The tap by Arthur Edwards Chapman. Mentally, I cursed the tap. If
I had risen once to turn it off. I had risen half a dozen
times during the last quarter of an hour, and still the disconcerting drip,
drip drip continued. This was my first night in the new flat, and
after Missus Biggs, who came in to do the cleaning and prepare my meals,
had wished me good night, I had settled down to run off a
short article which I had promised to deliver by morning. The words had flowed
from my pen with scarcely an effort, and probably for this very reason,
the incident stands out in my memory more vividly than would otherwise have been the
case. I recollect that I had paused my writing to consider more deeply a
certain point in my article. Glancing up at the clock, I had noticed
the hands indicating a quarter to eleven, and as I took up my pen
afresh, I heard that drip, drip drip of the tap in the bathroom.
For a few minutes, I paid no attention to the sound and continued
writing, but presently came so loud and insistent that I found myself counting the
drops unconsciously, drip drip, drip, a loose washer, I said to
myself, I'll get a plumber tomorrow. Rising, I proceeded to the bathroom
and turned the tap off so far as I was able. Then I went
back to my desk, but barely had I picked up my pen, then
the sound recommenced. Drip, drip, drip. I tried to ignore it,
but without success. The very quietness of the building seemed to intensify the
noise, until to listen to it became painful. I must have gone at
least four times to try and screw the confounded thing off. And as surely
as I returned to my chair, believing I had fixed it, just as
surely would that dripping begin anew. With an exclamation of annoyance, I rose
to my feet once more, and then suddenly I became aware that the drip
drip, drip was changing slowly, gradually to a full rush of water,
as though someone were turning on the tap to its fullest extent. Surprise,
I hurried to the bathroom, and as I approached the door, I heard
the little window blow open with a loud bang, and a great gust of
air enfolded me air of so icy a coldness that I shivered involuntarily, grumbling
at the carelessness of missus Biggs, and leaving the window unfastened, I closed
it hastily and made it secure, shooting home the tiny bolt that a previous
tenant had for some reason placed on the bottom frame. After stopping the tap,
which by some strange freak had turned itself on, I closed the bathroom
door and returned to my work with a renewed resolve to send for the plumber
on the morrow. It was some time, however, before I was able
fully to concentrate again, for I kept breaking off to listen for that drip,
drip, drip. I listened in vain, for the tiresome sound was
not renewed, and though I wrote for at least an hour longer, I
did not hear it again that night. Next morning, I put my resolve
into practice, and in due course my friend, the plumber arrived. After
spending considerable time in the bathroom, he came in to report to me.
Didn't seem to be anything wrong, sir, he assured me. But I've
put a new washer on and it'll be right enough now, sir, I'll
bob in again, though, just to see it's going proper. Apparently he
was right, for I did not hear the tap at all during the day.
Once, after Missus Biggs had gone, I visited the bathroom to inspect
the job, and was quite convinced that the dripping would not cause me further
inconvenience. Also, I took the opportunity of seeing that the bathroom window was
securely fastened, and thus satisfied, I returned to my study. I got
thoroughly warmed up to my work and was totally oblivious to everything but the scratch
of my pen as it sped across the smooth surface of the paper. All
else seemed wrapped in a quietness like that of a tropical night, a quietness
paradoxically emphasized by the multitude of familiar sounds that, strangely enough, failed to
impress themselves upon one's mind solely by reason of their very insistence. The ticking
of the clock on the wall before me, the following of an occasional coal
from the grate, These and other commonplace noises served only to heighten the deadly
stillness of my room. Then, suddenly, as I wrote, I became
conscious of a new sound, an accompaniment. It seemed to the scratch of
my pen. Drip, drip, drip. It pierced the silence like a
rapier pierces a heart. It forced itself upon me so harshly that I dropped
my pen and stuffed my fingers into my ears to shut it out. As
I did so, I raised my head and found myself gazing with a feeling
akin to fear at the clock. It was exactly a quarter to eleven.
For an instant, I stared, and a cold shiver ran down my spine.
Was it merely coincidence or was there something uncanny about the tap? A
quarter to eleven? Slowly, fearfully, I turned my head toward the door,
half expecting to see some awful apparition come gliding through. Then I laughed
somewhat nervously, I must admit at my childish dread, and got sharply to
my feet. Hang it all My nerves were all on edge. I was
working too hard. A rest would do me good. Drip drip, drip.
Nothing strange about that. Surely, I thought I would have it out
with my friend the plumber all the same. Meanwhile, I must try and
check the dripping. As I entered the bathroom, the tap, seeming to
protest against my interference, began to drip faster, and I reached out my
hand to stop it. Then I felt a peculiar, stinging, burning sensation
of intense cold across the backs of my hands, as though someone were passing
a piece of ice over them, and the knob of the tap began slowly
to unscrew itself. It was weird uncanny. I cannot adequately describe it.
I tried to resist that unseen force, but was powerless against it. Nor
could I withdraw my hands from the tap. They were numb with that fake
coldness, and pressed on by invisible fingers against the metal, while the screw
slowly turned round and round before my very eyes, and the drip drip became
a swift dribble. And then an awful, nameless error took possession of me.
I strove to flee, but could not. I turned my head away,
but some strange power impelled me to return my gaze to the tap that
kept on slowly turning, turning. My heart beat madly against my ribs.
