Speaker 1: The closing hand by Farnsworth right, solitary and forbidding. The
house stared specter like through scraggy trees that seemed to
shrink from its touch. The green moss of decay lay
on its dank roots, and the windows, set in decavities,
peered blindly at the world, as if through eyeless sockets.
So forbidding was its aspect that boys, on approaching its
cheerless gables, stopped their whistling and passed on the opposite
side of the street. Across the fields, a few huddled
cottages gazed through the falling rain, as if wondering what
family would be so bold as to take up its
abode within the gloomy walls of the old mansion, whose
carpetless floors, for two years had not felt the tread
of human feet. In an attic room of the house,
two sisters lay in bed, but not asleep. The younger
sister cringed under the dread, inspired by the bleak place.
The elder laughed at her childish fears. But the younger
felt the spell of the old building and was afraid.
I suppose there is really nothing to frighten me in
this dreary old house, she admitted, without conviction in her voice.
But the very feel of the place is horrible. Mother
shouldn't have left us alone in this gruesome place. Stupid.
Her sisters golded with all the silverware downstairs. Somebody has
to be here for fear of the burglars. Oh, don't
talk about burglars, pleaded the younger girl. I'm afraid I
keep imagining I hear ghost footsteps, her sister laughed. Go
to sleep, goosey, she said. Haunted houses are nothing but superstition.
They exist only in imagination. Why has nobody lived here
for two years? Then they tell me that for five years,
every family moved out after being here just a short time.
The whole atmosphere of this house is ghastly. And I
can't forget how the older Beckham girl was found stabbed
to death in her bed, and nobody ever knew how
it happened. Why she may have been murdered in this
very room. Go to sleep, and don't scare yourself with
such silly talk. Mother will be with us tomorrow night,
and Dad will be back next day. Now, go to sleep.
The elder sister soon dropped into slumber, but the younger
lay open eyed, staring into the black room and shuddering
at every stifled scream of the wind or distant growl
of thunder. She began to count, hoping to hypnotize herself
into drowsiness, but at every slight noise she started and
lost her count. Suddenly she turned and shook her sister
by the shoulder. Edith, somebody is prowling around downstairs, she whispered. Listen, Oh,
what shall we do? The elder sister struck a match
and lit the candle. Then she slipped on her dressing
gown and drew on her slippers. You're not going down there, then, Edith,
tell me, you're not going downstairs? It might be the
murdered Beckham girl. Edith, don't. Edith shot a glance of
withering scorn at her sister, who lay on the bed
with blanched face and wide terrified eyes. There is something
moving around downstairs, and I'm going to find out what
it is, she said. Taking the candle, she left the room.
Her younger sister lay in the darkness, listening to the
patter of the rain on the roof and straining her
ears to catch the slightest sound the noise downstairs ceased,
but the wind rose and the rain beat upon the
roof in sudden, furious blasts that made her heart jump wildly.
Ten minutes passed, twenty minutes and Edith had not returned.
A door slammed, and the younger sister thought she heard
something moving again, But the wind began to lob and
drowned out all other noises. Between gusts, she heard the
portentous sound, and every time it seemed nearer. Then she
started as she realized that something was coming up the stairs.
Once she thought she heard a cry, to which the
wind joined its plaintive voice in a weird duet. Nearer
and nearer the strange noise came. It mounted the stairs
step by step, heard only when the wind and rain
softened their voice. It had passed the first landing and
moved slowly up the second flight, while the girl fearfully
awaited its coming. The wind howled until the house quaked.
It shrilled by the eaves, and headed across the fields
like a hunted ghost. And now the girl's pounding pulses
drowned out the screaming of the wind, For the presence
had invaded her bedroom. She cowered under the covers A
cold perspiration chilled her body until her teeth clattered. Her
imagination conjured up frightful things. A disemboweled spirit come to
destroy her, A corpse from the grave, gibbering in terror
because it could not tear the crements from its face,
the murdered Burkheim girl with the knife still sheathed in
her heart. Or some escaped beast, licking its lips in
greedy anticipation of the feast her tremulous body would provide.
Or was it a murderer, who, having killed her sister,
was now bent on completing the bloody work. A flash
of lightning split the sky, and the thunder bellowed its
terrifying warning. The girl threw back the bedclothes and shrank
to the wall, her eyes starting from their sockets, fearful
lest another flash reveal some sight too ghastly to contemplate. Slowly,
the being dragged itself across the floor, lifted itself into
the bed, and uttered a choking sound of agony. The
girl sat petrified, Then timorously, she extended a shaky hand,
but quickly withdrew it in dread of some hideous contact. Again,
she thrust her trembling hand into the gloom, further and further,
until it touched something shaggy and wet. A clammy hand
closed over hers, and she started to her feet with
a horrible scream. The icy hand tightened with a sickening
tremor and dragged her down. Then her tortured senses gave way,
and she fell back, unconscious upon the bed. When she awoke,
it was day. Beside her on the bed lay the
bleeding body of her sister Edith, stabbed in the breast
by the burglar she had tried to frighten off. The
younger girl was clutching the clotted wisp of hair that
had fallen across the breast of her sister, whose cold
hand had closed over hers in the last convulsive shudder
of death. The End of the Closing Hand by Farnsworth
Wright