being here just a short time. The whole atmosphere of this house is

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ghastly. And I can't forget how
the older Beckham girl was found stabbed to

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death in her bed, and nobody
ever knew how it happened. Why she

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may have been murdered in this very
room. Go to sleep, and don't

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scare yourself with such silly talk.
Mother will be with us tomorrow night,

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and Dad will be back next day. Now, go to sleep. The

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elder sister soon dropped into slumber,
but the younger lay open eyed, staring

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into the black room and shuddering at
every stifled scream of the wind or distant

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growl of thunder. She began to
count, hoping to hypnotize herself into drowsiness,

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but at every slight noise she started
and lost her count. Suddenly she

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turned and shook her sister by the
shoulder. Edith, somebody is prowling around

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downstairs, she whispered. Listen,
Oh, what shall we do? The

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elder sister struck a match and lit
the candle. Then she slipped on her

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dressing gown and drew on her slippers. You're not going down there, then,

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Edith, tell me, you're not
going downstairs? It might be the

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murdered Beckham girl. Edith, don't. Edith shot a glance of withering scorn

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at her sister, who lay on
the bed with blanched face and wide terrified

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eyes. There is something moving around
downstairs, and I'm going to find out

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what it is, she said.
Taking the candle, she left the room.

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Her younger sister lay in the darkness, listening to the patter of the

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rain on the roof and straining her
ears to catch the slightest sound the noise

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downstairs ceased, but the wind rose
and the rain beat upon the roof in

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sudden, furious blasts that made her
heart jump wildly. Ten minutes passed,

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twenty minutes and Edith had not returned. A door slammed, and the younger

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sister thought she heard something moving again, But the wind began to lob and

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drowned out all other noises. Between
gusts, she heard the portentous sound,

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and every time it seemed nearer.
Then she started as she realized that something

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was coming up the stairs. Once
she thought she heard a cry, to

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which the wind joined its plaintive voice
in a weird duet. Nearer and nearer

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the strange noise came. It mounted
the stairs step by step, heard only

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when the wind and rain softened their
voice. It had passed the first landing

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and moved slowly up the second flight, while the girl fearfully awaited its coming.

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The wind howled until the house quaked. It shrilled by the eaves,

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and headed across the fields like a
hunted ghost. And now the girl's pounding

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pulses drowned out the screaming of the
wind, For the presence had invaded her

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bedroom. She cowered under the covers
A cold perspiration chilled her body until her

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teeth clattered. Her imagination conjured up
frightful things. A disemboweled spirit come to

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destroy her, A corpse from the
grave, gibbering in terror because it could

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not tear the crements from its face, the murdered Burkheim girl with the knife

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still sheathed in her heart. Or
some escaped beast, licking its lips in

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greedy anticipation of the feast her tremulous
body would provide. Or was it a

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murderer, who, having killed her
sister, was now bent on completing the

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bloody work. A flash of lightning
split the sky, and the thunder bellowed

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its terrifying warning. The girl threw
back the bedclothes and shrank to the wall,

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her eyes starting from their sockets,
fearful lest another flash reveal some sight

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too ghastly to contemplate. Slowly,
the being dragged itself across the floor,

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lifted itself into the bed, and
uttered a choking sound of agony. The

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girl sat petrified, Then timorously,
she extended a shaky hand, but quickly

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withdrew it in dread of some hideous
contact. Again, she thrust her trembling

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hand into the gloom, further and
further, until it touched something shaggy and

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wet. A clammy hand closed over
hers, and she started to her feet

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with a horrible scream. The icy
hand tightened with a sickening tremor and dragged

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her down. Then her tortured senses
gave way, and she fell back,

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unconscious upon the bed. When she
awoke, it was day. Beside her

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on the bed lay the bleeding body
of her sister Edith, stabbed in the

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breast by the burglar she had tried
to frighten off. The younger girl was

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clutching the clotted wisp of hair that
had fallen across the breast of her sister,

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whose cold hand had closed over hers
in the last convulsive shudder of death.

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The End of the Closing Hand by
Farnsworth Wright