Fingers from the Grave by Edwin carry Rank. Tom Grimstead was not looking for
a story when he decided to spend the night in the haunted carry House.
As a newspaperman, he had frequently exposed many bogus mediums and spiritualists, But
the accounts of those who had spent, or rather tried to spend a night
in the carry House seemed so authentic and honest that Grimstead, who was enjoying
his vacation in the quaint New England town of Sedley, longed to experience some
of the thrills that had come to these narrators. There was a presence in
the house, Quavered Martin Stacy, who had once spent part of a night
there. I I felt it. Could you see it? Asked Grimstead.
Martin shuddered, No, he whispered, But I knew it was there,
whatever it was. If anybody sneaked in to your room when you were reading,
without making any noise, you would feel they were there even if you
hadn't seen him, wouldn't you? Grimstead nodded, Well, it was that
sort of feeling that came over me in missus Carrey's bedroom. Martin Stacy's story
was similar to the others. They had all felt a sinister presence in missus
Carey's room, and the feeling had always been followed by senseless, unreasoning terror
that made them flee into the night. The Carry tragedy had been the grimmest
story that had ever occurred in the town of Sedley. Twenty years before,
Weld and Carry had brought his bride to the old Carry House, which had
been built by a colonial Carry and inhabited by Carrey's ever since. Selma Carry
was beautiful and vivacious, and she appeared to be as madly in love with
the old house and its colonial traditions as she was with its master. Then
came the tragedy. Young Missus Carey was found murdered one morning, strangled to
death, and her husband told incoherently how two burglars had broken into the place
at midnight. One of them had throttled Missus Carey and the other one was
threatening him with a revolver when some noise frightened them away. The countryside was
searched for the two men, but they were never apprehended, and the verdict
of the coroner's jury was that Missus Carey had come to her death at the
hands of person or persons unknown. Carry seemed heartbroken after the tragedy, and
finally not succeeding in selling the old house, he left it in charge of
a caretaker and went abroad to live. In all these intervening years, he
had never returned to his birthplace, nor could any one be induced to rent
the place. Tom Grimstead thought, as he stood in front of the Carry
mansion at dusk one September afternoon, that he had never seen a more repellent
looking house. There was something indescribably repugnant about it, as if one were
contemplating the corpse of a house. Horror surrounded it like a nimbus, and
Grimstead's first impulse was to walk hastily away, But shaking off the feeling of
dread that had settled upon him like an incubus, he resolutely walked up the
weed encumbered walk that led to the front door, armed with a key that
he had experienced no difficulty in securing from a cynical real estate agent who promptly
offered a wager that he would not stay the night out, a wager that
Grimstead as promptly accepted. He carried a handbag that contained a supply of sandwiches,
a small automatic, half a dozen fat candles, a flashlight, and
two volumes of Poe's Grizzliest short stories. Ironically, he thought of these as
his ghost props. But stout nerved as he was, Grimstead shrank back instinctively
as the front door slam shot, leaving him in impenetrable darkness. This instantaneous
plunge into blackness was sudden enough to daunt anyone, and for a second time
that afternoon, Grimstead was tempted to abandon his ghost quest. Then he reflected
that the thrills are what he had come for, and he was disgusted at
the realization that he was allowing his subconscious self to be affected by the stories
he had heard. If he were really a skeptic, as he had always
prided himself on being, he was on the verge of the most interesting adventure
of his none too dull life. So he opened his handbag by touch alone,
turned on his flashlight, and took stock of his surrounding. He was
in an old fashioned living room, at the far end of which was a
huge open fireplace. In front of him, a fine specimen of colonial architecture
in the shape of an imposing staircase pointed the way to adventure. On the
second floor. The large room was fully furnished, but the smell of decay
and mildew assailed Grimstead's nostrils. The atmosphere was heavy and fetid odors of by
gone days seemed to meet and commingle, and the air held a penetrating chill.
Something soft brushed against his face in the semi gloom, and he started
back involuntarily, and then laughed nervously. It was a death's head moth,
and the creatures settled upon the back of a large upholstered chair, its wings
spread wide, shivering as the bright ray of the flashlight illuminated its ghastly markings.
