“Beware of her
fair hair, for she excels
All women in the magic
of her locks.”
- Shelley
(Trans.).
It trailed suavely through my fingers,
slipping across my palm like a belt of silk.
It glided with the noiseless haste of a thing in flight.
Quite naturally, even in the dazed moment of awakening
I closed my hand upon it. It was soft in my grasp,
yet resilient; solid, yet supple. If I may speak
irrationally, it felt as if it must be fragrant.
It was a strange visitor to my experience, yet I recognized
its identity unerringly as a blind man gaining sight
might identify a flower or a bird. In brief,
it was it only could be an opulent braid
of hair.
When I grasped it, it ceased to move.
In the dense darkness of my bedroom,
I lay still and considered. I was alone, or rather,
should have been alone in the old house I had bought
the day before. The agent assured me that it had
been unoccupied for years. Who, then, was my
guest? A passer-by seeking refuge in a supposedly
deserted house would hardly have moved about with such
silent caution. A tramp of this genus would be
a rarity indeed. I had nothing with me of value
to attract a thief. The usual limited masculine
jewelry a watch, a pair of cuff-links, a
modest pin surely were not sufficiently
tempting to snare so dainty a bird of prey as one wearing
such plumage as I held. I have not a small fist,
yet that braid was a generous handful. How did
it come to trail across my bed, in any case?
And why was its owner locked in silence and immobility?
Surely startled innocence would have cried out, questioned
my grasp or struggled against it! My captive
did neither.
I began to paint a picture against
the darkness; the picture of a crouching woman, fear-paralyzed;
not daring to stir, to sob or pant or shiver lest
she betray herself. Or, perhaps, a woman who was
not hushed by panic, but by deliberation. A woman
who slowly levelled a weapon, assuring her aim in
the blank darkness by such guides as my breathing
and the taut direction of her imprisoned tresses.
An ugly woman could not have such hair as this.
Or, could she? I had a doubtful recollection
of various long-haired demonstrators glimpsed in drugshop
windows, who were not beautiful. Yes, but they
would never have found themselves in such a situation
as this one! Only resolve or recklessness could
bring a woman to such a pass; and with spirit and
this hair no woman could be ugly.
How quiet she was! I suddenly
reflected that she must be thinking the same thing
of me, since neither of us had moved during a considerable
space of time. Possibly she fancied me only half-aroused,
and hoped that I would relapse into sleep without
realizing upon what my drowsy grasp had closed.
No doubt it would have been the course of chivalry
for me to pretend to do so, but it was not the course
of curiosity.
The deadlock could not last indefinitely.
Apparently, though, it must be I who should break
it. As quietly as possible, I brought my left
hand forward to grope along that silken line which
certainly must guide me to the intruder herself.
My hand slipped along the smooth surface to the full
reach of my arm; and encountered nothing. Check,
for the first attempt! The candle and matches
I had bought in the village were also beyond my reach,
unless I released my captive and rolled across the
bed toward the little bookcase where I had placed
them beside the flashlight. If I should speak,
what would she do? And a new thought! was
she alone in the house?
There came a gentle draw at the braid,
instantly ceasing as I automatically tightened my
hold. The pretense that I slept was ended.
I spoke, as soothingly and kindly as I could manage.
“If you will let me strike a
light, we can explain to each other. Or, if you
will agree not to escape?”
In spite of my efforts, my voice boomed
startlingly through the dark, still room. No
reply followed, but the braid quivered and suddenly
relaxed from its tension. She must have come closer
to me. Delighted by so much success attained
and intrigued by the novelty of the adventure, I moved
slightly, stretching my free arm in the direction of
the flashlight.
“I am not a difficult person,”
I essayed encouragement. “Nor too dull,
I hope, to understand a mistake or a necessity.
Nor am I affiliated with the police! Permit me”
I halted abruptly. A cool edge
of metal had been laid across the wrist of my groping
hand. As the hand came to rest, palm uppermost,
I could feel, or imagined I could feel my pulse beating
steadily against the menacing pressure of the blade.
The warning was eloquent and sufficient; I moved no
further toward my flashlight. Of course, if I
had lifted my right hand from its guard of the braid,
I could easily have pinioned the arm which poised
the knife before I suffered much harm. But I might
have lost my captive in the attempt; an event for
which I was not ready, yet.
