The Room of Fear

1

Willie Johnson lay in the big bed very quiet and rigid. He had that day come upon his eighth birthday, and in consequence thereof—beginning to be, as his father had told him at breakfast that morning, a big boy—had been promoted from the night nursery and the company of his little sister Jenny and the baby, to the lonely state of a bedroom all to himself.

He had begged hard to be allowed to stay in the night nursery; but his father had teased him for his babyishness, and his mother had negatived his desire with a few curt words. His nurse, Nanny Josephs, had sat with him for some time to keep him company; for she knew something of the fear of the dark in which the little man had lived all his short days; but his mother, chancing to come in to see how he liked his new bedroom, had ordered her out, telling her that she was but pandering to the cowardice of the boy, which he would have to learn to outgrow, and that she considered nurse’s conduct as nothing more or less than encouraging the boy to rebel against the wishes of his parents.

His mother had stayed with him some few minutes after Nanny had gone, and she had improved the time with some sharp remarks upon her little son’s lack of courage, the which, indeed, hurt her in a very tender place; for, above all sins, she held none so vile as that of cowardice. Then she had given him a cold, reproveful, duty kiss—and gone out into the light of the big corridor, closing the little man in alone with the darkness. Yet she was a good woman, somewhat cold-blooded it is true; yet by no means lacking in steady affection. But she was also a very proud woman, and neither the Johnsons nor the Lemots—her own family—had ever numbered the fear-vice among their many others. And now, here had she given birth to a son who was a coward to his little marrow. Yet he should be cured, or—what! I doubt if she gave even a thought to the alternative. He should be cured. There was nothing more. Certainly he should be cured!

She went downstairs and came presently to her husband. To the big, ruddy man she told in a few words her reprehension of nurse’s conduct, and quoted a fragment of conversation that had passed between them:

“I asked her if she thought Willie would grow into a manly boy if she pandered to him in that manner; and what do you think, John, the foolish woman said: ‘I’m thinkin’, Ma’am, as children do see things as we carn’t.’ I ordered her out of the room instantly. No wonder Willie is afraid to go to bed if she talks after that fashion in his hearing.”

Upstairs, alone in the dark bedroom, Willie lies in the coldness of the big bed—a little rigid, human atom, too frozen by fear even to pull the clothes over his face. He is watching with wide-opened, fixed eyes a great shadow against the lofty, invisible ceiling. It is shaping and shaping in hideous convolutions into the form of a vast hand. The four gigantic fingers are completed, and now the huge thumb sprouts of the, as yet, indefinite palm. And the little man alone in the darkness, seeming a thousand miles from all human comradeship, grows yet more rigid, and his eyes become the more fixedly open and staring. Suddenly, he realizes that the still uncompleted hand has moved downwards bodily, and the fingers are crooked towards him. The whole thing comes lower by perhaps a whole foot and pauses. The child is scarcely breathing, and his feet, spine, hands and forehead are sweating coldly. His senses seem to have become preternaturally sharp, and he hears, unconsciously, a dull regular booming in his ears that seems to fill, and throb through, the great dark room. In his little heart is one vast desire—prayer, that he might get the bed clothes over his head; but he knows that the crooked hand will pounce the instant he moves even one tiny inch. Sixty seconds pass—sixty minutes of immortal agony—such agony as only the fresh nerves of a fearful child can know. Then the staring eyes note a slow movement in the overhanging mass of shadows. It is—receding, slowly, slowly, withdrawing into itself, shrinking, fading; but all the while in constant movement—convoluting. It has risen near to the ceiling, and is become little more than a small shadow. The child on the bed gives a terrific, spasmodic movement, and is under the clothes. The little, relieved heart is sledge-hammering against the frail ribs, so that the curtains of the great bed quiver to each throb. Truly he shall be cured!

Down in the servant’s hall cook and nurse are talking:

“They’re a plucky family is the Missus’s,” cook is saying. “I b’lieve she don’t scarce know what it is to be frightened. An’ I’ve ’eard ’er say as she’s sooner ’ave a thief than a coward.”

“Master Willie ain’t a coward. He’s always been a sensitive child, and I’ll admit he’s afraid of the dark; but all children are. I’ve thought sometimes as they could see more than us grown up. But they grow out of it, an’ so will he if the Missus ’ll give him time.”

“The Missus ain’t one ’s ’ll give time. It’s kill or cure with ’er, an’ always ’as been. She’s more down on cowardice in ’er own flesh an’ blood ’n she would be if ’twas a stranger; but she’s fair an’ straight in ’er dealin’s with folk, an’ kind enough in ’er own fashion.”

