And then came the return; and the Horror. …
He began in this way.
He understood that he wished to awake, or, rather, to be reunited with the body that lay there in deep sleep before the fire. He observed it for a moment or two, interested and pleased, the face sunk a little on the hand, the feet lightly crossed on the fender. He looked at his own profile, the straight nose, the parted lips through which the breath came evenly. He attempted even to touch the face, wondering with gentle pleasure what would be the result. …
Then, suddenly, an impulse came to him to enter the body, and with the impulse the process, it seemed, began.
That process was not unlike that of falling asleep. In an instant perception was gone; the lighted room was gone, and that obedient world which he had contemplated just now. Yet self-consciousness for a while remained; he still had the power of perceiving his own personality, though this dwindled every moment down to that same gulf of nothingness through which he had found his way.
But at the very instant in which consciousness was passing there met him an emotion so fierce and overwhelming that he recoiled in terror back from the body once more and earth-perceptions; and a panic seized him.
It was such a panic as seizes a child who, fearfully courageous, has stolen at night from his room, and turning in half-simulated terror finds the door fast against him, or is aware of a malignant presence come suddenly into being, standing between himself and the safety of his own bed.
On the one side his fear drove him onwards; on the other a Horror faced him. He dared not recoil, for he understood where security lay; he longed, like the child screaming in the dark and beating his hands, to get back to the warmth and safety of bed; yet there stood before him a Presence, or at the least an Emotion of some kind, so hostile, so terrible, that he dared not penetrate it. It was not that an actual restraint lay upon him: he knew, that is, that the door was open; yet it needed an effort of the will of which his paralysis of terror rendered him incapable. …
The tension became intolerable.
“O God … God … God. …” he cried.
And in an instant the threshold was vacated; the swift rush asserted itself, and the space was passed.
Laurie sat up abruptly in his chair.
IV
Mr. Vincent was beginning to think about going to bed. He had come in an hour before, had written half a dozen letters, and was smoking peacefully before the fire.
His rooms were not remarkable in any way, except for half a dozen objects standing on the second shelf of his bookcase, and the selection of literature ranged below them. For the rest, all was commonplace enough; a mahogany knee-hold table, a couple of easy chairs, much worn, and a long, extremely comfortable sofa standing by itself against the wall with evident signs, in its tumbled cushions and rubbed fabric, of continual and frequent use. A second door gave entrance to his bedroom.
He beat out his pipe slowly, yawned, and stood up.
It was at this instant that he heard the sudden tinkle of the electric bell in the lobby outside, and, wondering at the interruption at this hour, went quickly out and opened the door on to the stairs.
“Mr. Baxter! Come in, come in; I’m delighted to see you.”
Laurie came in without a word, went straight up to the fireplace, and faced about.
“I’m not going to apologize,” he said, “for coming at this time. You told me to come and see you at any time, and I’ve taken you at your word.”
The young man had an odd embarrassed manner, thought the other; an air of having come in spite of uneasiness; he was almost shamefaced.
The medium impelled him gently into a chair.
“First a cigarette,” he said; “next a little whisky, and then I shall be delighted to listen. … No; please do as I say.”
Laurie permitted himself to be managed; there was a strong, almost paternal air in the other’s manner that was difficult to resist. He lit his cigarette, he sipped his whisky; but his movements were nervously quick.
“Well, then. …” and he interrupted himself. “What are those things, Mr. Vincent?” (He nodded towards the second shelf in the bookcase.)
Mr. Vincent turned on the hearthrug.
“Those? Oh! those are a few rather elementary instruments for my work.”
He lifted down a crystal ball on a small black polished wooden stand and handed it over.
“You have heard of crystal-gazing? Well, that is the article.”
“Is that crystal?”
“Oh no: common glass. Price three shillings and sixpence.”
Laurie turned it over, letting the shining globe run on to his hand.
“And this is—” he began.
“And this,” said the medium, setting a curious windmill-shaped affair, its sails lined with looking-glass, on the little table by the fire, “this is a French toy. Very elementary.”
“What’s that?”
“Look.”
Mr. Vincent wound a small handle at the back of the windmill to a sound of clockwork, set it down again, and released it. Instantly the sails began to revolve, noiseless and swift, producing the effect of a rapidly flashing circle of light across which span lines, waxing and waning with extraordinary speed.
“What the—”
“It’s a little machine for inducing sleep. Oh! I haven’t used that for months. But it’s useful sometimes. The hypnotic subject just stares at that steadily. … Why, you’re
