Читать книгу The Hound of Hell - Arthur Leo Zagat - Страница 3

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"I AM convinced," Rennold Forson said heavily, "that there is something definitely wrong in Oaklake." He stood, tall and thin, in the center of the living room, and there was a queer glow in his narrow, piercing eyes. "Some strange peril hangs over our little community like a cloud; the fear of some weird, uncanny evil is creeping into every home, touching every life. I am worried for you, my dear, living out here on the edge of the town, alone and unprotected."

Sandra Crane appeared slender, fragile, sitting in the deep chair near the window. "I am not afraid," her tired contralto responded. "Not at all afraid."

"I don't get you," Wally Leeds drawled, his gangling, loose-jointed frame slouched on the sofa. "You aren't really jittery over the gossip of a few shopkeepers and the howling of a dog at night? That's all there is to the whole thing!"

Forson's sharp-edged, pointed features turned to the youth. His thin lips twitched in what might have been a humorless, saturnine smile. "Gossip! A dozen people have seen the dog—a shadowy beast skulking through the fields at night. They say that his eyes glow with a red fire that strikes terror into them, as if the devil himself were glaring at them."

"Imagination, aided by one or two too many drinks at the Seven Gables!"

"Oh, of course." The older man made no effort to disguise the animosity in his tone. "You can explain anything by that. It might even account for the fact that night before last, when the Talmadges' cottage caught fire at two in the morning, only about five of the volunteers answered the alarm, and that the rest of the company refused to explain where they had been, except that they were not at home."

"Well..."

"I was talking to Father Fasey today," Forson continued. "He tells me his congregation has dropped off about half, and that even of those who attend Mass, only one man has accepted Communion in weeks. He is quite convinced that Satan has invaded Oaklake and he intends to exorcise him next Sunday."

Somehow, as he said that, the atmosphere of uneasy dread he had managed to create in the little parlor deepened. The beaming, rotund little priest was very wise. If he put so great stress on the whisperings...

"Faugh. I can't stand this sort of talk." Wally pushed himself to his feet, jerked around to Sandra. "Good-night, Miss Crane. I'm going home and try to write." He flung himself out through the curtained archway into the foyer.

Forson's lip curled. "Good riddance. I can't see how you stand him around."

A fleeting smile illuminated the girl's wan features. "He is a trifle gauche. But then he's had an awful struggle, writing for years and not selling a thing. I think..."

"Oh, let's forget him!" The man lunged across the room, towered above Sandra. "I can say what I want to, now that he's gone. Sandra, my dear! Why won't you consent to marry me at once? Why won't you give me the right to protect you?"

"To protect me? Against what?"

"Oh, Good Lord! Haven't you been listening to me at all? Don't you remember what your father said to us, with the grey of death masking his face?" Forson's voice was tortured; he was quivering. "Sandra! He was already almost in that Other World when he spoke those last words. A knowledge not given to living men must already have been filtering into his soul. He begged you not to wait because of mourning; he begged you to marry me at once! Have you forgotten?"

The girl was erect now. Her brown eyes were deep, somber wells.

"I remember." She made a little, helpless gesture. "But I can't. Not yet. Oh, Rennold, not yet!"

"Darling! There is danger abroad. Some horrible, foul danger whose nature we do not know. But your father knew, when he gasped out, 'I want to feel that you are safe, dear!' and died."

"Safe!" Sandra jerked it out. "Why shouldn't I be safe here? With Alice, and—and Scratch? Father gave me Scratch to protect me!"

Forson twisted away from her, twisted back. "Scratch!" His face writhed with some obscure emotion. "Sandra! I didn't want to point it out before, but it is Scratch himself whom I fear—for you. The hound that haunts the night is black, and the only black dog in town is—Scratch!"

There was a moment's silence, tense, quivering. It was broken by a moan from the girl, a low moan: "No! I can't believe it! Scratch loves me. He would give his life for me; certainly he would never hurt me."

"Believe it or not, that dog is dangerous!" Forson flung the words at her, virulent.

Sandra had recovered herself. "Dangerous! You—you're insane. All you have to do is watch his eyes when he looks at me. I'll prove it to you." She turned to a second door, one that opened into the pantry, thence to the kitchen. "Alice," she called. "Alice!"

Alice Bolt waited a minute before she opened that door. It was love for Miss Sandra that had made an eavesdropper of her, but that might not be understood. Then: "Yes! Yes. Miss Sandra."

"Where's Scratch!"

"By the stove in the kitchen."

"Let him come in. Here, Scratch! Scratch!"

Claws rattled on the stone floor of the pantry; a furry body pushed past the meager, grey-haired domestic. A collie entered the living room, sleek-haired, big-headed, completely black. He paused, wagging a bushy tail.

"Come here. Scratch. It's all right for you to come in here tonight. Come here, boy." Sandra's tones were tender, caressing. "Come here!"

The dog started across to her, his tail still wagging. Forson moved restively. And suddenly the collie stopped. His fur seemed to bristle, his neck to swell to twice its natural size. His great head dropped to the ground, his lips retracted. He was snarling, growling; his eyes, fixed on the girl, were red and baleful.

"Scratch!" It was almost a scream. "Scratch! What is it? What's the matter?"

His mistress' voice seemed to infuriate the brute. He howled, leaped, jaws open, white fangs gleaming, straight for her throat! Forson threw himself at Sandra, struck her, tumbled to the floor with her. The dog shot over them, landed heavily on the couch, scrambled for a foothold. Then he was gone, through the open window beneath which the sofa stretched; gone into the night!

White-faced, trembling, Sandra regained her feet. "It isn't true," she moaned. "It isn't true! Rennold! It's just as if—as if you had turned against me—or Dad! Dad gave him to me...He's sick. He must be sick!"

"Or possessed," Forson supplied, white-lipped, shaken. "Or possessed by—the spirit of the devil himself!"