“I’m not sayin’ as she ain’t; but she don’t understand Master Willie. Ther’s not a sweeter child anywhere, an’ he’s pluck enough in his own way. It’s not only the dark as he’s frightened of. He’s feared of that there West bedroom in which the Missus has put him. I said to ’er that if he couldn’t stay in the night nursery he never seemed to mind much being in the little room in the East wing. He slept there the time as Miss Jenny had measles. But she told me to hold my tongue, an’ sent me out of the room. She’s got a pretty temper she has when she starts!”

“I don’t see,” remarked cook, “as it matters which room ’e’s in, so long as it’s the dark as ’e’s feared of.”

“I’ve told you, it ain’t only the dark as he’s frightened of. He’s afraid of that there West room, an’ always has been. I don’t know why, I’m sure. It’s a beautiful room; but it seems to me there’s some rooms as children seem to be feared of as soon they put foot inside. I daresay too, it isn’t always without reason. I tried to tell that to the Missus; but it wern’t no good.”

“I don’t know as ever I wer’ feared of a room when I wer’ a young un,” remarked the cook, reflectively, and polishing her red face with her apron.

“Yet you daren’t go down the cellars of this very house unless you’ve someone with you—and you going on for forty-five!” And with this as a parting word, the nurse turned and left her.

2

At breakfast next morning, Willie was quiet and pale; but then he was naturally quiet, and usually pale, so that this attracted no particular notice. His father bantered him good-humouredly upon his lack of appreciation of his new bedroom, and asked him how he would have managed in the old days, if he had wished to be a knight, considering that he would have to have undergone a whole night’s vigil in a great church alone? To which Willie replied simply and truthfully that he would not have liked it, and that he thought he would sooner not have become a knight at all. At this reply, his mother turned and stared at him steadily; but said nothing for some moments. Then:

“I would far sooner see you dead than a coward, Willie!” she remarked with a quiet simplicity. “There has never been a coward in our family on either side till now—” And she paused a moment significantly; then continued: “Can you understand that, Willie? All our men have been famous for their bravery as far back as the Conqueror—Is it not so, John?” she concluded, turning to her husband.

Sir John nodded slowly for reply, and a look of mingled pride and regret came into his eyes—the pride was for his race—the regret that he had lacked chance in his quiet, country life to add to the family traditions of great deeds. Yet, in a moment he was busy again at his breakfast; for he was a hearty, healthy man, fond of sport and outdoor life, and not over given to sentiment. Occasionally, in the course of the meal, he touched genially on his little son’s weakness; but to his direct questions the boy replied no more than “Yes, Sir,” or “No, Sir.” For he was busied with strangely bitter thoughts for so young a child. His mother’s cold, sincere remark had bitten into the brain and heart of the boy, and had roused more than his pride; for Willie loved the somewhat stern woman in a passionate, quiet manner, and with a curious element of reverence, which latter might have been less developed had she shown him more of the mother-side. And because of his love for her, that remark: “I would far sooner see you dead than a coward, Willie,” had, as I have said, roused more than his pride. It had waked a great resolve within him to win her approbation by conquering his fear of the dark and of that room. And if he could not do this, at least, he would hide from her for the future that he was any longer afraid.

And presently, breakfast being ended, he went to his governess.

***

All through the day, the boy has the fear of the night oppressing him, and though he tries manfully to put it from him, and pretends to himself that he is no longer afraid, he is in a tensely nervous state when the evening comes.

Later, when with his nurse he enters the big bedroom, he gives a little shiver of sheer apprehension, and his gaze sweeps quickly round, the action being so full of fear that nurse gives a little start, and steps back a pace.

“How you did startle me, Master Willie!” she remonstrates, as she proceeds to help him into bed. “I thought sure you’d seen something.”

When he is in the big bed, a kindly thought comes to her, and she makes the round of the room, peeping into the great wardrobes, behind the curtains, and under the bed itself! Then she assures him that he has nothing of which to be afraid, that she has been all round, and after that, with a kiss, she leaves him; but purposely leaves the door a little ajar, so that a little light from the lamp outside creeps into the darkness of the room. Yet Willie has no knowledge of this; for, the instant she has started to pull the door behind her, he has dived beneath the clothes, and there his mother finds him, very silent and frightened and wide awake when she comes up to say goodnight to him. She is cross with him, and a little scornful; telling that it is bad for his health, and that he is no safer from his bogy (which is simply cowardice) under the clothes than outside of them. After that, having turned the clothes down so as to leave his face exposed, she kisses him without emotion and goes from the room, shutting the door behind her.