I was hot and cold. Alternately, I think I went mad and struggled
wildly to escape that horrible influence. Then, as the screw reached its limit
and the water gushed forth, the little window suddenly was flung open, and
an icy blast met me and sent me staggering back against the wall. For
a few minutes I leaned there, striving to steady my racked nerves and collect
my scattered wits. But now all was still and quiet, save for the
rushing of the water. Mechanically, I crossed to the basin and turned the
tap off, afterward closing and fastening the window. Now I was able to
think more calmly, and endeavored to probe the mystery of this strange happening.
But try as I would, I could not explain it. I had always
been a skeptic where spiritualism was concerned, and yet the next day passed quite
as usual, And though on several occasions I entered the bathroom, there was
no indication of anything out of the ordinary about the place. The tap was
behaving just as any self respecting tap should. During the evening I received a
visit from an old college chum Rolph Greatrix. In the old days we had
fought many a wordy battle on matters relating to psychic research. For Greatrix was
a keen student of the subject, whereas I, as I have intimated,
was openly a scoffer. Remembering thus, I took the opportunity of telling him
of my experience of the previous night. When I had finished my tale,
Greatrix was silent for a space. Then he turned and looked at me queerly,
and said, rather irrelevantly, I thought, do you remember the Goldstone
murder which created such a sensation some six months ago? I said, I
had a slight recollection of the affair. A certain theatrical manager of the name
of Goldstone had murdered his wife in a fit of jealousy. Wasn't it yes,
Greatrix agreed slowly, Well, the crime was committed in this flat.
Now it was my turn to stare curiously in this flat, I repeated,
taking out my cigarette case and offering it to him. Great Tricks nodded.
Let me refresh your memory a little, he said, lighting up. This
Goldstone was known to be insanely jealous of his young wife. It was said
that he suspected her of being unduly interested in a certain actor who was then
playing lead in Goldstone's company. Well, one night, a Sunday, it
was Goldstone was returning to his flat when he passed the actor in the street.
Immediately, Goldstone's jealousy was aroused in his mind. There was but one
explanation. His wife had taken advantage of his absence to receive her lover.
Oh, I seem to remember that, I interrupted. It was proved afterwards
that the actor had just left some friends further up the street, and whose
company he had been all the evening. Wasn't that it? Yes, you're
right, Greatrick said, But Goldstone didn't know that. All he thought of
was the supposed faithlessness of his wife. His previous suspicions seemed to be more
than justified, and he entered the flat with murder in his heart. His
wife was just retiring and had gone into the bathroom for a glass of water,
which she was in the habit of taking last thing at night. She
had just turned on the tap marked this well, and was reaching for the
glass when Goldstone burst in upon her. Greatrix paused and gazed into the fireplace.
That would be some time, just before eleven, he said, reflectively,
Just before eleven, I shot the question suddenly, that's the time the
tap starts to drip. My friend nodded his head slowly and continued. She
hadn't time to fill the glass before Goldstone had her by the throat. You
know the rest A policeman heard her scream and forced an entry, but it
was too late. He finished speaking and bent to poke the dying fire into
a last despairing flame. I gazed at him half doubtfully, Then you think,
I began? I believe, he said deliberately, that the spirit of
the dead woman is seeking to complete the action which the mind conceived but the
body was unable to carry out. You mean that the thought uppermost in the
woman's mind when death overtook her was to obtain a glass of water, and
that the spirit will not rest in peace until this thought becomes translated into action,
Yes, he said, and then stopped short, listening intently. I
had heard the sound also, and knew that the hour had come. Glancing
quickly at the clock, I saw that it was a quarter to eleven,
and as the drip, drip drip slowly became louder, I felt something of
that fear of the previous night. Returning. Greatrix rose sharply and flung his
half consumed cigarette into the fireplace, a strange, far off look in his
eyes. Come, he said quietly, and I followed him, not without
some misgivings, to the bathroom. As he pushed open the door, my
eyes instinctively sought out the tap, and I saw that it was slowly turning,
turning for an instant. Friend watched in silence. Then suddenly he crossed
to the basin, and taking a glass from the shelf above, held it
under the tap, which now was running swiftly. Wonderingly, I watched him,
shivering a little as I felt an icy wave passed by me. But
great Tricks did not appear to notice anything, And placing the glass, now
full, on the basin, he came quickly to my side. Watch,
he said simply. Together we gazed at that glass of water, and then,
with a shock, I realized that it was moving slowly, almost imperceptibly.
At first it began to float upward, as though raised by an invisible
hand. Fascinated, horrified, I watched the upward course, and I think
I would have rushed forward had not my companion held me back with a warning
arm higher the glass went, and that invisible hand began to tilt it so
that it seemed as if the contents must be spilled to the floor. No
drop fell, however, Instead I saw the water slowly disappearing, vanishing into
the air, until the last drop was gone. I felt my head throbbing,
my heart began to raise. I could stand it no longer, and
with a cry, I flung aside my friend's restraining hand and darted wildly forward.
With a loud crash, the window burst open, and as I fell
back before the fierceness of that inrush of air, the glass freed from the
invisible power, tumbled to the floor, where it shattered into a hundred fragments.
With an effort, I combed myself and turned to Greatrix, who was
still standing with his back against the wall, a vacant look in his eyes
and a faint smile of an understanding and relief on his lips. What what
was it? I stammered? What does it mean? Quietly he answered,
as he turned toward me. It means that the unexpressed thought has become an
actuality. The spirit will trouble you no more. My friend, the plumber
came as he had promised, to see how his job had gone on well,
sir, he said, I dare bet as how that tap ain't dripping
now, eh? I smiled thoughtfully, No, I replied slowly. It
doesn't drip now, I thought. Is how I'd fix it? He exclaimed
with professional pride. What I don't know about tap? Saint worth wasting breath
on end of the tap,