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Speaker 1: Fingers from the Grave by Edwin Carey. Rank Tom Grimstead

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was not looking for a story when he decided to

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spend the night in the haunted carry House. As a

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newspaper man, he had frequently exposed many bogus mediums and spiritualists.

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But the accounts of those who had spent, or rather

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tried to spend a night in the carry House seemed

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so authentic and honest that Grimstead, who was enjoying his

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vacation in the quaint New England town of Sedley, longed

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to experience some of the thrills that had come to

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these narrators. There was a presence in the house, Quavered

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Martin Stacy, who had once spent part of a night there.

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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

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when you were reading, without making any noise, you would

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feel they were there even if you hadn't seen them,

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wouldn't you? Grimstead nodded, Well, it was that sort of

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feeling that came over me in missus Carey's bedroom, Martin

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Stacy's story was similar to the others. They had all

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felt a sinister presence in Missus Carey's room, and the

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feeling had always been followed by senseless, unreasoning terror that

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made them flee into the night. The Carrey tragedy had

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been the grimmest story that had ever occurred in the

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town of Sedley. Twenty years before, Weld and Carey had

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brought his bride to the old Carrey House, which had

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been built by a colonial carry and inhabited by Carreys

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ever since. Selma Carey was beautiful and vivacious, and she

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appeared to be as madly in love with the old

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house and its colonial traditions as she was with its master.

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Then came the tragedy. Young Missus Carey was found murdered

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one morning, strangled to death, and her husband told incoherently

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how two burglars had broken into the place at midnight.

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One of them had throttled Missus Carey and the other

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one was threatening him with a revolver when some noise

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frightened them away. The countryside was searched for the two men,

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but they were never apprehended, and the verdict of the

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coroner's jury was that Missus Carey had come to her

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death at the hands of person or persons unknown. Carrie

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seemed heart broken after the tragedy, and, finally, not succeeding

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in selling the old house, he left it in charge

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of a caretaker and went abroad to live. In all

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these intervening years, he had never returned to his birthplace,

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nor could any one be induced to rent the place.

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Tom Grimstead thought, as he stood in front of the

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Carry Mansion at dusk one September afternoon, that he had

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never seen a more repellent looking house. There was something

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indescribably repugnant about it, as if one were contemplating the

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corpse of a house. Horror surrounded it like a nimbus,

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and Grimstead's first impulse was to walk hastily away, but

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shaking off the feeling of dread that had settled upon

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him like an incubus, he resolutely walked up the weed

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encumbered walk that led to the front door, armed with

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a key that he had experienced no difficulty in securing

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from a cynical real estate agent, who promptly offered a

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wager that he would not stay the night out, a

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wager that Grimstead as promptly accepted. He carried a handbag

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that contained a supply of sandwiches, a small automatic, half

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a dozen fat candles, a flashlight, and two volumes of

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Poe's grisliest short stories. Ironically, he thought of these as

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

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shrank back instinctively as the front door slam shut, leaving

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him in impenetrable darkness. This instantaneous plunge into blackness was

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sudden enough to daunt anyone, and for a second time

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

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Then he reflected that the thrills are what he had

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come for, and he was disgusted at the realization that

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he was allowing his subconscious self to be affected by

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the stories he had heard. If he were really a skeptic,

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as he had always prided himself on being, he was

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on the verge of the most interesting adventure of his

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none too dull life. So he opened his handbag by

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touch alone, turned on his flashlight, and took stock of

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his surrounding. He was in an old fashioned living room,

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at the far end of which was a huge open

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fireplace in front of him. A fine specimen of colonial

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architecture in the shape of an imposing staircase pointed the

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way to adventure. On the second floor, the large room

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was fully furnished, but the smell of decay and mildew

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assailed Grimstead's nostrils. The atmosphere was heavy and fetid, odors

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of by gone days seemed to meet and commingle, and

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the air held a penetrating chill. Something soft brushed against

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his face in the semi gloom, and he started back involuntarily,

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

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and the creature settled upon the back of a large

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upholstered chair, its wings spread wide, shivering as the bright

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ray of the flashlight illuminated its ghastly markings. With a

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small shiver that was not entirely due to the chill

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of the place, Grimstead started up the stairs in search

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of missus Carey's bedroom, which he had been told was

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the front room at the left of the upper hallway.