For a time after she has gone, the boy lies there quietly, his eyes tightly closed. Presently, he is tempted to open them; but resists. Yet the temptation becomes stronger, so that he has to screw them up tight to keep them shut, and so a few short, painful minutes pass; then, abruptly, he has opened his eyes and is staring up into the darkness above him. Right above him near to the ceiling there seems a slightly darker patch amid the darkness. As he stares at it with unwilling eyes, it begins to move—convoluting slowly at first; then rapidly. It grows larger and begins to take shape. Again he sees the giant hand form slowly finger by finger. The huge thumb protrudes out from one side of the mass; then the whole thing sinks bodily toward him; but stops with a jerk, maybe, halfway between the ceiling and the bed.

The boy has gone rigid, and his heart is failing in its action. Again there comes that dull booming sound that fills the dark room. Above him the great fingers are all of a-waver. Then, suddenly, the four of them and the huge thumb crook down towards him; and the hand itself drops bodily lower with a jerk. The child is soaked in a cold sweat; but has no knowledge of it; all his faculties are concentrated to keep perfectly still—not to move and bring THAT down upon him. He is pressing down hard against the bed with a fierce, rigid terror, to get as far away from the thing as possible. The booming sound fills the room like thunder, and the child begins to catch for breath. He struggles to keep silent—immovable. If he could only get the clothes over his face! The booming is more persistent. He begins to see two hands—hands everywhere, all blurred and great. Then he sinks down through the bottom of the bed, and the hands have gone.

3

Through all the following day, it is plain to nurse and his governess that Willie is not himself. He is pale and nervous, jumping when a door is banged, and makes but a poor fist of his lessons.

At breakfast even his father has noticed his increased pallor and mentions it; but his wife chimes in, perhaps a little sharply, that it is due to Willie’s having taken to sleeping under the bed clothes, and that she had to uncover him by main force when she went in the previous evening.

That night, when nurse takes him to bed, she repeats her kindly search of the previous night, assuring him afterwards that he has nothing of which to be afraid, to which he replies, his courage at twanging pitch, that he is not going to be frightened any more. And so she leaves him.

Now in this night, for some reason, perhaps because the child is so thoroughly worn out by the strain of the two previous nights, he goes off to sleep, untroubled by any phantasm, and wakes near to being himself in the morning, and with a new and strange sense of confidence in his courage. Strong in this feeling, he approaches his mother after breakfast, when his father has gone out.

“Mother,” he says shyly, “I’ve stopped being a coward. I never felt afraid at all last night, and I never pulled the clothes over my head all the night.”

“I’m pleased to hear it, Willie,” she replies; but without much enthusiasm; for, to her, pluck over such a thing is so trifling a matter that she would rather almost that her little son had said nothing, than put forward so small a thing as proof of courage. For his part, the boy feels repulsed. He feels that he has achieved a gigantic victory, and cannot understand her utter inability to appreciate it. It is beyond his imagination that anyone should have never known his enemies.

That night, his new-found confidence in himself is smashed. He sees the giant hand form, as on the previous occasions, and come towards him, sinking so near that he seems like to die of suffocation. The room is filled with the same dull thunder, and, at last, the poor child swoons outright, coming to at intervals through the night. This is the second time that Terror has gone so far with him towards the Land of Shadows; though Willie does not know but that he has had a “horrid” sleep.

At breakfast the following morning, his pallor and general look of ill-health provoke remark; but the boy denies that he has been sleeping with his head beneath the clothes, when his mother taxes him with so doing, and there is something of unconscious pride in his denial that puzzles her faintly.

4

That night, when nurse takes Willie to bed, his terror is so palpable, that she is near to going down to her mistress and giving her, as she puts it, “a piece of her mind.” Yet, after a little, the boy calms down and presently assures her in a somewhat strained little voice that he isn’t really afraid. At this, having twice made search through the room, and stayed beside him so long as she dare, she has to leave him, closing the door after her; for her mistress has spoken to her about leaving it open a couple of nights previously.

