"Victor Roman - Four wooden Stakes" - читать интересную книгу автора (Roman Victor)

The following afternoon found me standing on the platform of the little town of Charing, a village of about
fifteen hundred souls. Remson's place was about ten miles from there so I stepped forward to the driver
of a shay and asked if he would kindly take me to the Holroyd estate. He clasped his hands in what
seemed a silent prayer, shuddered slightly, then looked at me with an air of wonder, mingled with
suspicion.

"I don't know what ye wants to go out there for, stranger, but if yell take the advice o' a God-fearing
man, yell turn back whence ye come from. There be some mighty fearful tales concernin' that place
floatin' around, and more'n one tramp's been found near there so weak from loss of blood and fear he
could hardly crawl. They's somethin' there. Be it man or beast I don't know, but as for me, I wouldn't
drive ye out there for a hundred dollars cash."

This was not at all encouraging, but I was nor to be influenced by the tally of a superstitious old gossip,
so I cast about for a less impressionable rustic who would undertake the trip to earn the ample reward I
promised at the end of my ride. To my chagrin, they all acted like the first; some crossed themselves
fervently, while others gave me one wild look and ran, as if I were in alliance with the devil.

By now my curiosity was thoroughly aroused, and I was determined to see the thing through to a finish if
it cost me my life. So, casting a last, contemptuous look upon those poor souls, I stepped out briskly in
the direction pointed out to me. However, I had gone but a scant two miles when the weight of the
suitcases began to tell, and I slackened pace considerably.

The sun was just disappearing beneath the treetops when I caught my first glimpse of the old homestead,
now deserted but for its one occupant. Time and the elements had laid heavy hands upon it, for there was
hardly a window that could boast its full quota of panes, while the shutters banged and creaked with a
noise dismal enough to daunt even the strong of heart.

About one hundred yards back I discerned a small building of grey stone, pieces of which seemed to be
lying all around it, partly covered by the dense growth of vegetation that overran the entire countryside.
On closer observation I realized that the building was a crypt, while what I had taken to be pieces of the
material scattered around were really tombstones. Evidently this was the family burying ground. But why
had certain members been interred in a mausoleum while the remainder of the family had been buried in
the ground in the usual manner?

Having observed thus much, I turned my steps towards the house, for I had no intention of spending the
night with naught but the dead for company. Indeed, I began to realize just why those simple country folk
had refused to aid me, and a hesitant doubt began to assert itself as to the expedience of my being here,
when I might have been at the shore or at the country club enjoying life to the full.

By now the sun had completely slid from view, and in the semi-darkness the place presented an even
drearier aspect than before. With a great display of bravado I stepped upon the veranda, slammed my
suitcases upon a seat very much the worse for wear, and pulled lustily at the knob.

Peal after peal reverberated through the house, echoing and reechoing from room to room, till the whole
structure rang. Then all was still once more, save for the sighing of the wind and the creaking of the
shutters.

A few minutes passed, and the sound of footsteps approaching the door reached my ears. Another
interval, and the door was cautiously opened a few inches, while a head, shrouded by the darkness
scrutinized me closely. Then the door was flung wide, and Remson (I hardly knew him, so changed was