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But first he explored the other rooms, finding them all

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furnished but reeking with desolation and decay. Time had wrought

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sad havoc upon objects of inestimable value to the collector

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of colonial antiques. Grimstead now turned the handle of the

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door that led to the dead woman's bedchamber and found

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himself in an ancient boudoir, about which still clung the

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elusive odor of mignette and lavender. Against one side of

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the wall was an antique dressing table, but the surface

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of the long mirror, which had in bygone days often

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reflected the fair image of Selma Carey, was now opaque,

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blurred over by the film of years. Near the dresser,

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a four poster bed covered with a yellowed counterpane, and

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two pillows were in place at its head. It was

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hard to believe that no one had slept there for

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twenty years. With the exception of the dust that covered

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everything and the dank smell, the room and its furnishings

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appeared to have been left as they were on the

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day of the tragedy, and Grimstead found himself glancing from

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time to time at the door of the dressing room,

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which was about ten feet from the bed, as if

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he expected a charming figure in dishable to come romping

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into the room at any moment. So acute was this

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impression that he strode across the room and threw open

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the door of the dressing room, peering curiously within it

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contained an old fashioned tin bath tub, the paint from

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which was chipped off here and there, giving it a

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dismal look of dilapidation. On the rusted metal towel rack

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hung a rotting bath towel, and from a hook in

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the wall was suspended a mildewed dressing gown that had

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once been lavender colored. With a look of infinite pity,

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Grimstead closed the door softly behind him, his vivid imagination

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conjuring up the picture of a lovely woman with golden

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hair cascading to her waist, humming a gay little tune

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as she prepared for her bath. He now set the

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stage for his lonely vigil. Lighting one of his fat candles,

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he placed it upon the dusty dresser in such a

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position that its flame illuminated the bed. Then he stuck

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another above the fireplace on the white marble mantelpiece. Drawing

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up a small dressing table, he placed his third candle

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upon that, and then he dusted off a comfortable Morris

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chair with wide arms, and placed it where he could

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command a view of the entire room. The dressing table

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was at his left, within easy reaching distance, and on

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this he placed his sandwiches, his automatic, and his volumes

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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

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the fall of the house of Usher, which he had

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decided was the proper yarn for the time, the place,

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and the man. It was so silent in the house

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that the scampering of mice in the wainscot sounded as

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loud as the rumping of Newfoundland dogs. Every now and

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then one of them would squeal as if it were

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being murdered, and whenever this happened, Grimstead would pause in

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his reading and look up with a startled tenseness, expecting

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to see He knew not what. The wind was rising,

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and it howled and moaned, like a tortured spirit striving

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with futile hands to force an entrance through the rotting

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eaves of the ancient house. It was an eerie sound,

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and Grimstead found himself forced to exert all his will

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power in order to concentrate upon the harrowing tale which

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he was reading. He felt like a spectator awaiting the

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climax to a particularly dramatic scene in a melodrama. Then

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came a lull in the wind, and the mice suddenly

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ceased to scamper, as if at a signal from a

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master mouse. The big old house appeared to be waiting

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in suspense, holding its breath. Grimstead had reached the point

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in his story where the sound of muffled blows from

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the vault was reverberating through the ill fated house of

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usher mad man. He read, I Tell You. He looked

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up quickly. The dying down of the wind and the

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secaination of the scamperings in the wainscoat made the room

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feel as dead as stagnant water looks. But it was

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not the nerve wracking stillness that had galvanized Grimstead to

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alert attention. It was the unalterable conviction that someone or

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

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he glanced keenly around the room. Certainly he was the

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only living soul there, But the door of the dressing

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room was slowly opening two. Grimstead stared incredulously at the

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widening aperture. He had thoroughly inspected the room less than

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a half an hour before, and no living creature could

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have been concealed there, nor was there any other door

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to the room. The thing was impossible, yet it was

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happening before his eyes. Wi The door opened, and then,

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as Grimstead held his breath in suspense, something stepped into

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the room. He could not see it, but he felt it,

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and an icy wind suddenly stirred the roots of his hair.

