Part 1 (1/2)
HOUSE OF GHOSTS.
by Maxwell Grant.
Stanbridge Manor was haunted - but whether by real ghosts or by humans was the question, and The Shadow had the aid of Joe Dunninger, world's greatest ”ghost-breaker,” in this battle against supernatural crime.
CHAPTER I.
GHOST MANSION.
CROUCHED like a monster awaiting human prey, Stanbridge Manor loomed ominously in the gathering night. The tower above the two-story mansion gave the effect of a watching head, while the wings of the wide-sprawled building had the look of mammoth arms, ready to close upon wayfarers with a deadly embrace.
On the slope that fronted the manor stood a wide stone gateway, yawning a welcome to hapless visitors. The Stygian gloom of that cavity defeated its greeting, at least by night. As a rule, cars that came along the hill road s.h.i.+ed from those gates like frightened things.
There was good reason to shun Stanbridge Manor. It was known as a house of ghosts.
The place was a proper haunt for spirits of the dead. Not only did the giant trees behind the mansion form a weaving background of weird fantastic figures; beneath those trees dwelt the dead themselves. They were the members of the Stanbridge family, generations of them, interred in the graves of their own private cemetery. In that graveyard, a presiding figure among the congress of tombstones stood the whitened bulk of a mausoleum, which served as a temporary shelter for each new addition to the Stanbridge list of dead.
Forbidding as the mansion was to strangers, the mausoleum was equally so to dwellers in the house. For there were members of the Stanbridge clan still living in the mansion, amid an atmosphere of whispering ghosts that constantly reminded them of their awaiting fate.
As the fortunes of the Stanbridge family had shrunk, so had the size of the grounds surrounding the manor. In recent years, the great iron fence that formed the boundary had been shortened and its remnants sold for junk. No longer did the Stanbridge estate include the home of Wiggam, the old caretaker. It was well outside the fence, still standing only because Wiggam himself had bought it with his life's savings. Other houses had been built along the rising slope on ground that once was Stanbridge property, but they had stopped just short of Wiggam's cottage.
Wiggam's place was the final landmark. After that came the gates through which only Stanbridges pa.s.sed, except for Wiggam and Dr. Torrance, who was stillthe Stanbridge family physician despite his more taxing duties as county coroner.
TONIGHT, a car was climbing the old road. From the confident way it nosed along, the car obviously belonged to Dr. Torrance. As it veered into the gateway, its sudden stop was not due to any fright on the physician's part.
True, Torrance had sighted a figure on the driveway ahead, but he knew it wasn't any ghost.
It was only Wiggam, the faithful caretaker, paying his evening visit to the family that he still served, though he was no longer on the Stanbridge payroll.
Though it wasn't far up to the house, Wiggam accepted Torrance's invitation to ride with him. They sat together in the car, two gray haired men whose resemblance ended with that feature. Torrance was rugged, his eyes showing sharply through their gla.s.ses, a man whose vitality belied his years. Wiggam on the contrary looked tired, his face consisting chiefly of droops. Not worry, but disappointment had aged the old retainer, a thing which Torrance knew.
”How are things at the manor, Wiggam?” Torrance put the query in a cheery tone. ”Has Roger brightened the family since he returned?”
”He should have, sir,” replied Wiggam, seriously, ”but I'm afraid the ghosts have been too much for him.”
”Those ghosts!” Torrance gave a snort as he swung around the final turn in the driveway. ”They're all right for Gustave and Jennifer who have lived here too long for their own good. But they shouldn't bother Roger.”
”I'm afraid they do, sir -”
”I know. Roger said so himself. That's why I promised to drop in this evening. I simply want to a.s.sure him that strange things do not happen around Stanbridge Manor.”
As Torrance spoke, a strange thing did occur. Under the shelter of the porte-cochere, the doctor was turning off the headlights. From the blackness past the wing of Stanbridge Manor, those lights blinked back, first one and then the other, like s.h.i.+ning eyes from the night.
Noting the phenomenon, Wiggam clutched the physician's arm and whispered hoa.r.s.ely: ”Those glimmers, sir! Did you see them?”
