Shadows 7 Read Free

read something else—fear.
    I explained my situation, promising that while I could not have the five dollars at six o'clock, I would definitely have it the next day.
    The harsh voice was uncompromising. "Five dollars by six or you leave!" The door slammed. Chains rattled; bolts slid home.
    Well, there was nothing for it. Cursing and shivering, I wended my freezing way back to Eats and asked Mr. Karda for the loan of five dollars "on account."
    Understandably, Mr. Karda hesitated. The upshot of it was that I was told to take off my coat and get to work. Actually, I didn't mind. It was relatively warm in the small place. I dutifully swept, scrubbed, and scraped. During the afternoon I was allowed coffee and two ham-on-rye sandwiches. I was permitted to leave at five-thirty with five dollars, the understanding being that I had earned only three and that I owed Mr. Karda two.
    At two minutes to six I knocked on Mrs. Clendon's door. After I had identified myself, and following a great rasping of bolts, clicking of catches, and clattering of chains, the door inched open.
    I slid the five-dollar bill through the crack.
    My payment was acknowledged with a nod. The grim eyes surveyed me. "Come a little earlier next time, Mr. Melson." The door closed.
    Again, however, I read fear in those faded eyes. I shrugged wearily and went up the stairs. Probably, I reflected, the house had been burglarized a number of times, or possibly Mrs. Clendon had been injured by an intruder. Beyond that, anyone who operates a rooming house in a rundown neighborhood would at least occasionally encounter difficult customers. Well, it was no concern of mine.
    I fell into bed trying to decide whether I was more tired than famished. Sleep soon decided the wearisome issue.
    I'm not sure exactly how long I slept. About four hours, I estimated. I awoke suddenly, alert and apprehensive. Though the room remained cold, the air was peculiarly oppressive. It was not that it was merely stale; it seemed almost septic. In spite of the freezing weather, I was tempted to open the window.
    I sat up, listening. From far areas of the house, I heard a continuous coughing, moans, and a kind of half-suppressed but frantic wailing. The sounds, though muted and at times intermingled, were unmistakable. It was no use for me to assure myself that it was only the wind, rattling loose shingles or sighing around outside the house.
    I shoved the pillow back against the headboard, drew up my knees, and pulled the bedclothes around my shoulders.
    What kind of a rooming house had I stumbled into? Was Mrs. Clendon running some kind of unlicensed home for the sick and dying? What human wrecks were shut away behind those closed doors along the corridor?
    At intervals the disturbing sounds ebbed away into near silence, but every time I was about to slide back down and attempt sleep, they began again.
    What I found especially puzzling was that I could not definitely place any one sound in any specific part of the house. I could not say for certain that a nasty, rasping cough came from across the corridor, nor that an intermittent groaning gasp had its origin in the cold and darkened rooms below. The strangely subdued but persistent cacophony appeared to emanate from different areas of the house, merging, shifting, at times swelling in volume, and then again fading away into a kind of febrile muttering.
    As I crouched uncomfortably in the darkness, I finally came to the bizarre conclusion that I was lying in a pesthouse packed with the infirm and expiring, that the very walls of the building groaned with the grisly burdens which they hid.
    At length, from utter mental exhaustion, if nothing else, I dozed off.
    At once, frightening dreams took over my weary brain. Something hideous, something ultimately indescribable, stalked the stale corridors of the house. It moved ponderously from door to door, seeking mine. It was turning the knob when I awoke with a scream.
    The wild pounding of my heart