“What’s the matter, Anne?”
“It is all right,” she answered, coming to herself, but her voice was full of fear, and Grandison, sitting up by her bed, could see her shudder.
“I suppose it was a dream,” she murmured, and suddenly the fear left her as the details of her nightmare came back, and she lay in silence piecing them together.
“It was something awful about my father,” she said. “I was alone, quite alone, in the vicarage. There was no furniture; I went from room to room looking for my father, but all the rooms were empty; all the furniture had been taken away but they had left me behind. Suddenly I looked out of the bedroom window, my father’s bedroom, for it was at the front of the house, and as I expected I saw a Ford van stop at the gate and people getting out of it.” Anne shuddered again violently and Grandison began stroking her shoulder. “Don’t tell me if it frightens you,” he said.
“Two women came first, and I was frightened of them because I could see that they were imbecile from the way they walked, but I was more frightened of the men. They weren’t mad but I could see madness in their faces, and I recognized them at once. They were the Puttys, who used to live in the Burnt Farm, but it seemed to me that they were coming to our house. They looked from side to side with wooden faces, and I could see that underneath their woodenness they were full of terror. When they got to the door I could no longer see them, for I dared not look down on their heads, but I heard them unlock the door and knew that they had come to take possession. All I could do was to hide, and for a long while I lay holding my breath and listening as they laughed and screamed and threw plates at each other downstairs. Then I heard the man coming up the stairs in his heavy hobnail boots. I heard him fumble at the door and I began to scream.”
“Poor creature,” said Grandison. “Who were these people?”
“The Puttys; Richard’s mother told me their story: they lived at the Burnt Farm,” answered Anne, and stopped, realizing that her words could mean nothing to Grandison.
“You aren’t frightened any longer, are you?” he asked, and his jaws were pulled apart violently in a yawn; he shivered all over. When he could speak again he repeated: “You are quite sure that you aren’t frightened any longer?” He leant towards her to kiss her, but stopped, feeling another yawn upon him.
“No, why should I be?” she replied, and without waiting to hear what else she had to say he lay down on the bare boards and was asleep.
Anne’s fear had gone, but one thing still puzzled her; for though she had no memory of her father in her dream she knew that it was terrifying because of him, not because of the Puttys.