Hello DreamTravelers,
And welcome to the Story Nexus.
Today's story is entitled,
The Red Room.
By H.
G.
Wills.
It was first published in 1896.
The language has been slightly updated for modern times.
Let's begin.
I can assure you.
I said.
It would take a very real ghost to frighten me.
I stood up in front of the fire,
My glass in my hand.
It's your choice.
Said the man with the withered arm,
Giving me a sideways glance.
28 years,
I said.
I've been alive for 28 years and I've never seen a ghost yet.
The old woman stared into the fire,
Her pale eyes wide open.
Yes.
She interrupted.
And in all those 28 years,
I imagine you've never seen a house like this one.
There are plenty of things to see when you're only 28.
She slowly shook her head from side to side.
Plenty of things to see.
And plenty to suffer for.
I began to suspect that the old people were deliberately trying to make their house seem more frightening by constantly talking about ghosts and spirits.
I set my empty glass on the table,
Then looked around the room.
In the strange old mirror at the far end,
I caught sight of my reflection.
Distorted into something ridiculously broad and sturdy.
Well,
I said.
If I see anything tonight,
I'll at least know something I didn't know before.
I'm going into this with an open mind.
It's your choice.
The man with the withered arms said again.
I heard a stick tapping and a shuffling step on the stone floor of the passage outside.
Door creaked open,
And another old man entered.
More bent,
More wrinkled,
And even older looking than the first.
He leaned heavily on a single crutch.
His eyes were hidden behind a shade.
And his lower lip hung loosely over his yellow,
Decaying teeth.
He went straight to an armchair on the other side of the table.
Lowered himself awkwardly into it and began to cough.
The man with the withered arm gave him a brief look of obvious dislike.
The old woman paid no attention to him at all.
She continued,
Staring into the fire.
I said it's your choice.
The man with the withered arm repeated when the coughing finally stopped for a moment.
It's my choice.
I replied.
The man with the eye shade seemed to notice me for the first time.
He tilted his head back and sideways,
Trying to see me.
For a moment,
I caught sight of his eyes.
Small,
Bright,
And inflamed.
Then he began coughing and spluttering again.
What?
Why don't you drink?
The man with a withered arm asked,
Pushing the beer toward him.
The man with the shade poured himself a glass with a trembling hand,
Spilling nearly as much onto the wooden table as he put into the glass.
A huge shadow of him crouched on the wall behind him.
Seeming to mock him as he poured and drank.
I admit,
I hadn't expected such grotesque caretakers.
There was something almost inhuman about extreme old age.
Something crouching and primitive.
It seemed as though the ordinary qualities of being human slowly slipped away from people as they grew old.
The three of them made me uncomfortable.
Their gaunt silence.
Their hunched bodies.
And their obvious dislike of me and of one another.
If you'll show me to this haunted room of yours,
" I said.
I'll make myself comfortable there.
The coughing old man jerked his head back so suddenly that he startled me.
He shot another glance at me with his red eyes beneath the shade.
No one answered.
I waited a moment,
Looking from one to another.
If you'll show me to this haunted room of yours.
I said a little louder.
I'll save you the trouble of entertaining me.
There's a candle on the table outside the door.
Said the man with the withered arm.
Looking down at my feet as he spoke.
But if you go to the Red Room tonight.
.
.
This night of all nights.
The old woman interrupted.
You go alone.
Very well,
I said.
Which way?
Go down the passage for a while until you come to a door.
Through it is a spiral staircase.
About halfway up.
You'll come to a landing.
And another door covered in green felt.
Go through that and follow the long corridor to the end.
The red room is on your left,
Up the steps.
Have I got that right?
I asked,
Repeating the directions.
He corrected me on one point.
Are you really going?
The man with the shade asked,
Looking at me again.
It was the third time he had looked at me with that strange,
Unnatural tilt of his head.
This night of all nights,
" the old woman said again.
That's what I came for.
I replied,
And moved toward the door.
As I did,
The old man with the shade stood up and staggered around the table so that he could sit closer to the others and the fire.
At the door,
I turned and looked back.
All three were standing close together.
Dark against the firelight.
Staring at me over their shoulders with intense expressions on their ancient faces.
Good night.
Good night!
