The door opens, and I don't wake up, as I did the first time. Nor do I see the amber eyes. They're in the hall, at my side. . . ."
HIS VOICE died away in a mumble, and his head rolled aside. But before I could move he went on almost inaudibly. "I've got to go in the—whatever it is. Not a room. I've got to step across the threshold, pass that doorway that doesn't exist—there's a horrible compulsion pushing me—and . . . each night I step a little further toward it. Last night I put one foot over the threshold.. . . ."
For a long time there was utter silence. Woodwork creaked eerily around me. The lamp burned unevenly, casting heavy, misshapen shadows on the walls. I thought of that hideous little wooden slab outside the house, and shivered. The drive back to town would not be a pleasant one.
Minutes passed. Suddenly Keene spoke again, halting me as I was about to rise from my chair.
"The witch died. She couldn't live forever. But she had discovered a way to live again—not her body, buried and long ago rotted into dust, but her soul. She waited in her grave for someone to enter this house.
"They came at last, but only after a long time, for the witch had been feared. From the grave a spell was cast upon that man, so that he dreamed of a door. The moment the door was opened . . . he was doomed. No matter where he fled, he would dream again . . . and again . . . until finally, in his dream, he would step over the threshold.
"When he did that, his body would be vacant, and the soul of the witch would enter it."
I heard a faint noise from behind me. I turned to stare at the doorway. Black emptiness.
The low voice droned on.
"Such changes are not easily wrought. A strong vessel, a strong body, was needed to survive the metamorphosis and hold the soul of the witch. The first man died . . . and many others died . . . and still the witch had found no body strong enough to hold her soul."
"Listen!" I said peremptorily, and stared at the doorway. I had heard something that sounded like the rattling of metal.
Then, unmistakably, I heard a door slam. I got up quickly, realizing that my breath no longer came evenly. Without moving I waited, watching the doorway. But there was no further sound.
Keene had lifted his head, and was staring at me. For a moment the horrible thing escaped me. Then I saw, and, I think, I screamed.
Keene's face had changed. Like a dark veil, impalpable and intangible, an expression was upon it that I can only describe as sheer evil. It was still Keene's face, but it was at the same time the face of a demon. But it wasn't that which sent abysmal horror lancing through me, making me shudder with frightful nausea. The eyes that stared from Keene's ghastly face were no longer dark—they were amber cat's-eyes!
It is difficult for me to remember what happened after that. I think the monster that was Keene rose up from the table, and smiled very terribly, piercing me with those demoniac eyes. I think I screamed again, as I remembered the sound from the hall—the sound of a door slamming—and realized that Edward Keene had dreamed again, and had stepped over the fearsome threshold he had dreaded so much. And I know that the light suddenly faded from the amber eyes, and a lean body collapsed on the floor and lay quite still . . . and when I finally forced myself to feel for a pulse there was none.
That was two nights ago. I left the
