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Fingers from the Grave by Edwin carry
Rank. Tom Grimstead was not looking for

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a story when he decided to spend
the night in the haunted carry House.

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As a newspaperman, he had frequently
exposed many bogus mediums and spiritualists, But

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the accounts of those who had spent, or rather tried to spend a night

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in the carry House seemed so authentic
and honest that Grimstead, who was enjoying

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his vacation in the quaint New England
town of Sedley, longed to experience some

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of the thrills that had come to
these narrators. There was a presence in

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the house, Quavered Martin Stacy,
who had once spent part of a night

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there. I I felt it.
Could you see it? Asked Grimstead.

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Martin shuddered, No, he whispered, But I knew it was there,

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whatever it was. If anybody sneaked
in to your room when you were reading,

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without making any noise, you would
feel they were there even if you

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hadn't seen him, wouldn't you?
Grimstead nodded, Well, it was that

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sort of feeling that came over me
in missus Carrey's bedroom. Martin Stacy's story

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was similar to the others. They
had all felt a sinister presence in missus

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Carey's room, and the feeling had
always been followed by senseless, unreasoning terror

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that made them flee into the night. The Carry tragedy had been the grimmest

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story that had ever occurred in the
town of Sedley. Twenty years before,

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Weld and Carry had brought his bride
to the old Carry House, which had

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been built by a colonial Carry and
inhabited by Carrey's ever since. Selma Carry

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was beautiful and vivacious, and she
appeared to be as madly in love with

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the old house and its colonial traditions
as she was with its master. Then

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came the tragedy. Young Missus Carey
was found murdered one morning, strangled to

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death, and her husband told incoherently
how two burglars had broken into the place

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at midnight. One of them had
throttled Missus Carey and the other one was

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threatening him with a revolver when some
noise frightened them away. The countryside was

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searched for the two men, but
they were never apprehended, and the verdict

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of the coroner's jury was that Missus
Carey had come to her death at the

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hands of person or persons unknown.
Carry seemed heartbroken after the tragedy, and

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finally not succeeding in selling the old
house, he left it in charge of

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a caretaker and went abroad to live. In all these intervening years, he

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had never returned to his birthplace,
nor could any one be induced to rent

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the place. Tom Grimstead thought,
as he stood in front of the Carry

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mansion at dusk one September afternoon,
that he had never seen a more repellent

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looking house. There was something indescribably
repugnant about it, as if one were

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contemplating the corpse of a house.
Horror surrounded it like a nimbus, and

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Grimstead's first impulse was to walk hastily
away, But shaking off the feeling of

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dread that had settled upon him like
an incubus, he resolutely walked up the

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weed encumbered walk that led to the
front door, armed with a key that

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he had experienced no difficulty in securing
from a cynical real estate agent who promptly

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offered a wager that he would not
stay the night out, a wager that

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Grimstead as promptly accepted. He carried
a handbag that contained a supply of sandwiches,

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a small automatic, half a dozen
fat candles, a flashlight, and

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two volumes of Poe's Grizzliest short stories. Ironically, he thought of these as

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his ghost props. But stout nerved
as he was, Grimstead shrank back instinctively

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as the front door slam shot,
leaving him in impenetrable darkness. This instantaneous

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plunge into blackness was sudden enough to
daunt anyone, and for a second time

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that afternoon, Grimstead was tempted to
abandon his ghost quest. Then he reflected

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that the thrills are what he had
come for, and he was disgusted at

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the realization that he was allowing his
subconscious self to be affected by the stories

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he had heard. If he were
really a skeptic, as he had always

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prided himself on being, he was
on the verge of the most interesting adventure

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of his none too dull life.
So he opened his handbag by touch alone,

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turned on his flashlight, and took
stock of his surrounding. He was

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in an old fashioned living room,
at the far end of which was a

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huge open fireplace. In front of
him, a fine specimen of colonial architecture

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in the shape of an imposing staircase
pointed the way to adventure. On the

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second floor. The large room was
fully furnished, but the smell of decay

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and mildew assailed Grimstead's nostrils. The
atmosphere was heavy and fetid odors of by

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gone days seemed to meet and commingle, and the air held a penetrating chill.

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Something soft brushed against his face in
the semi gloom, and he started

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back involuntarily, and then laughed nervously. It was a death's head moth,

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and the creatures settled upon the back
of a large upholstered chair, its wings

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spread wide, shivering as the bright
ray of the flashlight illuminated its ghastly markings.