Then begins for the little, nervous man, a time of torture grim and terrible. He tries to obey his mother, and keeps the clothes below his chin; but he shuts his eyes hard and determines not to open them; yet, despite his determination, within ten minutes he is staring frightenedly up at a convoluting mass of shadow near the ceiling. The great hand is forming steadily. He sees the vast fingers grow and waver about in the darkness overhead. Then he makes a huge attempt, and closes his eyes; yet, now that he knows the thing is there, it is worse to have them shut than open; for he imagines that it has come down close to him—that it is touching his face, and so, with something near to a cry, he opens his eyes and looks. The hand has grown whilst his eyes have been closed, and even as he stares, the thing comes down with its accustomed jerk. He tries to gather sufficient courage to grab at the clothes and get them over his head; for his fear has mastered his power to obey. Yet, already, he is past the ability to move and can only lie there, rigid and pressing madly and silently back against the bed.

The booming has come again in the room, throbbing solemnly, and growing louder. Above him the hand is lying motionless in the darkness; yet only for a second; then it begins to move from side to side with a peculiar waving motion, the great fingers twirling and twirling rapidly. Suddenly it stops, and the vast forefinger is reaching down toward him—down, down, down. . . . The booming noise ends suddenly, and then the finger is withdrawn. For a little the hand is very indistinct. Then it becomes plainer to his sight, and the booming noise re-echoes once more through the room; but more irregularly. For a time, the child is scarce conscious of anything save a deadly sick feeling, and behind that the overmastering fear. The sense of sickness goes, and the fear predominates nakedly. The hand is nearer, and now, for the first time, it is plain seen even to the gigantic wrist. For a while it remains motionless; then again is the long, shadowy forefinger reached down to him; but only to be withdrawn immediately, and after that, for a little, the hand remains quiet. . . . Suddenly, Willie is aware that it is sinking down upon him, slowly, imperceptibly almost . . . down . . . down . . . down. The booming noise dies out as he stares at the great shadowy mass coming down upon him. Without moving, he yet crouches backward down against the bed a little further. A cold sweat is running off his face. He sees the four vast fingers and the thumb come down right on to his face. In the same instant he screams out and then something goes snap, and he stops screaming. . . .

5

Downstairs in the big dining room Sir John and his lady are finishing dinner. Doctor Lubbock is at the table with them, and he is listening attentively to the lady. She has asked him to come to dinner, because she is wishful to have a little talk about Willie; for she has felt a little uneasy about the child’s pallor and look of ill-health in the morning. Lady John ceases to explain, and the Doctor commences to speak:

“I shouldn’t trouble about him. He’s a nervous child and will grow out of it; but I should be inclined to let him go back to the night nursery. Plenty of time, you know; plenty of time. I will slip in tomorrow and have a look at the young man. You say . . .” At this instant he is interrupted by a loud scream in the room overhead, and then the noise of something striking the floor with a distinct soft thud. Sir John starts to his feet, but his lady is before him, and is at the door, her face somewhat pale. There are running footsteps on the front stairs, and nurse bursts in upon them, her hair flying, her eyes wild and bright in the lamplight.

“In—in Mas-ter Willie’s roo-om!” she gasps, and then the mother has flung her to one side, and is racing for the stairs, her husband behind. The Doctor follows, without a word. He catches them at the door of Willie’s room. Lady John has got the corridor lamp. She turns the handle and enters. The bed is empty, the bedclothes thrown all on one side. They stand and stare around; then the mother gives out a cry of “Willie!” and runs forward to the wash-hand stand. Crouched beside it, cowering back in the corner, is a little white-robed figure, shivering and silent. The light from the lamp shines on uncomprehending eyes.

6

Three years have passed—three years in which the stern hand of sorrow has dealt with Willie’s mother. Yet now she is by no means a sorrowful looking woman as she watches a lean, sunbrowned, healthy-looking boy come bounding across the beach to her. It is Willie—Willie whom at one time she had thought gone from her forever; but, by the grace of God, the shadow has passed from the child, and now he is winning back to all of that for which she prayed so despairingly in those first two years. More, with greater health, the boy has come to courage such as would have warmed her heart in the older days; but now, though it does not fail to do so, the delight is ever tinctured by the memory of a certain night of terror, on which, for the first time, she met face to face the grim spectre—FEAR, and came to know something of the agony through which the child, her son, has passed.

Tomorrow they return to Blakenhouse Hall; they have not been near it since that night when she found her son, a little mad thing, crouched beside the wash handstand. But there is a certain room of fear into which neither he nor she will ever enter again; for the masons have walled up the doorway. And terror may hold its grim reign there undisturbed and harmless.