“Check,” I admitted.
“Although, it is rather near a stalemate for
us both, isn’t it?”
The knife pressed closer, suggestively.
“No,” I dissented with
the mute argument. “I think not. I
do not believe you could do it; not in cold blood,
anyway!”
“You do not know,” insisted
the closer pressing blade, as if with a tongue.
“No, I do not know,” I
translated aloud. “But I am confident enough
to chance it. What reason have you for desperate
action? I would not harm you. Have I not
a right to curiosity? This is my house, you know.
Or perhaps you did not know that?”
A sigh stirred the silence, blending
with the ceaseless whisper of the rain that had recommenced
through the night. The braid did not move in
my right hand, nor did the blade touching my left.
“Speak!” I begged, with
an abrupt urgency that surprised myself. “You
are the invader. Why? What would you have
from me? If I am to let you go, at least speak
to me, first! This is uncanny.”
“There is magic in the third
time of asking,” came a breathed, just audible
whisper. “Yet, be warned; call not to you
that which you may neither hold nor forbid.”
“But I do call if
that will make you speak to me,” I returned,
my pulses tingling triumph. “Although,
as to not holding you”
“You fancy you hold me?
It is not you who are master of this moment, but I
who am its mistress.”
Her voice had gained in strength;
a soft voice, yet not weak, used with a delicate deliberation
that gave her speech the effect of being a caprice
of her own rather than a result of my compulsion.
Yet, I thought, she must be crouched or kneeling beside
me, on the floor, held like the Lady of the Beautiful
Tresses.
“Still, I doubt if you have
the disposition to use your advantage,” I began.
“You mean, the cruelty,” she corrected
me.
“I am from New York,”
I smiled. “Let me say, the nerve. If
you pressed that knife, I might bleed to death, you
know.”
“Would you hear a story of a
woman of my house, and her anger, before you doubt
too far?”
“Tell me,” I consented;
and smiled in the darkness at the transparent plan
to distract my attention from that imprisoned braid.
She was silent for so long that I
fancied the plan abandoned, perhaps for lack of a
tale to tell. Then her voice leaped suddenly out
of the blackness that closed us in, speaking always
in muted tones, but with a strange, impassioned urgency
and force that startled like a cry. The words
hurried upon one another like breaking surf.
“See! See! The fire
leaps in the chimney; it breathes sparks like a dreadful
beast it is hungry; its red tongues lick
for that which they may not yet have. Already
its breath is hot upon the wax image on the hearth.
But the image is round of limb and sound. Yes,
though it is but toy-large, it is perfect and firm!
See how it stands in the red shine: the image
of a man, cunningly made to show his stalwartness and
strength and bravery of velvet and lace! The
image of a great man, surely; one high in place and
power. One above fear and beyond the reach of
hate!
“The woman sits in her low chair,
behind the image. The fire-shine is bright in
her eyes and in her hair. On either side her hair
flows down to the floor; her eyes look on the image
and are dreadfully glad. Ha, was not Beauty the
lure, and shall it not be the vengeance?
“The nine lamps have been lighted!
The feathers have been laid in a circle! The
spell has been spoken; the spell of Hai, son of Set,
first man to slay man by the Dark Art!
“The man is at the door of the
woman’s house. Yes, he who came in pride
to woo, and proved traitor to the love won he
is at her door in weakness and pain.
“As the wax wastes, the man
wastes! As the mannikin is gone, the man dies!
“On her doorstep, he begs for
life. He is coward and broken. He suffers
and is consumed. He calls to her the love-names
they both know. And the woman laughs, and the
door is barred.
“The door is barred, but what
shall bar out the Enemy who creeps to the nine lamps?
“See, the fire shines through
the wax! The image is grown thin and wan.
Three days, three nights, it has shrunk before the
flames. Three days, three nights, the woman has
watched. As the fire is not weary, she is not
weary. As the fire is beautiful, she is beautiful.
“The man is borne to her door
again. He lifts up his hands and cries to her.
But now he begs for death. Now he knows anguish
stronger than fear. And the woman laughs, and
the door is barred.