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With a small shiver was not entirely
due to the chill of the place.

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Grimstead started up the stairs in search
of missus Carey's bedroom, which he

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had been told was the front room
at the left of the upper hallway,

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But first he explored the other rooms, finding them all furnished but reeking with

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desolation and decay. Time had wrought
sad havoc upon objects of inestimable value to

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the collector of colonial antiques. Grimstead
now turned the handle of the door that

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led to the dead woman's bed chamber
and found himself in an ancient boudoir,

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about which still clung the elusive odor
of Mignette and Laventer. Against one side

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of the wall was an antique dressing
table, but the surface of the long

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mirror, which had in bygone days
often reflected the fair image of Selma Carrey,

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was now opaque, blurred over by
the film of years. Near the

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dresser was a four poster bed covered
with a yellowed counterpane, and two pillows

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were in place at its head.
It was hard to believe that no one

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had slept there for twenty years.
With the exception of the dust that covered

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everything and the dank smell, the
room and its furnishings appeared to have been

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left as they were on the day
of the tragedy, and Grimstead found himself

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glancing from time to time at the
door of the dressing room, which was

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about ten feet from the bed,
as if he expected a charming figure in

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dishable to come romping into the room
at any moment. So acute was this

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impression that he strode across the room
and threw open the door of the dressing

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room, peering curiously within it contained
an old fashioned tin bathtub, the paint

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from which was chipped off here and
there, giving it a dismal look of

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dilapidation. On the rusted metal towel
rack hung a rotting bath towel, and

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from a hook in the wall was
suspended a mildewed dressing gown that had once

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been lavender colored. With a look
of infinite pity, Grimstead closed the door

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softly behind him, his vivid imagination
conjuring up the picture of a lovely woman

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with golden hair cascading to her waist, humming a gay little tune as she

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prepared for her bath. He now
set the stage for his lonely vigil.

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Lighting one of his fat candles,
he placed it upon the dusty dresser in

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such a position that its flame illuminated
the bed. Then he stuck another above

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the fireplace, on the white marble
mantelpiece. Drawing up a small dressing table,

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he placed his third candle upon that, and then he dusted off a

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comfortable Morris chair with wide arms,
and placed it where he could command a

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view of the entire room. The
dressing table was at his left within easy

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reaching distance, and on this he
placed his sandwiches, his automatic, and

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his volumes of poe. Satisfied with
these strategic arrangements, he lit his pipe,

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sank into the big chair, and
was soon immersed in the fall of

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the house of Usher, which he
had decided was the proper yarn for the

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time, the place, and the
man. It was so silent in the

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house that the scampering of mice in
the wainscoat sounded as loud as the rumping

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of Newfoundland dogs. Every now and
then one of them would squeal as if

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it were being murdered, and whenever
this happened, Grimstead would pause in his

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reading and look up with a startled
tenseness, expecting to see he knew not

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what. The wind was rising,
and it howled and moaned, like a

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tortured spirit striving with futile hands to
force an entrance through the rotting eaves of

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the ancient house. It was an
eerie sound, and Grimstead found himself forced

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to exert all his willpower in order
to concentrate upon the harrowing tail which he

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was reading. He felt like a
spectator awaiting the climax to a particularly dramatic

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scene in a melodrama. Then came
a lull in the wind, and the

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mice suddenly ceased to scamper, as
if at a signal from a master mouse.

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The big old house appeared to be
waiting in suspense, holding its breath.

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Grimstead had reached the point in his
story where the sound of muffled blows

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from the vault was reverberating through the
ill fated house of usher madman. He

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read, I Tell You. He
looked up quickly. The dying down of

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the wind and the seat of the
scamperings in the wainscot made the room feel

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as dead as stagnant water looks.
But it was not the nerve racking stillness

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that had galvanized Grimstead to alert attention. It was the unalterable conviction that someone

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or something was lurking near him.
Reaching stealthily for the automatic, he glanced

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keenly around the room. Certainly he
was the only living soul there, but

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the door of the dressing room was
slowly opening two. Grimstead stared incredulously at

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the widening aperture. He had thoroughly
inspected the room less than half an hour

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before, and no living creature could
have been concealed there, nor was there

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any other door to the room.
The thing was impossible, yet it was

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happening before his eyes wider wider.
The door opened, and then, as

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Grimstead held his breath in suspense,
something stepped into the room. He could

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not see it, but he felt
it, and an icy wind suddenly stirred

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the roots of his hair. At
the realization that he was no longer alone,

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he heard the ghostly sound of footsteps
crossing the room, and then the

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candle on the dresser suddenly wavered,
as if a passing breeze had slightly stirred

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it. As the paralyzed newspaper man
gazed wide eyed from his chair, there

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came from the dresser an unmistakable sound
of hairpins tinkling down into a celluloid tray.