With a small shiver was not entirely due to the chill of the place.
Grimstead started up the stairs in search of missus Carey's bedroom, which he
had been told was the front room at the left of the upper hallway,
But first he explored the other rooms, finding them all furnished but reeking with
desolation and decay. Time had wrought sad havoc upon objects of inestimable value to
the collector of colonial antiques. Grimstead now turned the handle of the door that
led to the dead woman's bed chamber and found himself in an ancient boudoir,
about which still clung the elusive odor of Mignette and Laventer. Against one side
of the wall was an antique dressing table, but the surface of the long
mirror, which had in bygone days often reflected the fair image of Selma Carrey,
was now opaque, blurred over by the film of years. Near the
dresser was a four poster bed covered with a yellowed counterpane, and two pillows
were in place at its head. It was hard to believe that no one
had slept there for twenty years. With the exception of the dust that covered
everything and the dank smell, the room and its furnishings appeared to have been
left as they were on the day of the tragedy, and Grimstead found himself
glancing from time to time at the door of the dressing room, which was
about ten feet from the bed, as if he expected a charming figure in
dishable to come romping into the room at any moment. So acute was this
impression that he strode across the room and threw open the door of the dressing
room, peering curiously within it contained an old fashioned tin bathtub, the paint
from which was chipped off here and there, giving it a dismal look of
dilapidation. On the rusted metal towel rack hung a rotting bath towel, and
from a hook in the wall was suspended a mildewed dressing gown that had once
been lavender colored. With a look of infinite pity, Grimstead closed the door
softly behind him, his vivid imagination conjuring up the picture of a lovely woman
with golden hair cascading to her waist, humming a gay little tune as she
prepared for her bath. He now set the stage for his lonely vigil.
Lighting one of his fat candles, he placed it upon the dusty dresser in
such a position that its flame illuminated the bed. Then he stuck another above
the fireplace, on the white marble mantelpiece. Drawing up a small dressing table,
he placed his third candle upon that, and then he dusted off a
comfortable Morris chair with wide arms, and placed it where he could command a
view of the entire room. The dressing table was at his left within easy
reaching distance, and on this he placed his sandwiches, his automatic, and
his volumes of poe. Satisfied with these strategic arrangements, he lit his pipe,
sank into the big chair, and was soon immersed in the fall of
the house of Usher, which he had decided was the proper yarn for the
time, the place, and the man. It was so silent in the
house that the scampering of mice in the wainscoat sounded as loud as the rumping
of Newfoundland dogs. Every now and then one of them would squeal as if
it were being murdered, and whenever this happened, Grimstead would pause in his
reading and look up with a startled tenseness, expecting to see he knew not
what. The wind was rising, and it howled and moaned, like a
tortured spirit striving with futile hands to force an entrance through the rotting eaves of
the ancient house. It was an eerie sound, and Grimstead found himself forced
to exert all his willpower in order to concentrate upon the harrowing tail which he
was reading. He felt like a spectator awaiting the climax to a particularly dramatic
scene in a melodrama. Then came a lull in the wind, and the
mice suddenly ceased to scamper, as if at a signal from a master mouse.
The big old house appeared to be waiting in suspense, holding its breath.
Grimstead had reached the point in his story where the sound of muffled blows
from the vault was reverberating through the ill fated house of usher madman. He
read, I Tell You. He looked up quickly. The dying down of
the wind and the seat of the scamperings in the wainscot made the room feel
as dead as stagnant water looks. But it was not the nerve racking stillness
that had galvanized Grimstead to alert attention. It was the unalterable conviction that someone
or something was lurking near him. Reaching stealthily for the automatic, he glanced
keenly around the room. Certainly he was the only living soul there, but
the door of the dressing room was slowly opening two. Grimstead stared incredulously at
the widening aperture. He had thoroughly inspected the room less than half an hour
before, and no living creature could have been concealed there, nor was there
any other door to the room. The thing was impossible, yet it was
happening before his eyes wider wider. The door opened, and then, as
Grimstead held his breath in suspense, something stepped into the room. He could
not see it, but he felt it, and an icy wind suddenly stirred
the roots of his hair. At the realization that he was no longer alone,
he heard the ghostly sound of footsteps crossing the room, and then the
candle on the dresser suddenly wavered, as if a passing breeze had slightly stirred
it. As the paralyzed newspaper man gazed wide eyed from his chair, there
came from the dresser an unmistakable sound of hairpins tinkling down into a celluloid tray.
