Speaker 1: Fingers from the Grave by Edwin Carey. Rank Tom Grimstead
was not looking for a story when he decided to
spend the night in the haunted carry House. As a
newspaper man, 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 them,
wouldn't you? Grimstead nodded, Well, it was that sort of
feeling that came over me in missus Carey'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 Carrey tragedy had
been the grimmest story that had ever occurred in the
town of Sedley. Twenty years before, Weld and Carey had
brought his bride to the old Carrey House, which had
been built by a colonial carry and inhabited by Carreys
ever since. Selma Carey 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. Carrie
seemed heart broken 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 grisliest 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 shut, 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 creature 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 that 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 bedchamber and found
himself in an ancient boudoir, about which still clung the
elusive odor of mignette and lavender. 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 Carey, was now opaque,
blurred over by the film of years. Near the dresser,
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 bath tub, 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 wainscot 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 will
power in order to concentrate upon the harrowing tale 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 mad man. He read, I Tell You. He looked
up quickly. The dying down of the wind and the
secaination of the scamperings in the wainscoat made the room
feel as dead as stagnant water looks. But it was
not the nerve wracking 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
a 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. Wi 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 in 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. Unwilling 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 newsman, who stood immovable by
the table, his automatic aim 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 terror lated 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 are 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 fetied 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 Stowton'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. Hum 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 awestruck 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 Amethys 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 Stowdin,
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 Slowdin. This sort of
a case was outside of his own. Ken, frankly, I'm
puzzle over all of this, began the physician, looking more
closely at the face of the dead man. It's very
evident that hello, 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 Grimstad. 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 Slowdin. They have come out on the skin
like a rash. Carrie's 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 Stowton, What, for instance,
asked Grimstead. Those fingerprints on his throat were those of
a woman, said doctor Stoton. 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? Hurumph,
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
Carrey's fingers that reached from the grave and strangle her husband.
Bosh ejaculated the physician. Such things are impossible, Grimstead shrugged
his shoulders. Nothing is impossible nowadays, doctor, he said. The
end of Fingers from the Grave by Edwin Carrey Rennick