'Victoria Road, please,” he ordered one taxi-driver.
'Sorry, can’t say as I’ve heard of it,” said the driver. ' — Mercy ’ill? No road called that up there as I know of.”
'Excuse me — did you say you were looking for Victoria Road?” Owen turned and saw a middle-aged man in a tweed suit, with his hand on a car door.
'Yes — I’ve bought a house there, actually, but this man doesn’t seem to know where it is.”
'Well, I’m going up Mercy Hill,” the other told him, 'and I could drop you off if you want a lift.” As Owen got into the car, the driver muttered: 'But there’s no empty house on Victoria Road, except—”
They drove out of the station, and Owen saw the many converging streets rising to meet at the grey hospital. He turned as the man beside him remarked:
'I’d better introduce myself — I’m Stanley Nash, a doctor at the hospital. Would I be right in thinking that you’ve bought no. 7?”
'Well, I’m Norman Owen — an author, I have to admit — and you’re right about the address. But how did you guess — do you live next door or something?”
'No,” said Nash, 'I live in Gladstone Place at the bottom of the Hill. It’s just that this house you’ve bought has something of a reputation — rather infamous round here. You see, not so long ago it belonged to a witch.”
'Really! Well, I ought to write something good here!”
'I wouldn’t joke about it,” reproved the doctor. 'There’s often something of truth in these stories, you know.”
'I thought you were a doctor,” Owen said.
'I think you ought to take notice of what they say about your house,” Nash told him. 'It’s seldom that these stories are entirely imaginary — and there’s a widespread fear of a shuttered room overlooking the street, which I’d advise you to remember. It’s never been opened since Gladys Shorrock’s death — she was the witch — and why would anyone lock and shutter a room as soon as they bought a house?”
'That’s simple; either she was mad, or if she was cleverer than you think, perhaps she
Owen found the building which he saw vaguely repellent. The dull red-brick walls, the dark vines, the thinly- painted window- frames and door, all depressed him. On the other hand, he had bought it cheaply, and it might be better inside. But although the rooms were clean and well lighted, as soon as he entered the house a shadow of depression fell across him. The rows of books and Victorian furniture must have caused it; certainly it was nothing to do with lingering influences.
'How is it there’s no dust?” Owen inquired.
'I think the estate agents get someone from the. more enlightened part of town to clean up,” said Nash. 'I come in here now and then myself — well, my brother works at the agents’ and gives me the key. The books interest me, so I’ll be tactless and ask if I could drop around occasionally…
They had reached the first-floor landing. 'Call round whenever you like — I don’t know anybody here yet. And this is the famous sealed room, I suppose.”
Owen stared at the brown-painted door at the top of the stairs for so long that Dr Nash said:
'Well, I’m off now. Are you getting a telephone? — yes, you’ll be able to keep in touch with your friends that way. I’ll ring you up in a few days, then.”
Owen did not notice the doctor descending the stairs. He was searching among his keys for one to fit the door, but the agents had not sent it. Some half-sensed intolerance made him kick at the lock until the door swung inward. He stepped forward and peered in; but no light entered between the shutters, and most of the room was in darkness. He felt for the light switch and turned it.
Dr Nash was opening his car door when he heard a sound. A shadow whirred over him and into the house. He saw nothing, but got the impression of an oval winged shape, with something nevertheless human about it. He slammed the door and ran up the stairs. Owen was leaning against the door-frame of the shuttered room, apparently supporting himself, but straightened when the doctor called out.
'What — I must have gone dizzy for a moment,” Owen said. 'Everything went black, and I seemed to be falling.”
'I told you not to open that door.”
'I bought this house,” Owen reminded him, 'and I’m not starting off with a room I can’t enter. Anyway, it’s done now — but what do you make of this?”
Dr Nash looked in. The room was still in darkness, although the switch was turned. He pulled out his cigarette lighter and entered cautiously. Light flickered on bare walls and floor, and then picked out what hung from the ceiling. It resembled a neon tube formed into a pentagram, and so surrounded by mirrors that no light escaped into the room — almost as though it radiated darkness. He had seen something like it in one of the books downstairs, but did not remember its purpose. But he saw that it was arranged so anyone entering the room would activate it by the light switch, and knew some force had just been set in motion.
'Well, what is it?” Owen asked behind him.
'I’m not sure,” said the doctor, 'but I’ve a feeling you may have started something.” He looked Owen over carefully and decided that he was unharmed. 'You look all right, but don’t hesitate to call me if you feel ill. Of course, you can’t phone from here — but never mind, I’ll be going down that way, and maybe I can hurry them up getting the phone put in. Here’s my card with the number.”
After Dr Nash had left, Owen closed the door on the landing and went out for a meal. Returning after dark, he was again depressed by the sight of the house, black against the almost-moonless sky. He found himself looking at the shuttered window; no sound came from it, but he had an odd conviction that the room was inhabited. There was little to do in the house; he could have read one of the earlier tenant’s books, but preferred to sleep after his journey.
He did not usually dream, but tonight was different. He dreamed of wanderings through space to dead cities on other planets, of lakes bordered by twisted trees which moved and creaked in no wind, and finally of a strange curved rim beyond which he passed into utter darkness — a darkness in which he sensed nothing living. Less clear dreams occurred, too, and he often felt a clutching terror at glimpses of the shuttered room amid bizarre landscapes, and of rotting things which scrabbled out of graves at an echoing, sourceless call.
He was glad to rise the next morning. After breakfast he tried to work on his new novel, but found it too laborious. About eleven o’clock he was interrupted by a party of workmen come to put in the telephone, and welcomed the company. They seemed a little uneasy, and he avoided referring to the house. They left around three o’clock, and Owen telephoned the doctor to thank him. During their conversation Owen mentioned that he would have liked to leave the house more, but did not like walking.
'Well, borrow my car,” suggested Dr. Nash. 'I can always get one at the hospital when I need it — I only use my own at weekends. If you wait I’ll drop round about six o’clock with it.”
At 6:15 the doctor arrived. They left the car on the street, for no. 7 had no garage.
'No, I’m quite all right,” Owen answered the doctor’s question. 'What do you expect to be wrong with me anyway?”
Soon after, Owen remarked that he wanted to get to bed. Dr Nash was puzzled by the other’s desire for sleep, but saw nothing ominous in it. Owen waited until the doctor had been gone a few minutes, and hurried upstairs to his bedroom. He did not fight this urge, but wondered at it, for he was not tired.
He fell asleep immediately, and began to dream. Something was stirring under the ground, was calling him imperatively, and in his dream he rose, dressed, and went downstairs to the car. Before leaving he took a spade from the back garden and placed it on the back seat. Then he drove off toward that voiceless call.
He drove downward along half-lit streets, past occasional figures walking the pavements, past other cars whose drivers glanced uninterestedly at him, and reached a street at the bottom of the Hill whose one side was bordered by a railing. He rolled the window down and looked out, saw the street was deserted, got the spade and climbed out. Pushing the spade through the railings, he clambered over and jumped down into the graveyard.
In the dream he did not question that he knew where to go. He picked his way among the leaning stones and crosses to a grave near the far end of the cemetery, overgrown with weeds and grass. He tore the vegetation off, shuddering at the small things which scuttled over his hand, and began to dig.
Some hours passed before the spade struck a solid object. He dropped into the hole the rope he had brought and tied it to the handles of the coffin, then climbed out and strained at the rope. The coffin came quite easily,