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Thinking that an over vivid imagination was
playing him tricks, Grimstead, by

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a tremendous effort of will, sat
erect in his chair and was about to

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spring to his feet, when an
amazing thing stupefied him once more into an

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action. The ghostly footsteps crossed the
carpet once more, like a soft brushing

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of unseen wings, and Grimstead saw
the bed suddenly sag as if a body

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were lying there, And then one
of the pillows became indented, as if

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a head were resting there. Something
invisible was reclining upon the bed. As

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this incredible fact percolated through Grimstead's understanding, blind panic assailed him. Only one

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thing, he confessed afterward, prevented
him from becoming a gibbering idiot. That

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was his discovery that the door leading
into the dressing room, which was wide

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open after his visitant had entered,
was now tightly closed. This tended to

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convince him that the entire episode was
an hallucination due to overwrought nerves. At

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any rate, he sprang back to
his feet, determined to probe the mystery

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to its depths, when a sound
smote upon his ear that stiffened him in

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his tracks and made him snatch the
automatic hurriedly from the table. Someone was

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coming up the stairs. He heard
the sound of shuffling, reluctant footsteps,

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as if the person, thing,
or whatever it was, were disinclined to

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make the ascent slower and more hesitant
became these ominous footsteps, and Grimstead,

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now utterly unnerved, gripped the automatic
frantically and turned a white face in the

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direction of the bedroom door, not
knowing what to expect, but he felt

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convinced that if this door opened as
the other had done and no tangible thing

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entered, he would scream like a
hysterical woman. Unwill footsteps had now reached

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the landing outside the door and came
to a halt there, as if the

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intruder were listening. This weight seemed
indeterminable to the crouching newsmen, who stood

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immovable by the table. His automatic
aimed straight at the door. Finally,

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there was a shuffling of feet,
and then a hand turned the knob.

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Slowly, the door opened, Hands
up, cried Grimsby hoarsely. Or I'll

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shoot what the devil? Growled the
surprised voice, and Grimsby emitted a high

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sigh of relief. At least it
was a human being. A heavily built,

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bearded man about fifty years old,
a stranger to Grimsby, walked slowly

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into the room, first glancing around
fearfully before allowing his gaze to rest upon

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Grimsby. Now then he said,
coldly, who are you and what are

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you doing in this house? Just
what I was going to ask you grinned

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Grimsby, his self possession now fully
restored. I Am began the stranger,

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and then came the crowning horror of
the memorable evening. The man's voice suddenly

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broke, and his tan face went
livid with fear. He was staring with

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a look of indescribable terror at the
bed. What's that? Who's there?

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He whispered in high pitched terrelated accents. Why what? Stammered Grimsby, and

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then froze into a gaping figure of
a man. The indentations in the bed

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and pillow slowly straightened out like a
flat automobile tire. When the air rushes

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in once more, Grimsby heard those
ghostly footsteps, and then the bearded man

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shrieked like a demon in hell.
Selma, for God's sakes, don't he

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gasped, I didn't mean to do
it. I swear I didn't mean to

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do it. He staggered back,
fumbling at his throat and gasping for breath.

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Take your hands away, he panted, My God, you're throttling me.

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His voice died out in a choking
gurgle, and he staggered wildly around

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the room, pulling desperately at his
throat, as if trying to unloosen the

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clutching of hands. Grimstead took hold
of the struggling figure. You're mad,

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he cried, There is no one
here. The stranger did not seem to

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hear. His eyes were rolling in
his head, and his face was turning

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a mottled purple. Up and down
the room, he thrashed in agony,

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trying vainly to break the deadly hold
that was apparently fastened upon his windpipe with

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the grip of a maddened bulldog.
It was a horrible sight, and Grimstead

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could no longer but follow the agonized
man, who seemed destitute of all reason.

