The closing hand by Farnsworth right, solitary and forbidding. The house stared specter
like through scraggy trees that seemed to shrink from its touch. The green moss
of decay lay on its dank roots, and the windows, set in decavities,
peered blindly at the world, as if through eyeless sockets. So forbidding
was its aspect that boys, on approaching its cheerless gables, stopped their whistling
and passed on the opposite side of the street. Across the fields, a
few huddled cottages gazed through the falling rain, as if wondering what family would
be so bold as to take up its abode within the gloomy walls of the
old mansion, whose carpetless floors, for two years had not felt the tread
of human feet. In an attic room of the house, two sisters lay
in bed, but not asleep. The younger sister cringed under the dread,
inspired by the bleak place. The elder laughed at her childish fears. But
the younger felt the spell of the old building and was afraid. I suppose
there is really nothing to frighten me in this dreary old house, she admitted,
without conviction in her voice. But the very feel of the place is
horrible. Mother shouldn't have left us alone in this gruesome place. Stupid.
Her sisters golded with all the silverware downstairs. Somebody has to be here for
fear of the burglars. Oh, don't talk about burglars, pleaded the younger
girl. I'm afraid I keep imagining I hear ghost footsteps, her sister laughed.
Go to sleep, goosey, she said. Haunted houses are nothing but
superstition. They exist only in imagination. Why has nobody lived here for two
years? Then they tell me that for five years, every family moved out
after being here just a short time. The whole atmosphere of this house is
ghastly. And I can't forget how the older Beckham girl was found stabbed to
death in her bed, and nobody ever knew how it happened. Why she
may have been murdered in this very room. Go to sleep, and don't
scare yourself with such silly talk. Mother will be with us tomorrow night,
and Dad will be back next day. Now, go to sleep. The
elder sister soon dropped into slumber, but the younger lay open eyed, staring
into the black room and shuddering at every stifled scream of the wind or distant
growl of thunder. She began to count, hoping to hypnotize herself into drowsiness,
but at every slight noise she started and lost her count. Suddenly she
turned and shook her sister by the shoulder. Edith, somebody is prowling around
downstairs, she whispered. Listen, Oh, what shall we do? The
elder sister struck a match and lit the candle. Then she slipped on her
dressing gown and drew on her slippers. You're not going down there, then,
Edith, tell me, you're not going downstairs? It might be the
murdered Beckham girl. Edith, don't. Edith shot a glance of withering scorn
at her sister, who lay on the bed with blanched face and wide terrified
eyes. There is something moving around downstairs, and I'm going to find out
what it is, she said. Taking the candle, she left the room.
Her younger sister lay in the darkness, listening to the patter of the
rain on the roof and straining her ears to catch the slightest sound the noise
downstairs ceased, but the wind rose and the rain beat upon the roof in
sudden, furious blasts that made her heart jump wildly. Ten minutes passed,
twenty minutes and Edith had not returned. A door slammed, and the younger
sister thought she heard something moving again, But the wind began to lob and
drowned out all other noises. Between gusts, she heard the portentous sound,
and every time it seemed nearer. Then she started as she realized that something
was coming up the stairs. Once she thought she heard a cry, to
which the wind joined its plaintive voice in a weird duet. Nearer and nearer
the strange noise came. It mounted the stairs step by step, heard only
when the wind and rain softened their voice. It had passed the first landing
and moved slowly up the second flight, while the girl fearfully awaited its coming.
The wind howled until the house quaked. It shrilled by the eaves,
and headed across the fields like a hunted ghost. And now the girl's pounding
pulses drowned out the screaming of the wind, For the presence had invaded her
bedroom. She cowered under the covers A cold perspiration chilled her body until her
teeth clattered. Her imagination conjured up frightful things. A disemboweled spirit come to
destroy her, A corpse from the grave, gibbering in terror because it could
not tear the crements from its face, the murdered Burkheim girl with the knife
still sheathed in her heart. Or some escaped beast, licking its lips in
greedy anticipation of the feast her tremulous body would provide. Or was it a
murderer, who, having killed her sister, was now bent on completing the
bloody work. A flash of lightning split the sky, and the thunder bellowed
its terrifying warning. The girl threw back the bedclothes and shrank to the wall,
her eyes starting from their sockets, fearful lest another flash reveal some sight
too ghastly to contemplate. Slowly, the being dragged itself across the floor,
lifted itself into the bed, and uttered a choking sound of agony. The
girl sat petrified, Then timorously, she extended a shaky hand, but quickly
withdrew it in dread of some hideous contact. Again, she thrust her trembling
hand into the gloom, further and further, until it touched something shaggy and
wet. A clammy hand closed over hers, and she started to her feet
with a horrible scream. The icy hand tightened with a sickening tremor and dragged
her down. Then her tortured senses gave way, and she fell back,
unconscious upon the bed. When she awoke, it was day. Beside her
on the bed lay the bleeding body of her sister Edith, stabbed in the
breast by the burglar she had tried to frighten off. The younger girl was
clutching the clotted wisp of hair that had fallen across the breast of her sister,
whose cold hand had closed over hers in the last convulsive shudder of death.
The End of the Closing Hand by Farnsworth Wright