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At the realization that he was no longer alone, he

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heard the ghostly sound of footsteps crossing the room, and

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then the candle on the dresser suddenly wavered, as if

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a passing breeze had slightly stirred it. As the paralyzed

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newspaper man gazed wide eyed from his chair, there came

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from the dresser an unmistakable sound of hairpins tinkling down

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into a celluloid tray. Thinking that an over vivid imagination

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was playing him tricks, Grimstead, by a tremendous effort of will,

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sat erect in his chair and was about to spring

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to his feet when an amazing thing stupefied him once

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more into an action. The ghostly footsteps crossed the carpet

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once more, like a soft brushing of unseen wings, and

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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,

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as if a head were resting there. Something invisible was

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reclining upon the bed. As this incredible fact percolated through

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Grimstead's understanding, blind panic assailed him. Only one thing, he

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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,

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which was wide open after his visitant had entered, was

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now tightly closed. This tended to convince him that the

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entire episode was in hallucination due to overwrought nerves. At

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any rate, he sprang back to his feet, determined to

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probe the mystery to its depths, when a sound smote

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upon his ear that stiffened him in his tracks and

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made him snatch the automatic hurriedly from the table. Someone

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was coming up the stairs. He heard the sound of shuffling,

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reluctant footsteps, as if the person, thing, or whatever it was,

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were disinclined to make the ascent slower and more hesitant

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became these ominous footsteps, and Grimstead now utterly unnerved, gripped

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the automatic frantically and turned a white face in the

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direction of the bedroom door, not knowing what to expect,

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but he felt convinced that if this door opened as

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the other had done and no tangible thing entered, he

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would scream like a hysterical woman. Unwilling footsteps had now

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reached the landing outside the door and came to a

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halt there, as if the intruder were listening. This weight

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seemed indeterminable to the crouching newsman, who stood immovable by

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the table, his automatic aim straight at the door. Finally,

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there was a shuffling of feet, and then a hand

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turned the knob. Slowly. The door opened, Hands up, cried

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Grimsby hoarsely. Or I'll shoot what the devil? Growled the

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surprised voice, and Grimsby emitted a high sigh of relief.

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

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

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walked slowly into the room, first glancing around fearfully before

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allowing his gaze to rest upon Grimsby. Now then he said, coldly,

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who are you and what are you doing in this house?

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Just what I was going to ask you, grinned Grimsby,

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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.

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The man's voice suddenly broke, and his tan face went

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livid with fear. He was staring with a look of

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indescribable terror at the bed. What's that? Who's there? He

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whispered in high pitched terror lated accents. Why what, stammered Grimsby,

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and then froze into a gaping figure of a man.

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The indentations in the bed and pillow slowly straightened out

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like a flat automobile tire. When the air rushes in

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once more, Grimsby heard those ghostly footsteps, and then the

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bearded man shrieked like a demon in hell. Selma, for

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God's sakes, don't he gasped, I didn't mean to do it.

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I swear I didn't mean to do it. He staggered back,

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fumbling at his throat and gasping for breath. Take your

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

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voice died out in a choking gurgle, and he staggered

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wildly around the room, pulling desperately at his throat, as

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if trying to unloosen the clutching of hands. Grimstead took

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hold of the struggling figure. You are mad, he cried,

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There is no one here. The stranger did not seem

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to hear. His eyes were rolling in his head, and

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his face was turning a mottled purple. Up and down

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the room, he thrashed in agony, trying vainly to break

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the deadly hold that was apparently fastened upon his windpipe

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with the grip of a maddened bulldog. It was a

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horrible sight, and Grimstead could no longer but follow the

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agonized man, who seemed destitute of all reason. The end

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came quickly. Suddenly there was a rattling sound in the

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man's throat, and then he sank slowly to his knees

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and toppled forward on his face. Once more. The sound

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of invisible footsteps, and Grimstead looked up from the dead

