she knew it she could not have told. She had heard nothing – seen nothing – felt nothing: and yet she knew, beyond all doubt or dispute, that there was a Presence in the darkness above her on the stairs.
She turned and looked up. It was horrible to look, but it was less horrible to feel that – Something – was in front of you than that it was behind you. She stared with wildly dilated eyes into the darkness, but she could see nothing. Then – she heard a low laugh above her – a laugh that almost made her heart stop beating – the very dreadful, inhuman laughter of the unsound in mind. She did not need the lightning flash that came then to tell her that Mad Mr. Morrison was somewhere on the stairs above her. But it came – she saw him – she felt as if she were sinking in some icy gulf of coldness – she could not even scream.
The picture of him, etched on her brain by the lightning, never left her. He was crouched five steps above her, with his grey head thrust forward. She saw the frenzied gleam of his eyes – the fang-like yellow teeth exposed in a horrible smile – the long, thin, blood-red hand outstretched towards her, almost touching her shoulder.
Sheer panic shattered Emily’s trance. She bounded to her feet with a piercing scream of terror.
“Teddy! Teddy! Save me!” she shrieked madly.
She did not know why she called for Teddy – she did not even realise that she
had
called him – she only remembered it afterwards, as one might recall the waking shriek in a nightmare – she only knew that she
must
have help – that she would die if that awful hand touched her.
It must not touch her
.
She made a mad spring down the steps, rushed into the church, and up the aisle. She must hide before the next flash came – but not in the Murray pew. He might look for herthere. She dived into one of the middle pews and crouched down in its corner on the floor. Her body was bathed in an ice-cold perspiration. She was wholly in the grip of uncontrollable terror. All she could think of was that it must not touch her – that blood-red hand of the mad old man.
Moments passed that seemed like years. Presently she heard footsteps – footsteps that came and went yet seemed to approach her slowly. Suddenly she knew what he was doing. He was going into every pew, not waiting for the lightning, to feel about for her. He
was
looking for her, then – she had heard that sometimes he followed young girls, thinking they were Annie. If he caught them he held them with one hand and stroked their hair and faces fondly with the other, mumbling foolish, senile endearments. He had never harmed any one, but he had never let any one go until she was rescued by some other person. It was said that Mary Paxton of Derry Pond had never been quite the same again: her nerves never recovered from the shock.
Emily knew that it was only a question of time before he would reach the pew where she crouched – feeling about with those hands! All that kept her senses in her frozen body was the thought that if she lost consciousness those hands would touch her – hold her – caress her. The next lightning flash showed him entering the adjoining pew. Emily sprang up and out and rushed to the other side of the church. She hid again: he would search her out, but she could again elude him: this might go on all night: a madman’s strength would outlast hers: at last she might fall exhausted and he would pounce on her.
For what seemed hours to Emily, this mad game of hide-and-seek lasted. It was in reality about half an hour. She was hardly a rational creature at all, any more than her demented pursuer. She was merely a crouching, springing, shrieking thingof horror. Time after time he hunted her out with his cunning, implacable patience. The last time she was near one of the porch doors, and in desperation she sprang through it and slammed it in his face. With the last ounce of her strength she tried to hold the knob from turning in his
She turned and looked up. It was horrible to look, but it was less horrible to feel that – Something – was in front of you than that it was behind you. She stared with wildly dilated eyes into the darkness, but she could see nothing. Then – she heard a low laugh above her – a laugh that almost made her heart stop beating – the very dreadful, inhuman laughter of the unsound in mind. She did not need the lightning flash that came then to tell her that Mad Mr. Morrison was somewhere on the stairs above her. But it came – she saw him – she felt as if she were sinking in some icy gulf of coldness – she could not even scream.
The picture of him, etched on her brain by the lightning, never left her. He was crouched five steps above her, with his grey head thrust forward. She saw the frenzied gleam of his eyes – the fang-like yellow teeth exposed in a horrible smile – the long, thin, blood-red hand outstretched towards her, almost touching her shoulder.
Sheer panic shattered Emily’s trance. She bounded to her feet with a piercing scream of terror.
“Teddy! Teddy! Save me!” she shrieked madly.
She did not know why she called for Teddy – she did not even realise that she
had
called him – she only remembered it afterwards, as one might recall the waking shriek in a nightmare – she only knew that she
must
have help – that she would die if that awful hand touched her.
It must not touch her
.
She made a mad spring down the steps, rushed into the church, and up the aisle. She must hide before the next flash came – but not in the Murray pew. He might look for herthere. She dived into one of the middle pews and crouched down in its corner on the floor. Her body was bathed in an ice-cold perspiration. She was wholly in the grip of uncontrollable terror. All she could think of was that it must not touch her – that blood-red hand of the mad old man.
Moments passed that seemed like years. Presently she heard footsteps – footsteps that came and went yet seemed to approach her slowly. Suddenly she knew what he was doing. He was going into every pew, not waiting for the lightning, to feel about for her. He
was
looking for her, then – she had heard that sometimes he followed young girls, thinking they were Annie. If he caught them he held them with one hand and stroked their hair and faces fondly with the other, mumbling foolish, senile endearments. He had never harmed any one, but he had never let any one go until she was rescued by some other person. It was said that Mary Paxton of Derry Pond had never been quite the same again: her nerves never recovered from the shock.
Emily knew that it was only a question of time before he would reach the pew where she crouched – feeling about with those hands! All that kept her senses in her frozen body was the thought that if she lost consciousness those hands would touch her – hold her – caress her. The next lightning flash showed him entering the adjoining pew. Emily sprang up and out and rushed to the other side of the church. She hid again: he would search her out, but she could again elude him: this might go on all night: a madman’s strength would outlast hers: at last she might fall exhausted and he would pounce on her.
For what seemed hours to Emily, this mad game of hide-and-seek lasted. It was in reality about half an hour. She was hardly a rational creature at all, any more than her demented pursuer. She was merely a crouching, springing, shrieking thingof horror. Time after time he hunted her out with his cunning, implacable patience. The last time she was near one of the porch doors, and in desperation she sprang through it and slammed it in his face. With the last ounce of her strength she tried to hold the knob from turning in his
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