“The fire shines on a lump of
wax. The man is dead. From her chair the
woman has arisen and stands, triumphant.
“But what crouches behind
her, unseen? The lamps are cast down! The
pentagram is crossed! The Horror takes its own.”
The impassioned speech broke off with
the effect of a snapped bar of thin metal. In
the silence, the steady whisper of rain came to my
ears again, continuing patiently. I became aware
of a rich yet delicate fragrance in the air I breathed.
It was not any perfume I could identify, either as
a composition or as a flower scent. If I may hope
to be understood it sparkled upon the senses.
It produced a thirst for itself, so that the nostrils
expanded for it with an eagerness for the new pleasure.
I found myself breathing deeply, almost greedily, before
answering my prisoner’s story.
“‘Sister Helen,’” I quoted,
as lightly as I could.
“And do you think Rossetti had
no truth to base his poem upon?” her quiet voice
flowed out of the darkness, seeming scarcely the same
speech as the swift, irregular utterance of a moment
before. “Do you think that all the traditions
and learning of the younger world meant nothing?”
“Are you asking me to believe in witchcraft
and sorcery?”
“I ask nothing.”
“Not even to believe that you
will press the knife if I refuse to free you?”
“Not even that; now!”
Compunction smote me. Her voice
sounded more faint, as if from fatigue or discouragement.
It seemed to me that the blade against my wrist had
relaxed its menace of pressure and just rested in position.
I seemed to read my lady’s weariness in the
slackened vigilance. Perhaps she was really frightened,
now that her brave attempt to lull me into incaution
had failed.
“Listen, please,” I spoke
earnestly. “I am going to set you free.
I apologize for keeping you captive so long!
But you will admit the provocation to my curiosity?
You will forgive me?”
A sigh drifted across the darkness.
“I ask no questions,”
I urged. “But will you not trust me to make
a light and give what help I can? You are welcome
to use the house as you please. Or, if you are
lost or stormbound, my car is in the old barn and
I will drive you anywhere that you say. Let us
not spoil our adventure by suspicion. In good
faith”
I opened my hand, releasing the lovely
rope by which I had detained my prisoner. Then,
with a quickening pulse, I waited. Would she stay?
Would she spring up and escape? Would she thank
me, or would she reply with some eccentricity unpredictable
as her whim to tell me that tale?
She did none of these things.
The braid of hair, freed entirely, continued to lie
supinely across my open palm. The coolness of
the blade still lightly touched my wrist. She
might be debating her course of action, I reflected.
Well, I was in no haste to conclude the episode!
When the silence had lasted many moments,
however, I began to grow restive. Anxiety tinged
my speculations. Suppose she had fainted?
Or did she doubt my intentions, and was her quietness
that of one on guard? I stirred tentatively.
Two things happened simultaneously
with my movement. The braid glided away from
me, while the knife slipped from its position and tinkled
upon the floor. I started up, perception of the
truth seizing my slow wits, and reached for my flashlight.
There was no one in the room except
myself. Down my blanket was slipping a severed
braid of hair, perhaps a foot in length, jaggedly cut
across at the end farthest from my hand. Leaning
over, I saw on the floor beside the bed a paper-knife
of my own; a sharp, serviceable tool that formed part
of my writing kit. Before going to bed, I had
taken it from my suitcase to trim a candle-wick, and
had left it upon the bookstand.
Now I understood why her voice had
sounded more distant than seemed reasonable while
I held her beside me. No doubt she had hacked
off the detaining braid almost as soon as I grasped
it. The knife she had pressed against my wrist
to keep me where I lay while she made ready for flight;
or amused herself with me. Flight? Say rather
that she had leisurely withdrawn! Perhaps she
had not even heard my magnanimous speech offering
her the freedom that she already possessed. If
she had stayed to hear me, probably she had laughed.
Perhaps she was still in the house.
I rose and lighted a candle, under
the impulsion of that idea, reserving my flashlight
for the search. But there was no one in any of
the dusty, sparsely furnished rooms and halls through
which I hunted. The ancient locks on doors and
windows were fastened as I had left them, although
my lady certainly had entered and left at her pleasure.
