As Bridge groped toward the spot where the boy had fallen his eyes, now become accustomed to the darkness of the room, saw that the youth was sitting up. “Well?” he asked. “Feeling better?”
“Where is it? Oh, God! Where is it?” cried the boy. “It will come in here and kill us as it killed that—that—down stairs.”
“It can't get in,” Bridge assured him. “I've locked the door and pushed the bed in front of it. Gad! I feel like an old maid looking under the bed for burglars.”
From the hall came a sudden clanking of the chain accompanied by a loud pounding upon the bare floor. With a scream the youth leaped to his feet and almost threw himself upon Bridge. His arms were about the man's neck, his face buried in his shoulder.
“Oh, don't—don't let it get me!” he cried.
“Brace up, son,” Bridge admonished him. “Didn't I tell you that it can't get in?”
“How do you know it can't get in?” whimpered the youth. “It's the thing that murdered the man down stairs—it's the thing that murdered the Squibbs—right here in this room. It got in to them—what is to prevent its getting in to us. What are doors to such a THING?”
“Come! come! now,” Bridge tried to soothe him. “You have a case of nerves. Lie down here on this bed and try to sleep. Nothing shall harm you, and when you wake up it will be morning and you'll laugh at your fears.”
“Lie on THAT bed!” The voice was almost a shriek. “That is the bed the Squibbs were murdered in—the old man and his wife. No one would have it, and so it has remained here all these years. I would rather die than touch the thing. Their blood is still upon it.”
“I wish,” said Bridge a trifle sternly, “that you would try to control yourself a bit. Hysteria won't help us any. Here we are, and we've to make the best of it. Besides we must look after this young woman—she may be dying, and we haven't done a thing to help her.”