I said,
Leaving the door open.
It's your choice.
Said the man with the withered arm.
I left the door open until my candle was burning well.
Then I shut them inside and walked down the cold,
Echoing passage.
I have to admit that the three strange old people who had been left in charge of the castle and the heavy,
Old-fashioned furniture in the room where they gathered affected me despite my determination to remain practical.
They seem to belong to another time.
An older world in which spiritual things were different from ours.
A time when omens and witches were believable.
And ghosts were impossible to deny.
Even their existence seemed ghostly.
Their clothes looked like fashions created by people who had been dead for years.
The furniture and objects around them felt ghostly too.
Ideas and possessions of vanished generations that seem to hunt the present rather than belong to it.
But I forced those thoughts out of my mind.
The long,
Cold underground passage was dusty and drafty.
My candle flickered,
Making the shadows shrink and tremble.
The echoes followed me up and down the spiral staircase.
One shadow seemed to sweep up behind me.
While another fled ahead into the darkness above.
I reach the landing.
And stop for a moment,
Listening.
I thought I heard something rustling.
But after satisfying myself that everything was completely silent.
I pushed open the green felt-covered door and entered the corridor.
The sight before me was not at all what I had expected.
Moonlight streamed through the great window above the main staircase.
Throwing everything into sharp black shadows and silver light.
Everything was exactly where it belonged.
The house looked as though it had been deserted yesterday rather than 18 months ago.
Candles stood in the wall sconces,
And whatever dust had gathered on the carpets and polished floors was so evenly spread that it couldn't be seen in the moonlight.
I was about to move forward when I stopped.
Suddenly.
A bronze statue stood on the landing.
Hidden from me by the corner of the wall.
But its shadow fell with astonishing clarity across the white paneling.
It looked exactly like someone crouching there.
Waiting to ambush me.
I stood perfectly still.
For perhaps.
Half a minute with my hand in the pocket containing my revolver.
I move forward.
The figure turned out to be a statue of Ganymede.
And an eagle gleaming in the moonlight.
That restored my confidence somewhat.
A porcelain Chinese figure sitting on a small table had a head that rocked silently as I passed.
Even that barely startled me.
The door to the Red Room,
And the steps leading up to it.
We're in a dark corner.
I moved my candle from side to side,
Trying to see exactly what was in the recess before opening the door.
This was where my predecessor had been found.
Remembering his story gave me a sudden jolt of fear.
I glanced back at Ganymede,
Standing in the moonlight.
Then open the Red Room door rather quickly.
Keeping half my attention on the pale,
Silent landing behind me.
I went inside.
Immediately close the door and turn the key in the lock.
Then I stood there with my candle held high.
Looking around the room where I would spend the night.
The Great Red Room of Lorraine Castle.
Where the young Duke had died.
Or rather.
.
.
Where he had begun to die.
He had opened the door and fallen headfirst down the very steps I had just climbed.
That had been the end of his vigil,
And of his brave attempt to defeat the ghost story attached to the room.
And I thought.
.
.
Never had an attack of apoplexy done more to strengthen a superstition.
There were older stories attached to the room as well.
Reaching back to the beginning of the legend.
The story of a timid wife,
And the tragic consequences of her husband's attempt to frighten her.
Looking around that enormous,
Gloomy room.
With its deep window recesses,
Alcoves,
And dark corners.
I could understand how such legends had grown there.
Darkness seemed to breed stories.
My candle was only a tiny tongue of light in that enormous room.
It couldn't reach the far end.
Leaving a vast area beyond it filled with hope.
Mystery,
And suggestion.
I decided to examine everything systematically.
And get rid of the fanciful possibilities before they took hold of my imagination.
First,
I checked the door and made sure it was securely locked.
Then I walked around the room,
Looking behind every piece of furniture.
I lifted the bed valances and pulled back the curtains.
I opened the blinds and examined every window fastening before closing the shutters.
I looked up the wide black chimney.
I tap the dark oak paneling.
Searching for any hidden opening.
There were two large mirrors in the room,
Each with a pair of candles in sconces.
More candles stood on the mantelpiece in China holders.
I lit every one.
The fireplace had already been prepared.
A surprisingly thoughtful gesture from the old housekeeper.