”Nothing but reflections,” scoffed Torrance. ”My eyes are sharper than yours, Wiggam. Come, come, man! You are more nervous than Roger was, when he called at my office this afternoon!”
Dim was the glow from the deep windows of the mansion as Torrance and Wiggam ascended the front steps. Giving a loud knock, Torrance opened the door without ceremony and stepped into the house, with Wiggam close behind him.
They came directly into a great hall that served as a living room. Leading from the hall were arched doorways into other rooms and pa.s.sages, while at the right, a large staircase curved its way up to the second floor.
THREE people were seated at the large fireplace situated on the left. One was Gustave Stanbridge, present owner of the decadent manor, a man whose once florid face had lost all color and whose hair had thinned to slender streaks.
Opposite Gustave was his sister Jennifer, whose high-bridge nose and wide eyes marked her as a Stanbridge. She was older than Gustave, who was not pastmiddle age, yet the woman looked younger than her brother. Not only did her face still show its color; her eyes were alive, whereas the man's were as dull as those of a death mask.
Third in the group was Roger Stanbridge, the recent arrival in the homestead. He was in his thirties, a handsome man, whose aristocratic features were offset by his friendly smile. Along with the Stanbridge nose, Roger owned a large shock of hair and his face had the fullness that Gustave's lacked.
Perhaps it was the sight of Gustave that worried Roger, on the basis that he might some day come to resemble his shrunken elder brother.
It was Roger who arose and extended his hand to Torrance. The greeting was warm, yet the doctor noted that the hand itself was icy.
”I'm glad you came, doctor,” said Roger. ”You see -”
”You see nothing!” interrupted Jennifer in a sharp, but low-pitched tone.
”In this house you only hear. The dead have not yet chosen to speak, though they give their messages to me!”
Ending with a stabbing laugh, Jennifer gestured to an instrument on the low table before her. The object was like a tiny table itself, a heart-shaped contrivance mounted on three small wheels. From its center, a pencil pointed downward to a sheet of paper that bore numerous scrawls. On one side were blank sheets, on the other a small stack of papers inscribed with scribbles.
”Yes, I've been hearing things,” admitted Roger. ”Footsteps upstairs and in the kitchen. Whispers through the doorways. Gustave noticed them, too, but won't admit he heard them. As for Jennifer, she claims she hears everything, but all the while she's been busy with that ouija board of hers.”
Jennifer inserted a scoffing laugh.
”Ouija board!” The woman's voice was contemptuous. ”Such things are for children. It is silly to push a pointer from one letter to another and have it spell out messages. This is a planchette.”
She pointed to the heart-shaped thing. With an obliging nod, Dr. Torrance went over and placed his hands on one side of the roller device, while Jennifer pressed the other. The little stand began to twist between them, its pencil making new scribbles.
”You see, Jennifer?” Torrance raised his hands with a depreciating gesture.
”Only scrawls, nothing more. The planchette does not work with me.”
”Because you are not psychic,” snapped Jennifer. ”Alone, I have received messages all evening. Messages from Donald.”
Setting her eyes in a hard glare, Jennifer turned them directly upon Gustave, who s.h.i.+fted uneasily in his chair. Catching Torrance's glance, Gustave sprang to his feet and raised two scrawny hands, both clenched.
”As Heaven is my witness, doctor!” Gustave's voice rose to a scream. ”I had nothing to do with Donald's death! I respected him as my older brother -”
”And you envied him,” inserted Jennifer with her sharp cackle, ”because he owned this mansion. Donald died because you wanted him to do so. He told me that, again tonight.”
Waving the written papers from beside the planchette, Jennifer thrustthem close to Gustave's face. Savagely, the dull-faced man s.n.a.t.c.hed the papers and threw them in the fire. Instead of duplicating her brother's rage, Jennifer turned with a pleased chuckle as though she had won another argument.
SILENCE followed as Jennifer stalked across the frayed carpet and entered an arched pa.s.sage under the stairs. Her footsteps sounded on the bare floor and dwindled into the hollow depths of the house. Gustave gave a troubled groan.