Thinking that an over vivid imagination was playing him tricks, Grimstead, by
a tremendous effort of will, sat erect in his chair and was about to
spring to his feet, when an amazing thing stupefied him once more into an
action. The ghostly footsteps crossed the carpet once more, like a soft brushing
of unseen wings, and Grimstead saw the bed suddenly sag as if a body
were lying there, And then one of the pillows became indented, as if
a head were resting there. Something invisible was reclining upon the bed. As
this incredible fact percolated through Grimstead's understanding, blind panic assailed him. Only one
thing, he confessed afterward, prevented him from becoming a gibbering idiot. That
was his discovery that the door leading into the dressing room, which was wide
open after his visitant had entered, was now tightly closed. This tended to
convince him that the entire episode was an hallucination due to overwrought nerves. At
any rate, he sprang back to his feet, determined to probe the mystery
to its depths, when a sound smote upon his ear that stiffened him in
his tracks and made him snatch the automatic hurriedly from the table. Someone was
coming up the stairs. He heard the sound of shuffling, reluctant footsteps,
as if the person, thing, or whatever it was, were disinclined to
make the ascent slower and more hesitant became these ominous footsteps, and Grimstead,
now utterly unnerved, gripped the automatic frantically and turned a white face in the
direction of the bedroom door, not knowing what to expect, but he felt
convinced that if this door opened as the other had done and no tangible thing
entered, he would scream like a hysterical woman. Unwill footsteps had now reached
the landing outside the door and came to a halt there, as if the
intruder were listening. This weight seemed indeterminable to the crouching newsmen, who stood
immovable by the table. His automatic aimed straight at the door. Finally,
there was a shuffling of feet, and then a hand turned the knob.
Slowly, the door opened, Hands up, cried Grimsby hoarsely. Or I'll
shoot what the devil? Growled the surprised voice, and Grimsby emitted a high
sigh of relief. At least it was a human being. A heavily built,
bearded man about fifty years old, a stranger to Grimsby, walked slowly
into the room, first glancing around fearfully before allowing his gaze to rest upon
Grimsby. Now then he said, coldly, who are you and what are
you doing in this house? Just what I was going to ask you grinned
Grimsby, his self possession now fully restored. I Am began the stranger,
and then came the crowning horror of the memorable evening. The man's voice suddenly
broke, and his tan face went livid with fear. He was staring with
a look of indescribable terror at the bed. What's that? Who's there?
He whispered in high pitched terrelated accents. Why what? Stammered Grimsby, and
then froze into a gaping figure of a man. The indentations in the bed
and pillow slowly straightened out like a flat automobile tire. When the air rushes
in once more, Grimsby heard those ghostly footsteps, and then the bearded man
shrieked like a demon in hell. Selma, for God's sakes, don't he
gasped, I didn't mean to do it. I swear I didn't mean to
do it. He staggered back, fumbling at his throat and gasping for breath.
Take your hands away, he panted, My God, you're throttling me.
His voice died out in a choking gurgle, and he staggered wildly around
the room, pulling desperately at his throat, as if trying to unloosen the
clutching of hands. Grimstead took hold of the struggling figure. You're mad,
he cried, There is no one here. The stranger did not seem to
hear. His eyes were rolling in his head, and his face was turning
a mottled purple. Up and down the room, he thrashed in agony,
trying vainly to break the deadly hold that was apparently fastened upon his windpipe with
the grip of a maddened bulldog. It was a horrible sight, and Grimstead
could no longer but follow the agonized man, who seemed destitute of all reason.