And I lit that,
Too.
I wanted the warmth to keep me from shivering.
When the fire was burning properly,
I stood with my back to it and looked around the room again.
I pulled a chintz-covered armchair and a table in front of me,
Creating a sort of barricade.
My revolver lay on the table within easy reach.
My careful examination had helped.
But the far corners of the room.
And its complete silence.
Were still too much for my imagination.
The crackling of the fire wasn't nearly as comforting as it should have been.
In particular,
The shadow in the alcove at the far end of the room seem to have the unmistakable quality of a presence.
A strange suggestion that something alive was hiding there.
That kind of feeling comes easily in silence.
And solitude.
To reassure myself,
I carried a candle into the alcove and examined it carefully.
There was nothing there.
I put the candle on the floor and left it burning.
But then I was extremely tense.
Even though I knew perfectly well there was no logical reason for it.
My mind,
However,
Remained clear.
I firmly believed that nothing supernatural could happen.
To pass the time.
I began making up rhymes about the old legend of the house.
I said a few out loud.
But the echoes were unpleasant,
So I stopped.
I also tried having a conversation with myself.
About how impossible ghosts and hauntings were.
That didn't help either.
My thoughts returned to the three strange old people downstairs.
And I tried to concentrate on them instead.
The dark reds and blacks of the room bothered me.
Even with seven candles burning,
The room was still dim.
The candle in the alcove flickered in a draft.
While the firelight made the shadows continually shift and move.
I decided I needed more light.
I remembered the candles I had seen in the passage.
With some reluctance,
I went back out into the moonlight,
Carrying a candle and leaving the door open.
I returned with about 10 more.
I placed them in the various china ornaments scattered around the room and lit them.
Some went on the floor.
Others,
In the window recesses,
Wherever the deepest shadows had gathered.
Eventually,
I had 17 candles burning.
Not a single part of the room was left without direct light.
I even thought that if the ghost appeared.
.
.
I could warn him not to trip over the candles.
The room was now brightly lit.
There was something comforting about all those little flames.
Keeping them trimmed gave me something to do.
And made the passage of time easier to measure.
Even so,
The feeling that something was going to happen weighed heavily on me.
It was sometime after midnight when the candle in the alcove suddenly.
.
.
Point out.
I hadn't actually seen it happen.
I simply turned and discovered that the darkness had returned to that corner.
As startling as if I had suddenly found a stranger standing there.
Good Lord!
I said out loud.
That must be quite a draft.
I took the matches from the table and walked calmly across the room to relight it.
The first match wouldn't light.
As I succeeded with the second.
Something seemed to flicker on the wall in front of me.
I turned instinctively.
The two candles on the little table beside the fireplace?
Had gone out.
I stood up immediately.
Strange.
I said.
Did I somehow blow them out without noticing?
I walked back and relit one.
As I did,
I saw the candle in the right-hand sconce of one of the mirrors flicker and go out.
Almost immediately,
Its companion went out too.
There was no doubt about it.
The flames simply disappeared.
As though invisible fingers had pinch them out.
The wicks didn't glow or smoke.
They were simply.
.
.
As I stared.
But the candle at the foot of the bed went out.
The shadows seemed to move one step closer.
This won't do.
I said.
One candle after another on the mantelpiece went out.
What is going on?
I shouted.
And somehow my voice had taken on a strange high-pitched note.
The candle on the wardrobe went out,
And the one I had relit in the alcove.
Oh,
Come on.
I said,
I need these candles.
I tried to sound humorous,
But I was already becoming hysterical.
My hands were shaking so badly that twice I missed the rough surface of the matchbox.
As the mantelpiece emerged from darkness again.
Two candles at the far end of the window went out.
With the same match,
I relit the larger mirror candles and the ones on the floor near the doorway.
For a moment,
It seemed as though I was winning.
Four candles went out at once in different parts of the room.
I struck another match with shaking hands and stood there.
Unsure where to go first.
As I hesitated,
Something invisible seemed to sweep across the two candles on the table.
And extinguish them.
I cried out and rushed toward the alcove,
Then the corner,
Then the window.
Relighting three candles.
Two more disappeared near the fireplace.
Then I realized I could save time by carrying a candle rather than constantly striking matches.
