Speaker 1: 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 a 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 it be
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 drette, 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
became a swift dribble. And then an awful, nameless error
took possession of me. I strove to fla 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 Ralph Greytrix. In the old days we had fought
many a wordy battle, a matter's relating to psychic research.
For Great Trix 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, Great Trix 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, Greay Tricks
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, in whose
company he had been all the evening. Wasn't that it? Yes,
you're right, great Trick 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. Great
Trix 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.
Great tricks 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 my 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 pass
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 calmed myself
and turned to greyt Trix, who was still standing with
his back against the wall, a vacant look in his
eyes and a faint smile of un 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 said, I dare bet
as how that tap ain't drippen 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 taps ain't worth waisting breath on
and of the tap.