By Algernon Blackwood
Certain houses， like certain persons， manage somehow toproclaim at once their character for evil. In the case of thelatter， no particular feature need betray them； they may boastan open countenance and an ingenuous smile； and yet a littleof their company leaves the unalterable conviction that there issomething radically amiss with their being： that they are evil.
Willy nilly， they seem to communicate an atmosphere of secretand wicked thoughts which makes those in their immediateneighbourhood shrink from them as from a thing diseased.
And， perhaps， with houses the same principle is operative，and it is the aroma of evil deeds committed under a particularroof， long after the actual doers have passed away， thatmakes the gooseflesh come and the hair rise. Something ofthe original passion of the evil-doer， and of the horror feltby his victim， enters the heart of the innocent watcher， andhe becomes suddenlyconscious of tingling nerves， creepingskin， and a chilling of the blood. He is terror-stricken withoutapparent cause.
There was manifestly nothing in the external appearanceof this particular house to bear out the tales of the horror thatwas said to reign within. It was neither lonely nor unkempt. Itstood， crowded into a corner of the square， and looked exactlylike the houses on either side of it. It had the same number ofwindows as its neighbours； the same balcony overlooking thegardens； the same white steps leading up to the heavy blackfront door； and， in the rear， there was the same narrow stripof green， with neat box borders， running up to the wall thatdivided it from the backs of the adjoining houses. Apparently，too， the number of chimney pots on the roof was the same； thebreadth and angle of the eaves； and even the height of the dirtyarea railings.
And yet this house in the square， that seemed preciselysimilar to its fifty ugly neighbours， was as a matter of factentirely different—horribly different.
Wherein lay this marked， invisible difference is impossibleto say. It cannot be ascribed wholly to the imagination， becausepersons who had spent some time in the house， knowingnothing of the facts， had declared positively that certain roomswere so disagreeable they would rather die than enter themagain， and that the atmosphere of the whole house producedin them symptoms of a genuine terror； while the series ofinnocent tenants who had tried to live in it and been forced todecamp at the shortest possible notice，was indeed little lessthan a scandal in the town.
When Shorthouse arrived to pay a “week-end” visit to hisAunt Julia in her little house on the sea-front at the other endof the town， he found her charged to the brim with mystery andexcitement. He had only received her telegram that morning，and he had come anticipating boredom； but the moment hetouched her hand and kissed her apple-skin wrinkled cheek，he caught the first wave of her electrical condition. Theimpression deepened when he learned that there were to be noother visitors， and that he had been telegraphed for with a veryspecial object.
Something was in the wind， and the “something” woulddoubtless bear fruit； for this elderly spinsteraunt， with a maniafor psychical research， had brains as well as will power， and byhook or by crook she usually managed to accomplish her ends.
The revelation was made soon after tea， when she sidled closeup to him as they paced slowly along the sea-front in the dusk.
“I’ve got the keys，” she announced in a delighted， yet halfawesome voice. “Got them till Monday！”
“The keys of the bathing-machine， or—？” he askedinnocently， looking from the sea to the town. Nothing broughther so quickly to the point as feigning stupidity.
“Neither，” she whispered. “I’ve got the keys of the hauntedhouse in the square—and I’m going there to-night.”
Shorthouse was conscious of the slightest possible tremordown his back. He dropped his teasing tone. Something in hervoice and manner thrilled him. She was in earnest.
“But you can’t go alone—” he began.
“That’s why I wired for you，” she said with decision.
He turned to look at her. The ugly， lined， enigmatical facewas alive with excitement. There was the glow of genuineenthusiasm round it like a halo. The eyes shone. He caughtanother wave of her excitement， and a second tremor， moremarked than the first， accompanied it.
“Thanks， Aunt Julia，” he said politely； “thanks awfully.”
“I should not dare to go quite alone，” she went on， raisingher voice； “but with you I should enjoy it immensely. You’reafraid of nothing， I know.”
“Thanks so much，” he said again. “Er—is anything likely tohappen？”
“A great deal has happened，” she whispered， “though it’sbeen most cleverly hushed up. Three tenants have come andgone in the last few months， and the house is said to be emptyfor good now.”
In spite of himself Shorthouse became interested. His auntwas so very much in earnest.
“The house is very old indeed，” she went on， “and thestory—an unpleasant one—dates a long way back. It has todo with a murder committed by a jealous stableman who hadsome affair with a servant in the house. One night he managedto secrete himself in the cellar， and when everyone was asleep，he crept upstairs to the servants’ quarters， chased the girl downto the next landing， and before anyone could come to therescuethrew her bodily over the banisters into the hall below.”
“And the stableman—？”
“Was caught， I believe， and hanged for murder； but it allhappened a century ago， and I’ve not been able to get moredetails of the story.”
Shorthouse now felt his interest thoroughly aroused；but， though he was not particularly nervous for himself， hehesitated a little on his aunt’s account.
“On one condition，” he said at length.
“Nothing will prevent my going，” she said firmly； “but I mayas well hear your condition.”
“That you guarantee your power of self-control if anythingreally horrible happens. I mean—that you are sure you won’tget too frightened.”