I brought the matches on the iron-bound box in the corner.
And grab the bedroom candlestick.
But it made no difference.
The candles continued.
Going out.
The shadows I had been trying to hold back returned.
And crept toward me.
First they advanced from one side.
Then from the other.
It was like a ragged storm cloud sweeping across the stars.
Occasionally,
The candle would somehow relight itself for a moment,
Only to go dark again.
I was nearly frantic with terror at the thought of the room becoming completely dark.
My self-control was gone.
I ran from candle to candle,
Panting and disheveled.
Desperately trying to hold back the darkness.
I struck my thigh against the table.
I knocked a chair over.
I stumbled and fell.
Pulling the cloth from the table as they went.
My candle rolled away.
I grabbed another as I got up.
That one went out immediately,
Blown out by the air as I swung it away from the table.
Then the final two candles went out.
There is still light.
A red glow remaining.
Keeping the darkness away.
Fire.
Of course.
I could still put my candle between the bars.
And relight it.
I turn toward the flames dancing among the glowing coals,
Casting red reflections across the furniture.
I took two steps toward the fireplace.
Than the flame's strength.
And disappear.
Glow vanished.
The reflections disappeared.
As I thrust my candle toward the great.
Darkness closed around me like an eye,
Shutting.
It wrapped itself around me in a suffocating embrace.
It destroyed my vision.
And crush the last remains of reason in my mind.
Candle fell from my hand.
I threw up my arms.
Desperately trying to push the darkness away.
Then I screamed with all my strength.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
I think I staggered to my feet.
I remember suddenly thinking of the moonlit corridor outside.
With my head lowered and my arms covering my face,
I ran toward the door.
I had forgotten exactly where the door was.
I slammed into the corner of the bed.
I staggered backward,
Turned,
And crashed into another piece of furniture.
I vaguely remember throwing myself around in the darkness.
Stumbling and crying out.
Desperately trying to escape.
Came a heavy blow to my forehead.
Terrible sensation of falling that seemed to last forever.
One last,
Desperate attempt to stay on my feet.
Amen.
I remembered nothing.
I open my eyes in daylight.
My head was roughly bandaged,
And the man with the withered arm was watching me.
I looked around.
Trying to remember what had happened.
For a while,
I couldn't remember anything.
Then I saw the old woman in the corner.
She was no longer staring blankly into the fire.
She was pouring medicine from a little blue bottle into a glass.
Where am I?
I asked.
I seem to remember you,
But I.
.
.
I can't remember who you are.
They explained everything.
I heard about the haunted red room almost as though I were hearing someone else's story.
We found you at dawn.
The man said.
There was blood on your forehead and your lips.
Slowly,
My memory returned.
You believe now.
The old man said.
That the room is haunted.
He no longer spoke to me like an intruder.
He sounded almost sorry for me.
I said.
The room is haunted.
And you saw it.
And we,
Who have lived here all our lives,
Have never seen it.
Because we have never dared.
He hesitated.
Tell us.
Is it really the old Earl who.
.
.
No.
I said.
It isn't.
I told you so.
Said the old woman,
Still holding the glass.
It is his poor young countess who is frightened and.
.
.
It isn't.
I said.
There is no ghost of the Earl and no ghost of the Countess in that room.
There isn't any ghost there at all.
I paused.
But something worse.
Much worse.
Well.
.
.
They asked.
The worst thing that haunts human beings.
I said.
Fear.
Fear.
In its purest form.
Fear that doesn't need light or sound.
Fear that won't listen to reason.
The fear that defends you.
Blinds you.
Overwhelms you.
It followed me through the corridor.
It fought me in that room.
I stopped speaking.
For a moment,
There was silence.
My hand rose to the bandage around my head.
Than the man with the shade's side.
That is it.
He said.
I knew it was.
The force of darkness to put such a curse upon a woman.
It is always there.
You can feel it even in daylight.
Even on a bright summer day.
It is always there.
You can feel it even in daylight,
Even on a bright summer day.
It hides in the curtains and the hangings.
It stays behind you no matter which way you turn.
At dusk it moves along the corridor and follows you so that you dare not look behind you.
There is fear in that room.
Black Fear.
And it will remain there for as long as this house of sin endures.
THE END
