Free Warning Hill by John P. Marquand Page A

matter how the rest of them weather. And now there’s a good job over. Go up to Aunt Sarah for your reading. You’re late already. And now shake hands. I’m proud to have met you, sir. Good night.”
    â€œDaddy,” said Tommy, “won’t you come up later and hear me say my prayers?”
    His father’s shoulders gave the queerest sort of jerk, exactly as though a door had slammed unexpectedly behind him, and yet the whole house was very quiet.
    â€œNow there’s an idea,” said Tommy’s father. “I’ll do my very best to be somewhere around, Tom. Good night.”
    His father turned away and strode across the hall to the room where the books were, and closed the door; and as Tommy stood there, looking after him, he felt very lonely. Everything seemed to have gone, leaving him in a strange and barren place. Tommy was old enough to know it was absurd. He was in his own house. The lamp was burning in the center of the dining table. As long as he had known anything he had known the walls of yellow oak and the built-in sideboard of yellow oak with two candlesticks upon it. There was the same slightly musty smell which he had always known. Outside the dining room was the hall. He had always known the hall, dark, to be sure, but a friendly dark till then. Now the hall seemed an enormous passage filled with veiled shapes leading into loneliness as vast as cloudy mountains in the sky. The lamp from the dining room cut a rectangle of light out of the darkness, which only made the hall the blacker. As Tommy walked into the light, instinctively he trod upon his toes, for fear of a shadowy something which was everywhere. There was not a sound except for the ticking of the clock far up the stairs, coming through the darkness like the whispering of the green-necked ducks upon the Welcome River shore. His foot met the worn strip of carpet which ran from the front door to the back. Beneath it a board creaked horribly, and then again there was silence except for the ticking of the clock, and he was all alone, a very little boy, all alone except for something still and black always just behind him, which had never been in that hall before. Only later did Tommy know what that black silence was, that walked always just behind him. It was fear. It was gripping at Tommy Michael, sending his heart leaping to his throat, giving him a desire to shriek and robbing him of the power. Tommy Michael could not walk toward the stairs. If he did, he knew that blackness would fall and crush him, as surely as a wave of green salt water.
    Beneath the door of the room where the books were was a crack of light. Tommy ran to it as fast as he possibly could, not daring to look behind. His fingers fumbled with the latch and then the door was open and Tommy was safe in the light.
    â€œDaddy!” he said, “Daddy!”
    All along the wall in the dim light were the books of Thomas Michael. A lamp on his father’s writing table was turned very low. His father was by the fireplace with a felt hat pulled over his eyes. A cupboard door by the mantelpiece was open, and his father held a shotgun in his hand.
    â€œDaddy!” said Tommy. “Daddy!”
    His father stood motionless. Then he made a queer coughing sound, deep in his throat.
    â€œWhat is it, Tom?” he said. “Why haven’t you gone upstairs?”
    â€œBecause something made me afraid,” said Tommy.
    â€œWhat made you afraid?” And curiously enough, his father seemed afraid too, and stared toward the half-open door.
    â€œSomething,” Tommy caught his breath, “something in the hall.”
    Alfred Michael dropped the barrel of his gun into the crook of his left arm, his heavy duck gun, which carried ten-gauge shells, and strode gingerly to the door.
    â€œNonsense,” he said, “there’s nothing. Go upstairs, Tom, and I’ll wait right here till you get to the top. Remember, I’ll be right