Puzzled and amused, I finally returned to my bedchamber.
There was some difference in that
room. I was conscious of the fact as soon as
I entered and closed the door behind me. The candle
still burned where I had left it, flickering slightly
in some current of air. There was no change that
the eye could find, no sound except the rain, yet I
felt an extreme reluctance to go on even a step from
where I stood. What I wanted to do was to tear
open the door behind me, to rush out into the hall
and slam the door shut between this room and myself.
Why? I looked around me, sending
the beam of the flashlight playing over the quiet
place. Nothing, of course! I walked over
to the bookcase, took up the braid I had left there,
and sat down in an old armchair to study my trophy.
On principle and by habit I had no intention of being
mastered by nerves. It was humiliating to discover
that I could be made nervous by the mere fact of being
in an unoccupied farmhouse after midnight.
The braid was magnificent. It
was as broad as my palm, yet compressed so tightly
that it was thick and solid to the touch. If released
over someone’s shoulders, it would have been
a sumptuous cloak, indeed! In what madness of
panic had the girl sacrificed this beauty? How
she must hate me, now the panic was past! The
color, too, was unique, in my experience; a gold as
vivid as auburn. Or was it tinged with auburn?
As I leaned forward to catch the candle-light, a drift
of that fragrance worn by my visitor floated from
her braid.
At once I knew what had changed in
the room. The air that had been so pure when
the house was opened, now was heavy with an odor of
damp and mould that had seeped into the atmosphere
as moisture will seep through cellar walls. One
would have said that the door of some hideous vault
had been opened into my bedchamber. This stench
struggled, as it were, with the volatile perfume that
clung about the braid; so that my senses were thrust
back and forth between disgust and delight in the strangest
wavering of sensation.
I made the strongest effort to put
away the effect this wavering had upon me. I
forced myself to sit still and think of normal things;
of the men whom I was to see next morning, of the
plans I meant to discuss with them.
Useless! The stench was making
me ill. A wave of giddiness swept over me, and
passed. My heart was beating slowly and heavily.
Something in my head pulsed in unison. I felt
a frightful depression, that suddenly burst into an
attack of fear gripping me like hysteria. I wanted
to shriek aloud like a woman, to cover my eyes and
run blindly. But at the same time my muscles
failed me. Will and strength were arrested like
frozen water.
As I sat there, facing the door of
the room, I became aware of Something at the window
behind my back. Something that pressed against
the open window and stared at me with a hideous covetousness
beside which the greed of a beast for its prey is
a natural, innocent appetite. I felt that Thing’s
hungry malignance like a soft, dreadful mouth sucking
toward me, yet held away from me by some force vaguely
based on my own resistance. And I understood
how a man may die of horror.
Yet, presently, I turned around.
Weak and sick, with dragging effort I turned in my
chair and faced the black, uncurtained window where
I felt It to be.
Nothing was there, to sight or hearing.
I sat still, and combated that which I knew was
there. In the profound stillness, I heard the
wind stir the naked branches of the trees, the flowing
water through the fragments of the one-time dam, the
sputtering of my candle which needed trimming.
Sweat ran down my face and body, drenching me with
cold. It crouched against the empty window, staring
at me.
After a time, the presence seemed
not so close. At last, I seemed to know It was
gone. In the gush of that enormous relief my remaining
strength was swept away like a swimmer in a torrent
and I collapsed half-fainting in my chair.
When I was able, I rose and walked
through the house again. Again the rooms showed
nothing to my flashlight except dull furniture, walls
peeling here and there from long neglect, pictures
of no merit and dreary subject. I had expected
nothing, and I found nothing.
It was on my way upstairs to my bedroom
that a sentence from the invisible lady’s story
came back to my mind.
“What crouches behind her, unseen?
The Horror takes Its own”
The bedroom door opened quietly under
my hand. The rain had ceased and a freshening
breeze came from the west, filling the room with sweet
country air. The candle had burned down.
While I stood there, the flame flickered out.
After a brief indecision, I made my
way to the bed, rolled myself in the blankets, and
laid down between the four pineapple-topped posts.
This time I kept the flashlight at my hand. But
almost at once I slept, and slept heavily far into
a bright, windy March morning.