Page:Weird Tales Volume 2 Number 2 (1923-09).djvu/31

30 places, and I don't think we will have any trouble finding fuel."

We picked up our bundles and, with Anderson in the lead, walked gingerly over the shaky, sagging drawbridge. The deep moat was nearly empty of water, as the lower embankment had given way, but a tiny stream trickled far below us, fed by the hillside spring. We passed through the bailey and thence to the inner court, where the click of our boots on the worn flagstones rang weirdly back from the surrounding walls. My companion looked about him with the air of one to whom the exploring of feudal castles was an everyday experience and made for a tall, arched doorway at our right.

"The family quarters of the laird should be in this part of the building," he said.

Dogged by the hollow echoes of the empty building, we crossed a corridor, passed through a huge room, evidently a banquet hall, entered a second corridor, and passed many doorways, into each of which Anderson peered. At length he entered one, larger and more pretentious than the rest, and I followed.

"I believe this is the master's bedroom," he said, easing his pack to the floor. "Faugh! How musty it smells, and there's dust and dirt everywhere. Let's spread the tent on the floor in front of the fireplace. That will give us a clean place to eat and sleep, at least."

There was a small quantity of partly burned fuel in the fireplace which we scraped together, and soon had a fire crackling. Then it was agreed that I should prepare our evening meal while Anderson went out and scouted for more wood.

When I had the coffee perking and the bacon simmering, I walked about examining the room in the flickering firelight, for the murky twilight was already merging into darkness, and the windows at either side of the fireplace, far from providing any light, appeared like dull, gray patches set in the wall.

The most striking object in the room was the great canopied bed, in which, if the tale were true, the Laird of Bludmanton had slept his last sleep. It was apparent that the hangings were of rich material, even through the thick layer of dust that covered them. They were caught back at one side, and the disarrayed bedding confirmed Sandy's description of the hasty exit of Sir Eric and his retainers. The other pieces of furniture were, three chairs, a beautifully carved table and two massive chests. As to the room itself, it had a beamed ceiling, paneled walls hung at intervals with faded tapestry, and a rough plank floor that creaked dismally when trod upon, covered with a filthy, moth-eaten carpet.

I returned to the fireplace, set out our tin plates, cups and eating utensils, broke the eggs into the hot bacon-grease, and went out to call Anderson. I hallooed loudly in the halway—and was answered by my own echo.

"What can be keeping him?" I wondered.

He should have returned within ten minutes, at least, for it was but a short walk to the courtyard where there was wood a plenty, and he had been gone a full twenty-five minutes. I made my way down the dark hallway, crossed the banquet-room, and, after threading the outer corridor, stepped through the arched doorway into the courtyard. Anderson was not in sight.

"Jack!" I called loudly, "O, Jack!" A startled owl flew noisily from a niche behind me as I listened in vain for an answering cry. I knew that if Anderson were within hearing he would reply, so was sorely puzzled and not a little alarmed. He was of an inquisitive nature, and there was no telling what might have happened to him, I crossed to the postern gate, fully expecting to see him lying at the bottom of the moat, but my pocket flash-light revealed only the weed-grown banks, the mossy walls and the shimmering, gurgling streamlet at the bottom.

It seemed that there was nothing for it but to explore the castle from top to bottom, and I set about the task with a gloomy foreboding of danger which I found impossible to shake off.

After looking into every room and corridor on the courtyard level, I mounted the treacherous steps of a rickety turret and began a systematic search of the towers and battlements, flashing my light into all dark corners and over the steep walls at points where I thought it possible my impetuous friend might have fallen.

As I stood on the topmost battlement of the great tower, the thunder storm, which had been muttering ominously for some time, struck with considerable violence. Sheet after sheet of rain swept over me, drenching me to the skin. Forked lightning played about tower, turret and minaret, and the floor trembled under my feet at each terrific crash of thunder.

I leaped to the temporary shelter of the black tower room and, while the storm raged furiously without, attempted to dispel the threatening inner clouds of foreboding regarding the fate of my friend, by shedding the light of reason on them. I had examined every foot of floor space in the castle, or near it, without trace of my lost companion!

Most assuredly he had not run off and left me, for Anderson was not that sort. What, then, had become of him? I could think of but two possible solutions: either he had gone back to our rendezvous and, finding it untenanted, was at present searching for me, or somebody, or something had made away with him.

As the latter proposition seemed preposterous, the logical thing for me to do was to return to the master's bedchamber and wait for him.

I clambered down the wind-shaken turret, fought my way through the swirling torrents of rain in the court, and with the aid of my flash-light, reached the room without further incident. Anderson was not there, nor was there any sign that he had been there. The bacon and eggs were burned to a crisp, the coffee pot had boiled dry, and the fire was reduced to a heap of dull, red embers.

Placing the blackened cooking utensils on the hearth, I piled the remainder of my scanty stock of fuel on the glowing coals, fanned them to a flame, and stood close to dry my damp clothing. All thought of hunger had left me, my mind being completely occupied with the mysterious disappearance of my chum and the disquieting situation in which I found myself: alone in a great, dark, musty medieval castle, untenanted save by owls and vermin, and popularly supposed to be the abode of shrieking, gibbering ghosts.

I was not exactly afraid—not at that juncture, anyhow—but I must admit a feeling somewhat akin to fear crept over me as I mentally reviewed the story of Sandy Magruder and subconsciously connected it with Anderson's unknown fate.

I say "subconsciously" because, objectively, I would not admit to myself that there was such a thing as a ghost. I reasoned further, that even if there were such a thin—a dematerialized being, whose body consisted of nothing more ponderable than light, or perhaps vapor—it would be manifestly impossible for it either to make a noise or move physical objects. As to such a being flying off with my companion—absurd!

The fury of the storm gradually abated until it had settled down to a steady, pattering rain, with only occasional thunderclaps. This continued for perhaps an hour, then ceased entirely, and the only audible sound was the dripping of the water from eave and battlement. The comparative stillness was singularly depressing.