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body in time to see the door of the dressing

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room open quickly and close. Then he lost all control

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over his twitching nerves and ran, shrieking out of the room,

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down the stairs, and out into the fresh sweetness of

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the September night, staggering like a drunken man, his brain

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reeling from the horrors of that fetied bedroom three. The

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sight of the familiar street and the feeling of the

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wind blowing in his face partially restored his faculties to normal,

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But he was trembling like a drug fiend as he

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entered doctor Stowton's office, and his speech was so incoherent

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that the amazed physician was convinced that he was either

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intoxicated or insane. But as the spell of the horror

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wore away and Grimstead began to talk more rationally, doctor

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Stoughton realized that this was no ordinary case, and that

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Grimstead was neither intoxicated nor insane. He was that most

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pathetic of all objects, a strong man suffering from overwhelming fright.

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Doctor Stoughton had been the Carey's physician and was for

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many years Wendell Carey's closest friend, so it was with

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very grave face that he went back to the house

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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

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strong shudder that Grimstead entered the house that had shattered

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his skepticism to bits, and followed the two men upstairs.

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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

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it had fallen from his nerveless hand. In the center

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of the room was a huddled heap that had once

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been a man. Hum this looks bad, ejaculated doctor Stoughton

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as he bent over the prostrate figure. He turned the

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body over and the face peered up at him, distorted

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and black as a charred log. My god, it's weld

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and carry, he shouted, drawing back from the corpse in

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sudden horror. How do you know, asked Farley in awestruck tones.

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

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Doctor Stoughton lifted the man's limp left hand. I can

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tell by this Amethys string on the little finger, he explained.

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It was given to him by his mother and he

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has always worn it on that finger, as it is

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too small to fit any of the others. What do

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you think caused his death, doctor asked Grimstead. It was

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a sudden rush of blood to his head, said doctor Stowdin,

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caused by a tremendous shock of some sort. Then, after

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a pause, it couldn't have been anything else. There are

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no marks on his throat, and he looked challengingly at

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the newspaper man. I only know what I know, replied Grimstead,

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and he told the whole story again for Farley's benefit,

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not omitting the slightest detail. When he had finished, the

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police official looked doubtfully at doctor Slowdin. This sort of

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a case was outside of his own. Ken, frankly, I'm

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puzzle over all of this, began the physician, looking more

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closely at the face of the dead man. It's very

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evident that hello, he broke off abruptly. This is devilish queer,

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

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he bent over the body and examined the throat carefully.

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This is the most extraordinary thing that has ever come

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within my medical knowledge, he said, gravely. What is it?

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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.

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It was strangely white in contrast to his blackened face.

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But now look. He handed the glass to Grimstad. The

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newspaper man looked started, and then looked again. Without a word.

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He handed the glass to Farley, who looked through it

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long and hard. Then he whistled softly. Fingerprints, he said, laconically. Exactly,

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said doctor Slowdin. They have come out on the skin

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like a rash. Carrie's throat looked like an under developed

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negative when I first looked at it, but now, through

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some queer phenomenon, it has been developed. A little silence

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followed his words. Did you perhaps notice anything else when

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you look through the glass? Continued doctor Stowton, What, for instance,

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asked Grimstead. Those fingerprints on his throat were those of

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a woman, said doctor Stoton. They were much too small

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to have been inflicted by a man, good lord, said Farley.

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But they couldn't have been inflicted by a woman, observed Grimstead, satirically,

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because you said my story was a hallucination. Beings that

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figure in a hallucination cannot commit real murders, can they? Hurumph,

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grunted doctor Stoughton. Then, with a puzzled frown, what do

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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

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and came back to visit the scene of his crime,

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as murderers from time immemorial have done. His wife's ghost

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was in this room. I am as certain of that

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as I am. My name is Grimstead. It was Selma

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Carrey's fingers that reached from the grave and strangle her husband.

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Bosh ejaculated the physician. Such things are impossible, Grimstead shrugged

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his shoulders. Nothing is impossible nowadays, doctor, he said. The

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end of Fingers from the Grave by Edwin Carrey Rennick