The end came quickly. Suddenly there was a rattling sound in the man's
throat, and then he sank slowly to his knees and toppled forward on his
face. Once more, the sound of invisible footsteps, and Grimstead looked up
from the dead body in time to see the door of the dressing room open
quickly and close. Then he lost all control over his twitching nerves and ran,
shrieking out of the room, down the stairs, and out into the
fresh sweetness of the September night, staggering like a drunken man, his brain
reeling from the horrors of that fetid bedroom. Three. The sight of the
familiar street and the feeling of the wind blowing in his face partially restored his
faculties to normal, But he was trembling like a drug fiend as he entered
doctor Stoughton's office, and his speech was so incoherent that the amazed physician was
convinced that he was either intoxicated or insane. But as the spell of the
horror wore away and Grimstead began to talk more rationally, doctor Stoughton realized that
this was no ordinary case, and that Grimstead was neither intoxicated nor insane.
He was that most pathetic of all objects, a strong man suffering from overwhelming
fright. Doctor Stoughton had been the Carey's physician and was for many years Wendell
Carey's closest friend, so it was with very grave face that he went back
to the house with Grimstead, accompanied by mort Farley, an official who fatuously
called himself Sedley's Chief of Police. It was with a strong shudder that Grimstead
entered the house that had shattered his skepticism to bits. And followed the two
men upstairs. Everything in the bedroom was just as he had left it.
His candles were still burning, and his automatic lay where it had fallen from
his nerveless hand. In the center of the room was a huddled heap that
had once been a man. Hm, this looks bad, ejaculated doctor Stoughton
as he bent over the prostrate figure. He turned the body over, and
the face peered up at him, distorted and black as a charred log.
My god, it's weld and carry, he shouted, drawing back from the
corpse in sudden horror. How do you know, asked Farley in awe struck
tones. It's been twenty years and this man wears a beard. Doctor Stoughton
lifted the man's limp left hand. I can tell by this amethis string on
the little finger, he explained. It was given to him by his mother
and he has always worn it on that finger, as it is too small
to fit any of the others. What do you think caused his death,
doctor asked Grimstead. It was a sudden rush of blood to his head,
said doctor Stowden, caused by a tremendous shock of some sort. Then,
after a pause, it couldn't have been anything else. There are no marks
on his throat, and he looked challengingly at the newspaper man. I only
know what I know, replied Grimstead, and he told the whole story again
for Farley's benefit, not omitting the slightest detail. When he had finished,
the police official looked doubtfully at doctor slogan. This sort of a case was
outside of his own. Ken Frankly, I'm puzzled over all of this,
began the physician, looking more closely at the face of the dead man.
It's very evident that Hallo he broke off abruptly. This is devilish queer,
I must say. Taking a small magnifying glass from his bag, he bent
over the body and examined the throat carefully. This is the most extraordinary thing
that has ever come within my medical knowledge, he said, gravely. What
is it? Asked his companion curiously. When I first looked at Carrie,
explained the physician. There were no marks whatsoever upon his throat. It was
strangely white in contrast to his blackened face. But now look. He handed
the glass to Grimstead. The newspaper man looked, started, and then looked
again without a word. He handed the glass to Farley, who looked through
it long and hard. Then he whistled softly. Fingerprints, he said,
laconically. Exactly, said doctor Slowden. They have come out on the skin
like a rash. Carry His throat looked like an under developed negative when I
first looked at it, but now, through some queer phenomenon, it has
been developed. A little silence followed his words. Did you perhaps notice anything
else when you look through the glass? Continued doctor Stoughton, What, for
instance, asked Grimstead. Those fingerprints on his throat were those of a woman,
said doctor Stoughton. They were much too small to have been inflicted by
a man, good lord, said Farley. But they couldn't have been inflicted
by a woman, observed Grimstead, satirically, because you said my story was
a hallucination. Beings that figure in a hallucination cannot commit real murders, can
they? Her umph, grunted doctor Stoughton, Then, with a puzzled frown,
what do you think of all this, Grimstead? There's only one way
to think, replied the newspaperman. Carrie undoubtedly murdered his wife and came back
to visit the scene of his crime as murderers from time immemorial have done.
His wife's ghost was in this room. I am as certain of that as
I am. My name is Grimstead. It was Selma Carry's fingers that reached
from the grave and strangle her husband, Bash ejaculated the physician. Such things
are impossible, grimstaid, shrugged his shoulders. Nothing is impossible nowadays, doctor,
he said. The end of Fingers from the Grave by Edwin Carrie Rennick