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The end came quickly. Suddenly there
was a rattling sound in the man's

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throat, and then he sank slowly
to his knees and toppled forward on his

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face. Once more, the sound
of invisible footsteps, and Grimstead looked up

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from the dead body in time to
see the door of the dressing room open

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quickly and close. Then he lost
all control over his twitching nerves and ran,

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shrieking out of the room, down
the stairs, and out into the

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fresh sweetness of the September night,
staggering like a drunken man, his brain

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reeling from the horrors of that fetid
bedroom. Three. The sight of the

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familiar street and the feeling of the
wind blowing in his face partially restored his

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faculties to normal, But he was
trembling like a drug fiend as he entered

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doctor Stoughton's office, and his speech
was so incoherent that the amazed physician was

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convinced that he was either intoxicated or
insane. But as the spell of the

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horror wore away and Grimstead began to
talk more rationally, doctor Stoughton realized that

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this was no ordinary case, and
that Grimstead was neither intoxicated nor insane.

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He was that most pathetic of all
objects, a strong man suffering from overwhelming

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fright. Doctor Stoughton had been the
Carey's physician and was for many years Wendell

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Carey's closest friend, so it was
with very grave face that he went back

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to the house with Grimstead, accompanied
by mort Farley, an official who fatuously

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called himself Sedley's Chief of Police.
It was with a strong shudder that Grimstead

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entered the house that had shattered his
skepticism to bits. And followed the two

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men upstairs. Everything in the bedroom
was just as he had left it.

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His candles were still burning, and
his automatic lay where it had fallen from

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his nerveless hand. In the center
of the room was a huddled heap that

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had once been a man. Hm, this looks bad, ejaculated doctor Stoughton

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as he bent over the prostrate figure. He turned the body over, and

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the face peered up at him,
distorted and black as a charred log.

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My god, it's weld and carry, he shouted, drawing back from the

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corpse in sudden horror. How do
you know, asked Farley in awe struck

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tones. It's been twenty years and
this man wears a beard. Doctor Stoughton

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lifted the man's limp left hand.
I can tell by this amethis string on

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the little finger, he explained.
It was given to him by his mother

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and he has always worn it on
that finger, as it is too small

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to fit any of the others.
What do you think caused his death,

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doctor asked Grimstead. It was a
sudden rush of blood to his head,

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said doctor Stowden, caused by a
tremendous shock of some sort. Then,

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after a pause, it couldn't have
been anything else. There are no marks

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on his throat, and he looked
challengingly at the newspaper man. I only

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know what I know, replied Grimstead, and he told the whole story again

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for Farley's benefit, not omitting the
slightest detail. When he had finished,

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the police official looked doubtfully at doctor
slogan. This sort of a case was

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outside of his own. Ken Frankly, I'm puzzled over all of this,

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began the physician, looking more closely
at the face of the dead man.

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It's very evident that Hallo he broke
off abruptly. This is devilish queer,

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I must say. Taking a small
magnifying glass from his bag, he bent

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over the body and examined the throat
carefully. This is the most extraordinary thing

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that has ever come within my medical
knowledge, he said, gravely. What

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is it? Asked his companion curiously. When I first looked at Carrie,

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explained the physician. There were no
marks whatsoever upon his throat. It was

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strangely white in contrast to his blackened
face. But now look. He handed

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the glass to Grimstead. The newspaper
man looked, started, and then looked

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again without a word. He handed
the glass to Farley, who looked through

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it long and hard. Then he
whistled softly. Fingerprints, he said,

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laconically. Exactly, said doctor Slowden. They have come out on the skin

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like a rash. Carry His throat
looked like an under developed negative when I

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first looked at it, but now, through some queer phenomenon, it has

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been developed. A little silence followed
his words. Did you perhaps notice anything

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else when you look through the glass? Continued doctor Stoughton, What, for

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instance, asked Grimstead. Those fingerprints
on his throat were those of a woman,

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said doctor Stoughton. They were much
too small to have been inflicted by

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a man, good lord, said
Farley. But they couldn't have been inflicted

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by a woman, observed Grimstead,
satirically, because you said my story was

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a hallucination. Beings that figure in
a hallucination cannot commit real murders, can

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they? Her umph, grunted doctor
Stoughton, Then, with a puzzled frown,

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what do you think of all this, Grimstead? There's only one way

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to think, replied the newspaperman.
Carrie undoubtedly murdered his wife and came back

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to visit the scene of his crime
as murderers from time immemorial have done.

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His wife's ghost was in this room. I am as certain of that as

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I am. My name is Grimstead. It was Selma Carry's fingers that reached

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from the grave and strangle her husband, Bash ejaculated the physician. Such things

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are impossible, grimstaid, shrugged his
shoulders. Nothing is impossible nowadays, doctor,

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he said. The end of Fingers
from the Grave by Edwin Carrie Rennick